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a Lando Norris one-shot

Summary: Lando Norris's career is spiraling. The solution? A fake relationship with equestrian star, Charlotte Hayes. It's a clean deal, in theory. But fame is a wild animal, and feelings are even wilder. What happens when the lines blur, and the cameras keep rolling?

Word count: 18k ☠️☠️

Warnings: public scrutiny, fake relationship, emotional manipulation, cheating…

A/N: uuuuhm, yeah. please give it lots of love beacuse writing for lando???? nuh uh. anywaysssss, I hope you like it a lot and that you enjoy it. Comments, likes, and reblogs are welcome. Your support is what keeps me motivated to write more stories!!!!! <3

masterlist

Fame was a wild animal.

It could lift you like the wind to the top of a mountain or drag you down like a treacherous current, leaving you breathless in the depths. And the worst part was that you never truly had control over it. No matter how disciplined you were, how many strategies you devised, or how many times you tried to make the right choice, in an instant, an out-of-context photo, a misleading headline, or a wildfire of online speculation could change everything.

Lando Norris had learned that the hard way.

The past few months had been a parade of headlines that had little to do with his talent on track and far too much to do with his life outside of it. Leaked photos, baseless rumors, internet theories spreading like uncontrollable fires. And while it wasn’t the first time the media had linked him to someone or accused him of being too carefree, this time, things had escalated too far. His team was concerned. His sponsors were losing patience.

And that was how he found himself sitting in a conference room in London, arms crossed over his chest, a deep scowl on his face, as they told him that the best solution to his problem was to pretend to be in love with a woman he had never met in his life.

Charlotte Hayes.

The name didn’t mean much to him, but the story did. A professional equestrian, from a family with a strong tradition in the sport, with a clean and promising public image. She had faced her own share of controversies—a footballer ex-boyfriend with too many scandals to his name—but unlike Lando, she had managed to restore her reputation. And now, if everything went according to plan, she would do the same for him.

But this agreement wasn’t just for Lando’s benefit.

For Lottie, being associated with someone like him meant more than just controlled damage. Formula 1 wasn’t just a sport with millions of fans worldwide—it had one of the strongest young fan bases on social media, capable of skyrocketing her public image. More visibility meant more sponsorships, more opportunities both within and beyond equestrian sports, and a definitive way to leave behind the shadow of her past relationship.

The agreement was clear. They would fake their relationship until the end of the season. They would be seen together in public, attend sponsor events, she would make occasional appearances in the paddock, and he would show up at some of her competitions. They would smile for the cameras, blur the lines between reality and fiction, and make people believe whatever they needed to believe.

It was a clean deal. Simple. No emotional complications.

At least, in theory.

Because fame wasn’t just a wild animal. It was unpredictable. And once you stepped into its game, you could never really know how things would unfold.

Lando had spent the past hour looking for a way out.

It wasn’t the first time his team had put a contract in front of him and expected him to sign without question. But this? This was ridiculous. Pretending to be in a relationship with a stranger just to smooth things over with sponsors? It was humiliating. Unnecessary.

And yet, here he was, sitting in a sleek London office, with his PR team on one side of the conference table and Charlotte Hayes—his supposed fake girlfriend—on the other.

She wasn’t alone.

Her own PR manager sat beside her, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone when she spoke. If Lando’s team was desperate to get him under control, hers was just as invested in making sure this arrangement benefited Lottie.

Because that was the truth of it—this wasn’t just about fixing Lando’s public image. It was a mutually beneficial deal. His reputation got a necessary clean-up, and Lottie? Well, she got a fast track to an even bigger audience. Formula 1 was a marketing machine, and a name like Lando Norris, whether she liked it or not, came with global reach.

Not that she seemed fazed by any of it.

Lottie sat with one leg crossed over the other, scanning the contract with the same calm focus someone might use while reviewing their grocery list. Her long fingers drummed idly against the table, her posture relaxed, her expression unreadable.

Meanwhile, Lando was radiating I don’t want to fucking be here energy, and everyone in the room could tell.

"Lando, this is the best course of action, mate," one of his PR reps finally said, exhaling as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to repeat it.

Lando scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "No, the best course of action would be to let people talk their shit and move on, just like we always do."

"Except we aren’t moving on. The rumors are getting worse, and sponsors are—"

"Yeah, yeah, they’re unhappy. I got the memo."

Across the table, Lottie flicked her gaze up from the contract, eyebrows raised slightly at his tone. "They do have a point, you know. This will help you."

Lando’s jaw tensed. He didn’t like the way she said it—like she was stating a fact rather than trying to convince him. "And you? What do you get out of this?"

Before Lottie could answer, her PR manager spoke for her, voice crisp and professional. "Increased media presence. New sponsorship opportunities. A stronger connection to younger audiences, particularly through social media engagement."

"Ah, right. The noble quest for clout."

Lottie didn’t even blink. "Says the guy who’s been in half the tabloids this month for allegedly dating six women in one night."

The room went silent.

Lando’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and disbelieving. There was no hostility in her voice, no sharp edge of annoyance. Just a perfectly neutral observation, like she was reading a headline aloud. And that only pissed him off more.

"Bold of you to bring up fake relationships when you were dumb enough to date a walking scandal, Hayes."

His PR team collectively inhaled.

Lottie’s manager frowned.

Lottie herself? She just let out a soft breath, a hint of amusement flickering in her expression, but nothing more.

"Touché."

And that was it. No anger, no embarrassment. Just one word, calm and measured, before she turned the page in her contract as if he hadn’t just insulted her choice in men in front of a room full of professionals.

Lando hated that. He wanted her to get pissed. He wanted her to roll her eyes, throw the contract back at his team, and call the whole thing off so he wouldn’t have to. But she didn’t. She just waited.

"We need to move forward with this, Lando," his manager cut in, sensing his growing frustration.

Lottie tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the table, looking at him expectantly. "Are you going to keep whining about it, or are you going to sign?"

Lando clenched his jaw.

Fucking hell.

With an irritated sigh, he grabbed the pen, flipped to the last page, and scribbled his signature.

Lottie, still cool and unbothered, signed her own name right after.

Then, as she capped her pen, she glanced at him with the smallest, most infuriating smirk. "Welcome to the relationship, babe."

Lando was going to hate every second of this.

Lando adjusted his jacket for the third time, resisting the urge to tug at the collar. The café was warm—too warm, or maybe it was just him. Outside, the London drizzle painted the windows in shifting streaks of grey, blurring the figures that lingered on the street. He could feel them, even if he didn’t look. The quiet anticipation. The not-so-subtle presence of cameras, some hidden behind the glass, others held up brazenly by people passing by.

He hated this.

The performance. The expectation. The weight of eyes that didn’t belong to him, of opinions forming before he had even said a word.

Across from him, Lottie stirred her tea with deliberate ease. She didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she looked almost bored—like a woman indulging in an afternoon routine rather than sitting through the first act of a meticulously staged fiction.

Lando envied that.

She had chosen the table, one with just enough privacy to allow conversation, yet positioned well enough to guarantee they’d be seen. Everything was calculated—the placement of their drinks, the slow, natural rhythm of their conversation. They had to sell this. Make it seem real.

"You’re staring," Lottie remarked, not looking up from her cup.

"I’m processing," Lando muttered. "Trying to understand how you’re so relaxed about this."

"Because I came prepared." She finally met his gaze, unbothered. "Unlike you, apparently."

Lando scoffed, leaning back. "Sorry, I don’t have a manual on how to fake-date a stranger for PR points."

"Shame. I hear it’s a best-seller."

Despite himself, Lando huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Right," she continued, placing her spoon down. "Let’s get the basics out of the way. We should have a story, something simple. Mutual friends?"

"Sure."

"And a timeline—when did we supposedly meet?"

"Couple of months ago?"

"Too soon. Feels rushed."

"Fine. Six months."

"Better."

Lando exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "This feels like an interview."

"It kind of is." Lottie tilted her head. "Though you’re terrible at answering questions. No wonder you get into trouble with the media."

"Wow. Thanks."

"Just an observation."

Lando narrowed his eyes. "Fine. You want questions? Let's switch it up. Since we’re dating, I should know something about you."

"By all means," Lottie gestured. "Impress me with your curiosity."

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Favourite food?"

"Easy. Pasta."

"Boring."

"Says the guy who survives on toasties and Monster."

"Fine, what’s your biggest fear?"

"The Daily Mail."

Lando snorted. "Valid."

Lottie smirked, taking a sip of her tea. "What about you?"

"Oh, we’re making this mutual now?"

"Obviously. It’s only fair."

Lando pretended to think. "Losing a race by milliseconds. Or getting stuck in an elevator with someone who chews loudly."

"Fascinating depth of character, Norris."

"Thanks, I try."

Lottie shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "God, you really do sound like you’re in an interview. 'Yeah, no, obviously, it’s just great to be here, the team did an amazing job—'"

Lando groaned. "Oh, shut up."

"’At the end of the day, we gave it our all, and that’s what matters—’"

"Charlotte."

"’We keep pushing, onto the next one—’"

"I swear to God."

The moment the first flash went off, the spell was broken.

Lottie pulled back instinctively, her laughter dying on her lips as reality set in. Across from her, Lando stiffened, his easy grin vanishing as he exhaled sharply through his nose. Neither of them turned immediately, but they didn’t have to. The sound of hurried whispers, the unmistakable shuffle of someone pretending not to take a photo—it was enough.

They’d been caught.

Of course, they had known this would happen. The meeting had been carefully orchestrated, a casual café in the heart of London, just enough visibility to invite speculation without being obvious. They had prepared for it, planned every detail down to what they should wear, where they should sit.

But still, feeling watched—actually living the moment—was different.

Lottie exhaled quietly, reaching for her coffee to give herself something to do. "Well, that’s our cue to leave," she murmured, taking a slow sip.

Lando’s jaw tensed. "Yeah. Before we end up on every gossip page in the next twenty minutes."

She refrained from pointing out that they already would.

They moved with practiced ease, keeping their pace natural as they slipped out of the café and onto the street. The cool London air hit immediately, but Lottie barely registered it—she was too focused on the shifting energy around them, the occasional glances from passersby, the girl a few feet away already typing furiously on her phone.

Lando walked beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture the perfect blend of relaxed and detached.

They made it a block before he spoke. "So, how long do you think until the internet tears this apart?"

Lottie hummed, tilting her head. "I’d say... fifteen minutes? Maybe ten if we really underestimate them."

Lando scoffed. "Fantastic."

And as soon as he got home, he sat on his couch, phone in hand, already regretting opening Twitter.

The photos had spread like wildfire. There they were—walking out of the café, sitting across from each other, that one moment where Lottie had laughed and leaned slightly toward him. If he hadn’t been in the situation, he might have thought they looked... believable.

The internet, however, was not convinced.

PR stunt, obviously.They look like they’re negotiating a business merger.Maybe they’re just friends?Why does Lando look like he’s being forced to be there at gunpoint?No way this is real. No one flirts like that.

Lando groaned, tossing his phone onto the table before dragging a hand over his face.

This was not going well.

Somewhere across the city, Lottie was probably reading the same comments, except she was probably laughing. She had taken this whole thing with the kind of casual indifference that should have made things easier, except it only highlighted how utterly useless he was at this.

And the worst part?

This was only the beginning.

Lando barely had time to process the disaster unfolding on social media before his phone buzzed aggressively on the table.

His manager.

He groaned, already knowing exactly what was coming.

"Yeah?" he answered, sinking further into his couch.

"Are you actually incapable of looking like you enjoy someone’s company?" Mark’s voice was sharp, cutting straight to the point.

Lando exhaled slowly. "Nice to hear from you too."

"Mate, I am getting calls." There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound—papers, maybe, or the sound of Mark rubbing his temples in frustration. "Do you have any idea how bad it looks when people are debating whether or not you even like her as a person?"

Lando pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought we agreed we weren’t rushing into anything too intense. You know, slow build-up, natural progression, all that bullshit."

"Yeah, well, ‘slow build-up’ only works if people believe it’s actually leading somewhere. Right now, they think you were having a business meeting with your accountant."

Lando let his head fall back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Fantastic.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Next time, I don’t know—smile, Norris. Maybe look at her like she’s a human woman and not a tax consultant."

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but Mark steamrolled right over him.

"And fix it fast, because I can guarantee her team is just as unimpressed as I am. They’ll probably want another public sighting soon. This time, try to act like you don’t want to die, yeah?"

With that, the call ended.

Lando scowled at his phone. "Brilliant."

He was about to toss it onto the table when another notification popped up—this time, a message from an unknown number.

[Unknown Number]: Heard you’re not a fan of tax consultants. 👀

Lando frowned. Before he could process that, another message came through—a screenshot from Twitter.

It was a meme. A side-by-side comparison of their café photo and a painfully awkward stock image of two businessmen shaking hands. The caption?

"Tell me this isn’t a corporate merger meeting."

Lando blinked. Then, before he could stop himself—before he could think—he let out a laugh.

Another message popped up.

[Unknown Number]: At least I look good in this one. You, however… yikes.

Lando didn’t need to ask who it was. He already knew.

Lottie.

Lando stared at the message for a second, debating whether to engage.

On one hand, he could ignore it. Pretend he was already asleep. Maintain some semblance of control in a situation where he clearly had none.

On the other hand... Well, Mark was right—this whole thing was a disaster. And if he was going to be stuck in it, he might as well make it slightly less painful.

His thumbs moved before his brain fully caught up.

[Lando]: Wow, cheers. Great to know my suffering is at least entertaining for you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

[Lottie]: Of course. If I have to put up with this, I at least deserve some entertainment.

[Lando]: Nice to know where we stand.

[Lottie]: You did look like you were in the middle of a hostage negotiation.

Lando huffed a laugh. He stretched out on his couch, feeling the conversation ease some of the irritation left behind by Mark’s call.

[Lando]: Not my fault I wasn’t born an actor.

[Lottie]: Not asking for DiCaprio, mate. Just try not to look like you’re planning your escape next time.

A pause. Then—

[Lottie]: Speaking of, where is next time? Or are we just going to wait until PR locks us in a room again?

Lando rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering.

The easy thing would be to let their teams handle it. Wait until some official plan was in place. But that had gone so well last time…

So instead, before he could second-guess himself, he typed—

[Lando]: Your turn to pick. Somewhere that doesn’t make me look like I’m being held at gunpoint.

It took all of five seconds for a reply.

[Lottie]: Got it. See you soon, finance bro.

Lando rolled his eyes. Brilliant.

Hyde Park, late afternoon.

Golden sunlight filtered through the bare branches, stretching long shadows across the gravel path. The crisp bite of early spring lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of the city. Joggers wove between tourists, families pushed prams along the walkways, and somewhere nearby, a street musician plucked at a guitar. It was peaceful. Unassuming.

And yet, Lando knew better.

There was always someone watching.

That fact alone made the entire situation unbearable. But if that wasn’t enough, there was also the dog.

A whirlwind of fur and energy, bounding ahead with a tail that moved like it had a mind of its own, panting happily as if every scent, every patch of grass, every floating leaf was the most exciting thing in the world.

Lando eyed the dog warily. "So… this is why you picked Hyde Park," he muttered.

"What, you thought I just liked scenic walks with fake boyfriends?" Lottie shot back, smirking. "Caesar needed his exercise. Might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"Caesar," Lando repeated, watching as the dog enthusiastically sniffed a nearby bush. "Of course he’s called something ridiculous."

"Technically, it’s Caesar von Woofenstein," she corrected. "But we keep it informal."

Lando snorted despite himself. "That might be the most pretentious dog name I’ve ever heard."

"He’s a rescue mutt. Mostly Border Collie, maybe some German Shepherd. Bit of a menace, but he means well," Lottie said, just as Caesar abruptly turned and flung himself onto Lando’s feet, rolling onto his back in the universal demand for belly rubs.

Lando stared down at him. Then back at Lottie.

"You mean to tell me I’ve been suffering through this entire ordeal, and I could’ve just been hanging out with him instead?" he muttered, crouching to scratch the dog's stomach.

"I’ll be sure to let PR know you’d prefer to date Caesar instead," Lottie deadpanned.

Lando grinned. "At least he wouldn’t drag me into this mess."

"No, but he would steal your food and ruin your furniture. Pick your battles, Norris."

With a final pat, Lando straightened, dusting off his hands as they resumed walking. Caesar trotted between them, completely unaware of the tension his owner was trying (and failing) to ignore.

Lottie broke the silence first. "Alright, small talk. Let’s make this look natural."

Lando groaned. "Again with this?"

"Yes, again with this. We’re supposed to be a couple, Lando. Couples talk. Casually. Like normal people."

"Right, normal," he muttered. "Because everything about this is normal."

Lottie ignored him. "Okay—music. What are you listening to right now?"

He shot her a look. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Humor me."

He exhaled, thinking for a second. "I don’t know. Arctic Monkeys, probably."

Lottie hummed. "Predictable."

"Excuse me?"

"You give off strong ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor’ energy."

Lando frowned. "And that means what, exactly?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Despite himself, Lando let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, your turn. Favorite artist?"

Lottie tilted her head. "Fleetwood Mac, I think."

Lando shot her a sideways glance. "Fleetwood Mac? Bit old school, isn’t it?"

"Says the guy clinging to his 2013 indie phase."

"Fair point."

The conversation lulled into something easy, their footsteps syncing as the city moved around them. Lottie’s grip on Caesar’s leash loosened, and the dog took full advantage—darting toward a pigeon, sending it flapping into the sky.

Lando grinned. "Menace, huh?"

"Oh, don’t act like you’re not obsessed with him already," Lottie said. "I saw your face when he rolled over for belly rubs."

"I mean… he’s alright, I guess."

"I’ll take that as a win."

For a moment, the weight of their fake relationship faded into the background. The cameras, the speculation, the absurdity of the entire situation—it didn’t feel so suffocating when there was something as simple as a dog trotting between them.

Then—Lottie grabbed his hand.

Lando stiffened. "What—"

"Relax," she muttered. "Two o’clock. Someone’s already got their phone up."

Right.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to react. Their fingers didn’t interlock—just a light press of palms, casual enough to seem natural, deliberate enough to be caught on camera.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

"This is commitment," Lottie corrected.

"You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Absolutely."

And then—she laughed.

Bright, unrestrained. Like she’d just heard something genuinely funny.

Lando blinked. "What?"

"It’s your face," she said, breathless between laughs. "You look like you’re being held hostage."

"I do not."

"You really do."

Lando opened his mouth to argue—

—and then the camera shutter clicked.

Their eyes met.

The moment shattered, and just like that, reality came rushing back.

They weren’t two people, walking through the park, talking about music and careers.

They were Lando Norris and Charlotte Hayes.

And the internet was about to lose its mind.

The click of the camera was unmistakable—sharp, invasive, a reminder that they weren’t alone.

But Lottie didn’t let go.

Instead, she tightened her grip just slightly, grounding the moment before it spiraled into awkwardness.

Lando felt the shift, the deliberate ease with which she handled the situation. No stiffness, no hesitation—just a perfectly timed adjustment, as if she was actually comfortable walking through Hyde Park with him, hand in hand.

She wasn’t, obviously.

But she was better at faking it.

Lando exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral as they continued walking. Caesar trotted ahead, blissfully unaware of the media circus about to erupt online.

Lottie reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a bright yellow tennis ball.

"Alright, enough about me," she said, rolling the ball between her fingers. "Tell me something about F1. Something interesting."

Lando arched a brow. "That’s vague."

"Fine, I’ll narrow it down." She gave the ball a light toss in her palm. "What’s the hardest part?"

Lando scoffed. "Everything."

Lottie shot him a look. "I feel like I should be offended on behalf of your entire profession."

"I mean it," he said. "It’s not just driving fast. You have to know how to manage tires, fuel loads, track conditions. You’re constantly adjusting, constantly calculating. And that’s before you factor in other drivers, team strategy, weather—"

Lottie hummed thoughtfully. "Sounds like a headache."

"More like a hundred headaches per race."

She nodded, considering, then suddenly wound back her arm and launched the tennis ball across the grass.

Caesar exploded forward, a blur of black and white fur, tearing after it with single-minded determination.

Lando watched him go, vaguely envious. Must be nice—having one simple goal and just going for it.

"Alright, next question," Lottie said, dusting off her hands. "Biggest misconception about F1 drivers?"

Lando smirked. "That we only turn left."

Lottie blinked. "Wait. Do people actually think that?"

"Americans do."

Lottie laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, now I feel bad for underestimating your job."

"You should," Lando said solemnly. "It’s very hard being me."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Caesar came sprinting back, ball clenched triumphantly in his teeth. He skidded to a stop at Lottie’s feet, tail wagging furiously.

"Good boy," she cooed, ruffling his fur before prying the ball from his mouth.

Lando watched, mildly fascinated. He wasn’t particularly bad with dogs, but there was something effortless about the way Lottie handled Caesar—like they understood each other in a way that didn’t require words.

She caught him staring.

"What?"

Lando shrugged. "Nothing."

She arched a brow but let it go, tossing the ball again. Caesar bolted after it without hesitation.

The wind picked up slightly, ruffling the edges of Lottie’s coat, brushing stray strands of hair across her face.

Lando glanced down at their joined hands—still together.

It should’ve felt weird. It did feel weird.

But maybe… slightly less weird than before.

The breeze carried the sound of laughter—distant, fleeting, swallowed by the open space of Hyde Park. A couple passed them, a man with a pushchair and a woman with a takeaway coffee, barely sparing them a glance. Lando had to remind himself that, to most people, they were just another couple out for a walk.

Which, in a way, was exactly the point.

He tightened his grip on Lottie’s hand—not dramatically, not enough to be noticeable in any pictures, but just enough to reinforce the illusion.

She didn't react, simply watched as Caesar disappeared into the distance, chasing his ball like his life depended on it.

"Alright," Lando said, shifting the focus. "Enough about me. Your turn."

Lottie gave him a side glance. "You want to hear about dressage and cross-country courses? I didn’t think you cared."

"I don’t." He grinned when she scoffed, then shrugged. "But I figure I should know a little more about the person I’m supposed to be madly in love with."

Lottie rolled her eyes but played along. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

Lando thought for a second. "Biggest misconception about your sport?"

"That it’s not a sport," she said instantly. "That the horse does all the work."

Lando snorted. "Do people actually believe that?"

"All the time," Lottie said. "There’s this idea that riding is just sitting there, looking pretty, while the horse magically does everything for you. But the reality is that you need insane core strength, leg control, precision. And trust—because no matter how good you are, you're still riding an animal with its own mind. One bad decision and you’re eating dirt."

Lando hummed. "Sounds like a headache."

Lottie arched a brow. "Did you just recycle my words?"

"Might’ve."

She shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Alright, next question."

Lando hesitated, then went for something lighter. "What do you do when you’re not taming wild beasts or dodging paparazzi?"

Lottie tilted her head, considering. "Depends. If I’m not training or competing, I like quiet things. Reading, movies, hiking. Cooking, if I’m in the mood."

"Cooking?" Lando looked at her, amused. "That surprises me."

"Why?"

"You don’t seem like the ‘domestic’ type."

Lottie scoffed. "What does that even mean?"

"I don’t know," he admitted. "You just have that ‘raised by nannies, never had to chop an onion’ energy."

Lottie gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I can chop an onion. I just choose not to."

Lando laughed, genuinely, and for a brief moment, the whole situation—the cameras, the pretending, the contract—faded into the background.

But then—click. Again.

Fuck it.

Lando felt the weight of the charade press down on him, a subtle but constant reminder of the performance they were putting on for the cameras. He looked at their joined hands—his fingers slowly loosening their grip on hers, the fleeting warmth from her skin now distant.

"Alright," he said, his voice breaking the stillness between them. "I think that's enough for today."

Lottie glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but there was something in the way she tilted her head that made him feel like she knew exactly what he meant.

"It was… nice," he added, trying to soften the abruptness of his words. "The walk, the conversation. But I've got stuff to do."

Lottie nodded once, a small movement, her lips pressed together in something like acknowledgment. She didn’t push for more. She just stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, looking at him with that same cool composure.

"Right," she said simply. "See you later."

And just like that, the air between them shifted, the artificial ease of the moment slipping away, leaving them standing at the edge of something neither of them had fully understood. Without another word, Lottie turned, her steps brisk as she walked in the direction of the park’s exit.

Lando watched her go for a moment, a mix of thoughts swirling in his mind. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. The sound of Caesar’s distant bark was the last thing he heard as the distance between them grew, until all that was left was the quiet hum of the city around him.

Lando had been to equestrian events before. Not many, but enough to navigate the showgrounds with ease. His sister, Flo, competed in show jumping—not eventing like Lottie—but it was close enough that he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

Still, there was a world of difference between watching his sister at a local event and standing here, at the prestigious Burghley Horse Trials, one of the most important competitions in the eventing calendar. This was the ultimate test for Lottie, with her place on the British Olympic team for Paris 2024 on the line. The pressure was palpable, and Lando felt it more than he expected as he watched Lottie prepare for her round, the cameras tracking his every move, waiting for his reaction.

He tugged the brim of his cap lower, shading his eyes, and slid his sunglasses up his nose.

This was the latest move in his PR team’s strategy. Their last public appearance, the walk in Hyde Park, had drawn mixed reactions from fans—some skeptical, but overall, the response had been positive. Both teams had agreed it was time to solidify things, to reinforce the image. This was the moment to take things further.

So here he was, dressed down in a hoodie and jacket, doing his best impression of a supportive boyfriend.

Except, Lottie was actually impressive.

Show jumping was more complex than he'd given it credit for. He had always thought it was about clearing fences without knocking them down, but now he saw that there was so much more—pace, timing, rhythm, the delicate balance between power and control.

And Lottie made it look effortless.

Her horse, a powerful dark bay, trotted around the warm-up area, each stride smooth and fluid. Lottie sat tall in the saddle, her posture perfect, her gaze intense as she prepared for her round. The arena around her buzzed with activity, but she was a picture of focus, the noise of the crowd, the shuffling of horses, and the calls of the event staff all falling into the background.

She was in her element.

When her name was announced over the loudspeaker, the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers carrying across the arena. Lando felt it in his chest, that electric surge of energy that reminded him of race weekends. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.

Lottie barely reacted. She squeezed her horse forward, entering the arena with calm precision, her eyes locked on the first fence ahead. Her movements were measured, controlled, as she guided her horse with practiced ease.

The first few fences were textbook. Clean, precise, no hesitation. Lando found himself on the edge of his seat, watching her maneuver through the course. The jumps came quickly, and her control never wavered.

As the course grew more demanding, Lando could feel the intensity building. He knew enough to recognize the risks—the way each stride counted, the critical split-second decisions that could make or break the round.

Lottie rode with unshakable focus. She urged her horse forward, pushing him for speed without sacrificing form. It was a delicate dance of speed, timing, and trust, and Lottie was executing it flawlessly.

When they cleared the final fence, the clock stopped.

A perfect round.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound like a wave crashing around him.

Without thinking, Lando stood and clapped, the excitement of the moment taking over. For a brief second, he forgot the cameras, the PR strategy, the pressure. He just watched Lottie, as she slowed her horse and came to a stop, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her helmet.

Then, as if she could feel his gaze, she turned her head.

Their eyes met.

And Lottie—stoic, professional Lottie—smirked at him.

A small, knowing thing, barely there before she turned away.

Lando exhaled sharply, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The weight of that smile settled over him, and for a moment, everything else—the cameras, the contract, the whole PR game—seemed to fade into the background.

He blinked, suddenly aware of the cameras still trained on him. He hadn’t meant to stand up so eagerly, hadn’t meant to clap so loud. He was supposed to be playing the part of the supportive boyfriend, not the starstruck spectator. But Lottie had earned it.

Before he could retreat back into his seat, he found himself already making his way out of the grandstands, the crowd parting for him as they recognized who he was. He barely registered the smiles, the camera flashes—just enough to see the social media posts that would pop up in a few minutes. Lottie’s PR team would love that he was in the stables now, not just in the stands. His PR team would too.

He was walking toward the stables before he even realized it, his mind racing ahead of him, but when he reached the barn doors, the world around him seemed to still.

Lottie was there, bent over her horse, speaking to one of the stablehands, the horse’s head nuzzling her shoulder. The moment felt completely different—no cameras, no crowds. Just the faint smell of hay, the hum of the horses in their stalls, and the quiet intimacy of the space.

Lando didn’t know what to do. He had imagined this moment, sure, but the reality of it was a bit more daunting. He had no role here, no script to follow. It was just him and Lottie—and her horse, of course.

For a few seconds, he just stood there, watching her in silence, unsure of his place in all of this.

Finally, Lottie turned, catching his gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in her eyes, something that softened the hard edge she always wore when she was in public.

"You’ve really been following me all the way out here, huh?" she said with a teasing tilt to her voice, as though she were surprised to see him.

Lando cleared his throat, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah, I, uh, figured I’d check in. You know... make sure you didn’t get lost in the whole... victory thing." He gestured vaguely toward the arena, trying to play it off cool.

Lottie raised an eyebrow, and then a small, smug smile tugged at her lips. "You mean 'make sure I’m not too busy for you,' right?"

Lando smirked, but it felt more like he was stumbling. "Something like that." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Anyway... You were... incredible out there."

Her smirk widened, though there was no real arrogance in it, just a playful recognition. "You’re not too bad at this, Norris," she teased. "Getting all sentimental over a horse show."

Lando chuckled, a little nervous but enjoying the banter despite himself. "I didn’t think I’d be clapping that hard for someone jumping over fences."

Lottie rolled her eyes, the warmth in her smile softening her usual sharpness. "You’re lucky you don’t have to do it yourself. This thing’s got more math involved than you’d think."

"I thought the horse did all the work," Lando shot back, remembering their earlier conversation, his grin widening.

Her laugh was quick, genuine. "Clearly, you haven’t been paying attention. You really should try it someday."

Lando shrugged, the moment of awkwardness beginning to ebb away. "I think I’ll leave it to the professionals."

They stood there for a beat, the easy banter flowing between them again. The tension from earlier, from all the weirdness of their fake relationship, had dissipated a little. It didn’t feel completely normal, but it was a start.

Lottie leaned against the stable door, her attention back on her horse. "So," she said, her tone turning slightly more casual, "what now? You just gonna stand there, or do you actually want to help me untack him?"

Lando blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. He cleared his throat. "I... wasn’t sure if I was allowed to get involved," he admitted, his voice a bit sheepish. "You seem like you’ve got it all under control."

Lottie chuckled, a low sound that seemed to fill the space between them. "Yeah, well, you’re not here to just watch me work. Come on, hold the reins for a second."

Lando stepped forward, taking the reins she offered, but his hands were a bit unsure as he adjusted his grip. "I’m not sure how much help I’ll be," he muttered, looking at the horse with a degree of caution. "This isn’t really my area of expertise."

Lottie smirked, her gaze drifting back to the horse. "I figured. But hey, it's not like you have to do anything complicated. Just stand there and make sure he doesn’t decide to wander off."

Lando gave a slight nod, trying to act natural. "Yeah, just stand here and look like I know what I’m doing, right?"

She shot him a teasing glance, her tone softening a little. "Basically. Don’t worry, he’s pretty easygoing. He’s more interested in snacks than anything else."

Lando relaxed slightly at that, but then caught the way Lottie was moving—how she worked with her horse so confidently, as if every movement was ingrained. There was something mesmerizing about it. He took a breath, unsure how to keep the conversation going.

"So, uh... how does it feel, you know, being this close to the Olympics?" He winced inwardly, wishing the question didn’t sound so... forced.

Lottie’s hands stilled for a moment, and she looked up at him, her expression guarded. "It’s not something I think about all the time," she said slowly, the words deliberate. "If I focus too much on it, I’ll start psyching myself out. But yeah, it’s kind of always there, hanging over you."

"Must be a lot of pressure," Lando said, feeling a sudden sympathy for her. He had his own kind of pressure—just in a completely different world. "I mean, with everything else going on, the media, the competition... I don’t know how you do it."

Lottie gave a small shrug, her face softening a little. "You just do. You can’t let it break you, or else what’s the point?"

Lando nodded, feeling a surprising respect for her resilience. "I get that. In my world, it’s the same. But I guess that’s why I’m here, right?" He glanced down at the reins in his hands, then back at her. "To make sure you don’t break under the pressure."

Lottie’s lips twitched into a smile, but it was brief. "Oh, so that’s your role here? The unofficial pressure manager?"

He gave a half-smile. "I can manage that."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, returning her attention to the horse. "Just don’t expect me to thank you when I make it to the Olympics. I’m not that sentimental."

Lando chuckled, leaning back slightly. "I’ll take what I can get."

For a brief moment, the awkwardness between them seemed to fade, replaced by the kind of easy banter that, for whatever reason, seemed to come naturally. Lottie continued working, and Lando stayed quietly by her side, holding the reins and trying to act like he belonged here.

As the last of the gear was removed from the horse, Lottie finally turned to face him again. "Thanks for the... moral support," she said dryly. "Now, go on. You’ve done your part."

Lando raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? I thought I was supposed to be the hero in this scenario."

Lottie smirked, glancing at him sideways. "Yeah, well, you’re not quite there yet, Norris."

As Lottie finished up with her horse, she gave him one last pat on the neck before stepping away. “Alright, Norris,” she said, wiping her hands on her breeches. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. You can go back to whatever it is you do when you’re not being dragged into the equestrian world.”

Lando huffed a laugh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You say that like you’re getting rid of me.”

Lottie smirked. “Aren’t I?”

He didn’t have a real answer to that, because truthfully, he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. And somehow, instead of heading for the exit, he fell into step beside her as she made her way back toward the event grounds. The competition was still in full swing, but many spectators had drifted toward the sponsor booths, the food stalls, or the shaded VIP areas.

Lottie walked with an easy confidence, the same way she rode—with control, purpose. Lando, on the other hand, was just along for the ride, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his cap pulled low over his forehead.

They were almost past a group of young women chatting near one of the merchandise tents when Lottie heard an excited gasp.

“Oh my god, that’s Charlotte Hayes!”

She barely had time to react before the group turned toward her, faces lighting up with recognition.

“You were incredible out there!” one of them gushed.

“We’ve been following you all season—you’re seriously insane on cross-country.”

“Can we get a picture with you?”

Lottie blinked, a little taken aback. She was used to attention at equestrian events, but she wasn’t used to fans being quite this enthusiastic.

Before she could answer, Lando—who had been standing beside her, entirely unnoticed—cleared his throat dramatically. “Well, this is new,” he said, smirking. “People actually ignoring me for once.”

The girls turned at the sound of his voice, their excitement doubling when they recognized him.

“Wait—Lando?”

“Oh my god, I didn’t even see you there!”

“I had no idea you were into horses.”

Lando gave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, well. She’s making me a proper equestrian, one event at a time.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He still thinks the horse does all the work.”

The group laughed, and one of the girls held up her phone. “Lottie, can we—?”

“Of course,” Lottie said, already reaching for the phone.

But before she could take it, Lando snatched it from her hands with a grin. “I got it,” he said. “I’ll be the photographer today.”

The girls practically melted on the spot.

“That’s adorable.”

“He’s so boyfriend-coded.”

Lottie shot Lando a look, but he was already positioning himself, phone in hand. “Alright, ladies,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Make sure to smile—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Lottie groaned. “Oh, shut up and take the picture.”

He did. A few, actually. By the time he handed the phone back, the girls were giddy.

“You guys are actually, like… the cutest couple,” one of them said.

Lottie let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late,” Lando said, flashing a smug grin.

They said their goodbyes, the girls walking away in a flurry of excitement, undoubtedly uploading the pictures as they spoke.

Lando fell back into step beside her, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “See? You’re famous.”

Lottie scoffed. “You’re just upset they didn’t ask for a picture with you.”

Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “I’m secure enough to let you have the spotlight.”

She arched a brow. “Really?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll survive.”

Lottie shook her head, amused despite herself. But as they continued walking, Lando noticed something—she was smiling. Not for the cameras, not for PR.

Just for herself.

And for some reason, he really, really liked seeing it.

The Miami heat was already oppressive, pressing down on the tinted windows of the car as they rolled through the paddock gates. Outside, the usual chaos of a race weekend was in full swing—fans gathered behind barriers, cameras flashing, media personnel darting around like they were on a mission.

Inside the car, Lottie was acutely aware of the fact that they were being watched.

She had seen the madness surrounding Formula 1 drivers before, but this was the first time she was in it. And it wasn’t just Lando they were looking at—it was her.

"They’re already taking pictures," she muttered, staring out at the sea of fans through her sunglasses.

Lando, sitting comfortably beside her in the passenger seat, let out a chuckle. "Yeah, get used to that."

She shot him a look. "Easy for you to say. You signed up for this."

"So did you," he pointed out with a smirk. "Technically."

Lottie huffed, leaning back against the leather seat. "I signed up to fix my PR. I didn’t sign up for... that." She nodded toward a group of girls holding up their phones, faces lighting up the moment they spotted them.

Lando followed her gaze, then smirked again. "Welcome to the world of the WAGs."

She turned to him, frowning. "The what?"

"WAGs," he repeated. "Wives and Girlfriends."

She snorted. "That’s a thing?"

Lando raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it’s a thing. The fans love them. Some people treat them like celebrities. Others act like they personally offended them just by existing. It’s all a bit... intense."

Lottie stared at him, processing that information. "So, what you’re saying is... there’s an entire part of your fanbase that’s obsessed with who you’re dating?"

"Yup."

"And some of them hate me just because I’m standing next to you?"

"Basically."

She scoffed. "That’s ridiculous."

"Welcome to Formula 1."

Lottie exhaled sharply, adjusting the sunglasses on her face. "Great. Can’t wait to be publicly analyzed and torn apart by strangers."

Lando grinned, nudging her playfully. "Just smile and wave, Little. Smile and wave."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at her lips.

Outside, the fans were practically buzzing with excitement as the car rolled to a stop.

Lando turned to her just before reaching for the door handle. "Ready?"

Lottie took a deep breath. "Not even a little bit."

"Perfect," he said, his grin widening. "Let’s go."

And with that, they stepped out into the Miami heat, into the cameras, into the madness.

Fans were already gathering, some chanting Lando’s name, others snapping pictures as they caught sight of him and Lottie. The loud hum of the paddock, the smell of the fresh tires, the mechanical sounds—everything seemed heightened for Lottie. She could feel herself stiffening at all the attention.

Lando, noticing the subtle change in her posture, immediately slowed his pace, instinctively staying close to her. He didn’t want to make her feel isolated in this sea of excitement.

Instead of rushing off to greet the fans, Lando subtly guided her toward the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, a quiet gesture of reassurance. His touch was firm but gentle, keeping her close as he navigated them through the crowds.

As a few fans called out for pictures, Lottie was about to step back, not wanting to be the center of attention. But before she could, Lando leaned in slightly, giving her a reassuring glance, his hand still resting on her back. “We’ll do this together,” he said through his actions, offering her the chance to stick with him as he engaged with the fans for a moment.

When the fans asked for photos, Lando didn’t hesitate to take the lead, not stepping too far away from her, making sure to always keep her within arm’s reach. He made a few jokes with them, but his focus was still on Lottie, ensuring that she never felt left out or uncomfortable.

As they continued walking, Lottie noticed how little he was engaging with the crowd compared to his usual self. Normally, Lando would stop for autographs or selfies at every opportunity, but today, he kept moving, his attention always returning to her. His hand never left her back, guiding her through the noise of the paddock.

“Lando,” she said quietly, glancing up at him, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can talk to the fans. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look at her, but his thumb made small, soothing circles on the back of her shirt as they walked. “I’m not doing it because I have to,” he replied softly. “I want to. Besides, I’m not letting you get lost in the crowd.”

Lottie felt a knot she hadn’t realized was there slowly unravel. She didn’t say anything more, but her posture softened, and she stayed right beside him. She was beginning to realize just how thoughtful Lando was—how much care he was putting into making sure she felt at ease.

As they walked deeper into the paddock, Lando started introducing her to people from his team, pointing out familiar faces to help her feel more comfortable. His gestures were small but meaningful: a gentle nudge to the side, a soft, “This is Jane, she’s in charge of our PR, and that’s Tom, he handles our data,” always making sure she wasn’t left in the shadows.

Lottie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she watched him, taking in every small movement: the way he always made sure she was within his line of sight, the way he’d subtly check if she was okay whenever the crowd grew too loud. He never overdid it, never drew attention to it. It was just... him looking out for her, even when she didn’t ask for it.

They reached a quieter part of the paddock, away from the main traffic. Lottie took a breath, finally feeling like she could relax a little, and turned to him.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, her words almost lost in the noise of the paddock. She wasn’t sure if he heard her at first, but when he glanced at her, she could see the quiet acknowledgment in his eyes.

“No need to thank me,” he replied with a smile, though his eyes softened when he looked at her. “I’m just doing my job.”

Lottie chuckled softly, but there was a warmth in her expression now that hadn’t been there earlier. She wasn’t used to people looking out for her this way—so naturally, so without expecting anything in return.

But here was Lando, offering that kindness without hesitation, without ever drawing attention to it. She wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, but for the first time since stepping into the paddock, she felt like maybe she could actually enjoy this, after all.

The day had been a whirlwind. The noise, the constant movement, and the flashing cameras felt like they’d been part of their lives for hours. But as they finally found a quiet moment later in the evening, something was different between them. It wasn’t awkward—no, it wasn’t that. But there was a subtle shift in the air, something unspoken, like the calm before a storm, except there was no storm coming. It was just... different. Neither of them could pinpoint it, but there was a softness between them now that hadn’t been there before.

They chose to ignore it for the time being, pushing aside the strange tension in favor of the noise and chaos of the weekend. They weren’t sure how to navigate it, and so they didn’t.

That night, Lottie found herself sprawled out on her bed, still in her pajamas, replaying one of her past competitions. The footage was old, but it was comforting. Watching herself perform, even when she hadn’t been at her best, helped her focus, bringing a sense of peace to her mind after the chaos of the day. The low volume of the TV and the dim light created a calm atmosphere in the room, and she sunk deeper into the soft comfort of the bed.

But the peace didn’t last long. There was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar, playful voice.

“Room service,” Lando called, his voice making her smile despite herself. She had half-expected him to show up—he had been unusually thoughtful all day, checking in on her, introducing her to people in the paddock, and now it seemed he wasn’t going to let her end the day without at least a little more of his attention.

Lottie hesitated for just a moment, wondering what exactly he was up to, before pushing herself up from the bed and making her way to the door. When she opened it, she was greeted with a tower of takeout boxes, burgers, fries, and some of the most indulgent comfort food imaginable. Lando smiled at her, clearly proud of his delivery.

“I figured you were probably starving,” he said with a raised brow, playful as ever. “You didn’t seem all that keen on the paddock snacks today.”

Lottie couldn’t help but laugh. “You do know I’m not a child, right? You didn’t have to go all out like this.” Her eyes scanned the takeout boxes, each one more tempting than the last.

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get to spoil someone like this,” Lando teased, winking as he set the food down on the small table by the window. His movements were relaxed, natural, like he belonged here, in this space with her, despite the high-energy atmosphere of the paddock just hours before.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused. “Spoil me? I think you’re just trying to make sure I don’t get mad at you for dragging me into your chaotic world.”

Lando chuckled, collapsing onto the bed beside her with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Not true. I just thought we could have a quiet night for once. You know, just food, no cameras, no crazy crowds.”

Lottie glanced at him, and for a moment, their eyes lingered, the shift from earlier hanging between them. The way they could just be in the same space, without any of the external noise or expectations, was oddly comforting.

“You’re right,” she said softly, her voice quieter now. “It’s kind of nice to have a normal night for a change.”

Lando grinned, his expression carrying something more genuine than the usual playful exterior. “It’s not perfect, but it’s... better than nothing, right?”

They dug into the food, the tension that had been there before starting to fade. Lottie couldn’t help but let out a satisfied sigh as she bit into a burger.

“So, what’s it like?” she asked after a moment, glancing at him. “The whole paddock thing, I mean. The chaos, the pressure... Do you ever get used to it?”

Lando shrugged, chewing slowly before answering. “Not really. It’s a lot of pressure, yeah. But you just sort of... get into the rhythm of it. And it helps when you’re surrounded by people who’ve been doing it for years. They make it look easier than it is.”

Lottie nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "Must be a weird kind of pressure," she muttered, her gaze drifting to her fries. “I mean, I have my own pressures with competitions and everything, but this... this is next level.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s the difference between being part of the team and being the one everyone’s watching, huh?”

The conversation shifted into comfortable silence as they ate. There were no rushed words or forced small talk, just the simplicity of being together in the same space, enjoying the quiet.

Lottie shifted on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “I think you’re right, though. It’s kind of nice not to be in the spotlight for a change.”

Lando met her gaze, his smile softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it is.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, tossing a fry into his mouth with a playful glint in his eyes. “So, I was thinking... if you ever make it to the Olympics, we should totally get matching tracksuits. You know, like a power couple thing.”

Lottie burst out laughing, rolling her eyes. “A matching tracksuit? You’d be the only person in the world who’d actually want to wear that with me.”

Lando grinned. “I’m serious! It’d be iconic. We could make it a thing for every major event—show up, match, and make the headlines.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we could make it work for your major events, but I’ll pass on the Olympics tracksuit idea, thanks.” She smirked, then her expression softened. “But honestly, I’m not sure what’s scarier: actually going or the pressure to not mess up once I’m there.”

Lando’s grin faded, and he looked at her more seriously. “It’s normal to feel that way. I mean, every race, every qualifying, I feel that weight too. But sometimes, the pressure is what drives you to be better. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I can’t sleep at night.”

Lottie tilted her head, her gaze steady on him. “I get it. But with the Olympics... it feels like this one shot. And if you mess it up, it’s not just one race—it’s everything. The years of work, the people who’ve supported you. And there’s me, wondering if I’m even good enough for it.”

Lando’s tone softened, his eyes locking with hers. “You are good enough. I don’t think anyone doubts that.”

Lottie gave a small, almost bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes it’s not even about how good you are. It’s the other stuff—the media, the expectations. It’s exhausting.”

“I get that,” Lando said quietly. “In F1, it’s all about the performance. But everyone’s watching, critiquing every little thing you do. It’s like you’re never allowed to just... be human.”

Lottie met his gaze, a slight frown on her face. “Yeah. You can’t just make a mistake, because that mistake will follow you around forever.”

For a moment, silence filled the room, but it was different this time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just understanding. Lottie shifted uncomfortably before speaking again, her voice quieter.

“You know, I used to think I had to handle everything on my own. I mean, I have to, right? But... it’s weird, having someone else who gets it. Who doesn’t just brush it off like it’s no big deal.”

Lando met her gaze, his expression softer now. “I get it. It’s not easy, and yeah... I guess I’m here if you need someone to talk to about it.”

Lottie didn’t look away this time. “I know. I appreciate that, Lando. More than you think.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of their respective pressures felt a little less heavy. For the first time in a while, they didn’t have to carry it alone.

Finally, Lottie broke the silence with a playful grin. “But seriously, no matching tracksuits. Ever.”

Lando couldn’t help but laugh, relieved to lighten the mood. “Alright, alright. No tracksuits. I’ll settle for just being your number-one fan instead.”

Lottie smirked. “That’s more like it.”

The morning light filtered softly through the hotel curtains, casting long golden streaks across the room. Lottie blinked awake, her body heavy with sleep, the exhaustion of the weekend settling deep in her bones. Instinctively, she reached for her phone, scrolling through the usual flood of notifications, skimming mindlessly—until one email stopped her cold.

British Olympic Committee - Selection Confirmation

Her heart stumbled.

With shaking fingers, she tapped it open, her breath hitching as she read the words that would change everything.

"Dear Miss Hayes, we are pleased to confirm your selection for the British Eventing Team for the Paris 2024 Olympic Games..."

A sharp inhale. Her vision blurred, the letters swimming as the weight of it all came crashing down on her.

She covered her mouth with her hand as the first tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. Her whole body trembled. Years of training, every fall, every broken bone, every grueling hour spent chasing a dream that had always felt just out of reach—until now. She was in. She was going to the Olympics.

A small, breathless laugh escaped her, equal parts disbelief and sheer, overwhelming joy. She wanted to scream, to call someone, to—

But no.

Not today.

Today wasn’t about her. Today was Lando’s race. And as much as she ached to tell him, to share this impossible, life-changing moment, she knew better. He had enough pressure on his shoulders without her dropping this on him hours before he got into the car.

So she wiped her tears, steadied her breath, and tucked the secret away for later.

Later, the McLaren garage buzzed with a nervous, electric energy, every person within it tuned into the same frequency of anticipation. Mechanics darted back and forth, engineers murmured into headsets, and the screens flickered with the ever-changing numbers of a race that was unfolding at breakneck speed.

Lottie didn’t have to fake anything.

Every time Lando made an overtake, she felt her pulse jump, her stomach twisting in that awful, addictive way that only live competition could bring. The cameras caught her reactions, but for once, she barely noticed. She was too caught up in the moment.

And then came the final lap.

Lando was leading.

The entire garage held its breath.

The roar that erupted when he crossed the line was deafening. The sheer force of celebration was enough to shake the walls as the McLaren crew erupted into cheers, throwing their arms around each other, jumping, screaming. Lottie felt it all at once—a rush of relief, excitement, pride so intense it made her dizzy.

She didn’t hesitate. She ran with them, pushing through the chaos toward parc fermé, the euphoria carrying her forward.

He celebrated, shouting into the sea of orange, hugging engineers, mechanics, anyone in reach. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Lottie. Standing just beyond the McLaren team, watching him with the brightest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen on her face. She wasn’t faking it for the cameras, wasn’t playing along for the sake of their contract. She was just… happy. For him.

And suddenly, he had to go to her.

Lando pushed through the crowd, still buzzing with euphoria, and reached her just as she was laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. “You did it!” she shouted over the noise, breathless, laughing, not caring about anything else. “You actually fucking did it!”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, still shaking from the adrenaline. “Hell yeah, I did!”

She nodded, and then, almost without thinking, she blurted it out—because what better moment was there than this? "I made it."

Lando frowned for half a second, still catching his breath. "Made what?"

Her smile wobbled slightly, her hands gripping his forearms like she needed to steady herself. "I got the email this morning. I’m in. The Olympic team. I—Lando, I’m going to the Olympics."

His world, which had already been spinning from the win, somehow tilted even more. His hands moved on instinct, gripping her shoulders, grounding them both in the chaos. "What?"

“I got the email this morning.” Her voice wavered, but her smile didn’t falter. “I made the team, Lando. I’m going to Paris.”

For a split second, everything around them disappeared. The noise, the cameras, the flashing lights—it all faded into the background as he just looked at her.

And then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—Lando kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t passionate. Just a brief, fleeting press of lips, quick and instinctive, like an exclamation point to a moment too big for words.

But it was enough. Enough to make both of them freeze in the aftermath, their faces inches apart, wide-eyed and breathless. Enough for the world around them to catch it, cameras flashing, thousands of eyes capturing something neither of them had expected.

Lottie swallowed hard.

Lando blinked, as if realizing what he’d just done.

Oh.

The moment stretched between them, fragile and electric. Lottie could still feel the ghost of Lando’s lips on hers, barely there, but somehow lingering.

They just stared at each other, breathless, caught in something they didn’t have time to untangle—because before either of them could say a word, McLaren’s team swarmed in.

Lando was yanked away in a blur of orange, lost in a chaos of arms slung around his shoulders, cheers, shouts, hands thumping his back, shaking him, pulling him into the celebration. He was gone in an instant, absorbed by the frenzy of victory.

Lottie remained frozen in place, watching.

Her heart was still pounding, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the race, from the sheer overwhelming euphoria of the moment—or from that. From the fact that, for the first time since they’d agreed to this whole thing, something had happened that wasn’t scripted.

A kiss wasn’t in the contract.

It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been necessary.

So why had he done it?

Why had she let him?

Lottie swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe as she stood there, the noise of the celebrations ringing in her ears. She tried to convince herself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just the adrenaline, the heat of the moment, a natural reaction to winning.

But a small, unwelcome thought curled in the back of her mind.

Have we just crossed a line?

After the podium, the celebrations carried on in the McLaren garage, thick with champagne, music, and the high of victory. Lando was in the center of it all, surrounded by his team, his friends, people who had worked for this just as much as he had. He was laughing, grinning so wide his face ached, letting the euphoria consume him.

But even through the haze of it all, he kept catching glimpses of her.

Lottie, standing at the edge of the room, drink in hand, smiling at something one of the engineers had said. But not fully present. Not quite there.

Something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach.

So he slipped away, weaving through the crowd until he reached her side.

“Hey.”

She turned, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to seek her out. “Hey, champ.”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, still high on everything, but suddenly feeling way too aware of himself. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, hesitating for a second before blurting out—

“I didn’t mean to kiss you.”

Lottie blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

Lando exhaled sharply. “I mean—I didn’t plan to. It just... happened. I thought it would look good for the cameras, and I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I should’ve asked. I’m sorry if I—”

“It’s okay.”

Her voice was quiet but certain.

Lando studied her face, trying to gauge if she really meant that, or if she was just saying it to make things easier.

And for a moment, they just looked at each other.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of unspoken questions, things neither of them dared to say.

Did it mean something to you?

Because I think it meant something to me.

Lottie cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” She offered him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lando nodded, pretending that was enough.

But as the party carried on around them, as the noise swallowed them up again, neither of them could shake the feeling that something had shifted. That maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something they weren’t ready for.

The night split them in two.

Lando, wrapped up in the whirlwind of celebration, surrounded by his team, other drivers, friends—anyone who wanted to drown in the euphoria of victory with him. The energy of the night was electric, pulsing through the city, through the people, through the drinks passed from hand to hand in the dim glow of club lights.

Lottie, on the other hand, chose something quieter.

“I think I’ll head back,” she told him when the chaos started to spill out of the McLaren garage, into the night. “I need to call my parents, tell them about—” She hesitated for just a second, then smiled. “About the Olympics.”

Lando blinked, like he’d almost forgotten that massive piece of news in the mess of everything else. “Right.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.”

She could see the question forming in his mind before he even said it.

“Are we—” He stopped, shifted on his feet. “We’re good, right?”

Lottie tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Good?”

His jaw tensed, and she could tell he was choosing his words. “With everything. With us. I just—I don’t want things to be weird after—”

“They’re not,” she interrupted, soft but firm. She didn’t let him finish. “We’re fine.”

And maybe it was the way she said it so certainly, the way she met his eyes without hesitation, but Lando believed her.

Still, something inside him felt unsteady.

She leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “Go celebrate,” she murmured.

Lando barely had time to process it before the cameras around them clicked, a frenzy of flashes capturing the moment. A sweet, calculated moment. One that did exactly what it was supposed to—sent the message loud and clear: Charlotte Hayes and Lando Norris are stronger than ever.

Lottie pulled away, sending him one last small smile before stepping back, disappearing into the night, leaving Lando standing there, watching her go.

And then, he let himself get swept away.

The morning hit like a freight train.

Lottie wasn’t even fully awake when she reached for her phone, still hazy from sleep, her body aching from the long weekend. But the second she saw the notifications, her brain jolted awake.

Her screen was flooded.

Headlines. Twitter threads. Photos. Speculation.

Lando Norris partying the night away after victory—who’s the mystery woman?

A few hours after celebrating with his girlfriend, Lando Norris was spotted leaving a hotel that wasn’t his own.

Has Lando Norris already moved on from Charlotte Hayes?

Lottie sat up so fast she nearly got whiplash.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she clicked on the photos, one by one, each image sharper than the last.

Lando in the club, drink in hand, a dark-haired woman pressed close, his head tipped toward her ear.

Lando laughing, his hand resting on the small of her back.

Lando walking out of a hotel at sunrise, looking wrecked, his hoodie pulled low over his face.

The rage hit her fast.

Hot, violent, immediate.

It clawed up her throat, burned behind her ribs.

Because it wasn’t just about the rumors. It wasn’t just about what the press was saying.

It was the fact that he had done this.

After last night. After everything.

Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, trying to breathe through the anger simmering under her skin.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what kind of person Lando was. She knew what she had signed up for.

But this?

This was humiliating.

And Charlotte Hayes didn’t do humiliation.

Lottie didn’t think.

She moved on pure, unfiltered rage.

Barefoot, still in her sleep shorts and hoodie, she stormed down the hallway of the hotel, barely aware of the pounding of her own footsteps. The anger was a living, breathing thing inside her, tightening its grip with every step.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

Just shoved the door open with enough force to make it slam against the wall.

Lando was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, looking like absolute shit. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled like he had slept in it—if he had even slept at all. The dim light of the room cast shadows across his face, making the exhaustion in his eyes even more obvious.

The second he looked up and saw her, his eyes widened. “Lottie—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the heavy morning air.

Lando winced, dragging a hand over his face. “Listen—”

“No. You listen.” She took a step closer, fury radiating off her in waves. “I wake up this morning to see the entire world debating whether or not you’ve cheated on me. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything, Lottie. I swear. Yeah, I was drunk, and yeah, she was—close, but I didn’t—”

“I don’t care.” Lottie’s voice was deadly quiet now. “It doesn’t matter what actually happened. It matters what people think happened. And right now, the entire internet is convinced that you just made a fucking fool out of me.”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustration evident in every tense muscle of his body. “It’s not like I took her to my room! Those photos—Jesus, I was literally leaving my friends’ hotel. That’s it. That’s the whole fucking story.”

Lottie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And what, you think people are going to believe that? You think the fans, the media, the sponsors, are going to take the time to fact-check before they start writing the next big headline?” She shook her head, stepping even closer. “This isn’t about truth, Lando. It’s about perception. That’s all a PR relationship is, and you just made it look like I’m the pathetic girlfriend getting cheated on.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

She laughed. A sharp, bitter sound. “No, I’m not! And thank fuck for that, because at least I don’t have to actually deal with your bullshit!”

He stood up then, closing the space between them. “What do you want me to do, Lottie?” His voice was lower now, but the frustration was still there. “I can’t change it. I can’t go back and undo it.”

Her breath came fast, her heart pounding. “You want to fix it? Fine. Handle it.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Clean up your own fucking mess.”

Lando swallowed hard, his hands flexing at his sides. “Lottie—”

“Don’t.”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. If you have something to say, tell my team. I’ll be busy—I don’t have time to be dealing with your shit when I have the Olympics to focus on.”

His brows pulled together, his expression unreadable. “That’s it? You’re just gonna cut me off?”

“No, Lando.” Her voice was steady. “I’m just reminding you that this isn’t real. You do whatever the fuck you want—I’m done cleaning up after you.”

She turned before he could say another word, slamming the door behind her, leaving him standing there in the wreckage.

Weeks go by. The headlines cool down. His PR team works damage control, pushing a new narrative—"misunderstanding," "taken out of context," "no trouble in paradise." They make sure Lottie and Lando are seen together again, and soon, the internet forgets.

But Lottie doesn’t.

She’s too busy winning. Training harder than ever, pouring all of her focus into the Olympics. And if there’s something fierce in the way she throws herself into it, something angry—well, she doesn’t think too much about that.

Then, their PR teams drop a bomb on them.

"Vacation."

Together.

"To keep up appearances," their managers explain. "To make sure everyone knows things are fine."

Lottie is livid. She wants to refuse, wants to tell them all to go to hell—but she can’t. This is what she signed up for. And if she has to suffer through another week with Lando Norris, she’s going to do it her way.

So, she picks the location.

Her family's estate. A sprawling, old-money English countryside estate—complete with horses, etiquette-dinner expectations, and the poshest group of people Lando has ever encountered in his life.

If she has to deal with him, then he has to deal with this.

And that?

That’s where the real fun begins.

Lando has been thrown into hell. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

The estate is massive, straight out of a period drama, with towering trees lining the driveway and an overwhelming sense of old money oozing from every brick. The kind of place where history isn’t just remembered—it’s lived in. The house itself is ridiculous—high ceilings, chandeliers, endless hallways leading to even more endless rooms. Every surface gleams, polished to perfection, and the whole place smells faintly of expensive wood polish and fresh flowers.

Lottie is clearly thriving.

She doesn’t even try to ease him into it. If anything, she seems delighted by his suffering.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” she says sweetly their first morning there, leading him into the grand dining room for breakfast. “We have a dress code for meals.”

Lando looks down at his hoodie and sweatpants, then back up at her. “You’re joking.”

She isn’t.

He doesn’t change. Not for breakfast, not for dinner, not ever. He shows up every morning in his McLaren hoodie, every evening in his cargo shorts, and every time he catches Lottie’s mother glancing at his outfit, he just smiles and takes another bite of whatever very expensive meal they’re eating.

It’s a battle of wills. And Lando? He likes winning.

But even though he’s standing his ground on the clothing front, there’s one battle he’s losing—the absolute zoo of animals in this house.

Caesar, at least, is familiar. The big German Shepherd recognizes Lando immediately, tail wagging as he trots up to him like they’re old friends. Lando crouches to scratch behind his ears, muttering, “At least you don’t hate me.”

But then come the others.

Three other dogs.

One of them—a scruffy little terrier mix—steals his shoes every time he takes them off. Another, a massive black Labrador, insists on sitting directly on his feet whenever Lando is standing still. And the third, a tiny white ball of fluff, just stares at him. Silent. Judging.

Then there are the cats. So many cats. Lando has no idea how many there actually are—every time he turns a corner, there’s another one. On the stairs. On the windowsills. Watching him from the bookshelves like tiny, furry spies.

“I feel like I’m being monitored,” he tells Lottie one afternoon, eyeing a particularly fluffy orange tabby that hasn’t blinked in minutes.

Lottie just hums, flipping a page in her book. “You probably are.”

Then there are her brothers, the twins. They don’t hate him. They don’t even intimidate him. But they do make him uncomfortable.

Because for the first two days, they just watch him. Always there, just slightly in the background. Lando will be sitting in the lounge, and suddenly, he’ll realize they’re behind the couch. Not saying anything. Just observing.

Or he’ll walk into a room and they’ll already be there, speaking in low voices, only to stop immediately when he enters.

At one point, he catches them sitting across from each other in the drawing room, both drinking tea, both looking at him with the exact same neutral expression.

“You two are terrifying,” he says flatly.

One of them blinks. “Thank you.”

But then, on the third day, something changes.

They’ve just finished dinner, and Lando is mentally preparing himself for another round of polite-yet-unsettling observation from Lottie’s twin brothers when one of them—Oliver? Nate? No clue—leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Do you play FIFA?”

Lando pauses, thrown by the sudden normalcy of the question. “Uh. Yeah?”

The twins exchange a glance.

“Come with us.”

It sounds less like an invitation and more like a summoning, but Lando follows them anyway, intrigued. They lead him through the house, down a hallway, and into what can only be described as a shrine to sports and gaming. A massive flat-screen TV, shelves lined with games, beanbags strewn about, and a top-of-the-line gaming console already set up.

They settle in, and within minutes, they’re locked in battle.

It turns out the twins are good. But Lando is better.

By the time he scores his third goal in a row, he can practically hear their egos fracturing.

“Jesus,” one of them mutters, scowling at the screen.

“You’re a Formula 1 driver,” the other points out. “How the hell are you this good? Do you really have time to play games?”

Lando just smirks, lounging back into the couch. “Hand-eye coordination, mate.”

For the first time since he arrived, the tension eases. The twins stop analyzing him like some strange foreign specimen and start treating him like a competitor, someone worth their time.

They play for hours, their competitive streaks fueling each other, and by the time they finally call it quits, Lando almost forgets that, technically, he’s supposed to be suffering on this trip.

Almost.

The next afternoon, Lottie and her parents sit outside, having tea at a shaded table on the terrace. The estate stretches out before them—rolling fields, neatly kept gardens, and, at the far end of the property, a large, open field.

It’s there that the twins have dragged Lando, a football at their feet.

“He’s definitely better than them,” Lottie remarks, watching as Lando effortlessly weaves through her brothers, making them look ridiculous in the process.

Her father hums, sipping his tea. “They need to be humbled from time to time.”

Her mother sighs. “I am starting to like him.”

Lottie grins, eyes fixed on the game. She can hear them shouting at each other—frustrated, determined, cursing when Lando scores yet again.

And then, something unexpected happens.

Lando looks up from the field, his eyes searching. And when they find her—when he finds her—he grins. Wide, smug, bright with victory and mischief.

Lottie rolls her eyes, pretending not to care.

But she feels it.

That warmth creeping in, that quiet, dangerous thought—maybe this isn't fake at all.

And then, it starts subtly.

Lottie notices it in small gestures, little shifts in body language that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t her.

Her mother, for example, stops looking at Lando like he’s a particularly loud guest overstaying his welcome. Instead, she starts noticing things.

The way he always greets her politely in the morning, even when he’s barely awake. The way he thanks the staff every time they serve a meal. The way he lets Caesar jump onto his lap, even though he’s wearing one of his expensive hoodies and will absolutely leave covered in dog hair.

But the real moment of change comes one evening when they’re all gathered in the sitting room. It’s been a long day—Lottie had spent the afternoon training, Lando had been dragged into yet another ridiculous scheme by her brothers, and now, finally, there’s a lull in the chaos.

Lottie’s mother is knitting, a quiet habit of hers that keeps her hands busy while she listens to the conversation around her.

And then—without a word—she sets down her knitting, stands up, and disappears into the hallway.

Lottie barely notices, until she returns a moment later with a folded blanket in her hands.

She walks straight over to where Lando is slumped in an armchair, clearly exhausted but still trying to follow the conversation. He blinks up at her, confused, as she unfolds the blanket and drapes it over his shoulders.

"There," she says, smoothing it down as if he’s one of her children. "You looked cold."

Lando just stares at her. Lottie stares at her.

Her mother doesn’t say anything else—just pats his shoulder lightly and goes back to her seat, picking up her knitting again like nothing happened.

Lottie’s brothers immediately start teasing him for it.

Lando, dazed, just pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

He’s in.

Her father takes longer.

Not because he’s particularly cold—Lottie’s father isn’t unkind, just reserved. Measured. He was never one for overly warm welcomes, always preferring to keep his distance until someone proved themselves worth the effort.

But he watches Lando.

Watches him joke with the twins, watches the way Caesar follows him around, watches how he doesn’t complain about any of it—the formality, the expectation, the centuries-old family traditions he clearly doesn’t understand but still respects.

And then, one evening, as they’re all gathered in the sitting room after dinner, he finally speaks directly to him.

"You’re a racing driver, but are you into cars?"

Lando, caught mid-sip of his drink, swallows quickly. "Uh—yeah."

Her father hums, thoughtful. "I rebuilt an old Aston Martin years ago. Did it myself. Took months."

Lottie stares.

Her father never talks about that.

Lando, however, lights up. "No way. What model?"

And just like that, they’re talking. Really talking—about engines, about restoration work, about classic cars versus modern builds. Lottie watches as her father, the same man who barely tolerated Lando’s existence a few days ago, nods along, asking questions, engaging in a way that he rarely does with people outside their world.

It’s… unexpected.

And then—

"You should stay for the hunting weekend," her father says casually, sipping his brandy.

Lando blinks. "The what now?"

Lottie groans, dragging a hand over her face. "Oh, God. Don’t encourage him."

Her father just chuckles. "It’s tradition."

And that? That’s acceptance.

Lottie sees all of it.

Sees her mother treating Lando with the same quiet care she gives her own children. Sees her father warming to him in his own quiet, begrudging way. Sees the twins, who were dead set on making his life miserable, inviting him to play, to join, to be part of it.

She watches as Lando stops acting like he’s just tolerating it, and starts enjoying it.

And worst of all?

She watches herself let it happen.

It starts with curiosity.

Lando had never paid much attention to horses before—never needed to. His world had always been fast cars, roaring engines, and sleek designs built for speed. The idea of an animal being an athlete in its own right was… foreign.

But then there’s Lottie.

And Lottie is magic on a horse.

He watches her every morning, perched on the edge of the fence as she takes Vermento through his paces, guiding him through intricate dressage routines, moving as if they share the same mind. He watches her during jumping sessions, the sound of hooves hitting the ground in rhythmic beats, her focus razor-sharp, her body a study in control and precision.

Some days, she disappears into the cross-country course—a winding, forested path with water jumps, fallen logs, and sharp turns that demand both trust and instinct.

That’s when Lando gets bored. And a bored Lando is a reckless Lando.

Which is how he ends up on a bike.

The twins had found it for him, laughing their asses off as they presented the ancient, half-rusted bicycle that had probably been sitting in one of the estate’s storage sheds for decades.

But Lando? Lando sees a challenge.

So the next morning, when Lottie heads toward the cross-country course, he grabs the bike and pedals after her.

She doesn’t notice at first, too focused on guiding Vermento over the jumps, but when she finally turns her head and sees him—legs pumping furiously, struggling to keep up—she nearly falls off her horse from laughing.

“What the hell are you doing?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Winning,” he shouts back, even though he’s absolutely not.

He lasts about ten minutes before his legs burn like hell and he nearly crashes into a bush. Lottie watches, still laughing, as he slows to a stop, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Vermento trots back toward him, ears flicking curiously. Lottie, still grinning, leans forward in the saddle. “Not as easy as it looks, huh?”

Lando glares up at her. “Shut up.”

But the next morning, he does it again.

And the next.

Then there are the photos.

It’s part of the reason they’re here, after all—damage control, reassurance for the fans. So they take pictures together, post casual stories of their “vacation” online.

A blurry shot of Caesar flopped on Lando’s lap, captioned: Officially Lando’s dog now. Sorry, Lottie.

A picture of Lottie sitting on the fence, sipping coffee, watching Lando struggle to clean Vermento’s hooves under the supervision of one of the grooms.

A short video of Lando trying—and failing—to keep up with her on the bike, her laughter in the background as she zooms past him on horseback.

They’re easy, effortless.

And the internet eats them up.

Fans flood the comments—he’s obsessed with her, they look so happy, look at the way he looks at her.

And Lando doesn’t read them.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t need to.

Because he knows how he looks at her.

He knows that he’s spent hours watching her train, noticing things he shouldn’t—like the way her expression softens when she talks to Vermento, or the way her hair slips loose from its tie when she’s too focused to fix it, or the way she bites her lip when she’s planning her next move.

He knows that the way he feels when she smiles at him, really smiles, is different from how he’s ever felt before.

He knows.

And that?

That’s terrifying.

The house is empty.

Lottie doesn’t notice at first—too busy going through her post-training routine, stretching out muscles that burn from the morning’s work. She assumes the usual background noise of the estate will fill the space soon enough—her brothers causing chaos, her mother calling for dinner, her father reading in his study. But the house stays quiet.

No staff. No family.

Just her.

And Lando.

She finds him in the sitting room, sprawled out on one of the massive couches, flipping absently through a book he definitely isn’t reading. His McLaren hoodie looks ridiculous in the setting—old paintings, antique furniture, crystal chandeliers—but he doesn’t seem to care.

He glances up when she walks in.

“You realize we’re alone?” he asks.

Lottie arches an eyebrow. “What, scared?”

Lando scoffs. “Terrified.”

She smirks, crossing the room to sit with him, curling her legs up beneath her. For a moment, there’s silence—calm, easy. But then Lando shifts, sets the book down, and his expression changes.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands curl slightly against his knees.

Lottie knows that look. He’s about to say something.

And then he does.

“I’m sorry.”

Lottie stills. “…For what?”

“For Miami.”

The weight of his words settles between them, heavier than she expects. Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been holding this in for too long.

“I fucked up,” he continues. “I didn’t think. I—” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was stupid, and I didn’t think about you. About how it would look, about the contract, about—everything.” His eyes flick up to hers, and something about the way he looks at her now makes her throat tighten. “And I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was pissed, but that’s not an excuse.”

Lottie watches him, heartbeat steady but heavy.

She swallows.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Lando exhales, nodding.

And then—

“I was angry,” she admits, voice softer now. “But… it wasn’t just about you. I mean, it was, obviously, but—” She stops, pressing her lips together for a second before continuing. “It felt like him again.”

Lando doesn’t need to ask who.

He already knows.

“My ex—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “He was always in the papers. Not for good reasons. And I was always in them with him, whether I wanted to be or not. The drinking, the fighting, the—” She cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek.

Lando stays silent, waiting.

Lottie glances at him, then away.

“I was stupid,” she mutters. “I thought I could make it work. I thought I could fix it. But it just kept getting worse, and worse, and worse, and suddenly I wasn’t just Charlotte Hayes, the equestrian—I was Charlotte Hayes, the girlfriend of the asshole footballer who can’t keep himself out of trouble.”

Lando’s expression hardens.

“I hated it,” she continues. “I hated him, by the end of it. Hated how he made me feel—like I was just an accessory, something he could drag into whatever shit he got himself into. I hated waking up and not knowing what headline would be waiting for me that day.”

She exhales.

“And then Miami happened.”

Lando rubs his hands together, gaze never leaving her.

“I get it now,” he murmurs. “Why you reacted the way you did.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

There’s another silence—longer, deeper.

And then—

“The kiss.”

Lottie’s breath catches.

Lando watches her closely.

“After the race,” he clarifies. “That was… real, right?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Doesn’t know how to.

But then she remembers the way it felt—the rush of it, the warmth, the absolute lack of hesitation.

“Yes,” she says.

A beat.

Lando’s gaze flicks down—to her lips, to the slight shift of her hands against her lap—then back up.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought so.”

Lando doesn’t move back.

And neither does Lottie.

They're close—closer than they’ve ever been without an audience watching, without a script to follow. It should be strange, unsettling even, to have the space between them collapse like this. But it’s not.

It feels inevitable.

Lottie’s heart beats steadily beneath her ribs, not frantic or panicked but slow, deep—aware.

She doesn’t drop his gaze.

Lando swallows. “I think about it.”

Her fingers twitch against her lap. “Think about what?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop. “You. Us. The kiss. That stupid fucking contract.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I tell myself it’s fake. That it’s just job. That none of this should mean anything.”

Lottie listens, hands still, spine straight.

Lando lets out a breath.

“But it does.”

It’s quiet. Honest.

Her pulse trips.

He leans back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, shaking his head as if he’s just said something completely ridiculous.

“I don’t even know when it stopped being fake,” he mutters, like he’s trying to figure it out himself. “Maybe it was Miami. Maybe it was before that. Maybe it was that fucking dog of yours sitting on me like he owns me.” He chuckles softly. “I don’t know. But I stopped pretending a while ago.”

Lottie feels like the air has been knocked out of her lungs.

Lando Norris—the boy who fought this arrangement like it was the worst possible punishment, the boy who complained and sulked and refused to even try in the beginning—is looking at her now like she’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

And maybe she’s been fooling herself.

Maybe she’s been pretending, too—pretending that she doesn’t notice the way her chest gets warm when he looks at her, the way his voice settles in her stomach, the way her body always seems to find him, whether it’s a shoulder bump, a hand on his arm, a touch that lingers too long.

Her throat is dry.

“Lando—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I just—” He sighs, glancing up at her. “I just needed you to know.”

Lottie swallows, fingers tightening in the fabric of her leggings.

And then she hears herself say—

“I think about it, too.”

Lando goes completely still.

Her voice is quieter than his, softer, but just as steady. “I don’t know when it stopped being fake either. I just know that… it doesn’t feel fake now. It didn’t feel fake when I saw those photos of you and that woman, when all I felt was jealousy.”

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

And suddenly, the space between them feels laughable.

Lando moves first.

Or maybe she does.

It’s impossible to tell, because one second they’re sitting across from each other, and the next, his hand is cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his hoodie, pulling—

And then his lips are on hers.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not careful.

It’s certain.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes her forget where they are, the kind that makes her stomach tighten and her hands pull him closer, the kind that answers every unspoken question between them.

Lando breathes her in, deep and slow, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, to feel her, to lose himself in the way she tastes.

And Lottie lets him.

Lets herself.

Because this? This isn’t for anyone else.

It’s not for cameras, not for headlines, not for the PR team that bound them together in the first place.

This is real.

And neither of them want to stop.

The room feels different when they break apart. Not in a bad way.

Just—different.

Like something invisible has shifted. Like the air is thicker, charged with something unsaid but understood.

Lando stays close, forehead nearly brushing hers, breath warm against her skin. His hand is still on her jaw, his thumb ghosting over the curve of her cheek like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.

Lottie doesn’t move either. Because she doesn’t want to.

Her heart isn’t pounding, her breath isn’t shaky—there’s no frantic rush of adrenaline, no sudden panic. Just a slow, deep certainty settling in her bones.

Lando swallows, his eyes flickering over her face, searching for something.

Lottie already knows what he’s looking for.

And she gives it to him. She smiles.

Small, at first—barely there. But then it grows, stretching across her lips, warm and real.

And Lando—Lando laughs.

Not a nervous laugh. Not an awkward one. A relieved one.

A breathless, head-tilted-back, holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-we-just-did-that laugh.

Lottie shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing too.

It doesn’t work.

He leans back, resting his weight on his hands, running his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s still tasting her.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, smug.

“So are you,” she retorts.

Lando shrugs. “Well, yeah. You are a pretty great kisser.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet—” He gestures vaguely between them. “You kissed me back.”

She huffs, shaking her head, but her face is warm, and she knows she’s not fooling anyone.

Lando watches her in silence for a moment, as if he’s still processing everything. Then, he tilts his head slightly.

“So what now?”

Lottie blinks.

The question should make her panic. It should make her overthink, replay every clause of their contract, think about the press, the consequences.

But it doesn’t. Because this—him—feels easy.

And when has anything in her life ever been easy?

Lottie exhales, tilting her head. “Well, I was planning on going riding before dinner.”

Lando lets out a scoff. “That’s not what I meant.”

She smirks. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Lottie drops her gaze to her lap, tracing the seam of her leggings with her fingers. When she speaks, her voice is softer but just as firm.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I know I don’t want to keep pretending.”

Lando watches her, and something in his expression shifts.

He nods, slowly, thoughtfully.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

That’s it.

No dramatic speeches. No complicated plans.

Just—okay.

And somehow, it’s exactly what she needs.

Lottie exhales, a small, satisfied sigh, and pushes herself up, stretching her arms over her head. Lando’s eyes follow the movement, dropping instinctively when her shirt lifts just slightly. And Lottie knows he’s thinking about the kiss again.

She grins, playful. “You coming?”

Lando blinks. “What?”

“To ride.”

“Oh.” Lando clears his throat, straightening. “For a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Lottie raises an eyebrow. “Thought what?”

Lando presses his lips together, crossing his arms. “Thought you meant something else,” he finally admits, his tone casual, but his eyes—his eyes are something else.

Lottie blinks once.

Twice.

And then she laughs.

A real, genuine, completely entertained laugh. Lando watches her with mock indignation, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

“Come on, city boy,” Lottie says, patting his shoulder before heading for the door. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Lando groans, but he follows anyway, muttering something about how much he’s going to regret this.

But when she smiles over her shoulder at him and he feels the warmth still lingering in his chest—

He knows he won’t.

At first, nothing changes. Not really.

Lando still races every weekend, still chases milliseconds and podiums, still stands under bright lights answering the same questions over and over again. Lottie still spends long days in the saddle, pushing herself harder, training for the biggest moment of her career. They still show up where they’re supposed to, still play their roles, still exist under the constant hum of cameras flashing, fans speculating.

But something shifts. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

Maybe it’s the way Lottie reaches for his hand without thinking, fingers slipping between his like it’s second nature. Maybe it’s the way Lando starts looking for her in the crowd, his eyes finding her before they find the checkered flag. Maybe it’s the way the obligations don’t feel like obligations anymore, the way their time together no longer feels like something arranged but something inevitable.

One night, after a race—after a victory—Lottie is driving them back to their hotel. Lando is slumped in the passenger seat, his body loose with exhaustion and alcohol, the adrenaline of the night finally fading. He’s still wearing his team polo, though it’s wrinkled now, untucked, the top buttons undone. There’s a stupid little grin on his face, one that hasn’t left since the champagne was sprayed.

Lottie glances at him briefly. “You good over there?”

Lando hums, his head lolling against the seat as he turns to look at her. His pupils are a little blown, his cheeks flushed. “Mhm,” he says. Then, after a beat, his voice a little quieter, a little sleepier: “I think I like you.”

Lottie’s hands tighten slightly around the wheel. She flicks her eyes toward him again, taking in the way he’s watching her—not searching for a reaction, not trying to gauge her expression. Just saying it, like it’s a passing thought that slipped past the filter in his brain.

She exhales a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s not the tequila talking?”

Lando’s grin widens, lazy and content. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His head tilts slightly. “But I do think I like you.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “That’s nice, Lando.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road. “I think I like you too.”

Lando hums again, as if he’s just won another race, and lets his eyes slip shut.

Maybe it’s not about a single moment, not about some grand realization or dramatic confession. Maybe it’s about all the little things, the ones no one else sees.

Like the way Lando always waits for her after an event, even when he doesn’t have to, even when it would be easier to slip away unnoticed. Or the way Lottie starts spending more and more weekends at his races, standing in the back of the garage, her presence as steady as the roar of the engines.

Like the morning after a race when Lottie wakes up to find Lando cooking breakfast in her kitchen, hair still a mess from hours of travel, moving around like he’s been doing it forever.

“You’re in my kitchen,” she says, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorway.

Lando smirks, flipping a pancake. “And?”

“And I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s because I have a key,” he says simply, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You gave it to me, remember?”

She blinks, a memory flickering in the back of her mind—of tossing her spare key at him in a rush one day when she was late for an event, barely thinking about it. She hadn’t even realized he’d kept it.

Lando plates a pancake and sets it in front of her. “If you want it back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”

Lottie looks at him, at the way he’s standing there like he belongs, and she smiles.

“I think you can keep it.”

By the time the Olympics arrive, the lines between real and pretend are long gone. They don’t talk about it—not directly—but it’s there, in every shared look and every quiet moment. In the way Lando texts her good luck before every qualifier. In the way Lottie wears his hoodie on cold mornings at the stables.

What they have is no longer just a story for the media. It’s theirs.

Still, she doesn’t expect him to be there. Not really.

But when she rides into the arena for her final round, when she hears the crowd roar and the unmistakable, ridiculous sound of a vuvuzela echoing through the stadium, she looks up—and there he is.

Lando, standing at the front of the crowd, wearing a Union Jack bucket hat and sunglasses far too large for his face. He is surrounded by his childhood friends and a couple of other drivers she recognizes even from this distance. Russell is wearing a stupid shirt with Great Britain’s colours and her face all over it. She doesn’t want to ask who convinced Verstappen and Piastri—none of them british—to paint his face with the Union Jack. Still, they are all chanting for her.

There’s a banner the size of a small country with her face on it—two, actually. One reads "GO LOTTIE GO" in massive glitter letters. The other has a blown-up photo of her from her most awkward teenage competition, helmet askew, braces on full display. Classic Lando.

And just behind them, regal as ever, are her parents—elegant, composed, but unmistakably proud. Her mother has tears in her eyes. Her father’s clapping like a man possessed.

Lottie doesn’t have time to react. Because the bell rings, and the round begins. She breathes, just once, and lets instinct take over.

But for Lando, everything slows down.

The moment she takes the first jump, the world tilts. It’s like watching a memory unfold in real time—except it’s happening right now, and it’s everything.

He sees her laughing in the hotel corridor, towel around her neck, cheeks flushed from a workout. He sees her pressed against him in the rain after a paparazzi ambush, their hands linked tight. He remembers the smell of her shampoo, the scratch of her voice when she’s tired, the way she whispers his name like it’s a secret only they share.

He thinks about mornings in her kitchen, the stupid key he never gave back, the hoodie she stole and never returned. He thinks about how she cheers louder than anyone when he races, how she knows exactly when to squeeze his hand before a big day, how she never pretends to be anything she’s not.

And in that moment, Lando realizes he’s completely, utterly gone for her.

He is so, so in love that it's ridiculous. It’s not even a feeling anymore—it’s just a fact, steady and true, like gravity.

And when she clears the final jump, when the scoreboard flashes GOLD FOR GREAT BRITAIN, it snaps him back to reality.

He’s already moving. Vaulting the barrier without a second thought, weaving through the chaos. He barely hears the cheers, the announcers, the pounding in his own chest.

Lottie reins her horse, Vermento, to a slow trot, trying to breathe, trying to believe what just happened.

And then she sees him.

Lando, running toward the arena. The horse sees him too—ears flicking forward, recognizing him in an instant. To everyone’s amazement, the horse trots toward him, calm and curious. Lando lifts a hand instinctively, and without hesitation, reaches for the reins as if he's done it a hundred times.

He steadies the horse, eyes never leaving Lottie. She’s still catching her breath, still wide-eyed with adrenaline and disbelief. He lifts one hand, silently offering to help her down.

She doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. She takes his hand, and he helps her dismount, his other hand still gently on the reins.

It’s a stupid little gesture. A small, quiet thing. But it says everything.

“You absolute maniac,” she breathes, barely standing still, laughing as she lands on solid ground. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes are bright, full of something bigger than pride. “You really thought I’d miss this?”

“You didn’t even tell me,” she says, half-laughing, half-crying.

“Wanted to surprise you. And, you know,”—he gestures toward the ridiculous crowd of friends behind him—“make a scene.”

“You definitely did that.”

Lando grins, but then his expression softens.

He leans in, voice low and steady. "You know, I used to think winning was the best feeling in the world."

Lottie raises an eyebrow, breath still catching.

"But then you started showing up. And suddenly... the best part was who I got to share it with." He pauses, smile tugging at his lips. "Even if you do keep stealing my hoodies."

She looks at him, really looks at him—at the mess of curls under the stupid hat, the stupid sunglasses pushed onto his forehead, the softness in his eyes.

“I know,” she whispers.

“I mean it, Lottie. I’m in this. For real. I want—God, I want all of it. The chaos and the quiet and the early mornings in your kitchen and even the horses that kind of scare me.”

Her laugh breaks on a sob.

“I want you,” he says simply.

And this time, she doesn’t hesitate.

She kisses him, right there in front of everyone—in front of the cameras, the crowd, her parents, the entire world.

It’s messy and joyful and a little breathless. And it feels, finally, like the start of something real.

Their friends erupt into cheers. Someone sets off a confetti cannon. Lottie’s dad starts filming, and her mum is openly weeping.

But all she can feel is Lando’s arms around her, grounding her, anchoring her to this exact moment.

Home, she thinks.

He feels like home.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

If you want to get added to my permanent taglist, just let me know!

#alltoomaples recs #lando norris x reader #f1 x oc #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #ln4

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alltoomaples · 3 months ago

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This is too much cute for me. The way he always gets down to eye level with kids 😭

#lando norris #ln4 #formula 1 #japanese gp 2025

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alltoomaples · 3 months ago

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lando on his parents watching the race:

“My dad struggles to watch the first laps, and my mum is the same. When they are in the garage, sometimes my mum has to leave just to get the first lap out of the way then come back in. She has always looked out for me, and she knows how dangerous it is.

Parents always think like that more than we do as drivers.

They think of the worst before the best but I know they are in it with me. My mum always says she is on my shoulder while I am driving. She is always in the car with me.”

#god he’s such a mommas boy and really just a family man at his core #😭😭😭#lando norris #lando the man that you aree💌#ln4

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alltoomaples · 3 months ago

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it's a new f1 season and that means new snoopy tifoso drawings 🪄

#i am sooo obsessed #soo cute #f1 art #scuderia ferrari #peanuts #snoopy #snoopy and woodstock

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alltoomaples · 3 months ago

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alltoomaples · 3 months ago

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THE PLOTIEST OF PLOT TWIST!?!?!? AAHHH *regaining breaths*

Rewrite The Stars

06: Story Of My Life

Lando Norris x surgeon!OC (Lyra Montgomery)

runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn

Words: 4.5k

Warnings: Lando & Lyra POV, basically their friendship, COVID, drama

Masterlist

previous part

a/n: Sooooo... This part is like a transition for the next chapters, so you all ccan understand their history

If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

2013. 13 years old.

🩺

The classroom smelled exactly how a room full of teenagers that came from an hour of P.E. would smell: a nauseous mix of sweat, deodorant and perfume. My legs still felt heavy from the sprints our teacher had forced us to run, and my ponytail was messy with a few loose strands sticking to my face.

I dropped into my seat, barely paying attention to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as everyone settled in. But then, he sat down next to me.

Lando Norris.

It wasn’t the first time we had been paired together for projects, but it was the first time we had to sit next to each other in class. Usually, we only interacted casually, flirting as a joke, teasing each other for fun… But now, stuck side by side in the same desk, neither of us seemed to know how to act.

For once, he wasn’t saying anything.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. His uniform jacket was hanging on the chair, his hair was still damp from sweating in the sun, and he was tapping his pencil against his notebook like he was already bored out of his mind.

The teacher started talking, explaining the exercise we had to complete before the end of the lesson. Something about reading comprehension, analyzing a passage, and answering a set of questions.

Easy enough.

I lowered my gaze to my worksheet, filling out the first answer quickly, but as I moved on to the next, something caught my attention.

Lando hadn’t written anything.

His pencil was clenched tightly in his hand, tapping erratically against the desk, but his eyes kept darting between the exercise and the textbook, his brows furrowed like he was trying to decode the words instead of just reading them.

For the first time, I actually noticed him.

The way his fingers traced over the sentences, the way he blinked hard, like the letters were shifting in front of him.

The way his jaw tightened just a little, frustration creeping into his expression.

I hesitated for a second, unsure if I should say anything, but then, before I could stop myself, I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice.

“Do you want to do it together?”

Lando’s head snapped toward me, startled. He blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for the first time ever, he didn’t have a sarcastic comeback waiting for me.

“I-” he hesitated, glancing down at his paper before looking back at me. His usual confidence faltered just slightly, replaced by something more uncertain. “It’s fine. I just-”he cut himself off, sighing loudly. “I’m just slow at this.”

I tilted my head, studying him for a moment before moving my notebook a little closer to the middle of the desk and shifting slightly to be closer to him.

“I’ll read them out loud” I offered. “And then we can figure out the answers together.”

Lando’s fingers twitched around his pencil, and for a second, I thought he was going to refuse.

But then, slowly, he nodded.

When we got to the questions, I didn’t rush. I wrote my answer slowly, leaving space in case he wanted to copy it down. But instead, he nudged my elbow.

“Wait” he muttered, pointing at one of the sentences I had underlined. “That part, why did you mark it?”

“Because it explains the main idea. That’s what the first question is asking for.” I said, tracing the sentence with my finger.

We worked through the questions together. I made sure not to rush him, giving him time to process the words, helping whenever he hesitated. At first, he was a little tense, like he was waiting for me to get frustrated, but when I didn’t, he started to relax.

And then, before I even realized it, the awkward silence between us shifted.

Instead of tension, there was something easier, lighter. I made a joke about the ridiculous scenario in one of the problems, and Lando actually laughed. He made some teasing comment about my handwriting being too good, and I rolled my eyes, nudging his arm with my elbow.

The teasing was different now. Less forced. Less of a game.

We were just talking.

And by the time we finished the last question, something between us had changed. Neither of us said it out loud, but I think we both knew.

This was the start of something.

2015. 15 years old.

🏎️

The roar of engines filled the air, a constant, loud hum that vibrated through my chest as I stood near the grid. My helmet hung loosely in my grip, fingers tightening around the edge as I tried to focus, to breathe.

It wasn’t my first race. Hell, I have done this before, I won before. But something about today felt different. Maybe it was the fact that this was Formula 4 Britain, the step that actually mattered. Maybe it was because I had more to prove, more eyes on me than ever before.

Or maybe, maybe, it was because of her.

I turned my head slightly, my eyes scanning the small group of people standing near the paddock. My friends and family were there, chatting, waiting for the race to start, but my focus locked onto Lyra.

She stood with her arms crossed, wearing my hoodie because she complained about being too cold. Her orange hair was up, loose strands falling against her face as she listened to whatever conversation was happening around her, but I could tell she was watching me.

Just like she always did since that class where she helped me.

I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders before she caught me staring, but it was too late.

Her gaze flickered to mine, and she immediately tilted her head, green eyes narrowing slightly in that way she always did when she knew something was up.

A second later, she was walking toward me.

"You're nervous" she said, standing next to me and looking at the car.

"Nah" I huffed, laughing and shaking my head.

“Lando…”

The way she said my name sent a shiver down my spine, but I ignored it, biting the inside of my cheek.

I wanted to act like I was fine, like I had everything under control, but the way she was looking at me made it impossible to lie.

"Fine. Maybe a little" I sighed.

"You always do this, you know?" she said, crossing her arms again, nudging me softly with her hip. "You overthink, you get in your head, and then-"

"I go out there and win?" I finished for her, lifting a brow and smirking.

“Exactly” she chuckled.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The noise of the track surrounded us, but somehow, standing there with her, everything felt quieter. She reached out to the sleeves of my race suit, helping me put them on, and zipping it up to my neck.

“You’ll be fine” she said with a smile.

“Yeah? You sound pretty sure.” I smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Because you always are. You can have the worst start in the world, and somehow, you still find a way to win.” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

I smiled weakly and nodded. She’s right, it’s not the first time something like that happened to me.

“Do me a favor. Try not to crash, yeah? I don’t feel like visiting you in the hospital.” she smirked, taking a step back when the staff of my team asked her to move away.

“Noted!” I laughed, rolling my eyes.

I don’t remember every second of the race, it blurred together in flashes of speed, the sound of tires against asphalt, and the adrenaline rush of pushing the car to its limits. Every nerve in my body was on fire, every reflex sharp, every instinct screaming at me to go faster, to win.

And I did.

When I crossed the finish line, the feeling hit me all at once: victory, relief, pure euphoria.

And then, as soon as I pulled into the pit lane and climbed out of the car, the first thing I saw wasn’t my team, it wasn't the trophy waiting for me.

It was her.

Lyra Montgomery.

Standing just past the barriers, hands cupped around her mouth as she shouted something I couldn’t hear over the noise. Her eyes were bright, her smile wide, and for a moment, everything else faded.

The world was loud, but she was the only thing I could focus on.

I pulled off my helmet, my pulse still racing, and as I locked eyes with her, something in my chest tightened. It was different this time. The way she looked at me, the way I felt when I saw her standing there.

The crush I had tried so hard to ignore?

It was no longer an innocent crush.

It was way worse.

2016. 16 years old.

🩺

The streets were alive with movement, buzzing with the energy of a city that never seemed to sleep. Lights glowed from shop windows, casting a golden hue on the streets as we walked. Lando was beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie I wore many times, the hood pulled up just enough to cover his messy curls. Our friends were a few steps ahead, laughing about something I hadn’t caught, too lost in my own thoughts.

We spent the entire day exploring, getting lost in the streets, stopping at cafés that smelled like fresh pastries and coffee, taking stupid pictures in front of every tourist attraction we could find. It had been fun, the kind of carefree, weightless fun that made me forget about everything else.

But even through the laughter, the teasing and the stupid inside jokes, something had felt off.

And it had everything to do with the boy walking next to me.

Lando and I had always been close. Best friends. His family always invited me to have dinner every Friday, his sisters and I go shopping together from time to time. But lately, things have been… different. It wasn’t just me. I knew he felt it too. The way we’d catch each other staring a little too long, the way his teasing had changed and became less playful, but more intense. The way I could feel his eyes on me when I wasn’t looking.

It was confusing. And I hated being confused.

We made it back to the hotel just before curfew, sneaking past teachers who were definitely too tired to care that we had spent an extra hour outside. But none of us were ready to sleep. Not yet.

That’s how we ended up on the roof.

We sat in a circle, passing around snacks we bought, feeling the night air crisp against our skin. Someone played music from a speaker, low enough that it blended with the distant sounds of cars and late-night conversations from the streets below.

At some point, our friends started to disappear, one by one, slipping away to their rooms, exhausted from the day. Until it was just us.

Just me and Lando.

Alone.

I leaned back on my hands, staring at the sky, feeling the silence settle between us. Not awkward. Just… heavy.

“You’ve been weird lately” Lando said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Me? You’re the one who’s been acting weird.” I sighed, glaring at him.

He scoffed, shaking his head, but there was no real annoyance behind it. He was thinking. Hard. I know him.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just sat there, running a hand through his hair before finally letting out a breath.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure” I whisper, nodding slowly.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how to say it. And then:

“Do you ever think about us?”

I froze. My fingers curled against the material of my skirt, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.

“Us?” I repeated, my voice quieter now.

“Yeah” he turned to face me, his blue eyes catching the glow of the city lights. “Because I do. And I don’t know what the hell it means, but I-” he exhaled, shaking his head. “I just wanted to know if you feel it too.”

I do.

I had been feeling it for months, but I had buried it, pushed it down so deep I had almost convinced myself it wasn’t real. Because if I admitted it, it would change everything.

I looked at him, at the way he was watching me, waiting. And before I could stop myself, before I could think it through…

I kissed him.

It was soft, hesitant. Just a brush of lips, but God, it was enough to send my heart into a complete freefall. Lando sucked in a sharp breath, and for a second, neither of us moved.

Then he kissed me back.

It wasn’t like I had imagined, not that I had imagined it, obviously. But it was gentle, careful in a way I hadn’t expected. Like he was afraid I would disappear if he wasn’t.

But then, reality crashed in.

I pulled away suddenly, breathless, my mind racing too fast to process anything other than pure panic.

“No” I whispered.

“What?”

“No, this-” I shook my head, hating the way my chest ached just saying the words. “We’re friends. We- This can’t happen again”

His brows furrowed, his expression shifting into something I couldn’t handle seeing. Confusion, pain…

“Lyra-”

“I have to go.”

I scrambled to my feet, avoiding his gaze, and without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving him sitting there alone on the rooftop.

And I knew, deep down, that nothing between us would ever be simple again.

2019. 19 years old.

🏎️

I don’t know why I had been trying to convince myself that I didn’t care. Maybe because pretending was easier. Maybe because admitting the truth, that watching Lyra with someone else felt like a knife between my ribs was too painful.

But all of that pretending went straight to hell the second I found out he was cheating on her.

I hadn’t meant to find out, actually.

It wasn’t like I was out there searching for proof that her relationship was a disaster waiting to happen.

It just happened.

One of my friends mentioned seeing him, pressed up against some girl at a bar across town. Then another one said they saw him before, doing the same thing with a different gorl. And suddenly, it wasn’t just one rumor. It was the kind of truth that spread through whispers until it became undeniable.

I spent hours pacing my apartment, thinking if I should tell her or not. Because I knew how it would sound coming from me, the best friend who never liked him in the first place. The guy who had every reason to want to see him gone.

But the second I saw her that night, laughing at something he had said, trusting him, I couldn’t keep it to myself.

Lyra didn’t believe me at first.

She had just stared at me, arms crossed, brows furrowed, anger written all over her face. And fuck, that hurt.

"You’re just saying this because you never liked him" she had snapped.

"Because he’s a dickhead” I had corrected, voice sharp. “And now I have proof.”

I had shown her the pictures, sent by Max, who had been at the bar, who had seen it happen in real time. And then, just like that, something cracked in her expression. Like she had been holding onto some fragile piece of hope, and I had just shattered it in my hands.

She didn’t say anything after that. Just turned and walked away.

And now, hours later, she was here.

Standing in my front door.

I opened the door to find her standing there, her eyes red-rimmed, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"Hey," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"I didn’t know where else to go."

That sentence alone was enough to send my heart into freefall.

I stepped aside, letting her in, watching as she walked past me and into my house like she had a hundred times before. She went straight to the couch, curling up in the corner, pulling her knees to her chest.

I sat down next to her, leaving just enough space between us to pretend like I wasn’t aching to pull her into me.

"So… what happened?" I asked carefully.

Lyra exhaled, shaking her head. Then after a few seconds of silence, she spoke.

"I confronted him."

"And?"

"He tried to lie” she let out a humorless laugh, wiping away an angry tear with the fist of her, actually mine, hoodie. “Then, when he realized I wasn’t buying his bullshit, he started apologizing. Saying it was a mistake. That it didn’t mean anything" she swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. "Like that made it better."

I clenched my jaw, fingers twitching with the need to hit something.

"You deserve better than that" I said.

"Yeah, well. Clearly, I have terrible taste in guys." she scoffed.

I looked at her then, really looked at her, and the words burned on my tongue.

Not all guys. Not me. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.

But I didn’t say them.

Because it didn’t matter.

Because I already knew what she would say if I did.

Instead, I just leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly.

"You wanna stay here tonight?"

"Yeah. I think I do." she whispered. “I hate driving at night”

That should have made me feel better. It should have made me feel important, knowing I was the one she ran to when everything went to shit instead of going to one of her sister's houses, or even hiding in her parent's house.

But all it did was make me feel more miserable.

Because I will always be the shoulder she will need to cry, nothing more.

2020. 20 years old.

🩺

The world outside was quiet. Too quiet. The streets of London, usually buzzing with life, now felt like an empty shell of the city I had come to know. The pandemic had shut everything down, forcing people indoors, forcing us to adapt to a version of life that none of us were prepared for.

My parents and both my sisters were working all day in the hospital, and since I didn’t have any chance of having experience in hospitals, I couldn’t join them, not even live with them in case something happened.

And somehow, in the middle of all that uncertainty, I had ended up living with Lando.

It wasn’t planned. Nothing about it had been. When my student housing had abruptly closed, and flights or trains to go back home were impossible, Lando had offered without hesitation. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it was.

But for me?

Living under the same roof as Lando, spending every second of every day together, was dangerous.

Because we had always been complicated since that night on the rooftop.

And now, we had nowhere to run.

At first, it was easy. Comfortable, even. We settled into a routine with late mornings, lazy breakfasts, him streaming for hours while I studied or read on the couch, nights spent watching movies, playing games together.

Then, at some point, things started to shift.

The space between us got smaller. The casual touches lasted longer. The teasing became something heavier, something that made my skin burn. The way he looked at me changed, or maybe I had just started noticing it more.

And then, one night, we stopped pretending.

It started with a conversation, one we had probably been avoiding for weeks.

We were sitting on the couch, a movie playing in the background, both pretending to watch but neither of us paying attention. My legs were stretched over his lap, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on my ankle. The air between us was charged, tense, thick with something unspoken.

"I think I’m losing my mind" I admitted, tilting my head back against the cushions.

Lando chuckled, shifting slightly.

"That makes two of us."

"No, seriously! It’s been, what? Nearly two months in lockdown? I swear, if I don’t find something to do, I’m going to-" I cut myself off, immediately regretting my choice of words when I saw the slow smirk spreading across his face.

"Something to do, huh?" his voice was teasing, but there was something else in his eyes. Something that made my stomach tighten.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close we were, of the way his fingers were still resting on my leg, of the way my heart was pounding wildly in my chest.

It wasn’t the first time we had ended up like this, locked in some invisible tug-of-war, stuck in a moment that felt like it could tip over the edge at any second. But usually, one of us would break it. Make a joke, create some distance, act like nothing has happened.

This time, neither of us moved.

"I’m just saying" I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "If you didn’t rush me to pack my things, I could have something to solve this thing"

"What kind of thing?" his smirk didn’t fade.

"You know exactly what I mean."

There was a pause, the kind that stretched too long, the kind that made it impossible to breathe.

Then, Lando shifted, turning to face me fully, his expression unreadable.

"So, what? You want to be quarantine fuck buddies now?"

I let out a laugh, but it came out too breathless, too shaky.

“Sure” I said before I could stop and think.

And I meant it, but at the same time, I didn’t.

Lando arched an eyebrow, his smirk turning into something more serious.

"No feelings" he said, looking into my eyes. “And no regrets”

"None" I lied.

His gaze flickered down to my lips for a fraction of a second before he met my eyes again.

"You sure about that?"

No.

But I nodded anyway.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t soft, or hesitant, like the first kiss we had years ago. It was hungry, like we had been waiting too long, like we were both starving for it.

I barely registered him pulling me onto his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, my hands tangling in his curls. His fingers pressed into my waist, holding me in place as his mouth moved against mine, deep and needy.

We weren’t thinking.

We weren’t worrying about what this would mean tomorrow, or the day after that.

Right now, there was only this.

His hands slipped under the hoodie and the second his fingers met my bare skin, I gasped.

"Fuck" he muttered against my lips. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

I didn’t.

I didn’t want to stop.

"Don’t” I whispered.

His response was immediate, his lips trailing down my neck, his hands gripping my hips tighter, pulling me closer.

And for the first time in years, I let myself not think about the consequences.

But I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

Because the moment it was over, the moment I was lying there in his bed, reality hit me like a fucking freight train.

Because he didn’t feel the same way anymore. Right?

I had spent so much time convincing myself that my feelings for Lando were long gone, buried somewhere beneath years of friendship. But as I turned my head and watched him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, his face relaxed in the dim light, I knew.

I was falling for him, again.

And this time, it was worse.

Because now, he didn’t feel the same.

Because now, I was just a distraction.

2021. 21 years old.

🩺

I wasn’t stupid.

I knew that what had happened between Lando and me during the lockdown wasn’t supposed to mean anything. That was the entire of being fuck buddies.

And yet, somehow, it had still left a mark on me.

Maybe it was because, after that first night, we kept falling into it, late at night when the house was too quiet, when we couldn’t keep pretending that there wasn’t something between us. Maybe it was because, even after lockdown ended, even after life started moving again, the tension between us never truly went away and we continued doing it.

But we never talked about it.

We just let it happen, hanging between us like an unfinished conversation.

Until, one day, it stopped completely.

The day that changed everything.

It was a random afternoon in August, just another day of scrolling through Instagram while I was lying on my couch, too exhausted after my hospital shift to do anything else. My feet were sore, my eyes heavy, but then I saw it.

The picture of Lando with her. Her hands hugging his neck and his hands on her lower back, his smile easy, relaxed, like nothing in the world was complicated for him. They were standing in the middle of a beach club.

And I realized something that shattered me.

I hadn’t even known he was gone.

For the first time since we met, he had gone on a trip without even telling me his plans.

I wasn’t there.

And she was.

I stared at the picture for too long, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest, something sharp and ugly clawing its way up my throat. Because this was the moment I finally understood.

I had been waiting for him.

And he had already moved on.

I locked my phone, tossed it onto the coffee table, and forced myself to breathe.

This was what I had wanted, right? For things to go back to normal? For us to forget about what happened during lockdown?

So why did it feel like something inside me had just broken?

I had to stop this. Now.

Whatever I thought I felt for Lando, whatever had been lingering between us, I had to let it go.

I refused to be that girl, the one who sat around waiting, the one who let herself get caught up in something that was never meant to be.

Lando had moved on.

And so would I.

I met Edward a few weeks later.

It was one of those chance encounters, the kind that only happened in movies.

He lived in the apartment next to mine, had just moved in a few months ago. He was older, confident in a way that felt different from the boys I had known before. He was easy to talk to, made me laugh, made me feel wanted in a way I hadn’t in a long time.

And most importantly: he wasn’t Lando.

So when he asked me out, I said yes.

And when one date turned into two, then five, then months of falling into something comfortable, I told myself it was enough.

Because this was what I needed.

Someone who chose me. Someone I can settle down with.

And if there was a tiny voice in the back of my mind, whispering that something was missing.

I ignored it.

taglist

@alltoomaples @helvegen-s @leptitlu @mendes-bae @cmleitora @elisysd @mellowluka @a-beaverhausen @lazybot @charlesgirl16 @sarx164

#alltoomaples recs #the caption says it all! HIGHLY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED FIC #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #lando norris #lando norris x oc #lando norris x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 fic

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alltoomaples · 3 months ago

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McLarenF1: In their element 🤣 Taking the @.McLarenAuto P1 for a ride around Silverstone 💨

#landoscar #lando norris #oscar piastri #mclaren #the cutest pair

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alltoomaples · 4 months ago

Text

Rewrite The Stars

05: Look After You

Lando Norris x surgeon!OC (Lyra Montgomery)

runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: Lando & Lyra POV, some angst, flashbacks

Masterlist

previous part

a/n: IT'S RACE WEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

🏎️

Lyra used to be like the fire.

She used to be the kind of person who filled a room just by stepping into it, her laughter spilling out like it couldn't be contained, her mind always sharp, always quick. She used to roll her eyes at my stupid jokes but still laugh anyway, used to steal fries off my plate and then act offended when I tried to take hers in return. She was stubborn and confident.

It’s the first day of second year of high school, the classroom is loud with the sound of teenagers claiming seats and greeting old friends, and yet, she’s the only thing I can focus on.

She’s wearing the school uniform, but somehow, it looks different on her, like it belongs to her instead of the other way around. Her tie is loosened, her skirt slightly shorter than the others. Her red hair catches the sunlight streaming through the window, making it look like it was really on fire.

And she’s smirking.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she announces, dramatically throwing her arms open while swaying her legs, sitting on the teacher table. “Welcome to another year of our slow and painful journey through high school. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure we all survive. Mostly.”

The classroom bursts into laughter, some rolling their eyes, others whistling, but she doesn’t seem to care about any of it. She just hops down from the desk like she’s done this a hundred times before, landing gracefully before making her way to her seat as she greets every single one of the students.

Who the hell is she?

“You’re staring” Max mutters beside me, making me jump from my seat.

“I am not” I lie, looking away, but it doesn’t last long.

I steal another glance, and just as I do, she turns her head and catches me.

Shit.

Instead of looking away like any normal person would, she grins slowly, like she’s caught me doing something forbidden. And then, to my absolute horror, she winks.

Winks!

And I’m done for.

I feel my ears burn, but I play it off, arching an eyebrow as if to say, Yeah? What about it?

She tilts her head, amused, like she’s evaluating me. Then, she leans toward the girl next to her and whispers something, and just like that, they both start giggling.

They’re talking about me?

“Yeah… Good luck,mate” Max laughs.

For the rest of the class, I pretend to pay attention to the teacher, but my focus keeps shifting. Every time she shifts in her seat, every time she twirls her pen between her fingers, every time she flicks her hair over her shoulder, I notice.

And when the bell finally rings, when I stand up and grab my bag, I didn’t expect her to suddenly appear in front of me, blocking my way.

“Well, well…” she smiles, crossing her arms, lips twitching like she’s holding back a laugh. “Mr. Staring Problem.”

I freeze.

And Max chokes on a laugh behind me.

“I wasn’t staring” I sad quickly.

“Oh, you were” she chuckles.

“I mean, you were on the teacher’s desk, it’s kinda hard to miss” I sighed, looking at her.

“Right, sure” she hums, like she doesn’t believe me at all. “And when I was on the ground?”

“Still hard to miss” I answer, smirking.

Her eyes flash with something, like she wasn’t expecting that response, but she likes it anyway. She leans in slightly, just enough that I catch the scent of vanilla.

“What’s your name, Staring-Problem Boy?”

“Lando” I said immediately. “And yours, Hard-To-Miss Girl?”

“Lyra” she smiles.

She takes a step back, walking backward toward the door, holding my gaze like she’s daring me to do something. Then, just as she reaches the hallway, she throws one last smirk over her shoulder.

“Try not to miss me too much, Staring Boy.”

And then she’s gone.

I exhale.

“Yeah, mate, you’re screwed” Max laughed, patting my back hard.

And as much as I want to argue, I already know he’s right.

Now, Lyra looks like a shadow of the girl I used to know.

The woman in my guest room is someone else. Someone that hesitates, that waits for permission.

And I know who made her like that.

Edward and her own parents.

People who have spent years molding her into the person they wanted her to be, a woman that has to be perfect in every sense of the word, and if she makes a wrong move, they will punish her.

I groan, rubbing my face with my hands, pacing from side to side of the living room. The silence of the apartment is suffocating, the only thing I could hear was the sound of my feet against the floor.

Then I hear it.

A muffled sound, barely audible at first, but unmistakable.

She’s crying.

A sharp stab of something I can’t name sets in my chest.

I squeeze my eyes shut, biting the dead skin of my thumb, groaning lowly.

I knew this call would hurt her. I knew it the moment she told me she was going to call him. And the worst part is that I couldn’t stop her.

I hate him.

I hate that even now, even after he is the reason she ran, she still lets him pull her back in, piece by piece, like he owns her.

I hate that I can’t stop it.

I hear her say his name. Softly. Like an apology. Or even how she says that she's sorry, like she’s the one to blame, like she’s the villain of the story.

And it takes every bit of control I have not to walk in there right now and rip the phone out of her hands.

Instead, I press my back against the hallway wall and exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling.

This shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t.

She’s not mine. She has never been mine.

But fuck, it hurts so bad hearing her cry.

I hear her inhale sharply, and then I hear the words I need time.

But the way she says it, it’s not for herself. It’s not because she needs time. It’s because she’s trying to calm him. Edward. Like she’s the one who needs to make amends. Like she’s the one who needs to apologize..

And then I heard it, the last thing I wanted to hear.

“I know” she whispers, and I don’t know what the hell he just said to her, but I know exactly what he’s doing.

He’s winning.

He always fucking wins.

Something heavy presses in my chest, anger burning through my veins before I even realize I’m moving.

Before I can stop myself, I push the door open and step inside.

Lyra sits on the edge of the bed, her back to me, her fingers gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles are white. Her shoulders are fallen, her whole body tense, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.

I don’t say anything.

I don’t have to.

She senses me immediately.

Slowly, she turns, with red eyes and a pale face, lips parted in some unfinished thought that she never says out loud.

And I just look at her.

Because I already know that whatever he said, whatever he did, it worked.

She sniffles once, lets out a breath, and then mutters:

“What?”

I should keep my mouth shut. I should walk away. I should pretend like I didn’t just hear her voice break.

But I can’t.

I never can when it comes to her.

So instead, I say the words that have been burning a hole in my throat since the moment she picked up the damn phone.

“You don’t actually believe him, do you?”

“What?” she blinks, surprised.

“Edward” I take a step closer, walking fully in the room. “Whatever bullshit he just fed you with, you’re not actually buying it, are you?”

“He’s not feeding me anything, Lando.”

I let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through my curls, and through the corner of my eye I swear I saw her flinch.

“Oh, come on, Lyra!” I sighed, shaking my head “I heard you crying through the walls. You can’t tell me he didn’t say exactly what he needed to say to make you feel guilty.”

“That’s not what happened” she groaned, clenching her jaw.

“Then what happened?” I challenge her. “Tell me.”

She looks at me for a long moment, breathing deeply a few times. Then she shakes her head, like I’m not worth the argument.

“You wouldn’t understand”

That? That pisses me off.

“I wouldn’t understand?” I repeat, disbelief dripping from my voice as I mock her. “You think I don’t know exactly how he works? You think I haven’t seen this before?”

“You don’t know him-” she said, looking me straight in the eyes.

“And you do?” I scoff. “Because the way I see it, Lyra, you don’t know him at all. You just know the version of him that he’s been feeding you, the one that made you fall for him.”

She shakes her head again, exhaling sharply, frustration written all over her face.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do” I snap. “I know exactly what I’m talking about, because I’ve been watching you be under his control for years. And you let him do it, Lyra. You let him walk all over you, and you defend him like he’s worth it, like he hasn’t spent the last few years making sure you’re never sure of yourself.”

“That’s not true!” she fires back, voice rising now, eyes burning.

“Isn’t it?” I groan, clenching my fists at my sides. “Because if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have run away.”

That makes her weak.

For a second.

For just one second, I see the uncertainty, the doubt, the part of her that knows I’m right.

But then she blinks, and it’s gone.

“Why I left is none of your business, Norris” she groaned.

“It makes it my business when you are in my fucking apartment” I exclaimed, pointing a finger at her. “It makes it my business when you crying in my fucking room after a phonecall with him! It makes it my business because I was the one that gave you the keys of my car and my apartment, and you used them!”

“Don’t be an asshole” she mutters looking away.

“Then stop lying to yourself.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, the way she’s trying to push my words away, the way she’s trying to convince herself that I’m wrong.

“Why are we even talking about this?” she sighs.

“Because you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life” I say, tone sharp.

And then she snaps, again.

“And why the hell do you care?” she yells, throwing her hands up. “Why do you always do this, Lando? Why do you always act like you have a say in my life?”

“Because I fucking care about you, Lyra!”

Silence.

The words hang in the air between us, thick and suffocating.

Her breath is shaky now, and she looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to scream or cry.

“Well, you have a funny way of showing it.” she scoffed, bringing her hand to her face, wiping away the angry tears.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I frown.

“It means this is exactly why we stopped being friends.”

Oh, fuck.

“Because we could never talk without fighting” she says, looking at me with anger in her eyes. “Because every time I made a choice, you had something to say about it. Because you always think you know what’s best for me.”

“Lyra, that’s not-”

“Isn’t it?” she cuts me off, voice sharp. “Because this feels exactly like the last time, Lando. Like every time. We go in circles, we yell, we fight, and then we don’t talk for months.”

“I don’t want to fight, Lyra…”

“Then stop trying to control me”

I exhale through my nose, running a hand over my face. I should stop. I should walk away.

But then she says:

“You never let me make my own mistakes”

And something in me snaps, again.

“I didn’t let you make mistakes?” I repeat. “Or did I just try to stop you from ruining your own life?”

“Same thing”

I let out another humorless laugh, shaking my head.

“No, Lyra. It’s not”

“Well, either way, it’s not your problem anymore” she groans.

I stare at her.

And that’s when it hits me, like a slap on my cheek.

She still doesn’t see it.

She still doesn’t understand that this isn’t about Edward.

It’s about her.

It’s about the fact that I fucking love her.

But I can’t say that. I can’t tell her, not when she’s still looking at me like I’m the enemy.

So instead, I take a slow breath, shove my hands into my pockets, and say:

“Then go on. Call him back if you want. Run back to him. Marry him.” I meet her eyes, steady and sure, making sure she sees how she hurt me. “But don’t pretend like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

🩺

The door clicks shut behind Lando, and suddenly, the room feels too big.

Too quiet. Too empty.

I stood there for a moment, looking at the spot where Lando was standing in front of me, my hands still clenched into fists at my sides and my pulse still thrumming painfully against my skin. My head is spinning, my chest feels tight, and I can’t tell if it’s from the fight or from the fact that, for the first time since I ran out of that hotel, I feel like I might have made a mistake I can’t fix.

With a sharp inhale I sit on the bed, my hands resting on my lap. The sweatpants and hoodie smell like him, like clean laundry and something distinctly Lando. It’s ridiculous how much comfort I find in that scent, especially now, when my own mind refuses to let it be a safe place.

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath.

I should have stayed.

I should have walked down that aisle.

I should have done what was expected of me.

God, what have I done?

I can still hear his voice in my head, the way he sounded over the phone. And it makes me feel sick.

I did that to him.

I humiliated him, embarrassed him in front of his family, his colleagues, his friends. I left him at the altar, I ran from him, and for what? Because I got scared? Because I was overwhelmed?

I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, trying to push the memories away, trying not to think about the fact that deep down-deep, deep down—I know it wasn’t just that.

It wasn’t just fear or stress or nerves.

It was something else.

Something I don’t want to admit.

Because if I admit it, then I have to admit that Lando is right.

And like a heavy punch, a memory comes to my mind, like a deja vu.

The storm outside rattles against the windows, the rain hitting the glass in frantic bursts, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside his apartment.

“You don’t get to tell me how to live my life, Lando,” I snap, my voice shaking with frustration, my arms crossed so tightly over my chest that my nails dig into my skin.

Lando stands a few feet away, his hands buried in his hair as he walks side to side of the room, his expression a mix of exhaustion.

“I’m not telling you how to live your life, Lyra. I’m telling you to open your fucking eyes!” he bites back, his voice rough. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk about him? Do you know what you sound like?”

“And what exactly do I sound like, Lando? Go on, tell me.” I scoff, rolling my eyes, trying to keep my breathing steady.

“You sound like someone who’s making excuses for a man who treats her like he owns her.”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know Edward the way I do. He doesn’t see the parts of him that aren’t sharp edges, that aren’t possessive hands on my waist, or the way his voice drops whenever I say something he doesn’t like. Lando sees the worst because he wants to.

And I can’t let him tear this apart.

“Edward loves me” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, to sound sure, to sound certain. “He worries about me, that’s all. He just wants to protect me.”

Lando lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“That’s not love, Lyra. That’s control.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell I don’t!” he snaps, his hands balling into fists. “You think I don’t notice the way he talks to you? The way he makes you feel like you have to answer to him every second of the day? Like you owe him something just for existing?”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Lando stepped closer, his voice lowering, but there was no softness in it anymore. “Tell me, when was the last time you made a decision without thinking about how he’d react? When was the last time you did something just for you, without worrying if Edward would approve?”

“This isn’t your business,” I snapped, my voice flat, emotionless. “It never was.”

Lando’s expression flickered just for a second, long enough for me to see the hurt before it disappeared behind frustration.

“Not my business?” he repeated, his jaw tightening. “You’re my best friend, Lyra. You think I can just stand here and watch you throw your life away for someone who doesn’t deserve you?”

“God, why do you care so much?” I snapped, throwing my arms in the air. “Why does it even matter to you what I do or who I’m with?”

Lando’s entire body went still, like I’d just said something that knocked the air out of him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

And then, for the first time in the fight, he looked away.

“Because you’re not the same anymore” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because he changed you, and you don’t even see it.”

“No” I said, shaking my head. “No, you changed. You stopped supporting me the second I got serious about someone who wasn’t you.”

Lando’s gaze snapped back to mine, his eyes widening slightly.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, his breath coming out uneven, but he didn’t argue. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with something I didn’t understand.

Then, he let out a slow, quiet breath and stepped back.

“Fine” he said, voice clipped, controlled. “If that’s what you really think, then I guess there’s nothing left to say.”

He was right. He was always right, but I never wanted to admit it.

The walls of Lando’s guest room felt smaller with each passing hour, pressing in on me like they wanted to force me to face what I had been trying so hard to ignore.

I had spent the last few hours staring at the wedding dress spread on the chair, my mind running in endless circles, replaying the phone call with Edward, the fight with Lando, the moment I had stepped back instead of walking down the aisle. Everything felt tangled, messy, like I had destroyed my entire life in a single day, and now I had no idea how to piece it back together.

But one thing was clear: I had hurt Lando. Again.

The thought sat heavy in my chest, and the longer I let it linger, the more unbearable it became. I had no idea what was going to happen when I left this apartment, when I stepped back into my real life and faced the consequences of what I had done. I didn’t know who would still be there waiting for me.

But I knew one thing.

Right now, Lando was the only person I had.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself off the bed and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. The apartment was quiet, but I could hear the faint sound of the television in the living room. I hesitated for a moment, fingers twitching at my sides, before forcing myself to keep moving.

Lando was exactly where I expected him to be: sitting on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, staring at the screen without really watching it. His jaw was tense, his expression blank, but the slight flicker in his gaze when he noticed me made my stomach twist with guilt.

“Lando…”

His lips pressed together, but he didn’t look away.

“I’m sorry” I said softly. “For earlier. For the fight.”

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his curls.

“It’s okay…”

“No, it’s not” I murmured, shaking my head. “I keep doing this. I keep pushing you away when you’re the only person who-” I exhaled sharply, my voice wavering. “I don’t know how things are going to be when I go back home. I don’t know what’s waiting for me, who’s going to be there, what people will think of me.” I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “But right now, you’re the only person I have.”

Lando stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place. His fingers tapped against his knee, a nervous habit I’d seen a thousand times before, and then, finally, he exhaled and leaned back against the couch.

“You’re an idiot” he muttered, but there was no real anger behind the words.

“I know” I laughed sadly.

Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.

And then, finally, Lando nodded.

“You’re not alone, Lyra.” his voice was quieter now. “No matter what happens when you leave, you’re not alone. I won’t let you push me away ever again”

And somehow, despite everything, those words made it just a little easier to breathe

taglist

@alltoomaples @helvegen-s @leptitlu @mendes-bae @cmleitora @elisysd @mellowluka @a-beaverhausen @lazybot @charlesgirl16 @sarx164

#alltoomaples recs #f1 fic #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #lando norris x oc #lando norris #lando norris x reader #ln4

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alltoomaples · 4 months ago

Text

Rewrite The Stars

04: Wrecking Ball

Lando Norris x surgeon!OC (Lyra Montgomery)

runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: Lyra POV, Edward

Masterlist

previous part

a/n: HI GUYS!!! So... I decided that i'm going to post a chapter every week. Maybe on Mondays (to start well the week) or Tuesdays (because that day is the ugly cousin of Mondays). I hope you enjoy this chapter, because exciting things are coming!!!!

If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

🩺

The room is dark, except for the faint light of the moon slipping through the curtains, casting shapes against the walls. The bed feels cold, too big. I turn onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my side again, but no matter how many times I shift, how many times I try to put myself into the comfort of sleep, it doesn’t come.

My body is exhausted, my mind is tired, but the weight in my chest won’t let me rest. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the small slit of the wedding dress, the panic in my mother’s eyes, the way my father’s grip had tightened on my arm when I hesitated. I hear the gasps from the crowd, the rush of footsteps, the chaos I left behind me.

I left.

I actually left.

The reality of it settles deeper into my bones. My heart beats a little too fast, my skin is too warm, and the walls of the room are closing in around me.

I can’t stay in bed.

With a sigh, I push back the covers and sit up, my movements slow and careful.. The apartment is silent, Lando is probably asleep in his room, not aware of the chaos that came to stay in my mind. My bare feet touch the cool wooden floor, sending a shiver up my spine as I stand, tugging the oversized sleeves of the hoodie over my hands as I make my way toward the door.

The living room is dimly lit by the city lights streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glow of Monaco’s streets stretching far below. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of cars and occasional distant laughter of people that are still awake.

I rub my arms, glancing around before my eyes land on a soft blanket that lies over the couch. Without thinking, I grab it, pulling it around my shoulders as I walk toward the glass doors leading to the balcony.

I hear him before I see him.

The soft sound of the balcony door sliding open, the nearly silent steps as he walks toward me, the faint sigh as he settles into the chair beside mine.

Lando doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, his presence grounding, something I didn’t want to admit I missed.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s not comfortable. It’s just there, lingering between us, filled with unspoken things neither of us seems ready to say.

I don’t know why I started talking.

Maybe it’s because if I don’t, my thoughts will consume me. Maybe it’s because I need to hear the words out loud to make them real. Maybe it’s because I know Lando won’t stop me, won’t interrupt, won’t tell me I should have done things differently.

So I speak.

“I had everything planned,” I say, my voice quiet but steady, my eyes fixed on the city lights in front of me. “Edward and I, we had it all mapped out. The wedding was just the start.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.

“We were going to move into this house… A beautiful one, just outside the city. Something classic, something that felt like a home. My father was going to help us get it, of course. It had a garden, a space where we could host dinners, parties. Everything I ever wanted.” I let out a breath, shaking my head. “And the hospital… The hospital would’ve gained a powerful investor. Edward’s father is one of the biggest contributors. That marriage wasn’t just about us. It was about the future. About legacy. About expectations.”

I pause, my fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. Lando doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. He’s listening, the way he always did.

“And then there was the honeymoon. We were supposed to go to Santorini, rent a villa overlooking the cliffs. I was going to take time off work, actual time off, can you believe it?” I shake my head, my gaze dropping to my lap as I force a humorless laugh. “It was all so… perfect. Too perfect.”

“And now?” his voice is quiet, but there’s something heavy in it.

I don’t answer right away.

Instead, I press my lips together, staring down at my hands.

The engagement ring is gone. I don’t even remember taking it off. Where the hell is it? In the hotel room?

“Now, I’ve ruined everything” I whisper.

Lando doesn’t move, doesn’t react. But I know him well enough to recognize the way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his fingers flex against the armrest of his chair.

I know what he’s thinking.

I’m not telling him everything.

And he’s right.

Because underneath the cheap excuse I gave him, there’s another thing buried deep inside my chest. One I can’t bring myself to say out loud and admit.

The first thing I notice when I wake up is how warm I feel.

The guest bed is soft beneath me, the blankets tucked around my body in a way that feels… safe. But I don’t remember coming back here. The last thing I recall is sitting on the balcony, staring at the city lights, wrapped in a blanket as the breeze brushed against my skin.

I must have fallen asleep.

And he must have carried me back here.

The realization sends a strange warmth through my chest, one I quickly shake off as I shift beneath the covers, stretching slightly. That’s when I noticed it: the suitcase near the door, my phone sitting on the nightstand and its charger plugged in it, a bottle of water and one of those protein bars that tastes like cardboard.

I frown, pushing myself up onto my elbows, the sheets pooling around my waist.

He went back to the hotel.

At some point during the night, while I was out on the balcony feeling sorry for myself, overthinking everything I did, Lando must have gone back to the mess I left behind, to the people that were probably still wondering where the hell I disappeared to, and brought my things back here.

I don’t know why that makes my throat feel tight and my stomach twist.

Why does he care?

I reach for my phone hesitantly, my fingertips ghosting over the screen before picking it up. The moment it lights up, my stomach drops.

Edward (26 missed calls)

Mother (10 missed calls)

Father (7 missed calls)

Olivia (2 missed calls)

A heavy sigh leaves my lips, my thumb hovering over the notifications before I swipe them away. I’m not ready for that yet.

Instead, I glance toward the door, debating whether or not I should get up, whether I should go find Lando and, what? Thank him? Apologize?

Before I can decide, there's a soft knock on the door, followed by his voice, muffled but unmistakable.

"You’re awake?"

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face before answering.

"Yeah."

The door creaks open slightly, and then he’s there: messy hair, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking way too casual for someone who probably spent the night driving around Monaco cleaning up the mess I left behind.

His gaze flickers to my phone in my hand before meeting my eyes.

"Figured you’d want your stuff" his voice is light, like this is normal, like he didn’t just walk into a war zone last night to do something he didn’t have to do.

“You went back” I said, holding my phone tightly.

“Yeah” he nodded, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought you might need it”

Something about the way he says it, the quiet care behind his voice, the way he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, makes my stomach twist.

Because that’s exactly how he used to be. What he used to do when we were younger. He always helped me clean up the mess.

“Thanks” I mumble, looking away.

An uncomfortable silence falls between us, filled only by the distant sound of cars outside.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, breaking the silence.

I could lie. I could say yes, that I slept peacefully, that I wasn’t awake half the night replaying everything in my head, feeling the weight of my choices pressing down on me. I could just say that he didn’t have to worry about me and that I could handle myself without his help.

But instead, I just sigh.

“You know I don’t sleep well under stress”

Lando doesn’t push. He just nods, his fingers tapping lazily against the doorframe, as if he’s debating saying something.

“I… I’m going to call Edward” I whisper, looking down at my phone.

I looked up at him and sigh, watching how he clenched his jaw.

“Okay.”

But the way he says it doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s good at all.

The phone feels heavier than it should, like it’s made of stone instead of plastic and glass.

My thumb hesitates over Edward’s name, hovering over the screen as if it might burn me. A part of me doesn’t want to press call. But another part, the part filled with guilt, with doubt, with fear, knows I can’t run forever.

So I take a shaky breath and press the button.

It only rings once before he answers.

“Lyra”

Just my name. A single, breathless word, but it knocks the air from my lungs. His voice is raw, strained, like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been crying. My fingers tighten around the phone.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You ran”

A cold shiver runs down my spine.

He exhales shakily, and I can hear how unsteady it is, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“I stood there, in front of everyone, and I watched you turn around and leave. You didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t look back.”

I close my eyes, guilt crashing over me like a tidal wave.

“I-I’m sorry” I said, but it sounds so small.

“Sorry?” he said laughing bitterly. “You humiliated me, Lyra. In front of everyone. My family. My friends. People I work with. Do you know what that felt like? Do you know how that made me look?”

I swallow hard, pressing my palm to my chest like I can stop the ache spreading there. Like I can keep my heart all in one piece.

“I didn’t mean-”

“To make a fool out of me?” he cuts in, his voice feeling as sharp as a knife. “Well, congratulations, Lyra. Because you did.”

“I just…I needed to leave” I whisper, my voice barely audible, feeling the tears running down my cheeks.

A long pause. Then, softer now, more wounded, he murmurs:

“We were supposed to get married.”

I shut my eyes tightly, like that might block out the weight of his words, and the pain it keeps growing on my chest.

“We had plans, Lyra. A life. A home. A future,” he continues, voice low, raw, bitter. “and you threw it away. Just like that.”

“I didn’t-”

“Why?” his voice is tense, like he’s barely holding himself together. “just tell me why.”

I part my lips, ready to finally tell him.

I should tell him. I should.

I should tell him about the door. About how I heard him, heard the way his voice lowered in that way that always meant he was being careful, about how another voice answered him. I should tell him that the moment I stood outside his room, frozen, something inside me had already shattered.

But I don’t.

Because suddenly, I don’t know what I heard anymore.

Had I imagined it? Had I twisted something innocent in my panic?

“I don’t know” I whisper.

That answer again.

“You don’t know?” his voice is still quiet, but there’s now a new emotion in it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the phone tighter.

“I needed to leave” I whisper.

Silence.

Then:

“With him?”

A cold chill runs through me.

“Edward, don’t-”

“Don’t, what?” he snaps, and just like that, the fragile, heartbroken act shatters. “Don’t point out the fact that you ran straight to him?”

I take a deep breath and wash away the tears from my cheeks.

“This isn’t about Lando.”

“Isn’t it?” his voice is lower now, almost mocking. “Tell me, Lyra. When did you decide? Huh? When did you decide to leave our wedding and run straight into his arms?”

“That’s not what happened” I whisper.

“No?” he scoffed, making me flinch and close my eyes tight. “Then tell me. What happened? Do you think I didn’t see him around the guests? That you were looking at him right before you ran away? What really happened, Lyra?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Because I don’t have an answer.

Because I don’t know anymore.

I left because of what I thought I heard. But Edward, this Edward, the one whose voice is thick with pain, the one who sounds like I ripped his heart out in front of an entire crowd, is making me question everything.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I hurt him for no reason.

Maybe I ruined everything.

“I need time”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, and when he finally does, his voice is dangerously calm.

“With him?”

I don’t answer.

“Right” he sighs, but when he speaks again, his voice is more controlled. “I love you, Lyra.”

I close my eyes.

“I know” I whisper.

taglist

@alltoomaples @helvegen-s @leptitlu @mendes-bae @cmleitora @elisysd @mellowluka @a-beaverhausen @lazybot @charlesgirl16 @sarx164

#alltoomaples recs #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 #lando norris x oc #lando norris x reader #ln4 #ln4 fic

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alltoomaples · 4 months ago

Text

Rewrite The Stars

03: Getway Car

Lando Norris x surgeon!OC (Lyra Montgomery)

runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn

Words: 2k

Warnings: Lyra POV, anxiety

Masterlist

previous part

a/n: Are you guys excited to read what comes next? I was going to post yesterday but I was busy with work🥹

If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

🩺

The moment my heels hit the pavement outside the hotel, I didn't stop.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t think.

The only thing I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat, loud and insistent, drowning out the panicked voices calling after me. My dress is heavy, the fabric moving slowly behind me as I lift it with shaking fingers, my breath ragged as I run away from everything, away from the altar.

My hands shake as I reach for the pocket of my dress, fingers closing around the cool metal of the keys Lando gave me.

For a split second, I hesitate.

And then I grip them tighter and press the button, the familiar sound of a car unlocking cutting through the silence.

Lando’s car.

The McLaren sits there, waiting. It feels surreal, slipping into the driver’s seat in a wedding dress. The scent of him lingers in the leather, something familiar and grounding, and I take a shaky breath as I push the key into the ignition after taking off the heels and throwing them to the seat next to me.

For a brief second, I just sit there.

I grip the steering wheel, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. My wedding dress feels suffocating, too tight against my chest, the fabric pooling around me like it’s trying to trap me here.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be walking down the aisle, saying my vows, smiling for the cameras, doing what everyone expects of me.

Instead, I shove the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, smooth and powerful beneath my hands.

And then, I’m gone.

People stare in shock as I speed past, because how could they not? A woman in a white silk wedding dress, hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, driving a McLaren like she’s being chased by the devil himself.

And maybe I am chased. By expectations, by guilt, by the weight of a future that feels overwhelming and suffocating.

The second I pull up in front of Lando’s building, I stop the car into park and shut off the engine, my hands still trembling as I press my forehead against the steering wheel.

Breathe, Lyra.

I exhale slowly, my chest tight as I finally force myself to move, stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind me, locking it with the key.

The lobby is quiet when I step inside, the only sound is the soft hum of the elevator as it takes me up to his floor. My pulse is still racing by the time I push open the door to his apartment.

It’s dark, but not unwelcoming.

The air smells like him: clean, familiar, with the faintest hint of something musky, like expensive cologne and memories I tried too hard to forget.

I breathe shakily, walking further inside, my dress whispering against the floor as I move. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t need to. I’ve been here enough times to know where everything is, even after all this time.

The silence is loud.

I left behind hundreds of people, an entire wedding, a future that was already set in stone, and now there’s just this.

Just me.

Alone, in Lando’s apartment, standing in the middle of his living room in a wedding dress that no longer feels like it belongs to me.

My stomach twists, the weight of everything finally pressing down on me.

I need something. Anything.

Without thinking, I make my way to the kitchen.

The fridge hums softly as I pull it open, the cool air hitting my skin. My fingers wrap around the first thing I see: a half-empty container of sausages, the ones Lando always keeps in stock because he eats them like candy.

I set them on the counter, grabbing a can of Monster. The first sip is too cold, shocking against my throat, but it helps.

I exhale, pressing my free hand against the counter, trying to steady myself.

I don’t know how much time passes as I stand there, but it feels like an eternity.

And for the first time all day, I finally let myself breathe.

The door opens just as Meredith Grey starts narrating about how life is unpredictable, how sometimes the choices we make define us in ways we never expect.

I don’t look.

I already know who it is.

Lando walks in, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps slow and deliberate. I can feel his eyes on me as I sit curled up on his couch, still in my wedding dress, a half-empty can of Monster Mango-Loco in one hand and the TV remote in the other.

Grey’s Anatomy plays on the screen in front of me, the blue light flickering across the room, the sound of heart monitors beeping in the background. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I take a sip of the soda and look at him for a few seconds before looking back at the screen.

Lando doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for something, for me to break down, for me to cry, for me to do something that makes sense after what I just did.

But I don’t.

I just press the can to my lips again and let out a breath inside the can, staring at the screen like it holds all the answers.

Finally, he speaks.

"Are you okay?"

That simple, stupid question.

A question that makes me laugh.

Not the kind of laugh that’s pretty or controlled, but the kind that comes out uncontrollably, the kind that shakes my shoulders and makes my chest tighten. The kind that isn’t really laughter at all, but something dangerously close to hysteria.

Lando doesn’t move. He just watches me, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And when I finally manage to breathe again, I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and turn my head to look at him.

“I think I just did something worthy of a Grey’s Anatomy episode” I said, feeling how my own voice breaks as I speak, betraying me.

His brows raise, but there’s something else in his expression. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m about to fall apart.

“Lyra” his voice is quieter now, more careful. “Why did you do it?”

I stare at the TV for a second longer, watching as Meredith Grey pulls off her surgical mask, looking devastated over whatever impossible situation she’s dealing with that probably is not as complicated as mine.

Then, finally, I glance at Lando.

Why did I run?

I should have an answer, right? I should be able to say something that makes sense. Because brides that run away from their own weddings have their reasons.

“Because…” I start, but my voice feels weak. I lick my lips, taking a breath through my nose before trying again. “Because I couldn’t do it.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head, waiting for me to go on while he leans on the table of the living room.

I shake my head, my curls brushing against my shoulders as I let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“I don’t know, Lando. I was standing there, holding my dad’s arm, walking toward Edward, and everything in me just… Just froze” I gesture vaguely, hugging my legs tighter against my chest. “It was like my body literally couldn’t take another step.”

Lando doesn’t interrupt.

He just lets me talk. Like always.

So I do.

“I kept seeing these stupid signs, you know?” I continue, my laugh turning breathless. “A rose from my bouquet broke. A pigeon literally shit right in front of me. My dad stepped on my dress. It was like the universe was screaming at me to stop.”

I shake my head again, pressing my fingers to my temples, pressing my perfect painted nails in my skin, to feel something.

“And then I saw you.”

Lando’s posture changes slightly, his shoulders tensing, but he doesn’t speak.

“I don’t know why I was looking for you,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “but I was. And when I finally found you, you just… You nodded, like you were telling me to go.”

“I wasn’t telling you to run.” he sighed, running his fingers through his curls.

“I know.” I look down at my lap, at the white fabric of my wedding dress. “But I still did.”

He stays quiet for a long moment, like trying to understand everything and trying to figure out everything.

And then he asks:

“Do you regret it?”

I think about it.

I really think about it.

“That’s the thing” I whisper. “I do, but I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back, because if I do I will have to face my family, his family and him”

“Well… Shit” he sighed.

“Yeah” I nodded. “Shit”

The wedding dress lies across the bed like a ghost of the life I almost stepped into. It looks almost untouched, almost perfect. Like I never ran out of that hotel, like I never bolted before saying “I do”

But I did.

My eyes can’t stop looking at the piece of material my own father broke, and even if it was only a few centimeters, for me it looked like more.

I stand in the doorway of Lando’s guest room, barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants that I borrowed from his closet minutes ago. The fabric hangs loosely on me, warm and soft, smelling faintly like his detergent, like something familiar. My fingers toy with the hem of the shirt as I stare at the dress, my stomach twisting with guilt.

I should call Edward.

I need to call Edward.

But I don’t have my phone. It’s probably still somewhere in that hotel suite, buzzing with missed calls, texts, voicemails from my mother, my sisters, Edward himself.

The thought makes my chest tighten, my breath catching in my throat.

I should’ve thought this through. I should’ve had a plan.

Instead, I just ran.

A quiet sigh escapes my lips as I force my feet to move, stepping out of the doorway walking across the corridor to the living room. The TV is still on, playing the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy, but Lando isn’t watching.

He’s sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, scrolling through his phone. When he hears me approach, he glances up, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

I hesitate for a second before finally speaking.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked, looking away from him.

“Who are you calling?” he sighed.

“Edward”

He exhales through his nose, something tense flickering across his face, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he just leans forward, pressing a few buttons before handing me the phone.

I stare at it in my hands, my fingers gripping the cool edges of the device.

Just call him.

My thumb hovers over the screen, unmoving.

I try to type his number from memory, but suddenly, my mind blanks. I know the numbers, I do, but somehow now those numbers don’t come to my mind.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply.

Lando shifts slightly, waiting. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t press, but I can feel his eyes on me, patient, quiet, curious.

I open my eyes again, staring at the blank screen.

And then, before I can stop myself, I lock the phone and hand it back to him.

Lando doesn’t take it right away, his gaze flicking from my face to the phone, then back again, shocked.

“I don’t even know what I would say” I sighed, shaking my head, forcing a laugh.

He doesn’t push, just leans back against the couch. For a few seconds he studies me with his eyes, and then he smiles nodding.

“You don’t have to say anything tonight” he sighed, patting the empty space of the couch. “The guests room is yours, as always”

I exhale, nodding slightly.

I don’t have to call now.

Not tonight.

Maybe tomorrow.

Or maybe… not at all.

taglist

@alltoomaples @helvegen-s @leptitlu @mendes-bae @cmleitora @elisysd @mellowluka @a-beaverhausen @lazybot @charlesgirl16

#alltoomaples recs #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #ln4

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alltoomaples · 4 months ago

Text

ONE YEAR PRIOR - LN4

summary : a lovely request and kinda another part/a year prior to WE’RE LIVE!! some bits and bobs of how lando and y/n came to be.

listen up : friends to lovers! drinking! swearing! MUAHH

words : 2753

⋆｡‧˚⋆

bahrain.

Of fucking course.

It’s my first day, my very first grand prix, ten minutes until my first interview, and I'm fucking lost! Jesus, Why is this paddock so huge!?

Oh my god. Oh my god. I start freaking out more and more as the minutes tick down. I tried calling my boss but she declined it! All I can think about is how embarrassing of a first day this is.

I’m pacing the hallway I found and don’t even realize that someone is staring at me until I look up. I’m met with a head of curls and a british accent. “Are you alright?” Holy fuck.

Lando Norris is standing at the end of the hallway, his face suit unzipped and water in hand. His face looks worried which makes me stand up straighter and remember that he’s looking for an answer.

“Yup!” Is all I can say. What the hell is wrong with me?

He clearly doesn’t believe me because he walks closer, “Are you sure? You’re in the McLaren hospitality and i’m guessing-” he looks down at my paddock pass that says MEDIA on it, then up to me, “That you’re not supposed to be.”

“Okay i’m so lost.” I cringe and fiddle with my necklace.

“Good to know you’re not here to spy.” He laughs a bit and nods to the door, “Where you headed, I can help.”

I thank him just about a million times by the time we get to where i’m supposed to be, five minutes early. “I really appreciate it, it’s my first day and all the nerves got the better of me I guess…”

He listens to everything I yap about with a smile on his face. “First day? That’s big.” I thank him again once I see Carlos Sainz walking in, my subject for this evening. Just when i’m about to walk away, he stops me, “You know, you could thank me by going out with me tonight.”

I’m so shocked that it’s hard to hide my wide eyes, “Um…”

“Y/n!” my boss calls me, when I look over at her, Carlos Sainz is smiling at me.

“I gotta-” So I got to my interview on time, but definitely didn’t stop myself from getting embarrassed.

⋆༺

saudi arabia

My first Grand Prix might have been saved by a curly headed brunette, but my second is all me. I’m feeling much more comfortable in the environment and have made many friends!

I thank my younger self everyday for working so hard because this is the best job ever.

“Y/n!” I know the voice all too well now. My boss walks up to me in red bottoms and a smile, “Schedule change! You’re with Norris in five.”

So the man may have tried to talk to me multiple times in passing, but I was honestly so shook at his date offer that I convinced myself it was a joke.

And ignoring anything I'm not sure about is definitely in my playbook.

The interview goes fine, he’s polite and maybe a little teasing, but it’s the way he looks at me that throws me. I’m honestly too scared to even look at the footage because fuck his eyes are insane.

The second the interview is finished and the camera is flipped off, he steps closer to me, “What are you doing tonight?”

I raise a brow, “Going to dinner with some friends.”

“I still want to take you out.” God he’s cute.

“You don’t even know me.” I can’t help but laugh.

“That’s what dates are for. And I know enough. I followed your instagram.” I roll my eyes at the piece of information I'd forgotten. “Come on.”

“Do you always get everything you want?” I cross my arms.

“That depends if you say yes or not.”

I hum and pat his shoulder, “Well this is a perfect opportunity to have a new experience!”

He looks at my hand as if it betrayed him, “You’re saying no?”

“I’m saying all I know about you is gossip magazines and your previous seasons on track. Plus I'm not dating a driver.”

“You wouldn’t be dating a driver, you’d be dating a nice man who likes photography and his company and who thinks you're completely gorgeous.”

Maybe I blushed a bit, “I- I still don’t know you well enough.”

He sticks out his hand, “I’m Lando Norris. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I sigh and shake it, “Y/n.”

“You got a last name?”

“Are you really pretending like you don’t know it?” He smirks and shrugs, “Y/n L/n.”

“I would like you to know that you’re right, I like to get what I want because i’m extremely determined and very competitive.” I laugh at this.

“Who are you competing with?”

“I guarantee that if I don’t take you out, someone else will.”

I shake my head and close my bag, “I don’t date drivers.”

⋆༺

australia

One of my favorite people to interview might surprise some but he makes me laugh in a dry sort of humor that I understand. Oscar Piastri smiles at me as he crosses the busy paddock, sighing a hat and snapping a selfie with a fan.

While one McLaren boy is trying to date me, the other is befriending me. “How’s your day goin?” He starts walking with me and signing things until we get into a closed off area.

“It’s hot and I'm tired, but otherwise good!” I’ve been here for about a week and am sporting a nice tan around the paddock.

“Are you free tonight? No matter how today goes I need a drink.”

I laugh, “You asking me out too, Piastri?”

He smiles and shakes his head, “Some people are coming back to my house, you can leave with Lily if you want!”

And that is how I ended up at Oscar Piastris family home with half of his family, friends, and of course, Lando Norris.

I start downing my drink faster when I see Lando approach me. Not because I want to be inebriated while talking to him, but because I might need to be. He looks good. Like jaw dropping tear jerkingly attractive.

I know he’s hot, I'm not stupid. The media is all over him about it and multiple of my friends have asked if I've met him and Carlos. Yet still, he’s different when he’s not in front of cameras.

“Heard you made Max cry, nice.” He’s in jeans and some band tee, looking quite relaxed with a beer in his hand.

“I did not!” Sort of wish I did though, “Nice racing today, i’m surprised you’re not celebrating with Carlos.”

He shrugs, “Gotta support Osc.” I smile at the nickname, “Plus I love his family. Have you met Lily?”

I nod eagerly, “She’s so sweet! We drove together here.”

“Shame I didn’t know you were coming, could have given you a ride.” I look away from him with a smile on my face. Oscar's backyard is huge. I often forget that all of these men grew up with money and then just made more of it.

There’s a pool, jacuzzi, and two little dogs running around on the grass. Oscar calls both of our names, “Tacos are ready!”

I sit with Lily in the kitchen until we’re both done eating. The sun is set now and I'm completely wiped. While she goes to find Oscar, I wander back outside and find Lando on the grass with the dogs around him.

He’s flat on his back with the little white one licking his face. I sit down silently across from him as the other climbs into my lap and when I laugh, Lando practically gets whiplash.

“Y/n.” He wipes his face as the dog continues trying to bite his arm. “Are you willingly sitting with me?”

“I will get up.”

He shuts his mouth.

We talked for two hours that night and didn’t realize until Oscar came and told us to get out.

⋆༺

japan

I find myself around Lando a suspicious amount. One could say it’s because we work in the same environment! I would say that it’s because he takes every free moment to find me.

I think we’ve come to an understanding of true friends. He’s honestly hilarious and isn’t harassing me by asking me out. Though he still finds ways to sneak in the fact that he fancies me, It doesn’t bother me and I feel like he’s doing it for laughs now.

We walk together while Lando goes on and on about random shit, probably on track drama that I'm too tired to listen to. All the traveling is starting to catch up to me.

“No.” Is the one thing that I understand from Lando at this moment. That and the fact that he’s dragging me backwards, “Fuck.”

“What!?” I squeal as I turn to walk the same way as him, his hand still on my arm as he looks forward.

“My ex.” Is all he has to say to make me follow him.

“Give me the dirt now!” I laugh and practically run after him.

“Shut up.” His face is red.

“Oh my god you’re actually blushing!” he eyes me, “What’d she do to you?”

He shakes his head and turns into the McLaren garage, pulling me with, “Why is she here!?”

I laugh as he tugs me up the stairs and into his driver room, “Or what did you do to her?” I stay in the doorway as he paces.

“No fuck!” He groans and does not answer my question.

“She cheated?” He shakes his head, “You cheated?” he looks offended. “Christ what is it that’s got you so shaken up-”

He stops finally, turning towards me and ends up far too close, “She broke my heart.”

Oh.

He sighs and leans against the door frame, his forearm braced against the top as he zones out. “Hey.” I put my hand on his other arm, “Fuck her then.”

He looks at me curiously, then at my hand on him, I don’t move it. “Right…”

“I’m serious. All ex’s suck and they show up at the worst moments but one thing will always fix it.” He raises a brow, “Doughnuts.”

A smile creeps onto his face, “I think I love you.”

I push him away but he keeps his hand on the doorframe, smiling wide now. “Everyone does.”

⋆༺

china

I’m out with Lando, Oscar, Carlos, Max, Alex, and their girlfriends, and am crying laughing from how drunk Max is.

Maybe I'm a little drunk myself, just enough where I'm leaning into Lando’s side. He’s a few drinks in but only tipsy, I'm pretty sure he’s looking over our group tonight.

I danced with both Lily’s for so long that I had to take off my heels and the second the clock struck 1am, I was done.

I end up back at the hotel with Lando, my heels in his hand as we walk to the elevator. “I’m really happy.” I say, smiling wide as Lando presses the up button.

He raises his brows, smiling down at me, “Yeah? You look it.”

“I’m also fucking cold.” Without another word, Lando strips his jacket off and puts it around my shoulders. I’m wearing a tight black dress which I know is the reason why Lando’s been hanging around me all night, but I feel much better with his jacket on me.

We get into the elevator, it’s huge and cold against my feet, with mirrored walls that I immediately check my hair in.

Once the doors close, Lando tugs my hair from behind. I eye him in the mirror, “Prick.”

He just smiles.

I’ve become accustomed to his smile. It only makes my heart beat really fast sometimes.

This is one of those times.

I stand next to him and follow his eyes, they’re watching the floor numbers go up. I smile softly to myself, realizing why i’m so happy right now.

I look up at his side profile, his jaw straight and a curl falling into his face. He’s so unexpected and someone I know so well at the same time. I don’t usually become so close with someone so fast, yet here we are.

Four months ago I would never let him walk me back to my room after any alcohol was consumed, and now he’s holding my heels and I'm wearing his jacket.

“Hey Lan?” I blink, my heart beating faster at the closer my floor gets.

He looks at me, his eyes so soft and maybe a little distracted, “Yeah?” I don’t know how I mustered up the courage to kiss him. I just did it.

I grabbed his face and pulled him down to me and the next thing I knew, the doors were opening and I was bolting out.

I only looked back once. All I saw was the doors closing in front of Lando, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped.

⋆༺

miami

He hasn’t texted me. I haven’t texted him. We haven’t talked. I haven’t interviewed him or even seen him in the paddock.

I think i’ve utterly and fully fucked myself.

I kissed him because I couldn’t think of another way to explain how I felt, but now I'm regretting it because I've lost my new friend.

Tomorrow is media day and as hard as I've tried to get an early sleep, I’m still awake at midnight. I’m suddenly even more awake when a knocking comes from my door.

I pull on a hoodie since I wasn’t wearing any top, and tiptoe to the door. The second I look through the peephole, my heart rate goes up.

I swing the door open in confusion and worry. Lando Norris has his hands braced against the door frame, one on each side, and a droopy look on his face. “Y/n!” He brightens when he sees me.

“The fuck are you doing, Norris?”

“Whad am I doin? What are you doin!?” He groans and I realize he’s drunk, “You’re so confuse me!”

He pushes past me and stomps around my room like a child, “I thought we were friends but you hate me!”

I shut the door behind me, “I- I don’t hate you…”

“You do. You fuck with my head.” He whines then points to his chest, “And my heart.”

“Lan…”

“Don’t ‘Lan’ me, fuck! I love your voice.” I have never been more confused, “I like you!”

I cross my arms, “Why are you drunk Lando?”

“You! You did this. You fucker.” He mumbles the last part which I raise a brow at. What the hell? “Stop distracting me!” He’s still slurring his words but is now focusing on my face, “I like you! A wholeeeee lot and you play and play and kiss me! You kissed me.”

I tighten my arms around myself, “I’m sorry..?”

“Fuck don’t apologize!” He walks closer, “You’re just so- lalalala to everyone and I want you to be like tadaaaa with just me. But you hate me.”

“Lan I don’t have you! Why would you think that?”

“Because you kissed me and left! You regret it.”

“No!” I say quick, “Lan I don’t.”

“So then why won’t you say yes to me? I wanted to be right and gentle man like but you had to go and fucking kiss me and make me boom!” I can’t help but laugh at his sound effects.

“Lando…” I walk closer, taking his hand and walking him to my bed. He sits with a huff. “I didn’t mean to leave so fast. I was just scared.”

“You were scared? I thought I might die on that elevator.” He holds my hand tight in his, examining it. “You’re so pretty.”

I smile, “Ask me again, Lando.”

He frowns, “Huh?”

“Ask me out again.”

“Oh! Is this a trick?” He whispers. I shake my head, “Will you go out with me?”

“I would love to.”

He sits up and leans in closer, “I thought you don’t date drivers…”

I kiss his cheek softly, “I’ll make an exception.”

He smiles at the kiss and leans his head against my shoulder, “I’ll kiss you on Tv some time… when it’s live.”

I laugh out loud, “God, Lando, please don’t. You’ll get me fired!”

“I’ll get you views.”

I shake my head and run my hand through his hair, “For the record, I think you’re really beautiful too.”

#alltoomaples recs #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #ln4

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alltoomaples · 4 months ago

Text

do I wanna know?

Hozier's version

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri wasn't looking for love when he met Amélie in a Monaco nightclub. But their undeniable chemistry sparks a passionate connection that quickly becomes something more. As their secret relationship deepens, her surname, Vasseur, becomes the real problem.

Word count: 12k (stoppp, so long but so worth it)

TW: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, sexually suggestive content, alcohol, strong language...

A/N: I DID IT. Another day, another one-shot. I love Oscar with all my heart. I swear I’ve done everything to make this as little angsty and as least sad as possible. I hope you enjoy it <3

My previous one-shot, Step by step, has received so much love. I adore you all, and thank you for the reblogs, for the comments and the likes!

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

Monaco at night had a different glow. It wasn’t just the shimmer of lights reflecting on the sea or the lingering echo of engines that still seemed to vibrate in the air. It was the luxury, the exclusivity—the feeling that anything could happen in a city that never truly slept.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of guy who frequented nightclubs. Not because he didn’t like having fun, but because the idea of being surrounded by strangers, with deafening music and alcohol flowing freely, wasn’t exactly his scene. But a couple of friends had come to visit him at his new apartment in Monaco, and after a few beers and plenty of teasing about how boring he was, they had managed to drag him there.

The club was a chaos of strobe lights and moving bodies. The music, a heavy, immersive beat, pulsed through the floor and into his chest. Oscar stayed in a corner, a drink in his hand, pretending to enjoy himself while his friends disappeared into the crowd.

That was when he saw her.

She moved with an almost insolent confidence, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even realizing it. She was dressed in black, her loose hair falling in soft waves, her smirk suggesting she already knew something the rest didn’t. Oscar wasn’t the type to stare at just anyone, but there was something about her that kept his gaze locked.

When their eyes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, amused, as if she could read exactly what was going through his mind.

And then she walked over.

"You don’t look like someone who enjoys places like this," she said, leaning in just enough for her voice to be heard over the music.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"And what kind of person do I look like?"

"Someone who’s already calculating how much longer they need to stay before they can leave without looking like a buzzkill."

Oscar let out a laugh.

"And what about you? Are you the life of the party?"

She shrugged, her expression shameless.

"Could be."

Oscar couldn’t help but smile. There was something about her attitude, the way she didn’t give him a break, that had him completely hooked.

"Are you always this quick with words?"

"Are you always this easy to throw off?" she shot back.

He laughed again, more at ease than he expected to be. He wasn’t usually like this with strangers. He didn’t usually let himself go this fast. But with her, it felt inevitable.

They stayed like that, challenging each other with words and smiles, until conversation was no longer enough. He wasn’t sure who made the first move—if it was her or him. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the exact moment their lips met in the middle of the dance floor, with the music pounding around them and the world shrinking to that single instant.

Oscar didn’t know her name. He didn’t know who she was or where she was from. All he knew was that the night had just become a lot more interesting.

The kiss tasted like gin and danger. The kind that arrived without warning, set skin on fire, and became impossible to ignore.

Oscar wasn’t thinking too much when he had her this close. He wasn’t thinking about the loud club, his friends, or anything other than the way she smiled against his lips, as if this were a game she already knew she was going to win.

His hand instinctively slid to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the way her body fit against his like they’d done this before, like it was meant to happen. She didn’t pull away—on the contrary, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just to tease him.

"Do you always kiss strangers like this?" she whispered when they pulled apart just a fraction.

Oscar smiled, still holding her.

"No. Do you?"

"Neither do I." She leaned in again, barely grazing his lips with hers, tempting him. "But today seems like a good day to start."

Oscar chuckled lowly, unable to resist the effect she had on him. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he usually did. But something about her made him want to play along, to fall helplessly into the pull of her presence.

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. She took advantage of it, letting her hands trace the edges of his shirt while looking at him with that wicked amusement.

"Do you dance, driver?"

Oscar frowned, half amused, half confused.

"How do you know I’m a driver?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"The way you move. Besides, this is Monaco. Everyone’s a driver here."

"That sounds like a very well-crafted lie."

"Could be." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against the curve of his jaw. "Does that bother you?"

No. It didn’t. Not when he had her this close, the dance floor spinning around them, and the feeling that this was all a mistake—but the kind worth making.

Oscar took her hand and spun her effortlessly, making her laugh. They danced without a plan, without thinking too much about the rest of the world. Her body felt light against his, her laughter vibrating against his skin every time they pushed the limits a little further.

Until, in a moment of clarity, Oscar leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"You haven’t told me your name."

She stopped, looking at him with a spark in her eyes.

"Do you really need it?"

Yes. Probably. But the way she said it, the way she smiled afterward, made him hesitate.

Because maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t need it at all.

Oscar watched her, waiting for an answer. She only smiled, stretching the silence just enough to keep him on edge.

"Amélie," she finally said, savoring each syllable of her own name.

Oscar nodded, repeating it in his mind, making sure not to forget it. Amélie. It suited her.

"Nice name."

"I know."

Oscar laughed. God, she was unbearable. Unbearable and utterly fascinating in equal measure.

They kept dancing, though the music no longer mattered. What mattered were their hands gliding over each other’s skin, the whispers in their ears, the way their lips brushed together, turning into something more. The attraction between them was like an electric current, a dangerous game neither of them seemed willing to lose.

Amélie leaned in, her lips just a breath away.

"Let’s get out of here."

Oscar didn’t think twice.

The Mediterranean breeze was warm as they walked through the streets of Monaco, away from the noise of the club, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

"Your place or mine?" Amélie asked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

Oscar hesitated for a second. His friends would be crashing at his apartment, and the idea of going back with her only to find a couple of drunk idiots passed out on the couch wasn’t exactly appealing. His mind also flashed to the countless unopened boxes, unpacked suitcases, and unassembled furniture piled up in his new place.

"Yours."

"Good choice." She smiled but didn’t say anything else. She simply started walking, knowing he would follow.

Her apartment was in an elegant building near the port, with massive windows and a breathtaking view of the illuminated city.

"Nice place."

"It’s not bad." She shrugged off her jacket with a swift motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Then she turned to face him, that same defiant look in her eyes. "Do you want something to drink or…?"

Oscar didn’t let her finish.

The tension that had been simmering between them all night exploded the moment their lips met again. It was different from the kiss at the club—more urgent, more desperate. Like every second they had spent holding back had only been a prelude to the real moment of the night.

Amélie smiled against his mouth and, in one swift move, pushed him back until his spine hit the wall.

"Are you always this easy?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Oscar let out a low chuckle.

"Are you always this bossy?"

"When necessary."

"I like it."

This time, he took control.

They stumbled through the apartment, kissing and laughing, too caught up in each other to care about bumping into furniture. Clothes disappeared along the way, leaving a trail neither of them bothered to follow.

The way Amélie moved was hypnotic, as if she was in charge without even trying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips.

"If at any point you want to stop—"

Oscar cut her off before she could finish, kissing her again, deeper, more desperate. Amélie grinned against his lips before pulling him further into the apartment.

There was no rush, yet no hesitation either. They moved with an absurd level of synchronicity for two strangers, as if every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he took the opportunity to flip their dynamic, pinning her beneath him with ease.

"So, you like competing off-track too?" she teased, fingers tracing down his back.

Oscar lowered his head to her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

"Always."

Amélie exhaled softly, letting the heat of the moment consume everything.

That night was one to remember.

Because, even though neither of them knew it yet, it was a night that would change everything.

Oscar woke up to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. It took him a second to remember where he was—the spacious bedroom, the messy sheets, the lingering scent of perfume and warm skin in the air.

And then, the body beside him.

Amélie was lying on her stomach, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, the sheet barely covering her back. Her breathing was soft, completely oblivious to his wakefulness.

Oscar rested his head on the pillow and watched her for a moment. He remembered every detail of the night before—the taste of gin on her lips, the way she laughed against his skin, how they had lost themselves in each other without holding back. It had been wild and sweet at the same time, like they were on the edge of devouring each other yet somehow knew exactly how to touch.

Definitely, one of those nights you don’t forget.

But now came the tricky part—the mornings.

It was never exactly awkward, but it was never simple either. There was something about waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with the faint haze of a night too good to regret, that always brought the inevitable question: Now what?

As if sensing his gaze, Amélie shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible before cracking her eyes open.

"Mmm… you’re still here," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Did you expect me to sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"I didn’t take you for a coward," she said, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

Oscar chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow, taking her in properly for the first time without the dim club lights or the haze of lust clouding his perception. He noticed new details—the way her skin caught the morning light, the faint scar on her collarbone, the relaxed yet mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Do you always analyze people this much when you wake up next to them?" Amélie asked, meeting his gaze.

"Do you always have a comeback ready?"

"I warned you last night."

Oscar smirked, shaking his head. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was stunning or that the sex had been incredible. It was the way she carried herself, the confidence, the effortless way she set the pace without him even noticing.

She stretched lazily before sitting up, letting the sheet slide down to her waist.

"I’m making coffee," she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Does that mean you're inviting me to stay?"

Amélie turned around, giving him a defiant look.

"It means that if you touch the coffee machine before it's done, I'll throw you out of my apartment shirtless."

Oscar let out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, arms resting behind his head.

"You're trouble."

"And you walked right into it with your eyes wide open, driver."

With a satisfied smile, Amélie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Oscar with the certainty that this night wouldn’t be something he could forget so easily.

He lay there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling with a small smile. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had been like this. Not just incredible in the physical sense—because it had been, no question—but fun.

There was something about Amélie that kept him hooked, and that worried him a little. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d been with before.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before getting up.

Gathering his clothes scattered around the room, he pulled his pants halfway up as he walked out toward the kitchen.

The apartment was modern and spacious, with a spectacular view of Monaco from the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, Amélie’s silhouette moved effortlessly between the coffee machine and the shelves, wearing his shirt—barely buttoned.

Oscar leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms.

"Nice shirt."

Amélie didn’t even turn around.

"Nice coffee machine," she shot back. "Which you still can’t touch."

He chuckled, stepping closer until his hip brushed against hers at the counter.

"And what if I need caffeine to function?"

She turned her head just enough to give him a look filled with teasing amusement.

"You're an F1 driver, not an office worker with a coffee addiction."

"We all have our weaknesses."

Amélie smirked, as if considering his words for a moment, before focusing back on her coffee.

The coffee machine bubbled softly as the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Amélie, arms crossed and feigning exasperation, watched Oscar stir the scrambled eggs he had insisted on cooking—with infuriating ease.

"Seriously, you don’t have to cook," she repeated for the third time.

"And yet, here I am."

"This isn’t your house."

"No, but it’s not a restaurant either, so if I want a decent meal, I’d rather make it myself."

Amélie huffed, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup in hand.

"Are you implying that I can’t cook?"

Oscar shot her an amused look.

"I haven’t seen any evidence that you can."

"You're incredibly arrogant for someone cooking with my pan in my kitchen."

"I call it survival," he said with a shrug.

Their dynamic was captivating. Amélie fired off comebacks at lightning speed, but Oscar kept up, responding with dry, precise remarks. There was no tension, no awkward pauses. It felt as if they had known each other for years, as if this was a routine between them.

As the eggs finished cooking, Oscar glanced toward the living room. From the kitchen, he had the perfect angle to see the main wall, and that’s when he noticed it.

Above the TV, hung proudly, was a massive painting.

It wasn’t a photograph, but a stunningly detailed painting of Monza’s circuit, featuring the faces of Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello, dressed in their iconic Ferrari red suits, holding their trophies with beaming smiles.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Is that Monza?"

Amélie, mid-sip of coffee, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mhm."

Oscar set down the spatula and turned fully toward the painting.

"It’s incredible."

"It is."

"Did you buy it?"

"No."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, noting how she didn’t elaborate.

"Are you a Formula 1 fan?"

"Mmm… not actively."

"You have a giant painting of Schumacher and Barrichello in your living room, Amélie. I find that hard to believe."

She sighed, as if she had been expecting this conversation.

"It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I bought this apartment."

Oscar tilted his head.

"Is your father a fan?"

"Let’s just say he’s very involved in motorsport."

A small alarm went off in Oscar’s head. Something wasn’t quite adding up, but before he could ask more, Amélie set her cup down and crossed her arms.

"And yes, I know who you are."

He tensed slightly.

"Oh."

"I didn’t sleep with you because you’re famous."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, surprised by her bluntness.

"I didn’t think you did."

"Good. Because I didn’t."

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Amélie’s expression was calm, but with that ever-present challenge in her eyes that made her impossible to ignore. Oscar felt there was more to this, something she wasn’t saying.

But for now, he let it go.

"The eggs are ready," he said, serving them onto two plates.

Amélie gave him a small smile and took hers.

"You’re a decent driver. Let’s see if you’re a decent cook too."

Oscar shook his head, chuckling as they sat down to eat.

Breakfast carried the same strangely effortless energy as the rest of the morning. Oscar couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone he’d just met. Maybe never.

They talked about everything and nothing. Amélie teased him about how meticulous he was with the scrambled eggs. Oscar told her the coffee was so strong it could wake the dead. She told him that if he couldn’t handle it, he probably wasn’t man enough to be in her kitchen.

Oscar could only laugh.

And then, it was time to leave.

"I’d stay longer," he said, leaning against the counter, "but I left my friends at a club, and I still don’t know if they’re alive or if one of them ended up in a ditch."

Amélie chuckled.

"I’d say there’s an 80% chance they’re sleeping on your couch and a 20% chance they’re in jail."

"That’s exactly why I need to check."

She set her cup in the sink and nodded.

"Alright."

But neither of them moved.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

"Want to exchange numbers?"

Amélie raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t expected that, but didn’t hesitate for long before taking her own phone and typing her contact into his.

"Call me if your friends are dead. I can help you hide the bodies."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Oscar joked, saving her number.

And then, the real problem arose: how to say goodbye?

A simple “bye”? Too cold.

A hug? He wasn’t sure if that was right.

A kiss? Maybe too intimate for what they really were—two strangers who had just spent the night together.

But when their eyes met, the decision made itself.

Oscar leaned in slightly, and Amélie didn’t step back. Their lips barely brushed—a short kiss, nothing like the intensity of the night before, but charged with something else. Something harder to define.

When they pulled away, Amélie smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Don’t let it get to your head, Piastri."

Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door.

"See you around, Amélie."

"See you."

And with that, he left.

Though, as he walked out of the building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again.

Oscar entered his apartment in Monaco, his body exhausted and his mind scattered. The weekend's race was still buzzing in his head, memories of the paddock and strategy meetings blending with the roar of the engines. He knew he should take a shower, eat something decent, and, most of all, sleep.

But the moment he crossed the threshold, he thought of her.

It had been weeks since he last saw her. Neither of them had written, not even a casual message, as if the night they spent together had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not something strong enough to leave a mark.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. He had no reason to text her. No excuse. But before he could think too much about it, his fingers were already moving over the screen.

🟠 Oscar: "If you want to see me, come over. I'm exhausted."

The possibility that she wouldn’t reply crossed his mind. It was late. And if he hadn’t bothered to reach out before, why would she now?

But against all odds, his phone vibrated instantly.

🔴 Amélie: "What kind of invitation is that? Doesn't sound very tempting."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

🟠 Oscar: "It's the best I can offer in this state."

This time, Amélie took longer to reply. He pictured her with her phone in hand, debating whether to accept or keep playing along a little longer.

🔴 Amélie: "Alright. But I’m bringing dinner."

🟠 Oscar: "No objections here."

🔴 Amélie: "You should have some. I might bring something terrible just to see your face when you try it."

🟠 Oscar: "If you poison me, you’ll pay for it."

🔴 Amélie: "I love a man who takes risks."

Oscar shook his head, and as he wrote his address in the chat, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Whatever this was, he liked it.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later.

Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Oscar made his way to the door unhurriedly. When he opened it, Amélie stood there, a paper bag in hand and a half-smile on her lips.

“Don’t ask what’s for dinner,” she said before he could say a word.

Oscar arched an eyebrow as he stepped aside to let her in.

“That sounds concerning.”

“Come on, trust me.”

She took off her jacket and tossed it over the couch with a familiarity they probably shouldn’t have yet. Oscar didn’t comment on it, but his gaze flickered to the jacket for a second before he shut the door behind her.

“I hope you’re not expecting anything gourmet,” she warned, pulling containers from the bag.

Oscar leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Honestly, as long as I don’t have to cook, I’ll take anything.”

Amélie pulled out two boxes of pasta from an Italian restaurant.

“Not much effort, huh?”

She shot him a sharp look.

“You wound me. This is from one of the best places in Monaco.”

Oscar opened one of the boxes, and the second the aroma hit him, he had to admit—it looked amazing.

“Alright, point for you.”

They sat on the couch, legs crossed casually, no rush. They ate in a comfortable atmosphere, filled with sarcastic remarks and glances that lingered just a little too long.

“So,” Amélie said at some point, twirling her fork in her pasta, “how does it feel to be home after the races?”

Oscar shrugged.

“Quiet. Maybe too quiet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Does that mean you missed the chaos?”

Oscar watched her for a second before replying, amusement in his voice.

“I think it means I missed the person who brings it.”

Amélie smiled but didn’t reply right away. Still, in her eyes, Oscar saw something—a flicker of recognition, of acceptance.

This game between them was far from over.

Amélie held Oscar’s gaze for a few seconds before flashing a lazy smile.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation,” she said, taking another bite of pasta.

“A bit of both.”

She let out a low chuckle.

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

They kept eating, their conversation flowing as easily as their playful jabs. There were no awkward silences, no need to fill the gaps with unnecessary words. It was strange. Strange because Oscar wasn’t usually this comfortable with someone he barely knew.

But Amélie wasn’t just anyone.

And that’s what kept him hooked.

When they finished eating, she set her takeout container on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch with the ease of someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to text me,” she said suddenly.

Oscar glanced at her while finishing his last bite.

“Oh yeah?”

“No. You seemed like the type of driver who disappears after one night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what you think of me?”

Amélie tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar licked his lips, amused.

“And how’s my evaluation going so far?”

She pretended to think about it for a moment before answering.

“A solid seven out of ten.”

Oscar let out a laugh.

“Just a seven?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What would get me a ten?”

Amélie turned her head to look at him, and Oscar caught the subtle glint of challenge in her eyes.

“You’ll have to figure that out.”

The air between them shifted, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Amélie kept him right on the edge of what was safe and what wasn’t, and Oscar wasn’t sure which one tempted him more.

He studied her in silence for a moment.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked finally.

Amélie smiled.

“Only if you have decent wine.”

Oscar stood up, shaking his head.

“Picky.”

“Always.”

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine he had stashed away. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he hoped it was good enough for his guest. When he returned to the living room with two glasses, Amélie had already changed positions on the couch, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her.

“I’ll give you an extra point if it’s good,” she remarked as Oscar poured her a glass.

“Then you’d better lie if it’s not.”

She laughed softly before taking a sip.

Oscar watched her as she did, surprised by how much he enjoyed having her in his space.

“Approved,” she finally said, handing him back the glass with an amused look.

“Great. So am I at an eight now?”

Amélie tilted her head.

“That depends on how the night ends.”

Oscar leaned back against the couch, smirking.

“Interesting.”

And somehow, they both knew the night was far from over.

Eventually, the wine was forgotten on the table.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. One joke led to another, a smile turned into a fleeting touch, and now Amélie was straddling him, her legs tangled with his, her lips caught in a kiss that had no intention of ending anytime soon.

Oscar’s hand slid down her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her shirt. Amélie let out a laugh against his mouth before pulling back slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“For someone who was so tired, you have an impressive amount of energy,” she teased, not bothering to hide the playful lilt in her voice.

Oscar chuckled, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her waist.

“Must be the high-quality dinner you brought,” he shot back with equal sarcasm.

Amélie arched an eyebrow.

“Then I should feed you more often.”

“Good idea. But, to be fair, it’s not just the food.”

“Oh, no?”

Oscar tilted his head, his lips grazing the skin of her neck.

“Let’s just say the company helps, too.”

Amélie smiled, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“You’re more charming than you let on, Piastri.”

“And you’re more dangerous than you look.”

She let out a soft laugh before kissing him again, her fingers tangling in his hair. And for the second time in his life, Oscar let himself be swept away by Amélie without a second thought.

Somehow, between laughter, sharp comebacks, and hands growing bolder by the second, they ended up in Oscar’s bedroom. It was a whirlwind of discarded clothes, breathless whispers, and a crackling electricity that filled every inch of space. Amélie was a storm—unpredictable, defiant, impossible to ignore. And Oscar surrendered to her without hesitation, without caring that they barely knew each other, without worrying about what it meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

The first thing Oscar noticed upon waking was the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. The second was the warmth beside him—the shape of Amélie beneath the sheets.

For a moment, he simply lay there, watching her in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, nothing like the woman who challenged him with every word when she was awake.

Oscar smiled to himself before stretching slightly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his muscles.

"Do you always stare at people when they’re sleeping?" Amélie’s voice, husky from sleep, pulled him from his thoughts.

Oscar blinked, a little surprised to find her awake.

"Only when they try to kill me with their sense of humor," he replied, smirking.

Amélie cracked one eye open, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Don't blame me if you can’t handle it."

Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"I might need some intensive training."

"I doubt it. You handled yourself pretty well last night."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty well?"

Amélie shrugged, feigning indifference, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

"I don’t know... I might need a second evaluation to be sure."

Oscar studied her for a second before rolling over, pinning her beneath him once again.

"That can be arranged."

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her, swallowing the breathless laugh that slipped from her lips.

They weren’t exactly sure how they made it work, but every time Oscar returned to Monaco, somehow, they ended up together.

It wasn’t planned. They didn’t text ahead of time or make promises to see each other again. It just happened—Oscar would come home after a race weekend, drop his bag, sink into the couch, and before he could think too much about it, he was already typing out a message to Amélie.

And she always answered.

Some nights, she was the one who showed up at his door with takeout, her hair tied up, a playful smirk on her lips, as if the last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d been waiting for that message too. Other times, he was the one crossing the city, ringing her doorbell with some vague excuse about ordering too much food and not wanting to eat alone.

Either way, the outcome was always the same.

An accidental touch on the couch that turned into something more. Oscar’s hands finding their way to her waist, tangling in her hair as he kissed her with the same intensity as the first time. Amélie murmuring something teasing against his lips before pushing him onto the mattress, or him pulling her into his arms, refusing to let her get too far. The feeling that every night with her was an inevitable spiral, a pull neither of them could resist.

It was easy. Natural. As if it couldn’t be any other way.

But there was something—something Oscar couldn’t quite figure out.

Every time he mentioned the idea of going out, Amélie’s answer was always the same.

"Go out? For what?"

Sometimes, she said it with a smirk. Other times, just a simple shrug, as if the thought of walking through Monaco together or going to a restaurant was unnecessary. And in the end, they always stayed in, watching a movie neither of them really paid attention to.

Oscar swore it didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. They didn’t need to go out to enjoy each other’s company. They didn’t need formal dates or candlelit dinners to keep doing whatever this was.

And yet, there was something about the way Amélie avoided it that didn’t quite sit right with him.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

At least, not yet.

Until one day, in a surge of something he couldn’t quite name, he decided to push back.

"Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?"

It was blunt, direct. They were in her living room, a movie playing in the background, a half-eaten pizza between them. Amélie, her legs draped over his lap, looked up, caught off guard by the question.

"Where’s that coming from?"

Oscar held her gaze.

"From the fact that every time I suggest it, you dodge it."

She picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite, far too calm.

"Because I don’t like going out."

"That’s not it." He shook his head. "It’s going out with me that you don’t want."

Amélie chewed in silence, eyes locked on his. For a second, Oscar thought she’d throw back a sarcastic remark, a joke to deflect the conversation. But instead, she just sighed and set the pizza down.

"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way," she finally said. "I like what we have. I like you. But I’d rather keep it… like this."

"Like this?"

"Private."

Oscar frowned.

"Private or secret?"

She didn’t answer immediately.

And that was enough for Oscar to understand the difference.

"I’m not saying we have to make our… whatever this is, public—nothing like that," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. "I just want to understand why the idea of going to a damn restaurant with me bothers you so much."

Amélie crossed her arms, her expression hardening.

"It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see the need. We’re fine like this, aren’t we?"

"Are we?" Oscar let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it."

She clicked her tongue, as if the conversation was testing her patience.

"Oscar—"

"No, seriously. I like being with you. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care about putting a label on it, but… I feel like I only exist within these walls. Like I’m a secret you’d rather keep hidden."

The atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant.

Amélie parted her lips, as if to respond, but said nothing.

Oscar let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Look, I don’t want to be the guy who makes a big deal out of this. We’re not together, I have no right to demand anything from you, but—"

"Exactly." Her voice was sharper than usual. "You have no right to demand anything from me."

Oscar blinked, taken aback.

"It’s not a demand, Amélie. It’s a conversation."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"There always has to be a problem, doesn’t there? We can’t just enjoy what we have without overanalyzing it."

Oscar felt something inside him tighten even more.

"I’m not questioning what we have. I’m questioning why we have to keep it hidden."

"Because it’s easier that way."

The answer came instantly. But the way she said it… Oscar saw something in her eyes. Something she was trying to hide.

"Easier for who?" he asked quietly.

Amélie clenched her jaw, looking away.

And there it was. The confirmation he didn’t want.

Oscar felt a weight in his chest, an uncomfortable knot in his throat.

He stood up from the couch.

"Okay," he said, his tone colder than he expected.

Amélie frowned.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, if that’s what you want, I won’t push."

She got to her feet too, watching him closely.

"I’m not saying you matter less to me just because I don’t want to be seen with you in public."

"No, but it sure feels like it."

Anger flickered in her eyes for a split second, but she said nothing.

Oscar grabbed his keys from the table.

"I’m gonna go."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Amélie looked at him, a mix of confusion and wounded pride in her expression.

"I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who walks away in the middle of an argument."

Oscar turned to the door.

"I also didn’t think you were the kind of person who was afraid to be seen with me."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

And even though he tried to shake it off, tried to convince himself he had no right to feel this way, the truth was that the idea of being just a secret to her burned more than he was willing to admit.

The days turned into weeks.

Oscar fell back into his routine, throwing himself into the world of F1 with an almost obsessive intensity. More hours in the simulator, more technical meetings, more training until exhaustion. Anything to keep his mind off her. But no matter how hard he tried, Amélie always found a way to creep back in.

He saw her in the most absurd moments. In the reflection of a window when he least expected it. In a woman’s laughter at a restaurant that sounded too much like hers. In the damn jasmine scent that had once lingered on his pillow. And he hated it. Hated it because she was the one who walked away. Because she was the one who put up walls between them. And yet, he was the one paying the price.

He swore he wouldn’t reach out. Told himself he had his pride. But every time he landed in Monaco after a race, the battle started all over again. He turned off his phone before temptation could win. Repeated to himself that she wasn’t worth it, that if she wanted him out of her life, he wasn’t going to beg to be let back in.

But, fuck, it was getting harder.

Amélie, for her part, stood by her decision. But with every passing day, it became more difficult.

Meetings with investors and networking events became her escape. She made sure her schedule was packed, leaving no room for solitude—no chance for her mind to wander where it shouldn’t. But the problem was that even in a crowded room, her thoughts always found their way back to Oscar.

Every time she saw a headline about him, every time his name came up in a passing conversation with her father, her chest tightened. She wasn’t searching for him, but the world insisted on reminding her.

And the worst part? At night, when she closed her eyes, guilt consumed her.

She had fallen for him more than she ever wanted to admit. More than she should have. And by the time she realized it, it was too late. Because she knew that if she had stayed with him, she would have dragged him into a scandal, into a shadow he’d never escape.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She let him go to protect him.

So why did it feel like she was doing the wrong thing?

And then, the invitation came.

Monza. Ferrari’s home turf. The race that electrified the entire country.

Her father’s voice had been calm, expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be before she even said it. "It’s been years since you’ve been to a race," he had remarked casually. "Come. Enjoy yourself for once."

She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a reminder of where she came from, of the legacy she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried.

And more than anything, she knew Oscar would be there.

He would see her. He would learn the truth—who she really was, who she had been all along. And maybe, just maybe, he would hate her for it.

But what did it matter anymore?

They weren’t together. They never had been.

She told herself that as she accepted the invitation, as she packed her bags, as she prepared to step into a world she had spent so long keeping separate from him.

For once, she wouldn’t think about consequences. She would let herself breathe. Even if it meant standing face to face with the one person she had tried so hard to forget.

The roar of the engines filled the air, vibrating through her chest as Amélie stepped into the paddock. Monza was alive, electric with anticipation, and the sea of red surrounding her was almost suffocating.

She had been here as a kid, too many times to count, but this time was different. This time, she wasn’t just the daughter of a powerful man in motorsport. She wasn’t just another face in the Ferrari hospitality suite.

This time, Oscar was here.

And at some point, he would see her.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose, letting her expression settle into something unreadable. She had no reason to be nervous. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for her father, for Ferrari, for the world that had shaped her long before Oscar Piastri had stumbled into her life.

And yet, as she moved through the paddock, as she exchanged polite greetings and forced smiles, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest.

Would he be angry? Confused? Would he even care?

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But then, she saw him.

Oscar was walking towards the McLaren garage, deep in conversation with an engineer, his expression serious—focused. But as if he could sense her presence, as if something in the air had shifted, he suddenly glanced up.

Their eyes met.

For a second, everything around them faded. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it all disappeared.

Oscar’s face didn’t betray much. There was no immediate reaction, no flash of surprise or recognition. But there was something in the way he held her gaze, something unreadable and sharp, that sent a shiver down her spine.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.

And continued walking.

Amélie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

So that was it.

Oscar didn’t understand why seeing her there had shaken him so much.

It wasn’t like she had no right to be in Monza. After all, she had once mentioned that her father was a big F1 fan. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the weekend, like any other fan with the right connections to wander through the paddock without restrictions.

That had to be all.

And yet, something inside him twisted with discomfort.

He had spent weeks suppressing any impulse to look for her, forcing himself to bury her deep in his mind. But now, with just a single glance, she was back—settled in his head as if she had never left.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she affected him.

So he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to look away, to keep walking as if nothing had happened.

But while his body moved forward, his mind stayed behind.

Because seeing her there, in a place so intimately tied to his world, made everything he had tried to forget resurface with even greater force.

The last time they had been together, she had looked at him with sadness before pulling away. Now, however, she seemed calm, indifferent, as if nothing between them had meant enough to leave a mark.

And for some reason, that infuriated him more than anything else.

The day of qualifying unfolded like any other. Oscar was focused on his team, on preparations, on lap times, on making sure his weekend in Monza was solid.

Or at least, that was what he was trying to do.

But every time he moved through the paddock, his eyes searched for her.

Not on purpose. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

And then, he saw her.

She was in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by mechanics in red overalls, laughing with them as if she were part of the family. One of the engineers handed her a water bottle with the same casualness as if he were passing it to a driver. Another whispered something in her ear, and Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile, giving him a light shove on the arm.

That wasn’t the attitude of a mere spectator.

But what truly made something tighten inside Oscar was when he saw Charles Leclerc approaching her.

The Monegasque driver greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time—an embrace that lasted too long, a kiss on each cheek. He spoke to her calmly, comfortably, with that ease that wasn’t shared with just anyone. Amélie responded just as naturally, with that half-smile Oscar knew all too well.

The same one she had once given him.

And suddenly, something twisted in his stomach with rage.

He didn’t know what hit him first.

How did she know Leclerc? Why had she never talked about him? She knew about Formula 1, she knew who Oscar was—why had she never mentioned she knew Charles? Especially when, in front of the Ferrari garage, they spoke like lifelong friends.

Or maybe it was something more.

Oscar’s mind began to spiral, to descend into the worst possible explanations.

Had Amélie done to Charles what she had done to him? Seduced him, lured him into her bed, had her fun, and then tossed him aside like nothing?

Maybe to Amélie, it had all been just a game.

Maybe he had never been more than a fleeting adventure, just another amusement in her world of luxury, connections, and opportunities he hadn’t even realized she had.

Maybe, while he burned inside trying to understand what had happened between them, she had already forgotten him completely.

Oscar could feel the anger building in his chest like a bomb about to explode. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else, his gaze kept drifting back to the Ferrari garage.

Back to her.

He didn’t know what infuriated him more.

The thought gnawed at him. Was there something between her and Charles? Had there ever been? Had he just been a passing distraction?

"Alright, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Lando appeared beside him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Lando scoffed. "Come on, Oscar. You’re standing there looking like you’re about to murder someone. I’ve seen that face before, and honestly, I’d rather you not make a scene right before qualifying."

Oscar let out a sharp breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.

"It’s just…" He pressed his lips together, struggling to find the right words. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real. But Lando was watching him with that look—the one that said I’m not leaving until you tell me—and Oscar knew there was no way out.

"It’s complicated."

Lando snorted.

"When is it not with you?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare but continued anyway.

"I met someone. In Monaco. We… saw each other a few times. Okay, not a few, a lot. But we ended it. Or she did. Doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s here. In the Ferrari garage."

Lando blinked, processing the information.

"Okay… Wait. Are you telling me all this rage is over a girl?"

"She’s not just ‘a girl,’" Oscar growled before realizing he had just given himself away.

Lando raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleamed with the excitement of someone who had just stumbled upon something juicy and wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, alright. She’s not just a girl. She’s her. And what’s the problem with her?"

Oscar shook his head.

"It doesn’t make sense for her to be here. I mean, she told me her dad was an F1 fan, but this… This is something else. She moves around that garage like she lives there. Like she knows everyone."

Lando tilted his head, studying him. His gaze flickered toward the Ferrari garage, and suddenly, something in his expression shifted.

"Hold on a second… Are you telling me that the girl you were seeing is Amélie Vasseur?"

The surname hit Oscar like a sledgehammer.

Vasseur.

Ferrari’s team principal.

A hollow feeling settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a wave of fury that made his teeth clench so hard his jaw ached.

Everything clicked into place.

That’s why she was so comfortable in the garage. That’s why everyone treated her like family. That’s why Charles Leclerc knew her as if they had grown up together.

She had played him.

She had never told him the truth. Never even given him a hint of who she really was. And while he had spent weeks agonizing over what had happened between them, wondering if it had meant anything, she had simply moved on with her life like it was nothing.

His blood boiled.

If he had been angry before, now he saw nothing but red.

Lando was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Wait, wait…" He leaned slightly toward Oscar, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. "Are you telling me you didn’t know who she was? Seriously?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare, but that only made Lando laugh harder.

"Mate!" Lando exclaimed, still chuckling. "How the hell did you not recognize Vasseur’s daughter?"

"Because I’ve never seen her before. And she never told me" Oscar growled, feeling the anger rise in his throat like fire.

"But it was right in front of you! The French accent, the ‘I’m going to destroy you but with elegance’ sense of humor, the way she never shuts up—" Lando shook his head, grinning. "Damn, now that I think about it, it’s so obvious."

Oscar, however, wasn’t amused.

He was furious.

Not because she was Vasseur’s daughter. Not because she had been surrounded by the world of F1 her entire life.

But because she had never told him. Because she had kept everything from him. Because she had walked away without even giving him a damn chance to understand.

Because he, like an idiot, had thought that what they had mattered.

And now he realized that, to her, it had probably just been a game.

Qualifying had been one of the best of his career.

Second place, right behind Lando. An incredible result for McLaren, a statement in Monza—Ferrari’s territory. But while the mechanics celebrated in the garage, while his team congratulated him, while the cameras captured his serious expression during the post-qualifying press conference, Oscar could only think about her.

About the last name she had never told him. About the laughter she had shared with Ferrari’s mechanics. About the way Charles Leclerc looked at her with the kind of familiarity that only came from having someone in your life for a very long time.

The anger still boiled inside him, pulsing with every breath, with every damn image his mind replayed.

He went straight to the hotel after the interviews, not lingering with the team, not responding to the congratulations with the enthusiasm expected of him. Locked in his room, he paced back and forth, replaying every moment, every conversation, every fucking lie disguised as omission.

Why?

Why had she never told him? Why had she let him make a fool of himself, thinking she was just another girl, when in reality, she belonged to this world even more than he did? Was it a game to her? Had she laughed at him once he was gone?

Every time he tried to sleep, his mind dragged him back into the same spiral. He tossed and turned, shifting positions over and over until finally, when the clock hit 3:00 AM, he made a decision.

He had had enough.

If he couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t either.

Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel without a second thought. Anger, frustration, and the need to confront her pushed him forward, stronger than reason. He walked through the rain, not caring that the water seeped into his clothes, not caring that his breathing was uneven from the fury coursing through him.

He knew where the Ferrari team was staying.

And when he arrived, soaked to the bone, he asked for Amélie Vasseur’s room at reception and went up without hesitation.

He didn’t even think before raising his fist and knocking.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was movement on the other side.

Then, the door opened, and there she was.

Amélie blinked, still groggy, her hair a mess, wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for her. It took a second for her to process what she was seeing—Oscar Piastri, drenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury, his eyes burning with something far more than just anger.

“Oscar?” Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but mostly, from sheer surprise.

He stared at her, silent for a moment, as if he needed to remind himself why he was there.

Then, with his jaw clenched, with the storm still raging inside his chest, he said,

“Tell me the truth.”

Amélie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.

She sighed, casting a quick glance down the hallway before stepping aside to let him in. Oscar crossed the threshold without hesitation, dripping onto the floor with every step, shoulders tense, eyes locked onto her as if she were an enemy, not someone he had once spent entire nights with.

“Let me explain,” she started, closing the door behind her.

“Explain what?” Oscar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “How you played me this whole time? How you laughed at me while I thought—” He stopped abruptly, like saying it out loud would hurt even more.

Amélie felt the pang in her chest, but she kept her composure.

“I never laughed at you.”

“Oh, come on.” Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid I feel right now? The entire goddamn paddock knew except me. Lando knew, the engineers knew—Jesus, Amélie.”

Amélie clenched her jaw.

“Oscar—”

“And meanwhile, I was here wondering why you never wanted to be seen with me in public, why you always seemed like you were hiding something.” His words were sharp, cutting, like he wanted to hurt her just as much as he felt she had hurt him. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy watching me, completely clueless about who I was actually sleeping with?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Amélie snapped, her voice louder than she had intended.

Oscar fell silent for a second, taken aback by her reaction.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I didn’t do it to laugh at you. I didn’t do it to play with you. I did it for you, Oscar.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain to me how lying to my face for months was for me, because, honestly, I’d love to understand.”

Amélie felt her own anger rise.

“Because if people found out about us, if it got out that we were together, the first thing they would do is question you.” She pointed at him, her voice firm. “They’d say you were with your rival’s daughter, that Ferrari was favoring you, that your seat at McLaren was in jeopardy. You don’t need that kind of shit on your shoulders.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

“And who decided that was your problem?”

“It became my problem the moment this turned into something more. The moment it stopped being just a fling,” she shot back, her gaze burning into his. “Do you think it was easy? Do you think I wanted to walk away from you?”

“I don’t know what you wanted, Amélie. You never said anything, you never explained anything.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy wall.

For a moment, Amélie saw something in Oscar’s eyes beyond the anger.

Something that hurt even more than his words.

Disappointment.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Oscar was breathing heavily, water still dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. He didn’t care. Not when anger burned in his chest, when confusion suffocated him.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did you have something with Charles?”

Amélie blinked, surprised by the question, but her expression remained unchanged. There was no trace of guilt or nervousness. Only exhaustion.

“No,” she said firmly. “Never. Ew”

Oscar let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. She took a step toward him, but Oscar remained rigid. “Charles and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”

Oscar stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything that would reveal she was hiding the truth. But all he found was sincerity.

And yet, it wasn’t enough to ease the knot in his stomach.

“Then explain it to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. “Explain why you did what you did. Why you never told me who you were. Why it felt like you were trying to hide me.”

Amélie pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was something vulnerable in her expression.

“Because I never thought this would go this far,” she confessed. “I never thought I’d fall in love with you.”

Oscar felt the air ripped from his lungs.

Amélie swallowed hard and continued. “At first… I thought it was something fleeting. Something fun. But then I realized that every time I saw you, I wanted to see you more. That when you left, I missed you more than I should have. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process her words.

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He watched her, his chest rising and falling with every restrained breath. “Scared of what?”

Amélie exhaled in frustration, running a hand through her hair. “That if people found out, they would use it against you. That my last name would harm you. That this would stop being ours and turn into a scandal.”

Oscar let out a bitter laugh. “So you chose to push me away? You made me feel like I meant nothing to you?”

Amélie clenched her fists, her gaze burning. “Oscar, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do—you can’t expect me to have all the answers to my life.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a way to make this work. Together.”

The pain in his voice hit her harder than any shout could.

For a moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes glistening, chest rising and falling as if her words weighed too much.

Finally, in a voice so soft it sounded like admitting it would break her, she whispered:

“I think I love you.”

Oscar felt his world shift beneath his feet.

Amélie swallowed. “And that terrified me.”

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t the same.

It was broken. Uncertain.

One that only Oscar could decide if he wanted to fill with something else.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if trying to release all the anger, frustration, and pain built up inside him. But something still remained stuck in his chest.

“Amélie…” His voice was no longer sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was caught somewhere in between—that thin line between anger and understanding.

She didn’t look away. She faced him, vulnerable but steady, as if ready to take whatever response, whatever emotional blow he had to give.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Do you know what hurted me the most?”

Amélie didn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders was telling.

“It’s not that you’re Vasseur’s daughter.” He shook his head. “It’s not that you were in the paddock, in Ferrari, with Charles, with all those people who always knew who you were and I didn’t.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, as if confessing something he never wanted to say out loud.

“It’s that you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

Amélie’s eyes shone with an emotion she couldn’t hide.

“Oscar…”

“You made me doubt everything,” he went on, his voice rough. “Whether what we had meant anything or if I was just a distraction. Whether everything I felt was real or if I was the only one feeling it.”

Amélie closed her eyes for a second, as if his words cut through her. When she opened them again, her expression was softer, more open.

“It wasn’t just a distraction.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh.

“It wasn’t,” she insisted, stepping closer. This time, Oscar didn’t move away. “It never was.”

He looked at her, searching for something in her eyes. Something that told him he could believe her. Something that said all the anger in his chest could finally start to fade.

Amélie let out a nervous laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only uncertainty.

“I’m not good at this,” she murmured, running a hand through her tangled hair. “At… feeling things so quickly. At not being in control.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching her more intently.

She sighed. “I always thought it was better to keep my distance. Not get too attached. But then you came along.”

Oscar felt his heart pound harder.

“I didn’t expect to feel this,” she continued, a small, resigned smile forming on her lips. “And when I realized I was already too deep, I got scared.”

Oscar’s anger didn’t disappear all at once, but something inside him started to loosen.

Because he understood.

God, he understood her more than he wanted to admit.

Amélie looked at him with a silent plea, as if waiting for him to tell her that it wasn’t too late.

Oscar lowered his head for a second, exhaling slowly. Then, without a word, he reached out and took her wrist, his touch barely there.

Amélie trembled at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met again, and this time, the anger between them had softened.

“And now?” Oscar asked quietly.

Amélie swallowed. “Now…”

She took another step closer, until only inches separated them.

“Now I don’t want to keep running.”

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat.

She wetted her lips, and with almost fearful softness, slid her hand over his.

Oscar looked at the gesture—the warmth of her skin against his, the way their fingers fit together like they had done this a million times before.

And without thinking too much, he intertwined his fingers with hers.

Amélie let out a breath, as if she hadn’t realized how much she needed that touch until now.

Oscar lifted his gaze and met hers.

There was no fear anymore.

Only them.

And with the slightest movement, Amélie leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so slow, so sincere, it seemed to erase everything else.

Because in the end, love always won.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if they both needed to make sure it was real. There was no urgency, no desperation—only a mutual need to find each other again, beyond the anger, beyond the doubts.

Neither of them moved. Amélie still had her fingers intertwined with Oscar’s, her forehead nearly touching his, breathing the same air.

It was Oscar who broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well… that was intense.”

Amélie let out a breathy laugh. “The kiss or the fight?”

Oscar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Both. Though if I had to choose, I think I’d rather keep the kiss.”

She smiled, playing with his fingers. “Good, because the other thing was exhausting.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. I literally walked through the rain like some dramatic movie idiot.”

Amélie burst into laughter. “You did.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “If this were a romantic cliché, someone was definitely watching us from a window with sad music playing in the background.”

“Let me guess,” Amélie said with a teasing smile. “In the movie of your life, who would play you?”

Oscar pretended to think. “Mmm… obviously someone handsome. Ryan Gosling, maybe.”

Amélie raised an amused eyebrow. “Gosling? That’s ambitious of you.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar looked at her, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t have Gosling-level attractiveness?”

Amélie shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re not handsome, but…” She rested a hand on her chin, analyzing him. “I see you more as… a Tom Holland with a boyish face.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I feel both flattered and offended at the same time.”

She smiled and, in a spontaneous gesture, ran her fingers through his damp hair. “But seriously, you didn’t have to come all the way here soaking wet. You could’ve just texted me and avoided looking like a stray puppy outside my hotel door.”

Oscar looked at her in mock indignation. “How disrespectful. This was a romantic gesture, obviously, not a tantrum.”

Amélie laughed, but soon her smile softened. “Do you really want to try?”

Oscar sighed, looking at her directly, all traces of humor gone. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to disappear again. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want you looking at me like you’re about to run.”

Amélie lowered her gaze for a second, biting her lip, before meeting his eyes again.

“Okay,” she finally said, with a small smile.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”

Amélie huffed in amusement. “Okay, let’s try. I won’t run, I won’t hide, I won’t play mysterious—well, maybe a little, because it suits me—but I promise not to run from you.”

Oscar studied her with a half-smile, as if making sure she was serious.

“So that means I can take you to dinner in public without you throwing a smoke bomb in the middle of the restaurant?”

Amélie rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”

Oscar grinned. “Perfect. But I warn you, if this gets too romantic, I’m going to assume we’re in a cheesy rom-com and start calling you ‘my love’ out loud just to annoy you.”

Amélie playfully shoved his chest. “If you do that, I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile turning mischievous. “And if I kiss you in public? Will you pretend not to know me then too?”

Amélie looked at him, her eyes shining with that same ever-present challenge. “Depends on how good the kiss is.”

Oscar let out a laugh, and without wasting another second, kissed her again.

Because if there was one thing they knew for sure, this game between them was far from over.

Amélie pulled away, a peculiar light shining in her gaze, a foolish smile stretching across her lips. “This is going to cost us a fortune. McLaren and Ferrari are going to have to spend a ridiculous amount on PR to manage this scandal and the press.”

The Monza sun filtered timidly through the curtains, but neither of them had any intention of moving.

Oscar had no idea what time it was, and honestly, he didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that Amélie’s bed was much more comfortable than his and that the warmth of her body against his made any other thought irrelevant.

Amélie stirred slightly beside him, her breathing still steady. She half-opened her eyes just enough to look at him and smile—that lazy, satisfied smile that made Oscar feel a small tug in his chest.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Oscar, still with his face buried in the pillow, huffed.

“No idea. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so don’t worry.”

Amélie let out a soft laugh and stretched before snuggling against his chest again.

“We can stay like this a little longer.”

Oscar slid a hand down her back, pulling her even closer.

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

And so they stayed. Letting laziness wrap around them, the distant sounds of the hotel waking up nothing more than a faint murmur. For the first time in months, they weren’t in a hurry.

Until someone knocked on the door.

Both of them froze.

“Were you expecting someone?” Oscar whispered.

Amélie frowned. “No…”

Another knock, this time more insistent.

And then, a voice unmistakably cut through the silence.

“Amélie, open the door.”

Oscar felt his soul leave his body.

Amélie went completely still. Then, without moving a single muscle, she slowly turned her head toward Oscar.

They looked at each other as if they had just seen a ghost.

Frederic. Freaking. Vasseur.

Still in bed, all Oscar could murmur was:

“Oh, shit.”

Amélie covered her face with her hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oscar darted into the bathroom with the reflexes of a driver avoiding a crash. He shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it, taking a deep breath as if that would make him invisible.

From the other side, he heard the hotel room door open, followed by the unmistakable voice of Frederic Vasseur.

“Amélie,” her father greeted, his tone casual—the same tone he used right before ruining someone’s day. “Bon matin.”

“Dad,” Amélie replied, trying to sound natural, but with a slight hint of panic. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I was passing by and thought, ‘I’ll check in on my daughter, have breakfast with her, make sure she’s not getting into trouble…’”

Amélie watched him cautiously. If she was lucky, this would be a short visit.

But then, her father stilled.

His gaze drifted toward the window.

More specifically, to Oscar’s clothes—a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt with the McLaren logo—strategically draped over a chair to dry.

Amélie followed his gaze.

Shit.

Very slowly, Vasseur turned his attention back to his daughter.

She tried to think fast. “It’s—”

“Don’t.” Vasseur raised a hand to stop her, his face the very picture of paternal disappointment. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

He turned, crossing his arms. “Amélie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Who’s hiding in the bathroom?”

Silence.

Amélie looked at the bathroom door.

Then at her father.

She tried to smile.

“…No one.”

Vasseur closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and then, without hesitation, walked straight toward the bathroom door.

Oscar’s eyes widened in horror.

Amélie sighed dramatically. “Dad, please. Don’t assume things.”

“Oh, I’m not assuming anything,” Vasseur said, clearly amused. “I’m just analyzing the evidence. Let’s see: wet McLaren clothes. A nervous daughter. A locked bathroom door. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire.”

Oscar felt the doorknob move.

He held his breath.

Then, three firm knocks.

“Knock, knock,” Vasseur said, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Oscar closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“Oh! He speaks.” Vasseur’s voice sounded even more entertained. “What a surprise! I wonder who it could be.”

Oscar felt like he was living a nightmare.

He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. “I’m in my underwear, and I’m coming out, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Vasseur replied, in the tone of someone having the time of his life. “Whenever you’re ready, champ.”

Oscar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped out like a prisoner about to receive his sentence.

Vasseur looked him up and down with a lazy smirk, crossing his arms.

“Piastri,” he greeted, as if they were old friends.

Oscar tried to maintain his dignity. “Mr. Vasseur.”

“Tell me, son,” the Ferrari team principal said, tilting his head. “How desperate does one have to be to show up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet?”

Oscar felt Amélie stifling her laughter beside him.

"I…"

"I mean, your hotel must not serve a good breakfast. Did you come here just for croissants, or did my daughter offer a more interesting menu?"

Amélie burst out laughing and immediately regretted it when Oscar shot her a glare.

"Sorry."

"What was your plan if I caught you?"

Oscar blinked. "Hide in the bathroom?"

Vasseur looked at him with absolute disappointment. "Terrible strategy. Verstappen, at least, would have jumped out the window."

Amélie let out another laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

Oscar sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, is this going to last much longer?"

Vasseur grinned. "Oh, absolutely. I'm enjoying this way too much."

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. "Great."

Vasseur patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, Piastri. This could have been worse."

Oscar looked at him skeptically.

"Oh yeah? How?"

Vasseur’s grin widened.

"My daughter could be fucking Lando Norris. At least you're the good half of McLaren."

Amélie burst into loud laughter.

Oscar just dropped his head into his hands, accepting his fate.

The sun was slowly setting over Monza, painting the sky in golden hues as the tifosi roared, celebrating the victory they had longed for. Charles Leclerc stood at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, carrying the love of Ferrari on his shoulders while the Italian anthem echoed with an almost sacred intensity. Beside him, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri completed the scene, their smiles shaped by the effort of the race, by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins.

But Amélie wasn’t looking at Charles. She wasn’t even truly paying attention to the podium as a whole. Her eyes were fixed on Oscar.

From where she stood, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and Ferrari executives, wrapped in her father’s embrace, she felt something strange in her chest. It wasn’t just happiness, nor was it simply pride. It was something deeper. Something far more terrifying.

Because she had never thought she would care so much about someone outside of this world of engines and strategy, beyond her surname, beyond the pressure of Formula 1.

And yet, here she was.

Oscar was searching for her in the crowd.

She swallowed hard as their eyes finally met.

Words weren’t necessary.

They understood each other in an instant, as if they had already had this conversation a thousand times before.

And in that gaze—laden with everything they had been through, the arguments, the fears, the secrets, the doubts—they made a silent promise.

They wouldn’t run anymore.

Amélie felt her heart pounding too fast, as if she were running her own race.

Without realizing it, she clung a little tighter to her father’s arm.

Vasseur, who had been watching in silence, let out an amused huff.

"Looks like someone has extra reasons to celebrate today."

Amélie turned sharply, frowning.

“Dad, please…”

“No, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he replied, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you this focused on a podium before.”

She rolled her eyes, but the small smile that slipped through betrayed her.

“Whatever.”

Vasseur chuckled, giving her a pat on the back.

"You know, if Piastri has already survived breakfast with me, maybe he’s not entirely useless after all."

She shot him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly entertained.

"I say this for his own good, you know? I wouldn’t want him to get run over by everything that comes with being with you."

Amélie narrowed her eyes.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Vasseur smirked.

"It means I come with the package."

She scoffed, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Her gaze returned to the podium.

Oscar was still there, trophy in one hand, champagne glass in the other, but his eyes were searching for her again.

The noise, the crowd, the madness of Formula 1—it all faded into the background.

They had found each other.

And for the first time, Amélie had no desire to run.

@smoooothoperator

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