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clovermoters · 22 hours ago

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i’ve never watched love island but i am fucking obsessed with this fic

someone to hold me down ¹ ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , love island au , strangers to friends to lovers , slow burn tw cheating (in the love island sense) , slight carlos sainz slander for the plot word count 17.8k (part one) author’s note yeah once again i have literally no excuse for this one . probably THEEE most self indulgent fic i’ve ever written as i am proudly the world’s biggest love island fan . during my catchup on love island uk this year , i started thinking about this interview and then the idea of lando on love island just burrowed into my brain and refused to leave me alone . this is part one of two and since i've made you all wait so long part two will be coming tomorrow, monday august 25 !! as always let me know what you think , and my 1k celebration is still open , so if you liked this please feel free to send in a request !! title is from came here for love by sigala ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

You’ve officially been a Love Island contestant for about five minutes, and you’re already questioning every life decision that led you here.

You didn’t even sign up for this. No, that was the work of your friends back home, a completely twisted group response to your bad breakup cooked up over one too many mimosas at a brunch you’d missed because you were crying too hard. When they told you they submitted an application for you, you laughed. You had a real job, one that involved spreadsheets and quarterly reports and tasteful business casual sets. You’d spent most of your adult life trying to avoid situations involving tequila-fueled meltdowns and catfights over semi-pro footballers with clockable hair transplants. You didn’t even watch the show.

And yet here you are, standing outside a Mallorcan villa in your nicest bikini with a mic pack strapped to your ass and your heart pounding in your throat.

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house.

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle.

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again.

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years.

And then there’s the smile.

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go.

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has.

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore.

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads.

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest.

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you.

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry.

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles.

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile.

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago.

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there.

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most.

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long.

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water.

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.”

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end.

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them.

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia.

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets.

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms.

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by.

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious.

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact.

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists.

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh.

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly.

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches.

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears.

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you.

You’re not expecting a second kiss.

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time.

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking.

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod.

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her.

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head.

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara.

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit.

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice.

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie?

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur.

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks.

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is.

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently.

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.”

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos.

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door.

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else.

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing.

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders.

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand.

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.”

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek.

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season.

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently.

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here.

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder.

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above.

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters.

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real.

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.”

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit.

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely.

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!”

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind.

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily.

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it.

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat.

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead.

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil.

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession.

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently.

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work.

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves.

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks.

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily.

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television.

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss.

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally.

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat.

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy.

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen.

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085.

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out.

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack.

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked.

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you.

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise.

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked.

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.”

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek.

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten.

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him.

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in.

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you.

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side.

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin.

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando.

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face.

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you.

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck.

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos.

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens.

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.”

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide.

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you.

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa.

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow.

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.”

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.”

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips.

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss.

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil.

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen.

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles.

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?”

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet.

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink.

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him.

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means.

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days.

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere.

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone.

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too.

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened.

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again.

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds.

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week.

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock.

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa.

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie.

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down.

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine.

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again.

And then your phone buzzes in your lap.

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando.

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.”

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles.

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that.

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.”

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved.

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out.

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right.

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.”

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot.

But you’re also not alone.

#cloves list of fics that she adores

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clovermoters · 13 days ago

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i’m shaking. he’s gonna be an amazing dad one day

#lando norris #formula 1 #lando fluff #i need to give him babies #he’s so husband i die #ln4 #sobbbing #the way he just holds them like they’re his own i CANNOT DO THIS TODAY

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clovermoters · 16 days ago

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someone needs to put lando norris into the pixie hallow universe im shaking. WHAT FAIRY WOULD HE BE

#lando norris #ln4 #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando fluff #just watched secret of the wings my mind is going BRRRRR #clove yaps

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clovermoters · 17 days ago

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. . . spot the difference challenge !

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clovermoters · 19 days ago

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holy shit. i’m??? this is genius???? he’s a man who YEARNED and then finally got the girl!!! and max fewtrell being the mastermind behind it all what a guy!!

anyways

i’m in awe, im obsessed, kae tsunodaradio your brain never fails to amaze me !!!!

green light ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

r/aita · @piastriprincess asked, “aita (m25) for hating all my best friend’s boyfriends?”

ꔮ starring: lando norris x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. flashbacks, max fewtrell (<3) haunts the narrative, yearning…, best friends to lovers. title inspired by both lorde’s (i’m waiting for it, that green light, i want it) and tate mcrae’s (i’m still waitin’ at the green light to tell you what i feel like) song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: confession time—i’ve always felt a bit hit-or-miss when writing for lando, but this one… i reaaally like how it turned out 🚦 everybody say ‘thank you, lily’ for the banger prompt!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The McLaren P1 isn’t exactly designed for emotional turmoil.

It’s low to the ground and louder than sin. Not the kind of car you want to be brooding in. But here Lando is, idling at the curb outside your flat in Bristol, watching the rain tattoo the windscreen and trying to pretend he’s not bracing for whatever weird tension you’ve decided to lace this car ride with.

You appear in the rearview mirror like a final boss. Hoodie up, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking like you’re headed to war rather than a birthday party.

Lando presses the button to open the door. You hesitate, which you never used to do. You slide into the passenger seat like it physically pains you. He half-expects you to bring holy water.

“You know,” he says, because silence is worse than bad jokes, “most people would be thrilled to be chauffeured in a million-pound hypercar. You look like you’re entering a hostage negotiation.”

You don’t laugh. You do that half-smile thing that doesn’t reach your eyes, and suddenly Lando wants to kick himself for knowing the difference.

“Thanks for the lift,” you say, polite enough to pass for normal.

It isn’t. It really, really isn’t.

Lando flicks the wipers on. The rain makes a rhythmic hiss against the windshield. It used to be that rides like this meant music and shared snacks and you yelling at him for taking corners too aggressively. Now, it feels like he has to tiptoe around your mood as if it's an open flame.

He eases the car away from the curb. “So, Birmingham,” he says. “Home of Fewtrell’s yearly descent into unchecked ego.”

You huff out a laugh through your nose, barely audible. It should make him feel triumphant; instead, it makes his chest tight.

What’s a spark when you used to light up around him? No matter how many people crowded your lives—teammates, friends, plus-ones at dinner tables—you were always his person. That one human who saw him beyond the grid, who didn’t care about lap times or social media engagement.

Lando knows something broke. He just doesn’t know when.

The car hums beneath him, taut with energy it can’t release in Bristol traffic. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe everything is.

“You doing okay?” he asks, too casually.

You look out the window. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

There it is. He could write a dissertation on your avoidance techniques. In fact, he probably should. Title: How to Be Ghosted by Your Best Friend Without Them Technically Leaving the Chat.

He lets it go for now. Because the motorway is long, and the rain’s getting heavier, and there’s still two hours between here and the truth.

Lando doesn’t know when the silence between you became a living thing.

It’s not just still. It’s tense. It’s textured. It breathes like it’s third-wheeling from the back seat, wedged between you two with crossed arms and a wisenheimer expression.

He fiddles with the volume knob, turning the music down so low it’s practically just rhythm. Normally, you’d complain that it’s criminal to listen to music and not let it play properly. You’d grab his phone and queue some obnoxiously long indie playlist called something like orange show speedway and make him admit that you have taste.

Today, nothing.

He risks a glance sideways. You’re staring out the window like you’re auditioning for a breakup scene in a rainy film.

You used to talk to him about everything.

Shared inside jokes. Shared chips. Shared one toothbrush once on a trip to Mallorca, which he’s never quite recovered from. Every girl he ever liked, you sized up with terrifying efficiency. Every victory lap, you were the first person he texted. Every racing-related heartbreak, you were the one who told him to shut up, cry it out, then get back in the car.

He doesn’t remember a version of his life that doesn’t include you in the passenger seat.

So what the hell happened?

His car purrs along the motorway, cutting through the wet roads with the kind of grace only British engineering can pull off. They pass a familiar neighborhood and Lando slows a little, almost unconsciously.

He recognizes it before he wants to. The red-bricked semi with the peeling paint and the tragically optimistic garden gnome. He looks towards you, forces a grin.

“You remember this place?” he asks, way too chipper. “Your first boyfriend lived there. What was his name again? Something that sounded like a bootleg Marvel villain.”

You sigh. “Connor.”

“Right. Connor. God, he had the personality of a paper towel.”

You don’t smile. You just go back to looking out the window, past the brick house and the neighborhood that once felt like Lando’s entire world.

The silence, smug bastard that it is, stretches its limbs and settles in again.

Lando grips the wheel tighter. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he should’ve driven straight through and pretended the past wasn’t sitting in the backseat, wearing a stupid letterman jacket and reminding him of everything he didn’t say back then.

He can’t help but add, “He was an idiot, by the way. Never deserved you.”

That gets a flicker. Not a response, exactly, but a shift. A pause. A breath caught in your throat.

For a second, Lando remembers it. That summer. The start of all this. The spark, the fester, the personal betrayal of the friendship that was never quite enough for a man who wanted it all.

The first time Lando meets Connor, he’s already mentally uninstalling him like a glitchy app.

It’s some after-school club thing. Yearbook, or debate, or something equally cursed. The point is: Lando doesn’t belong here. He’s there because you asked him to walk you home, and you insisted he wait until the meeting ended. Which would’ve been fine, if the meeting hadn’t devolved into social hour and you hadn’t suddenly started radiating this stupidly obvious crush energy toward a guy in a rugby hoodie.

Connor.

The name alone sounds like someone who owns too many types of protein powder.

He’s tall in the way sixth-formers think is impressive. Smiles like he’s waiting for a camera to flash. And he talks—God, does he talk. About running drills. About his coach. About, and this is not a joke, a recent dream he had where he was chosen as the face of a sports drink campaign.

“He said, ‘I think I have the jawline for it,’” Lando recalls later in a whisper, as if traumatized.

Back in the moment, Lando tries to be polite. He stands there, hands in pockets, nodding like he’s buffering. “Right. That’s cool,” he mumbles, after Connor launches into a story about a pulled hamstring.

You glance over, eyes bright, clearly hoping Lando will be nice. So he tries again. “Do you, like, play matches every weekend, then?”

Connor nods solemnly. “Unless I’m injured. But I usually push through it.”

“Cool,” Lando says, tone flat as a pancake. He considers throwing himself out the nearest window.

He checks his phone. Fifteen minutes of this. That’s longer than he lasted in his first karting endurance run. He’s about to make a quiet escape—fake a text, mumble something about dinner, the works—when you touch his wrist.

“Stay?” you ask.

You say it soft, barely audible over the buzz of the room, and it derails his exit plan completely. He sighs. Dramatically. Just enough so you know he’s suffering, but not enough to actually mean it.

“Fine,” he grits out. “But if he brings up Real Madrid again, I’m eating the fluorescent lightbulb.”

You beam at him like he just agreed to co-sign your mortgage.

He stays for another twenty agonizing minutes. Listens to Connor talk about macro splits. Lets you giggle at jokes that barely qualify as sentences. Pretends not to notice the way your foot inches closer to Connor’s under the table.

Lando doesn’t know it yet, but something inside him knots that day. Small and quiet. Tight enough to notice. Deep enough that it’ll take years to unravel.

Connor lasts six months.

Six months of bland texts, gym selfies, and Lando resisting the urge to stage a small, tasteful intervention.

He suffers through it all like a war veteran. Group hangs where Connor brings up creatine unprompted. School events where Connor stands behind you like a security detail. One truly cursed double date to the cinema where Connor clapped at the end of the movie.

Lando logs every moment like evidence for a trial that never comes. Until one Tuesday afternoon, when you text him the four most beautiful words in the English language.

I dumped him lol.

Lando shows up at your door within the hour, snacks under one arm, self-righteousness under the other.

You look strangely relaxed. Legs curled under you on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, as if the breakup lifted a fog you didn’t know had settled.

“Turns out,” you say, accepting a bag of crisps from him, “dating someone who talks about himself in third person isn’t actually fun.”

Lando gasps, hand to chest. “Lando is shocked. Who could’ve predicted that?”

You roll your eyes. “Bug off.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, sinking into the cushion beside you, “some of us knew from day one that Connor was a human rice cake with delusions of grandeur.”

You snort, the laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “Fine, fine. You were right.”

“Finally.” He makes a show of looking to the heavens. “It only took six months, three public arguments, and one extremely awkward bowling night.”

“Never again,” you groan, tossing a crisp at him. “No more athletes.”

Lando recoils like you slapped him. “Excuse you. I’m an athlete.”

“You’re an exception. You’re, like, emotionally literate.”

“That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

You laugh again, easier this time, and Lando feels something shift. It’s a small, prideful flicker of knowing: Connor probably never made you laugh like that.

He watches you tip your head back against the sofa, eyes fluttering closed. The late afternoon light spills across your face, and for once, there’s no boyfriend shadowing your smile.

It’s just you and Lando.

And just like that, Boyfriend Number One is out of the picture.

The wipers fight a losing battle, flailing side to side in frantic arcs, trying their best to keep the view ahead from turning into an impressionist painting. The P1 glides through it all with the confidence of a car built to outrun lightning, but even Lando—lover of speed, master of circuits, alleged adult—has to admit.

This is not exactly ideal driving weather.

You’ve been silent for most of the ride. The kind of silence that has teeth. It presses against the back of Lando’s neck, daring him to say something dumb.

Then, finally—

“Lando,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “it’s getting really bad.”

He blinks, snapped out of the existential spiral he’d been mentally free-falling through. Turns slightly toward you, brow cocked in mock offense. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

You give him a tight, unimpressed look. “A man who once rear-ended a shopping cart at Tesco car park.”

“That was one time. I was seventeen. And it came out of nowhere.”

“It was stationary, Lando.”

“It was aggressively stationary.”

Your knuckles go white against the armrest as another gust of wind slams against the car. Your worry hangs thick in the space between you, louder than the rain. Lando feels it like static beneath his skin.

He huffs, puffing up with the defensive pride of a man desperate to impress someone who already knows every version of him, embarrassing stories and all.

“I’ve driven Spa in a thunderstorm, you know. This?” he gestures with one hand. “This is drizzle with a flair for the dramatic.”

Cue cosmic timing.

The car hydroplanes.

It happens in an instant. A slick patch, a twitch of the wheel, the rear kicking out just enough to raise the hair on his arms. The tail of the car fishtails right, then violently left, the P1 tilting off center in a slow-motion ballet of oh-god-oh-no.

Lando reacts on instinct. Years of karting, racing, muscle memory firing like it’s just another corner at Silverstone. He counter-steers, stabilizes, corrects. The car obeys, just barely. But what he doesn’t think about is the way his arm flings across your chest, holding you in place.

It’s ridiculous. There’s a five-point seatbelt system. The car is practically a carbon-fiber cocoon. All the same, his body makes the decision before his brain does: protect you first.

The tires grip. The fishtail stops. The car straightens.

His heart tries to break the sound barrier.

You’re both silent, the only noise your unsteady breathing and the rhythmic thump of his heart echoing in his ears. He doesn’t wince when you practically screech, “What the hell was that?!”

“It was a save,” he mutters, as if saying it in a smaller voice will make it sound more reasonable. He grips the wheel like it personally betrayed him.

You round on him as if he just tried to murder you with style. “A save? I thought I was about to become modern art on the side of the M5!”

“I had it under control.”

“You swore it was drizzle!”

“Water is water, babe!”

Your hands go to your face in pure exasperation. “You absolute bellend.”

For some reason—maybe the adrenaline, maybe just you finally sounding like you again—Lando laughs. It starts low, then builds, bubbling up like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re alive, irritated, breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, your voice has weight. You’re not tiptoeing around him. You’re calling him out. Loud and unfiltered and exactly as you used to be.

“Missed that,” he says, almost to himself.

“What?”

He keeps his eyes ahead, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His grin is trying to stay small but refuses to be ignored. “The sound of you telling me off,” he says, plain and simple and honest to a fault.

In the thick of rain and tension, there’s a crack of warmth. The silence that follows isn’t the old silence. It’s not angry or tense or drowning in things unsaid. It feels like the kind that comes after something.

Maybe not a full repair, but a start.

Lando pulls into the gas station. You’d asked him politely but firmly to pull over, just for a bit, to wait out the rain. And for once, he doesn’t argue.

The fluorescent lights hum above as he shifts the car into park. Rain still drums on the roof, but the chaos outside feels farther away now. Muted. Contained. It gives the illusion of control, even if everything still feels slightly sideways.

You unbuckle and stretch, exhaling like you’ve been holding your breath since the near-spin. Maybe you have. Lando watches you from the corner of his eye, trying not to make it weird. Failing a little.

It’s this station. Your station. Not legally, but in spirit.

He remembers all the times you’ve dragged him here over the years: late-night snack runs, dares to buy the weirdest item on the shelf, one very ill-advised slushie taste test that ended with blue tongues and a stomach bug. This place has been witness to everything from your worst hangovers to your best impressions of cursed TV ads.

He glances at the flickering store sign, then at you.

“Remember when you dated the cashier here?” he says, because clearly he has a death wish.

You groan. It’s visceral. From the chest. “Can we not talk about Tom?”

“Oh, Tom now. We’re using names.” Lando grins, all teeth and zero mercy. “He sold you expired milk on your third date.”

You cover your face. “I’m going to open this car door and let the rain take me.”

“And abandon me here? In the sacred land of lukewarm sausage rolls and scratch cards?”

You laugh. You actually laugh. And even if it’s mostly directed at your own poor decisions, Lando will take it.

“God,” you grumble, still hiding behind your hands. “I was so dumb.”

“No,” he says. “You were just hopeful. With tragically low standards.”

You peek at him through your fingers, eyes narrowing. “Is that your version of comforting me?”

He shrugs, fighting a laugh of his own. “I thought it was pretty accurate.”

You’re still smiling when you turn your face back toward the rain-blurred window. Lando watches the way your expression fades into something softer. More distant.

He thinks of the way you used to look at Tom. And the way you looked after it all went to shit.

The memory creeps in, uninvited. The same way that godforsaken ‘boyfriend’ did.

Tom was a phase.

Lando says it then, says it now, says it like a mantra. A phase. Curtain bangs, the keto diet, Vine.

He never meets Tom properly. Not in the same way he met Connor, all tight smiles and passive-aggressive protein talk. No, Tom appears in your life like a Wi-Fi outage: disruptive, inconvenient, and wildly inconvenient at the worst possible time.

Lando’s already racing in the lower formulas when it starts. Barely home. Living out of suitcases and duffel bags, counting time in flights and practice laps. He sees it unfold from the periphery. A flicker of chaos just off-track.

He catches glimpses of it in your Snapchat stories. Blurry concert videos. Gas station selfies. One particularly haunting Boomerang of you and Tom doing shots with a caption that just says YOLO in Comic Sans font.

That was the first real red flag.

The second comes from Max, in a text that just says: Why is your best friend dating the guy who once tried to pay for gum with a Greggs coupon.

Lando doesn’t even respond. He only closes his phone and exhales like he’s been personally wronged.

Tom is a lot, from what he can tell. The kind of guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait and only follows meme accounts. He wears those tiny sunglasses ironically. Calls himself a ‘creative entrepreneur’ because he once made a custom iPhone wallpaper in Canva.

Lando doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t get why you’re laughing so hard in those stories, or why your texts to him have started thinning out, shorter and more sporadic. He doesn’t get how this man—this man who lists “vibes” as a core value—has managed to take up space where Lando should be.

But he tells himself it’s just a phase.

You’ve had them before. The Twilight obsession. The time you tried to become a minimalist and nearly cried getting rid of a shoebox of concert tickets. This is the same thing, just with more snapbacks and ‘u up?’ texts.

And so Lando watches from a distance. A blur of airports and circuits and hotel rooms, tuning into your life in fifteen-second increments.

He tells himself not to get worked up. Not to overthink it. It’s just a phase.

The thing about phases is they leave a mark when they pass.

After God-knows-how-long of on-again, off-again, the end comes in the form of reliable gossip from Max.

Lando doesn’t hesitate. Max barely gets the words out—“She’s really done this time. Like, done done.”—and Lando’s already pulling up the British Airways app with the grace of a man who’s been waiting for this moment since Tom entered your life.

The flight to Bristol is boring. The snacks are stale. The woman beside him spends forty minutes playing Candy Crush with her volume on full blast and a grim determination Lando hasn’t seen since the Monaco GP. But none of it matters, because his leg is bouncing with a rhythm only anxiety or maybe anticipation can tap out.

He hasn’t seen you in three months. Not properly. Not since the last time Tom slithered his way back into your life like a parasitic vine, and Lando watched helplessly as you got tangled again. Like you were boarding a ship headed straight into a hurricane with a neon sign that read this is fine. Lando, from the shore, had to wave and pretend he didn’t want to light that ship on fire.

Now he’s here. Rented car. Cap tilted low. Heart wired.

He texts Max to stall, tells him to play dumb if you ask questions. Pulls into your driveway like it’s any other Wednesday, not a dramatic friendship intervention wrapped in emotional whiplash and British Airways peanuts.

You open the door, and both of you balk at the sight of each other.

“You flew here?” you breathe.

“You dyed your hair?” he counters immediately, because yeah, you look different.

Still you, but brighter around the edges. Like maybe the weight of Tom has finally stopped sitting on your chest. You’re in a hoodie he hasn’t seen in a while. The grey one you used to steal from him back when you were neighbors and everything was stupid and easy.

“You flew here?” you repeat, incredulous. There’s a defensive slant to your tone, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel touched.

He shrugs, stepping past you into the hallway like he hasn’t just crossed countries to make sure you’re okay. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pop by, insult your ex, steal your biscuits.”

You smile. A real one. Tentative, but real..

He follows you to the kitchen, where the kettle’s already half-boiled and the air smells like tea bags. You sit, curled into the chair like you’re trying to fold yourself down to a more manageable size. Lando hates that. Hates that you look like you’re bracing for the next hit, hates that you think you had to be anything but yourself in this devastating situationship.

“Max said you were done,” he says outright.

You nod. “I am.”

“Good,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Because if I had to pretend to like him one more time, I’d have developed a stress twitch.”

You laugh, and it feels like sunlight breaking through a cloudy week. Broken and bright. It does something to Lando’s chest. A little lurch. A little click. A puzzle piece slotting into place.

“Remember when he said Manchester was in Scotland?”

“God, or when he thought almond milk came from baby almonds?”

“Or when he tried to fight that goose?”

That one breaks you. You snort, full-on wheeze, laugh so hard your shoulders shake and your face disappears into your hands. Lando watches you like he’s trying to memorize every second. Like if he stares hard enough, he can bottle the sound of your joy and take it with him when he’s fighting for his life on Sundays.

You look up, cheeks flushed, eyes finally shining with something other than sadness. “He really did try to fight a goose, didn’t he?”

“He lost,” Lando deadpans. “To a bird with a vendetta and no moral compass.”

You giggle again, softer this time, settling into it. Into him.

Lando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since the plane took off.

This. This is what he came for.

To see you smile like that. To make you laugh again. To remind you who you are outside of the storm cloud that was Boyfriend Number Two.

Even if it’s just for a little while.

Lando’s staring straight ahead when it blurts out of him: “Why have you been avoiding me?”

The words hit the windshield just as hard as the rain does, fast and sharp and impossible to ignore. Yobegu stiffen in the passenger seat.

“I haven’t,” you say, too fast. Too rehearsed. Lando can see you in your bathroom back home, preparing for the conversation in front of your mirror.

Lando scoffs. Loudly. Dramatically. Because what else is he meant to do with a lie that transparent?

“Right. So all the unanswered texts, the missed calls, the five-second voice notes that end with ‘Sorry, gotta go’ even though I can literally hear you not going anywhere—,” he pauses, takes in a breath, goes on, “that’s just you being, what? Efficient?”

You cross your arms. Classic defense stance. He sees the way your jaw tenses, the way you shift your weight as if you’re prepping to run a marathon. Or escape a conversation.

“I’ve been busy,” you offer.

“With what, a monastic vow of silence?”

“Lando.”

“Don’t ‘Lando’ me,” he snaps, turning toward you now, fully, anger prickling beneath his skin. Not white-hot fury. A low, aching kind. The kind born of hurt. “You disappear on me for weeks and think I won’t notice?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

He laughs, humorless. “Jesus. Just say it, then. Whatever it is you’re clearly trying not to.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you argue.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Silence, heavy and cloying, stretches between you like something physical. And then you reach for the door.

Lando blinks. “Are you serious? It’s pissing it down outside.”

You push it open anyway.

“Oh my God,” he groans, reaching across to try and stop you, but you’re already halfway out. Rain slapping hard against your hoodie, the wind catching your hair.

“This is so unnecessarily dramatic,” he shouts over the downpour. “Even for you!”

You flip him off without looking over your shoulder. Lando exhales like he’s just aged ten years.

Of course this is happening.

Of course you’re trying to escape a deeply emotional conversation by drowning yourself in goddamn weather.

And of course, he’s about to go after you anyway.

Lando has chased you through paddocks, airports, and one ill-advised IKEA on a bank holiday weekend. But this? This is a new low.

You’re walking down a rain-slicked road like it’s a runway, soaked to the bone, one arm stretched out like you’re auditioning for a 90s road trip comedy.

“Will you please get in the bloody car?” Lando yells, jogging a few paces behind you, hoodie already useless against the downpour.

Rain pelts his face. His trainers are definitely ruined. There are probably frogs watching from the ditch with more dignity than he currently possesses.

You don’t look back. You just wave your hand in a vague go away gesture and keep walking as if the pavement’s not a slip hazard waiting to happen.

“What are you even doing?” he calls again. “Trying to get kidnapped? Start a new life in Wales?”

“I’m proving a point!” you shout over your shoulder.

“What point?” Lando throws his arms up. “That you’re allergic to staying in a parked car with me for more than five minutes?!”

You stop walking long enough to turn. Hair dripping, mascara smudged, and cheeks pink with cold and fury. “I’m not letting you deflect like you always do.”

“I’m the one deflecting?” Lando screeches. “Who’s the one playing out the third act of a Nora Ephron film on the side of the A38 right now? The one you watched with—”

“Don’t.”

You narrow your eyes. He knows that look. That look has preceded at least two near-misdemeanors and one regrettable shared tattoo.

“Don’t what?” he bites out anyway.

“Don’t make this about him.”

Lando stops short. The wind shoves water into his face.

You cross your arms, jaw tight. “That’s a low blow, Lando,” you say tersely.

He sighs, remembering himself. Runs a hand through his dripping curls. “Okay. Yeah. That one might’ve been on me.”

You glance away, lips pressed tight.

Even now—even drenched, and stubborn, and maybe seconds from catching pneumonia—you look heartbreakingly familiar.

Lando doesn’t say it. Doesn’t even think it too loud.

He only watches the past creep back in like a drizzle.

His name is Matthew. Not Matt. Not Matty. Not some delightfully ridiculous hybrid nickname you’d shout across a car park. No, it’s Matthew.

Like a grown-up. Like a man who knows how to fold a fitted sheet and use words like ‘conscientious’ in casual conversation.

Lando hates him immediately.

Not for any real reason. Matthew is tall, polite, and somehow always smells like eucalyptus. He wears jumpers with elbow patches and irons his jeans. He volunteers on the weekends. Max meets him once and texts Lando, bro he’s NICE nice, which somehow makes it worse.

Because Matthew is nice. Objectively. Irritatingly. The kind of nice that doesn’t even flinch when your gran asks invasive questions or when your dog throws up on his shoes. Lando tries to catch him out—waits for a bad joke, a sarcastic smirk, a single out-of-pocket comment—but Matthew plays a clean game. Doesn’t even double dip.

It drives Lando mad.

And what’s worse? You’re happy. Genuinely happy.

Glowing in a way that makes Lando’s stomach twist, because it’s not for him. It never has been, not really. Not in the way he wants. Sure, he’s had his chances. He’s danced around it for years, leaving breadcrumb jokes and half-hearted flirtations in your path like you might trip over them one day and fall into his arms.

You never did. You fell for Matthew, and for all the right reasons.

Lando tries. God, he tries. Plays the supportive friend card with a smile stretched too tight. Tells you he’s glad for you, then goes home and grumbles to Max about how Matthew probably has a sock drawer organized by color.

It’s not that he wants Matthew to be awful. He just wants something—anything—that makes this ache in his chest easier to justify. Some glaring red flag. Some hidden flaw. But all Lando’s got is a deep, gnawing sense of falling behind, of watching the credits roll on a film he thought he was starring in.

He’s not happy for you. Not in the way you might want. That, somehow, is the most infuriating part of all.

Matthew stays in the picture for a whopping three years.

Long enough to survive two surprise party meltdowns, a full flat renovation, and a group trip to the Dolomites where Max nearly dies trying to ski backwards. Matthew’s in every photo, every inside joke, every weekend plan. He’s at your side in Instagram posts and tagged stories, smiling like he belongs there.

Matthew helps Max fix his sink. He gets Lando a birthday gift without needing a reminder. He has a spreadsheet for your shared groceries. He knows your order at five different coffee shops. He does everything right.

Lando hates, hates, HATES it. Not because there’s anything wrong with Matthew, but because there isn’t.

Because every day you seem a little more out of reach.

Because you don’t text him at midnight with weird thoughts anymore. Because you cancel plans, rebook dinners, drop conversations halfway through. Because now Lando only hears about your day in secondhand summaries at group hangouts.

When he does finally get a one-on-one lunch, you’re distracted. Checking your phone. Smiling at something you won’t tell him about.

It drives him insane in that quiet, gnawing kind of way. The slow unravel. The you-shaped silence growing wider each week.

Then Matthew asks him.

Lando’s in line at a coffee shop, still wearing his hoodie from a bad simulator session, phone in hand. Matthew taps him on the shoulder, all pleasant charm and water-repellent outerwear.

“Hey, mate. Sorry to bother, but—um—do you happen to know her ring size?”

Lando balks. “What?”

“Her ring size,” Matthew laughs nervously. “I’m thinking of… you know. Eventually. Not now-now. But sometime.”

He says it all casual, like it’s a weather update. Like he’s not detonating a landmine in the middle of Lando’s soul.

Lando laughs. Loud. Too loud. The barista glances over.

“Sorry, erm, just… had a flashback to when she got one of those mood rings from a vending machine and insisted it meant she was dying,” he stammers. “No clue on size, though.”

Matthew chuckles. Thanks him. Moves on.

Lando, meanwhile, forgets what he came here for. Leaves without coffee. Gets in the car and sits there for twenty-three minutes, hands gripping the wheel like he might snap it off.

He doesn’t cry.

But he does punch the steering wheel once. Then again. “Fuck,” Lando grits out through his teeth, fist landing the steering wheel a third, softer time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Matthew thinks it’s end game. You probably do, too. Lando’s the only one who hasn’t gotten the memo.

It sneaks up on him. The ensuing distance. Not yours, for once, but his.

It’s subtle at first. Missed texts, delayed replies, a string of excuses that sound convincing even to him. You, ever gracious, ever unbothered, don’t push. Until one day you ask, plainly, with that look that always cuts straight through him: “Are you avoiding me?”

Lando—cornered in the world’s most dangerous trap, your honesty—says the worst thing possible. He lies.

“What? No. Just busy.”

You nod, but your eyes hold there, suspicious. He changes the subject so fast it practically leaves a skid mark.

He tries afterwards. God, he really does. Makes more effort to be a better best friend. Starts sending you memes again. Asks about your week. Makes jokes about your taste in romcoms like he’s not the one who’s watched Notting Hill six times. With you. Voluntarily.

But it’s like trying to balance on ice. Because every time Matthew’s name comes up—when he picks you up from dinner, or when you show up in one of those blouses Lando knows weren’t your taste until someone else said they liked them—Lando short-circuits a little.

Matthew’s a man-shaped Post-it stuck to every part of you Lando doesn’t get to touch, and it all but kills him for those three years.

Lando’s terrified of becoming the footnote in your story. Of standing at your wedding someday, raising a glass and making a joke about how he always knew, when really he never wanted to know.

You’re the one who shows up this time.

No warning. No text. Just the doorbell to his apartment, and you, and eyes that look a little red, and a voice so small he almost misses it when you say: “Can I come in?”

Matthew’s not with you.

Matthew’s not coming.

You sit on his couch. You take your shoes off and set them aside. You don’t speak right away. You curl your knees up and hold a pillow against your chest like a shield. Lando doesn’t ask questions.

You say, “We ended things.”

He waits for the joy. For the surge of self-righteous relief. For the I told you so itching to leap off his tongue.

None of it comes.

Instead, you cry.

For the first time—really cry over a breakup in front of him. Shoulders shaking. Silent tears at first, then the full-body, rib-wracking kind. Lando just sits there. Not joking. Not speaking. Only shifting closer until you fold into his side like muscle memory.

He holds you.

All he feels is this: sadness. Yours, his, collective.

No more pretending. No more pretending this doesn’t hurt. No more pretending he’s only ever been your best friend.

Lando kisses the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair, and he means it. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Please,” Lando calls, already drenched through. “I don’t want to die for Max, of all people.”

You don’t even look back. Just keep walking, thumb out like you’re genuinely trying to hitchhike. In the middle of nowhere. In the pouring rain.

“Oh, come on,” he yells. “This is not the moment to recreate the climax of your favorite romcom.”

You spin on him. “Why? Scared you’ll end up in the headlines?”

He stops short, blinking water out of his eyes. “No, I’m scared you’ll actually get in some random stranger’s van and I’ll have to chase it down like an idiot!”

You huff, cross your arms. “I don’t need saving.”

“I never said you did!”

“Then what do you want, Lando?”

What does he want?

A World Driver’s Championship, dry clothes, a dog. Most of all—

“I want you to come back,” he says, and it’s not just about the car anymore.

His voice cracks on the words, like his lungs are tired of holding the weight in. He thinks of the distance, the years, the boys. He thinks of what it was like when it was just you and him against the world.

“Come back to me,” he breathes, “Just—come back.”

In the back of his mind, he adds: Pleasepleaseplease. I’ve never begged for anything and I’ll be horrible. Don’t make me do that. Come back to me, please.

You look at him like he’s just punched you in the chest. And for a second, he thinks he’s messed everything up. Again.

A laugh escapes you, but it’s not happy.

It’s bitter, and broken, and fraying at the edges. “That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?” you spit.

“What?” he asks, throat tightening.

“You,” you say, voice sparking now. “You’ve always been the problem.”

He recoils like you’ve physically hits him. “I—I don’t understand.”

You step closer, jabbing a finger into his hoodie. “You want to know why no man’s ever lasted? Why every boyfriend I’ve had eventually walked away, or I did?”

Lando doesn’t speak. Can’t.

“It’s you,” you seethe. “Even Matthew, for all his perfection, for all the ways he was kind and patient and stupidly good at making pancakes—he knew. He knew there were parts of me that didn’t belong to him. That never would.”

You slam a fist to Lando’s chest, and he stumbles backward despite it not being all that forceful.

“Because those parts belonged to you,” you sob, and something in the silence cracks open. “So much of me—’s all with you.”

Lando doesn’t realize he’s crying until the rain can’t account for the salt.

He stands a few feet in front of you on the shoulder of the road, headlights casting long shadows, mist curling at his knees like the world’s stage crew is setting up a very dramatic Act Three.

Maybe this is Act Three. Or Act Twenty-Five. Whatever. He’s tired. And wet. And done being careful.

He thinks about all the times you’ve asked him—offhand, casual, never really casual—what he thought of the guy you were dating. The little glances after a joke, a compliment, a moment you hoped he’d noticed. He always pretended he didn’t.

About how you once skipped a two-year anniversary dinner because he’d binned it in Q1 and couldn’t even make eye contact in the garage. You showed up with pizza and no expectations, just sat with him until the world felt less unbearable.

About how every year, without fail, you still get him a birthday card and write the same stupid inside joke in it. How your playlists have songs he said he liked once. How there’s always a seat saved for him, in every version of your life.

He moves before he can think better of it.

Closes the distance, rain pouring off his curls, hands cupping your face like you’re a flame he’s terrified of snuffing out. You blink up at him, stunned, lips parted to protest, or breathe, or remind him of something impossible.

“God, you’re such an idiot,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s too wet. Too much nose. Possibly some teeth. But it’s real, and it’s him, and it’s you, and he’s been dying to do this since the moment he realized you were the only person who’s ever made him feel like more than just a wheel in motion.

He pulls back a fraction, mouth brushing yours, breath ragged. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words spilling out of him in a stream. “I can’t settle for just parts of you. I want all of you. All the stupid parts. The loud parts. The ones that break things just to fix them better. You. I want you.”

Turns out Lando Norris knew how to beg after all.

Your eyes are shining now, but not from the rain. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You fist the front of his hoodie and kiss him again. Like you’re furious he didn’t do this sooner. Like you’re scared he’ll stop.

Like there’s no such thing as bad timing, or broken umbrellas, or boyfriends who came before. Just this moment, and this road, and the sound of everything finally falling into place.

You finally, finally give in. Lando manages to herd you toward the car with all the finesse of a wet sheepdog, wet curls plastered to his forehead and shoes squelching with every step. You duck inside the passenger seat, and Lando shuts the door behind you with a thud that feels suspiciously like relief.

He cranks the heater, grabs a towel from the back, and starts dabbing at your arms before realizing that’s probably weird. You snatch the towel from him with a soft scoff and wrap it around your shoulders.

“I hate you,” you say heatlessly.

Lando snorts. “You kissed me like you were trying to win a bloody Oscar. Hate’s a strong word.”

You roll your eyes. “I was cold and emotionally compromised.”

“You still are.” He reaches over to adjust the vents so they’re aimed directly at you. It feels too domestic, too tender, as if this is just a normal night and not the latest installment of your mutual slow-burn, star-crossed, soap opera.

But then you laugh.

Not the quiet, breath-through-your-nose kind you’ve been rationing for the last few weeks. No, this one bubbles out of your chest like champagne, loud and undignified, echoing around the car like a challenge to the storm outside.

Lando glances at you, startled. “What?”

“You’re being weird,” you accuse, grinning. “Like—boyfriend weird. Hovering. Fiddling with the heater. Are you about to offer me your hoodie next?”

He shifts in his seat, brows furrowing. “I mean… yeah?”

“Seriously?”

“I just kissed you in the rain like a Nicholas Sparks protagonist. I think I deserve to be called your boyfriend.”

You stare at him, towel clutched around you. He stares back, every nerve ending in his body doing laps. Then, slowly, you lean across the center console and kiss him.

No preamble. No hesitation. Just your mouth on his, warm and sure and rain-slicked and a little desperate.

He groans, half in disbelief, half in oh thank fuck, and immediately fumbles for your waist, pulling you over the console and into his lap.

“Lando,” you protest into his mouth, breathless, “your seats—”

“Fuck the seats,” he mutters, kissing you harder, both hands tangled in your damp hair. “Fuck the car.”

And fuck all the boys before, too, he nearly adds, but you’re kissing him back before he can bitch about it. It’s a welcome way to be shut up.

Max opens the door to find you and Lando shivering on his doorstep.

It’s not exactly how he envisioned this moment going down—less triumphant reentry, more drowned rats with trust issues—but then again, with you two, it was never going to be smooth.

“Look who finally made it out of the wild,” Max deadpans, stepping aside to let you two in. “Welcome to Birmingham. Population: two soggy disasters with no sense of direction.”

Lando mutters something about missed turns, a road that may or may not exist on modern maps, and sheep with murder in their eyes. You chirp out a very sincere, very breathless, “We’re so sorry we missed the party,” as you toe off your wet shoes, leaving a trail of puddles like you’re starring in a very damp Hansel and Gretel reboot.

Max lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. You missed the party, the group photo, the snacks, my DJ set, and my famous mini quiches. Tragic, really.”

“There were quiches?” Lando asks, eyes wide with betrayal.

“There were never quiches,” Max says dryly. “But if there had been, you’d have missed them. Along with the firework display and the ice sculpture of Toto Wolff.”

You and Lando shuffle inside like two kids caught sneaking back after curfew, still damp despite the towels draped around your shoulders like battle-worn cloaks. You look like someone who’s cried, laughed, kissed, and threatened murder all in one afternoon. Lando looks like a boy who’s finally gotten what he wanted and is now terrified of losing it.

Honestly, Max has never seen the pair of you look better.

You nudge Lando with your shoulder. He elbows you back. You squawk something about fragile bones. He mumbles something about delicate drama queens. It’s like watching a tennis match, if tennis involved way more bickering and accidental flirting.

Friends again, Max notes. But also…

It’s in the little things. The way Lando brushes a strand of wet hair off your cheek, his eyes tracing your face with a reverence that borders religion. The way your hand lingers at his back, fingers resting there like it’s instinct. The way you press a kiss to his cheek when Max turns to grab a towel, clearly forgetting that he lives here and has functioning eyeballs.

“Right,” Max says, chucking a fresh towel at Lando’s head. “Don’t get my couch pregnant. It’s the only thing in this flat that hasn’t betrayed me.”

Lando sputters, towel smacking against his face, while you laugh so hard you nearly fall onto the aforementioned couch. “You love us,” you say, beaming up at Max from where you’re sprawled.

“I tolerate you,” Max corrects, but he’s smiling.

Lando flops beside you, damp clothes making a half-hearted squelch against the upholstery. You both look like chaos wrapped in human skin, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s a weird sort of peace between you. The kind that comes after a storm, literal and emotional.

Max leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you two settle in like you haven’t been emotionally exhausting all week. He scrolls through his phone and quietly closes the Weather app.

There was never any party.

Just a text thread, a fake group chat full of complicit friends, and one extremely coordinated schedule that might strand a stubborn driver and his emotionally constipated soulmate in the middle of nowhere.

Max smiles to himself.

Sometimes, you really do have to drive people into a storm to get them to admit they’re in love. ⛐

#cloves list of fics that she adores

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clovermoters · 23 days ago

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You couldn't handle Lando Norris being open about his mental health and now we have the most successful driver of all time calling himself useless and requesting that his team changes drivers

Mental health should never be ignored in this sport!

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clovermoters · 26 days ago

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holy mother of god i love mafia lando

THE FINAL CURTAIN | LN4

an: im so pissed i didn't get to post this when i wanted to but my fucking cunting stupid fucking boss made me work overtime, so i now deliver you this piece i've been working on my breaks. i hope you guys enjoyed it as much as @amyelevenn did.

wc: 6.1k

summary: it was now, time for the final curtain in his career. being a mob boss was never easy, a mob boss in love was harder.

mob boss!lando au

THE VILLA SAT AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD, where land turned to cliff and cliff fell to sea.

It wasn’t large, not in the way the rich built things, no sweeping glass or steel, no guards at the gate. It was older than any ambition. Whitewashed walls, cracked with time, curled around shuttered windows and ivy-choked archways. In the evening, the place glowed with the softness of memory. Dust hung like incense in golden light.

The sea below breathed in slow rhythms, waves slipping over jagged rock like silk over bone. Somewhere inland, a dog barked. A radio flickered in a neighbouring farmhouse, too far to hear the tune. Here, there was only the hush of salt wind and the occasional groan of old wood cooling under a dying sun.

Inside, the house whispered stories.

Paint peeled from the edges of doorframes. Furniture sat with the posture of things long untouched, leather cracked, velvet worn thin. A bottle of Armagnac stood half-finished on the sideboard, next to two crystal tumblers that hadn’t seen lips in years. The piano in the parlour was missing a key. He never replaced it.

Lando kept to the back of the house now, in a room with high ceilings and faded frescoes, angels half-erased by time. A gramophone spun something low and moaning, a voice you could taste in your chest. Smoke curled from an ashtray like a ghost unsure whether it was welcome.

He'd left the front gate open.

Not out of carelessness, but invitation.

Outside, the sun kissed the edge of the water. The sky was turning the colour of old bruises, plum and ash and blood-orange. And somewhere out there, beneath that bruised horizon, she was coming.

He knew she would.

She always said he was impossible to resist when the world was ending.

It was the summer of ’42 when he met her.

He’d just come off some business, nothing elegant, nothing worth remembering, something bloody in the Bronx that left his knuckles sore and his suit a little too stiff at the collar. He walked into the bar to wash it down with bourbon and jazz.

It wasn’t a grand place. One of those smoky joints where the ceiling sweated and the lights were low enough to forgive anything. But the music was gold, and the whisky was older than most of the clientele.

She walked onstage in a blood-red dress, cut so sharp it hurt to look at her. The fabric clung to her like a secret. Her name was plastered everywhere, neon outside, on the drinks menu, murmured between men with their ties undone.

And yet, for reasons he never dared to ask, she looked at him.

Not just a glance. A full, measured look. As if she’d been waiting. As if she recognised him from a dream or a mistake she hadn’t made yet. Her eyes didn’t linger on his suit, or the way he nursed his drink. No, she looked at him like she was reading him.

And he knew right then, he’d been read.

She sang something slow and cruel, something that wrapped around the ribs and tugged. Billie Holiday, maybe. Maybe something older. Her voice wasn’t just beautiful, it was dangerous. It made promises it never said aloud. It was the kind of voice a man could drown in with both eyes open.

Lando didn’t believe in fate.

But that night, something shifted. Something ancient and inevitable.

She sang three songs. He stayed for all of them. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right until she stepped offstage, drink in hand, and walked straight up to him like a question he hadn’t prepared for.

“Lando Norris,” she said. Not a guess. A statement. Like it was written on him somewhere.

And he, cool, clever, unreadable Lando, had nothing to say.

Just a smile. Just a low, “You always open conversations with names or only the ones you already own?”

She smirked, slow and lethal. “Just the ones worth remembering.”

And that was how she greeted him, many years later. In a tone so soft he was certain he didn’t deserve it.

“Lando Norris.”

Her voice hadn’t changed. It still slipped through the ribs like music, low and velvet and dangerous in the quiet. Only now it carried something else, something older, heavier. Like she was already reminiscing the present, narrating it in real time as memory.

He hadn’t opened the door all the way. Just enough for her to exist in the threshold, haloed by the last of the dying light. The sea wind toyed with the ends of her scarf, red silk clinging to her body like it had known it once. Her heels clicked softly against the old stone, and for a moment, she didn’t move, just stood there, letting the moment breathe.

She wore red again. Not the same red. Deeper now. The red of wine-stained lips and wounds that never scabbed. The neckline wasn’t as daring, but the effect was the same. She stole the air from the room before she even entered it.

He opened the door wider without a word. Stepped back like a man caught in a dream he wasn’t sure he was ready to wake from. She walked past him slowly, deliberately, like she owned the air, the walls, the silence between them.

Lando watched her the way men watch fires they started long ago with awe, guilt, and an aching pull they’ll never quite escape.

She turned once she was inside, fingers trailing the spine of an old piano as if greeting an old friend. The corners of her mouth curved, not into a smile exactly, but something gentler, something forgiving. Something that said she knew.

“I thought it might be you,” she said, eyes moving lazily over the room. “No one else leaves a door open like an apology.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, forced his voice into the shape of calm.

“Would’ve left you a key, but what if the wrong people found it.”

She tilted her head. “And who are the wrong people?”

He didn’t answer. Just moved toward the drinks cabinet, hand already reaching for the crystal tumblers.

“Whisky?” he asked.

“Only if it’s not a peace offering.”

He chuckled once. Quiet. Almost hollow.

“Nothing that sentimental left in me, I’m afraid.”

She walked to the window. The sea below was black now, trembling with the last embers of gold. She leaned against the frame like it remembered her, like she belonged there.

He handed her a glass.

She didn’t drink.

Just looked at him over the rim, her eyes the same sharp, unreadable mess of colours he used to love like a bad habit.

“You’ve got that look,” she murmured. “Like a man waiting to die.”

Lando didn’t flinch. Just raised his glass in mock salute.

“Waiting to remember, more like.”

She finally took a sip, slow. Thoughtful.

“Then let’s remember.”

They sat in it for a while, the quiet. It wrapped around them like a silk robe left too long in the cold. Outside, the sea pressed its rhythm against the cliffs, a slow, patient tide. Inside, the record had long since stopped. The needle scratched softly in its own rhythm, like a clock with nothing left to count down.

He stood by the fireplace, drink in hand, gaze flicking between her and the dark. She remained by the window, silhouetted, a ghost too vivid to be gone.

“You look tired,” she said gently, not accusing, just noticing.

“I’m not sleeping much these days.”

“You never did.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“I dream too loud,” he said finally. “And the nights are getting longer.”

She nodded, sipping. “And the end?”

“Closer than I’d like. Further than I deserve.”

Her eyes slid toward him. No pity. Just understanding.

Another silence bloomed between them, ripe and aching.

He shifted, fingers tightening slightly around the glass. Then, a faint grimace ghosted across his face, something brief but telling, a crack in the armour.

She saw it.

“Lando.”

He raised a hand, waving it off, but the weight of her name in the air had already opened something.

“You know…” He hesitated, voice lower now, rougher. “This kind of talk, it’s not my strong suit.”

She turned fully to him then, her expression softened by candlelight and history.

“Then don’t talk,” she said. “Play.”

She moved across the room, slow and sure, hips swaying like a memory he still hadn’t earned. At the piano, she didn’t sit on the bench. She sat on the piano just like she had years ago, back in that New York club. Red silk pooling around her thighs, one leg crossed over the other like punctuation.

“Tell me what you have to say in song.”

He stayed still for a breath, maybe two.

Then, without a word, he set the glass down, walked to the piano, and ran a hand gently across the keys, as if waking something old. The instrument wheezed softly under his touch, out of tune, like him. But alive.

He played slowly at first, testing muscle memory, coaxing the melody out like a shy thing.

Then it came.

The song.

The one she sang that first night in her blood-red dress and lights in her eyes.

“You Go to My Head.” Slow. Wounded. Longing.

Her breath caught, not dramatically, just enough to still the air between them.

She didn’t ask how he remembered. She simply joined him.

Her voice slid over the notes like silk slipping off skin. Older now, smokier, but richer. Full of ruin and tenderness. She sang low, for him only. A song not meant for stages anymore, just for this room, this hour, this ending.

Lando didn’t look at her while he played. He couldn’t. He kept his eyes on the keys, on the trembling between chords. But his fingers didn’t falter.

She leaned back slightly, her palm resting behind her on the polished wood, her head tilting as she sang, watching him, always watching him.

The lyrics curled between them, thick with meaning.

You go to my head And you linger like a haunting refrain And I find you spinning ’round in my brain Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne

By the time the last note faded, the silence that returned wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Heavy with everything they hadn’t said, everything they didn’t have to.

She exhaled. Not quite a sigh. More like release.

And he still didn’t look up.

But he whispered, “I shouldn’t have left you.”

And she whispered back, “You never really did.”

He let the last note hang between them, then finally met her eyes, tired, haunted, but honest.

“You should have moved on,” he said quietly. “I had nothing good for you.”

She shook her head, hopping down and stepping closer until the space between them was nothing but breath and old wounds.

“You were my everything,” she said, voice breaking just a fraction. “Why now, Lando? After all this time?”

He looked away toward the window, where the dark sea swallowed the last light. “The FBI will be here at dawn. I’ve been tipped off, given a chance to run. But…” His voice cracked, just barely. “I think I’m done running.”

Her fingers found their way into his thick curls, rough and tender all at once. She pulled his head down to rest against her palm, whispering softly, “My dear boy.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch like it might hold back the coming storm.

“I guess,” he murmured, “I came to give you closure. To talk. To live the nights of the late ’40s again. Just one last time.”

She held his head a moment longer, fingers threading through the curls like a prayer whispered in the dark. The faint scent of sea salt and whisky clung to the air between them, mingling with the heavy heat of years left unspoken.

“Tell me,” she said softly, voice barely above the whisper of the waves beyond the window, “what made you stop running, Lando? After everything, all the blood, all the ghosts?”

He sighed, a slow exhale that seemed to carry the weight of too many nights spent alone. His gaze drifted to the flicker of candlelight dancing across the cracked plaster walls.

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending I’m someone else. Tired of hiding behind lies and shadows. Or maybe,” he smiled, but it was a ghost of something that used to be, “maybe I just wanted to see you one last time.”

She stepped closer, searching his eyes like a diver seeking pearls in murky depths. “Do you regret it? Leaving me all those years ago?”

He hesitated. Then, with a rough edge to his voice, “I regret the way I left. The silence. But not what we had.”

Her breath caught.

“And the rest? The life you chose? The things you did?”

He looked down at his hands, scarred, worn, but steady. “I did what I had to. That’s all any of us do.”

She studied him, her fingers still tangled in his hair. “You want to relive the late ’40s again?”

He nodded slowly, eyes finally meeting hers with a flicker of something fierce and fragile.

Without a word, she let the silk of her dress slip from her shoulders, the fabric pooling around her waist like a tide retreating from shore. The soft rustle echoed in the stillness of the room as she turned and walked toward his bedroom, each step a silent invitation, a promise wrapped in shadow and memory.

Lando followed, the air between them charged with the weight of the past and the fleeting urgency of the present. Tonight wasn’t just a reunion. It was a reckoning.

The room hadn’t changed. The bed was still wide and low, the sheets a faded ivory tangled from restless nights. A candle flickered on the dresser, casting slow-moving shadows over the worn walls. The windows were open, letting the sea in, soft and rhythmic, like breath.

She stood at the foot of the bed, red silk still pooled at her hips, bare from the waist up. Her skin caught the light like porcelain kissed by flame, warm, alive, scarred in places only he would ever know. Her eyes were steady as she watched him cross the threshold.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze devoured her with reverence, not hunger, a man reacquainting himself with something sacred. When he reached her, his hands hovered first. She didn’t rush him.

His fingers brushed her collarbone, feather-light, as though he were trying to memorise the shape of her again. She shivered, not from cold, but from the unbearable tenderness of it. His touch moved downward, over the swell of her breast, across the soft curve of her waist, until he found the silk at her hips. He dropped to his knees, pressed his cheek to her stomach, and breathed.

“I never stopped thinking of you,” he said, voice thick with ache.

She said nothing. She just cradled his head with both hands, thumbs stroking the line of his jaw. When she bent to kiss him, it was slow, long and warm, with the salt of old tears and new want.

They undressed in silence.

She let the silk fall. He unbuttoned his shirt, each movement deliberate, eyes never leaving hers. When he lay back on the bed, she followed him down like a tide returning home.

Their mouths met again, slow, lingering, lips parting like they were trying to remember how the other tasted. His hands were everywhere and nowhere, mapping her skin with soft insistence, his thumbs circling her hips, his lips trailing down the line of her throat, over the hollow of her collarbone.

When he slid inside her, it wasn’t rushed or rough, it was a reunion. A prayer in motion. She gasped quietly, fingers threading through his hair again, like she couldn’t bear to let go. His name slipped from her lips like something half-said in a dream.

“Lan…”

He moved slowly, reverently, like every thrust was a confession, every breath a surrender. Their bodies moved in rhythm, not urgent, but deep, like they were reclaiming time, rewriting the silence of years with touch. He held her face as he moved within her, foreheads pressed together, sweat beading at his temples, and in his eyes was nothing but her.

She arched against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in, grounding him, as though she could anchor them both to this moment.

They didn’t speak while they came, just breath and skin and something that felt like grief breaking open into pleasure. Her body trembled beneath his, soft moans melting into his mouth as he kissed her through it.

When it was over, they didn’t part.

He lay beside her, one arm draped across her waist, the other stroking her back in slow, endless circles. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the quiet thunder of his heart.

For a long time, there was only the sea, the soft rustle of sheets, and the scent of her skin on his.

“I wish we’d had more of this,” she whispered.

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “We still have tonight.”

The candle burned low on the nightstand, its flame trembling slightly with every shift of the sea breeze. The sheets were tangled around them, warm and heavy, holding their bodies together like a secret too long kept.

She lay with her head on his chest, one arm draped lazily over his ribs, tracing circles against his skin. His fingers moved slowly up and down her spine, a rhythm so gentle it could’ve been mistaken for dreaming.

For a long while, they didn’t speak.

The quiet was honest. It didn’t need filling.

Then, finally, her voice broke through the stillness. Soft. Careful.

“So what happened, Lando?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just sighed, the kind that feels like it’s been sitting at the bottom of the lungs for years.

“I rose too fast,” he said at last. “Too young, too clever. Thought I could play both sides, keep my hands clean while the world around me turned red.”

Her head tilted slightly, listening. Watching his mouth move with the kind of reverence one gives to confessions.

“I dealt in information. Moved money. Knew where to be, where not to be. I was never a saint, but I was never the butcher they whispered about. I never killed a soul.”

She blinked, long and slow. “Never?”

He turned his head toward her then, the amber light casting shadows along his jawline. “Not once. I gave orders, yes. Turned my back. But I’ve never pulled a trigger. Not even when I should’ve.”

There was something raw in that. Not pride, guilt, maybe. A kind of quiet shame that he hadn’t been braver, or crueler, or something in between.

“I walked away when it got too bloody,” he added. “Disappeared. Took what I had and vanished to the coast. Bought silence, bought safety.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers still moving across his chest like they were keeping time.

“And now?”

He looked past her, toward the open window. The sky was still dark, but it had changed. It had that look, the edge of morning.

“When they raid here,” he said quietly, “they’ll find a marriage certificate in the drawer. English and Italian for your family, signed and sealed.”

She looked up at him, lips parting slightly in question, but he didn’t stop.

“And a codicil, handwritten, notarised. Tucked inside my will. Lawfully, everything I own that they can’t trace back to crimes, the house, the accounts, the paintings, it all belongs to you.”

She stared at him, breath caught in her throat.

“Lando…”

He reached behind him, into the drawer of the bedside table. Pulled out a folded sheet of cream paper, slightly yellowed at the edges, stamped in red wax.

The codicil.

He placed it between them on the bed.

“I didn’t bring you here to watch me fall,” he said. “I brought you here so that when I do, something of me still stands.”

She sat up, the sheet slipping down her chest, bare in the candlelight but unflinching. The look she gave him was full of fury and heartbreak and something dangerously close to love.

“You think I care about your bloody house?”

“No,” he said simply. “I think you care about me.”

She swallowed, hard.

Then she reached for the codicil with one hand, and for his cheek with the other.

“My love,” she murmured again, this time not as comfort—but as mourning.

And Lando, lying beside her, naked in body and in truth, closed his eyes.

Not to sleep.

But to remember.

To feel the weight of her hand on his face.

And know, for the first time in years, what it meant to be seen.

“Can I read it?” she asked, voice hushed but steady.

He rose slowly, tugging on a pair of worn boxers as he moved toward the desk. The faint scrape of his chair echoed in the stillness. “Of course.”

She unfolded the codicil carefully, as if it might crumble if handled too roughly. The handwritten letters were clear, deliberate.

CODICIL TO THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF LANDO NORRIS DATED 13/11/1954

I, Lando Norris, of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this document to be a Codicil to my Last Will and Testament dated 13/11/1954. In full knowledge of the consequences I now face, and in clear conscience, I amend my Will as follows:

I acknowledge her as my lawful wife in both spirit and intent. A certificate was executed on 28/10/1954 reflecting our union. Regardless of its recognition under civil law, it is to be honoured in accordance with my wishes.

I bequeath to her the whole of my remaining estate, to the extent legally permissible, including:

The residence situated on the northern shore of Lake Como, registered under the name of L. Norris, held in trust since 1949, the penthouse apartment located on 41st, purchased in 1951 via E. Travers & Co, and Harbourfell House on Ocean Drive, Newport, Rhode Island, acquired in 1947 and held by Cormorant Holdings Ltd.

Any safes, contents, valuables, or documents held therein,

Any business interests, holdings, or financial accounts not currently under investigation or subject to seizure.

Personal effects of sentimental or religious significance, including, but not limited to, family heirlooms, religious items, letters, and personal belongings are to be retained by her in full.

Let this Codicil stand as my final word in these matters.

Let no authority deny her what I have freely given.

She is entitled to what remains of me, what little they haven’t already taken.

In the eyes of God, she is my wife. In the eyes of the law, let her be shown the respect due such a title.

This Codicil is executed of my own volition, without duress or coercion, this 13th of November, 1954.

Signed, Lando Norris

She folded the paper slowly, eyes still locked on his face, searching.

“And what of Oscar, Max?” Her voice faltered slightly as she asked the names that meant everything beyond this moment. “Will they be looked after or am I to be?”

He sank back onto the bed beside her, a quiet certainty settling in his gaze.

“They know what’s happening,” he said softly. “They’ve been taken care of. And they’ll look after you. You won’t be alone in this.”

She let his words wash over her, a fragile comfort amid the storm gathering just beyond their door.

For now, in the amber light, it was just them, two souls clinging to what little time they had left.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the kind only two people who’ve weathered storms together could share. Their bodies still warmed by the fire of their reunion, but their hearts heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. Outside, the faint murmur of the sea was a distant lullaby, gentle and unyielding.

She moved closer, her hands reaching out without a word. The touch was tentative at first, as if afraid to break the fragile stillness, then firmer, wrapping around him like a lifeline. He folded himself into her arms, the quiet weight of his body grounding her in the present.

Her breath was soft against his ear as she asked, “When do you think they’ll come?”

He whispered back, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “In three hours, give or take.”

She pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck, her fingers threading through his curls. “Then let me hold you. Let me remember how you feel.”

And so they stayed, wrapped in each other’s arms, the candlelight flickering gently as the night deepened, holding onto what time they had left.

It began, as endings often do, not with chaos, but with a whisper.

A noise, soft, deliberate, threaded through the walls like a needle pulling silk. The crack of gravel beneath a foot, the low metallic scrape of a vehicle door closed too carefully, the hush of men breathing through their nerves.

Lando’s eyes opened at once.

Not startled, not panicked, just aware. He lay still for a moment, his body instinctively attuned to the sound of inevitability. It had arrived. Right on time.

Beside him, she stirred, her brow creasing faintly as sleep began to slip away.

He turned his head, watching her wake, the faint glow of the candle’s dying flame playing against the softness of her bare shoulder.

“Shh,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against her forehead. His voice was the sound of something old and broken trying not to break further.

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion chasing the edges of her gaze.

And then—

It began.

The door below shattered inward with a brutal thud, the wood cracking like bone. Boots thundered against tile. A man’s voice barked orders, muffled through radios and adrenaline.

Glass shattered.

The piano in the lounge screamed, an ugly, discordant wail as something heavy crashed into it. That beautiful thing that had once filled the air with music now reduced to broken strings and splinters.

Lando rose quietly, calmly, the way a man does when he’s long since made peace with the moment his past comes calling.

She sat up, holding the sheet against her chest, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

“Lando—”

“Don’t say anything,” he said gently, pulling on his trousers, his shirt already half-buttoned from earlier. “Don’t give them your voice. They don’t deserve to hear it.”

Footsteps pounded up the staircase now, measured, disciplined. The sound of men trained to move through darkness.

He reached for the codicil on the bedside table and slid it into the drawer, hiding the draft in his desk. Just as planned. Just as rehearsed. A paper shield, if nothing else.

The bedroom door splintered on the first hit.

Dust and wood flew inward as armed men in navy jackets poured through, their eyes sharp, their weapons raised not in fear, but in protocol.

“Lando Norris!” one of them shouted, voice flat and cold. “Hands in the air. Do not move. You are under arrest.”

He turned toward them slowly, hands lifting, palms open. There was no resistance in him, no fire. Only a man too tired to run, too full of memory to beg.

Behind him, she stood, wrapped in a random shirt she’d just picked up and moonlight, chin held high, her face unreadable.

He glanced at her, just once, a look that said remember this.

Then he spoke, not to the agents, but to her.

“This is how the curtain falls, love,” he said, quiet and clear. “But let them know, let the world know, I went out with your name in my heart.”

And then the cuffs clicked into place.

One of the agents stepped forward, his voice clipped and authoritative. “Ma’am, I need you to step back—”

She didn’t even glance at him. Her eyes were only for Lando.

They tried to block her, a firm hand pressing to her shoulder, but Lando shifted, saying with a sharpness they hadn’t yet heard from him: “Let her through.”

The agent paused. Hesitated. Then stepped aside.

She stood before him now, the amber light casting her in gold, his shirt wrapped carelessly around her frame. Her eyes searched his face, those carved cheekbones, the tired set of his mouth, and the tears.

God, the tears.

Silent and shining, they clung to his lashes like dew, catching in the small creases by his eyes. He hadn’t sobbed. He hadn’t made a sound. But they fell, all the same.

She reached up, cradling his face with both hands, the way a woman does when she’s trying to memorise something before it’s gone. Her thumbs brushed the tears from his cheeks, slow and reverent.

Then, softly, she brought her lips to his.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t a goodbye.

It was a promise.

She pulled away, barely an inch, and he looked at her like he was seeing something he couldn’t bear to lose again.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Just like that.

No flourish. No apology. Just the truth, laid bare between them.

It was the first time. All these years, after laughter, after loss, after nights spent tangled in breath and devotion, and only now had the words left his mouth.

Her eyes filled, but she didn’t let a single tear fall. Not yet. Not in front of them.

She mouthed it back, lips trembling.

I love you too.

And then they pulled him away.

In the years that came, people speculated endlessly about what became of Lando Norris’s wealth. There were whispers in darkened bars and murmurs in courtrooms, but no one ever truly knew the truth.

Only she did.

She moved quietly into the house in Newport, Rhode Island, Harbourfell, they’d called it in the deeds, though the brass plate on the gate had long since faded to green. After the raid, it had been boarded up, the garden overrun, the sea-facing windows clouded with salt and disuse. But she took her time with it. She restored it slowly, carefully, as though rebuilding more than just walls.

At first, they’d contested the will. The codicil. Everything.

Too convenient, too romantic, too well protected, they said. But somehow, and no one could quite explain how, she had lawyers who made things vanish, turn pliable, bend like old vines. When the dust finally settled, Harbourfell was hers. So was the flat on 41st. So were a number of quiet, unassuming holdings that never bore Lando’s name on paper.

She never flaunted it. Never spoke much of it at all.

Oscar and Max turned their backs on the lives that had bound them, boys once swallowed by shadows now softened by domesticity. Oscar took up photography in Vermont. Max opened a bakery in Queens, of all things. She adored them, visited when she could, but what she truly loved were their children.

She became the sort of aunt that children trusted immediately. The kind who kept sweets in her handbag and always remembered what each one was afraid of and what each one dreamed about. Every two weeks, without fail, she went to the penthouse in New York, not to haunt old memories, but to watch new lives unfold. She’d giggle quietly as they played, her voice often drowned out by the squeals and stomps of tiny feet, marvelling at how not one of them had inherited their fathers’ accents.

“Auntie,” they’d say in their broad little New York voices, tugging on her skirt. “Come see!”

And she always did.

She rarely saw Lando.

Rikers Island was no place for a woman like her, and besides, he hated the thought of her walking into that concrete oubliette, hated her seeing him with shackles at his ankles. When she did go, it was brief. His eyes always lit up, but his voice would drop to that same old hush: “You should be out there, not here.”

He urged her to move on. Build a life. Fall in love again.

But she never remarried. Never even came close.

She lived in quiet comfort with her Labrador, a gentle beast named Freddie, and three orange cats who ruled the place with haughty entitlement. She joked to the children that she was outnumbered and outranked. Sometimes she thought about getting a horse, a ridiculous notion, really, but the fields at Harbourfell did stretch out like something from a painting, and the idea of watching the sun rise from a saddle had its charms.

She didn’t mourn him. Not in the usual way.

Because Lando Norris wasn’t gone. Not entirely.

He lingered in the records she still played on rainy afternoons. In the coat she refused to part with. In the warm terracotta tiles she’d laid herself in the kitchen, because he once said he missed Italy. In the letters, god, the letters, that still arrived from time to time, written in his unmistakable hand, always ending with my love to you, in whatever sky you’re under.

She lived quietly. Laughed often.

And every now and then, at twilight, when the sea air turned a little cooler and the cats curled around her ankles, she’d close her eyes and remember the feel of his lips against her forehead, the weight of his voice saying I love you, too late, but somehow right on time.

The scent of almond and cardamom curled through the air as the oven ticked softly behind her. Flour dusted her hands, her nose, a bit in her hair where she’d pushed a stray curl back too quickly. The kitchen windows were open, letting in the sea breeze and the dull crash of the tide. Somewhere in the back garden, Freddie gave a lazy bark, more out of principle than necessity.

She didn’t hear the front door open, not until footsteps creaked on the old oak floor.

“You know,” came a familiar voice, dry and teasing, “leaving the gate open and the front door slightly ajar will one day bring you issues.”

She looked up from her mixing bowl with a grin already tugging at her lips. “Can’t help it,” she replied, turning to face Oscar. “That’s how he greeted me home. Left it open, every bloody time. Said locks were for men with secrets.”

Oscar stepped into the kitchen, his coat speckled with summer rain, a newspaper folded under his arm. He looked older these days, lines deeper around his eyes, hair going grey at the temples, but he still had that same tired mischief in his expression, the look of a man who’d lived a thousand lives and remembered them all too well.

They hugged, briefly and wordlessly. The kind of embrace that said I’ve missed you without needing to.

“Coffee?” she offered.

He shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ve not come to interrupt your baking without cause.”

She gave him a look. “You never need cause.”

“This time I do,” he said, pulling something from inside his coat.

A letter.

Sealed. Official. Heavy in the way certain pieces of paper can be, the kind that carry more than just ink.

She frowned. “What’s this?”

“I come with news.”

She dried her hands and took the letter from him carefully, her fingers suddenly cold despite the oven’s warmth. She broke the seal with cautious hands and read the contents once. Then twice.

Her brow furrowed deeper. “Sentence... shortening?”

Oscar nodded.

“But how?” she whispered, eyes scanning the words again, as if another reading might make more sense of it. “He’s meant to have years still. Decades.”

Oscar leaned against the kitchen table, arms crossed. “You were a fool if you ever underestimated him, my dear friend. He may have been ready to live the rest of his life behind those bars. But watching you live yours out here, still in that shirt of his, still setting a place at the table some nights, has made him restless.”

She blinked, stunned. Her heart fluttered like something had startled it from slumber. “So he...”

“He made arrangements. Fought for an appeal, reopened some old accounts. Got the right people to owe him the right favours. The paperwork’s been a nightmare, but it’s done. Or nearly.”

She sank slowly into the chair nearest the stove, the air around her shifting like something inside had cracked open just a little.

Oscar smiled gently. “He might be coming home.”

And for the first time in years, properly, unmistakably, she felt her breath catch. Not with pain. Not with fear. But with hope.

Because her baby was coming home.

the end.

@rebelatbay @fictionalfanatic123 @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine @papayainsectorone

#lando norris x reader #cloves list of fics that she adores #MAFIA LANDO MY HUSBAND !!!

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clovermoters · 28 days ago

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clovermoters · 1 month ago

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a window into the soul - ln4 x reader smau!

summary: a peak into your life with lando through your extremely aesthetic instagram, aka fans being utterly jealous of your aesthetic.

wc: N/A no plot or words its all smau!

warnings: none! all photos were taken from pinterest !

a/n: hiiii i know its been a while but here is some random instagram posts because i was bored !! enjoy !! lots of love, clove!

july 2nd 2025

liked by lando and 23,765 others

y/username : been busy 🧿

lando: hawt mama

lando: can we save hex

y/username -> nurse he’s out again

lando: do you do weddings, yk…as the bride

userA: her instagram is so pinterest coded i need her manifestations word for word

userB: lando thirsting in the comments, fork found in kitchen

y/username has uploaded a story!

caption: baby’s got his own monster! in stores now !!

July 6th 2025

liked by lando, mclaren and 96,874 others

y/username: the fluro has infiltrated the feed...so so proud of you my love, this is only the beginning.

lando: my pretty girl, i love u thank u for being you and always supporting me through it all, this win was for you!!

y/username -> love u silly boy

userC: oh im crying

userD:yn dont think we dont see those pictures you take whenever hes putting his helmet on, SHARE WITH THE CLASS!! liked by lando & y/username

august 24th 2025

liked by lando, ciscanorris1, and 34,444 others

y/username: some much needed r&r

lando: RAWRAWRAWRAWRAWR

lando: photo creds pls???

y/username -> "baby look how cute you look while the ocean waterboards you"

lando -> ai these days is crazy

lando: mmmm papaya bikini liked by y/username

ciscanorris1: the perfect holiday!

userE: oh how i missed y/n dumps and this did not disappoint.

sept 3rd 2025

liked by lando, max_fewtrell and 73,976 others

y/username: before we jump into the last half of the season, here are some photos of my boy from the last 14 rounds of racing!

lando: always taking pics of my ass ok

y/username -> got something to say there mister...

lando -> nah just come kiss it

lando: love u baby lets do this

userF: SHE FINALLY POSTED THEM YES

Nov 13th 2025

y/username: birthday boy.. ilyilyilyily

lando: MY GIRL

lando: ilyilyilyilyily

userG: mom and dad :(((

~~~ ☘︎

maybe ill do more of these because they were fun to make but thank u for reading!

#lando norris #ln4 #formula 1 #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris fluff #lando fluff

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clovermoters · 1 month ago

Note

CLOVE HAVE U SEEN THESE????

i couldnt find the original clip so heres some screenshots from a tiktok 😇

you bet i have seen those and i am unwell….

#lando norris #ln4 #formula 1 #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #i am unwell #answering machine

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clovermoters · 1 month ago

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TO THE LIGHTHOUSE ✴︎ LN04

Lando spends his summer break on a French island in the middle of nowhere with an old sailor, an innkeeper, and an adventurous girl as his sole company.

━━━ 🔗 LN4 MASTERLIST

PAIRING. Lando Norris x FemReader WORDS. 10K TAGS. Fluff. Strangers to Lovers. Love at First Sight. Lando Falls Hard and Fast. Summer Romance. Nautical Inaccuracies. NOTE. This started as an excuse to write about the sea and old people and it turned into my biggest work yet. I'm proud of this one; I hope you'll like it too! <333

Likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Lando sighed as yet another ‘failed to send’ notification lit up his screen.

He lifted his head and, for a brief moment, hesitated to cast a message in a bottle. Plastic or glass, they littered the rocky shore here and there. It would have been easy to choose one, scribble his message on one of the many old receipts crowding his pockets, and toss it towards the horizon. The English Channel was far away, but he had no doubt the missive would find its way to Max.

Before him, the Mediterranean crashed against the shore, inhaling matter in a whirl of iridescent reflections. Nothing remained of the familiar calm of Monaco’s harbour; here, on this island far removed from the rest of the world, the Earth was nothing against the Sea.

Sovereign and incontestable, her waters twirled in a fierce dance, wrenching shellfish and crustaceans from the rock. The foam left by the waves colonised the sand, staining it with white froth. Driven by the Mistral, it vanished at once into the eternal cycle of Renewal.

And amid this dance of turquoise and azure—standing alone on the beach’s sole jetty—Lando felt horribly alone.

Yet he had chosen this ‘spiritual retreat’.

The first time Max uttered those words, Lando had nearly choked with laughter. The mother of a mutual but remote friend had apparently praised the concept during a family meal.

It had taken three mimosas for the idea to take root in Max’s mind and three glasses of rum for Lando to be persuaded.

In a few minutes, he would vanish to a small French island between Nice and Corsica, far from Ibiza and its lascivious evenings, where he knew his friends and colleagues would spend their summers.

His bag weighed heavy on his sore shoulder. Lando regretted not wearing his cap; the sun was already burning his cheeks.

A crab scuttled across the sand and disappeared beneath a wave.

A chorus of splashing pulled him from his reverie. Lando turned. A few steps away, on the jetty, stood an old man. The curling smoke from his pipe vanished into the sun’s rays and nestled in the dozens of wrinkles crossing his face.

“T’es l’g’min que j’dois emm’ner su’l’île, c’ça?”

Lando coughed, the tobacco’s nebulous spirals coiling around his throat. He stammered a few words in French, but the man’s lip-smacking around his pipe quickly cut him off.

“Y’th’lad I’m t’take t’t’isle, yeah?” the old man grumbled, spitting more smoke.

Most of his vowels disappeared into his long beard, forming an unfamiliar accent. The smoker had to repeat himself thrice before Lando finally nodded in understanding.

“F’llow me.”

Lando fell into step behind him without question.

Hands in the pockets of his shorts, he struggled to keep pace with the old man. The sun dazzled him even through his sunglasses, and pearls of sea spray, lifted by the breeze, licked his cheeks with their salty tongues.

The old man soon halted before an ancient fishing boat, the only one moored among the jagged rocks and their razor-sharp blades.

“Brav’ beast, this’un,” he knocked on the hull.

Lando nodded, unsure what else to do. His gaze drifted to the ever-raging sea. It never seemed calm here, as if to scream its existence to all.

The old man climbed aboard with ease. Lando could not match his agility. The rickety vessel was a far cry from the opulent yachts he was used to. He handed his bag to the man and hauled himself onto the deck. His legs, shaky from leaving land, sought balance, only finding it when the stranger sat at the edge.

Lando cast one last glance at the coast and its Provençal villages, then looked out at the sea they were to cross.

How would their makeshift boat withstand this furious swell? The paint had peeled away with the salt, and deep scratches streaked the wood—no doubt marks from rocks the hull had scraped against.

Lando swallowed hard and hugged his bag close. The old sailor tapped his pipe thrice against the stern, brought it back to his lips, and untied the rope securing the boat to a thick rock.

“Won’ take long. Sea’s quiet t’day.”

Quiet was hardly the word Lando would have chosen, but he kept silent.

Beneath his feet, the engine roared. Before he could startle, the boat surged forward, leaving civilisation and the bottles he had no time to cast behind them.

The rickety craft rode the waves fearlessly. More than once, Lando felt as if he might fall into the void; his stomach churned; his jaw clenched. The old man’s face, however, remained serene, though his eyes were narrowed and fixed upon him.

Lando fidgeted, uneasy.

“Why’d y’come?”

“What?” he shouted over the noise of the waves and wind.

At least here, he could escape the merciless sun.

“Why’d y’come, eh? No one comes ‘ere,” the old man shook his head. “Last was a lass, two months back. Since, nothin’. Few even know th’isle’s there, y’see.”

It was Charles who had told him about it. Though the Monegasque had never berthed there himself, he had heard tales of its inn—a haven of peace at the crossroads of worlds and times where one forgot the passage of seasons and its woes.

“I needed a change of air.”

A wave splashed against his back. He closed his eyes and savoured the moment’s respite. When he opened them again, the old man’s gaze seemed gentler, and the silence between them, less oppressive.

Twenty minutes later, the sailor announced their arrival.

Lando raised his head. The island was larger than he had thought. The sole trace of human society, apart from the rudimentary harbour—a rotten wooden jetty and a mooring bollard—was the stone building that adorned the verdant landscape.

Lando disembarked, nearly tumbling into the water as a sudden gust rocked the hull. Once ashore, he rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a fifty-euro note, which he handed to the sailor. The man spat his pipe and, with blistered fingers, took the money.

The sailor nodded, crossed the jetty in five steps, and stopped at its end before a small tin box from which he withdrew three letters.

He returned to his boat; Lando set off for the inn.

As he pushed open the door, a wave of cool air embraced him and a bell tinkled.

“Mon dieu, sorry love! Didn’t hear ye! Come in, come in. Make y’self at home, will ye?”

A woman of about sixty hurried down the creaking steps, dusting her hands on her floral apron. She ushered him inside, closing the door behind them with a muffled thud.

Lando might have cried with joy hearing the lady’s perfectly comprehensible English. The southern accent lingered, but the vowels were mostly all there.

Without asking, she relieved him of his bag.

“Thought ye’d be arrivin’ tomorrow, I did. Then I remembered, no, s’today. Just finishin’ up cleanin’ yer room. But listen to me, goin’ on. Ye don’t care ‘bout my old stories,” she waved off his reaction before he could voice it, hauling a huge leather volume onto the dining table.

Everywhere, flowers sprinkled the living room. Dried sunflowers stood proud in frames, while bouquets of hydrangea and chamomile cluttered the sideboards. The mistress of the house, amidst this fragile vitality, seemed impervious to decay.

Her finger slid over the register, mumbling the names of previous guests until she found his.

“Lando Norris, there y’are now! Had yer name outta me head, excuse me. At my age, the mind’s slippin’” she winked. “Ye’re stayin’ two weeks, is it?”

He nodded.

“Well now! Look at tha’! I seem t’attract wanderers. Lucky me, eh?”

Lando didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

He watched her jot down a few words and tick some boxes before suddenly snapping the register shut. He jumped.

The woman rearranged her bun—held by a wooden pin—and turned to him, wiping her shiny brow. With a wave, she beckoned him to follow.

The steps creaked under her weight. He feared they might give way. Everywhere, gouges in the wood lightened the original colour of the staircase.

“Breakfast’s at seven, lunch at noon, dinner’s at eight in the dinin’ room, though I can bring it up to ye if ye’d rather. No internet here, nor signal. We’ve got electricity, and that’s enough.”

Lando already knew this; it was one of the reasons he’d chosen this inn over others.

They reached the upper floor.

“Y’look after yer own room.”

The old lady pulled a key from her apron.

“Ye’ve got the first room. Easy to remember, there’s only three,” she snorted.

“Is there a phone?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“For tha’, ye’ll have to go to the village. Only post we get is what Jacques brings, once a week.”

The sailor, Lando concluded. An odd fellow, that one.

“Hope he didn’t scare ye, with his big voice. He’s not used to speakin’ English, is all.”

Lando shrugged. He’d dealt with far worse than a grumpy old man with an unkempt beard; this one reminded him of elders from the Spanish and Greek islands where he usually spent his summer breaks.

“Jacques only comes on Wednesdays, ten sharp. Don’t miss him. Ye’ll pick up how things work round here soon enough. S’not too hard. Oh! I’m Solange, by the way.”

She opened the door to his room. Like the living room, few furnishings: a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers. Just enough.

Lando turned his head. At the corridor’s end, a closed door. He stood still a moment, then frowned at the woman.

“Am I the only guest?” he asked.

“There’s another girl about, but ye won’t see much of her. Always off wanderin’, that one.”

Lando thought of the girl the sailor had mentioned. Probably the same. Though the knowledge he wasn’t alone disappointed him, Solange’s words on her discretion reassured him. He nodded and set his bag on the bed.

No one would disturb him here. Silence, sun, sea, and nothing else. It was perfect.

“I’ll leave ye to settle in. Dinner’ll be served shortly.”

Solange closed the door behind her before he could utter a word. Silence enveloped him. Lando hurried to fling open the window—a blast of hot air invaded the room—and began unpacking.

He pulled his laptop from his bag and placed it on the desk, an immediate blot upon the rustic scene, right beside the oil lamp. A glance at his watch showed half past seven. From upstairs came the clatter of dishes and Solange’s grumbles.

His MacBook quickly plugged in, he switched it on, opened the programme Jon had sent before his departure, and hurried down the stairs.

The bowl of bouillabaisse—“a proper Provençal soup, dear! with scorpionfis, caught this mornin’” Solange had explained—turned his stomach.

As everything else here, the sea ruled above all.

Lando stared at the bits of fish swirling in the soup amongst fennel and garlic, wondering why he hadn’t chosen to do his spiritual retreat in Thailand like everyone else.

With a trembling hand, he forced down a spoonful and stifled a gag. Solange watched him pick at his meal, eyes sparkling, before taking pity and replacing his bowl with a plate of tomatoes and mozzarella.

“Ah, ye should’ve told me ye didn’t like scorpionfish, lad. I’d’ve spared ye that trouble.”

He smiled shyly and devoured the plate.

Between two slices of fresh tomato, his gaze drifted to the empty chair opposite, though a place setting had been laid.

His look must have been insistent, for the sixty-year-old explained that the other guest—the mysterious girl everyone spoke of—never came down to eat, but Solange nevertheless set a plate for her in the hope she might one day join them.

“Tha’ girl loses all track o’time out there,” she added with a tender smile.

He nodded, unsure what to say.

Once dinner was finished, he stood, handed his empty plate to Solange, and hurried upstairs.

Lando collapsed on his bed and closed his eyes. He would start Jon’s training tomorrow, he thought. After all, he was on holiday, and summer was in no rush; who was he to break its rule of idleness.

Suddenly, clicks and clacks echoed down the corridor into his room. Lando opened his eyes and tried to locate the source of the noise. Perhaps Solange was washing the dishes?

A door slammed, footsteps hurried down the stairs, and a feminine voice shouted: “I’m going out, Sol’! Don’t wait up for me!”

Exhausted from the day, he fell asleep without further thought, glad to have found a place on this earth where he could escape prying eyes and their ill-judged remarks.

Back on the shore, the rollers pounded against the coast.

It was the sound of the waves that woke Lando that morning.

Aside from the seagulls outside, the rest of the house still slumbered in a lethargy proper to summer mornings.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was a few minutes before seven. The sun already beat warmly on the stone walls; the wind, for now, resisted the invader, though Lando knew it would surrender within an hour or two.

Lando pressed down on his door handle; the rusty hinges screeched in protest despite his care. He grimaced. Solange was up—no doubt about that, he could hear her muttering in the kitchen—but what about the girl in room number three?

His gaze shifted to that very door. The end of the corridor was bathed in light, so much so that the colour of the floorboards, the walls, even the picture frames, seemed to all vanish under the golden veil of Summer.

The door stood ajar.

Lando stepped closer, cursed when the floorboard creaked under his weight, and peeked inside. Nothing much to see, just a messy desk cluttered with mismatched seashells.

“Bonjour, Lando!” was the first thing he heard as he made his way downstairs. His thoughts still preoccupied with what he’d glimpsed, the Englishman stumbled over his own greeting.

“Come on over, I squeezed ye some proper fresh juice. From the island’s own oranges, no less!”

Solange handed him a chilled glass and gestured toward the same chair he’d sat in the previous day.

The first sip—sweet and cold—swept away the remnants of sleep and his questions along with it. The old woman wiped a few drops of condensation from the table with her tea towel, slung it back over her shoulder, and turned to her flour-dusted work surface.

Lando tried to ignore the empty glass in front of him. He kept thinking of the seashells.

“Meant to ask ye yest’day, what with the trip an’ all, what brings ye ‘ere?”

He noticed immediately how the morning seemed to rob Solange of the vowels she’d enunciated so clearly the night before.

“I needed to disconnect for a while. My job is... intense, let’s just say.”

“What d’ye do?”

“I’m a Formula One driver.”

From her blank stare, Lando could already tell the words meant nothing to her. He smiled, pleased.

“I race cars.”

She gave an impressed little nod and began kneading dough.

“And d’ye win?”

“Sometimes. I’m often on the podium, though.”

“Tha’s good.”

The conversation fizzled out. The feeling of being just another normal person warmed Lando’s chest. He took another sip of juice to dampen it. It was already hot enough; it would be unwise to abandon himself to emotions.

The brioche further down the table was calling to him. He hesitated, then gave in. Jon wasn’t there to scold him, and no one here gave a toss about his weight—certainly not Solange, who was already talking about lunch: pistou soup and ‘few-gas’, whatever that was.

“Oh, before I forget–!”

Solange slid a sheet of paper toward him. She explained it was the shopping list they gave Jacques every Wednesday at ten so that it could be delivered the following week.

“If y’need anythin’, jot it down.”

The paper was already half-covered in messy handwriting, which he guessed was Solange’s—hurried, scratchy, listing everything from fruit to fish (he grimaced at that), to soap, even books.

At the very bottom, in blue ink (sea-blue, he couldn’t help but think), was a different, feminine handwriting—one of those elegant old-fashioned scripts where vowels and consonants intertwined in delicate loops.

1 pack of blank paper, 2 notebooks, 3 pens.

His eyes lingered on that blue line, confirmation that the girl from room three was, indeed, real.

He hadn’t imagined her the night before.

Lando considered adding anything, but didn’t want to be a bother. Solange had specified everything on the list was paid for by the inn, not the guests.

He reminded himself he had his laptop, that it was more than enough, and clicked the pen shut.

He drained his glass in one go, popped the last bite of brioche into his mouth, brushed the crumbs into a neat pile, and headed upstairs to change into his running gear.

Lando didn’t need to consult his laptop—Jon’s programme was branded into his memory. After bidding Solange goodbye, he began his run around the island.

I don’t expect performance, Jon had told him, just maintenance. Stay in shape. F1 drivers weren’t exempt from the sneaky dangers of summer holidays—those that tempted you with their sweet laziness and made you forget about discipline.

His pace wasn’t anywhere near Monaco speed. Here, he took the time to let the scenery unfold. He passed the orange groves Solange had mentioned, planted among fig trees and olive branches, climbed the little hills and jogged down to the shore.

And then he saw it. The sight stunned him into stopping.

There, in the middle of the horizon, between rocks and waves, stood a lighthouse—undeniably master of the tide.

A boat was moored beside it.

He frowned as he saw a figure vanish inside, then resumed running, still frowning.

“Is that lighthouse still running?” he asked Solange upon returning.

She handed him a tissue to wipe his brow.

“Not that I know of,” she shrugged. “State won’t put coin into fixin’ it. Says it’s no use now. Boats don’t pass ‘ere like they used to.”

A towel smacked him in the face, cutting the conversation short.

“Go shower. Ye reek. And if ye fancy helpin’ an old woman, start with the veg’, would ye?”

He squinted exaggeratedly.

“That’s emotional blackmail, Solange.”

“Maybe. But it’s workin’, innit?”

And it did, because fifteen minutes later, Lando was peeling potatoes with his hair still damp from his cold shower.

Solange made him laugh with tales of her youth, and the vegetables were soon done.

At noon, despite the pistou soup being delicious, the untouched plate beside him left a bitter taste in his mouth. Solange said nothing, but he caught the flicker of sadness on her face as she cleared the pristine bowl.

After that, Lando wandered aimlessly through the house. The morning run had drained him, and the suffocating afternoon heat finished him off. He ended up sprawled on the sofa, eyes drifting toward the half-open shutters. The distant sound of cicadas and seagulls lulled him toward an inevitable nap.

Solange, seated nearby with a crossword puzzle, peered at him over her glasses.

“Bored already, kid?”

Lando shrugged, not wanting to offend her.

“I’ll see if Jacques can’t take ye out to sea tomorrow. Might do ye good. Give ye somethin’ to do.”

“No need. I wouldn’t want to bother him,” Lando murmured, sinking deeper into the cushions.

The idea of spending hours stuck on a boat with Jacques gave him chills. Thankfully, Solange didn’t insist, and so Lando considered the matter closed; the worst, avoided.

But the next morning, the sound of a motor yanked Lando from sleep. When he drew back his curtain, a knot tightened in his stomach. The small blue-hulled boat—with its tangled ropes and rusted bucket—was tied to the old wooden dock.

Wednesday had come, and with it, Jacques and his ever-present pipe.

He watched Solange embrace the sailor and hand him their shopping list. Jacques stuffed the paper into the pocket of his sea-damp overalls and sank into conversation with her. From here, Lando could nearly hear his gruff voice and chewed-up vowels.

Eventually, Jacques disappeared into the inn, Solange close behind.

“Mornin’, lad,” he said as Lando descended. “Heard y’wanna sail?”

“Oh!” Lando glanced at Solange, whose radiant smile deepened every wrinkle on her face. “Er... yes?” he mumbled.

Jacques’s grey eye—clouded with age and cataracts—sparkled.

Being the people-pleaser he was, Lando felt compelled to keep the pleased look on his face. So, with a bit of hesitation, he followed Jacques outside.

On the way to the dock, the old man explained that the inn lent a little sailing boat to guests for short trips or excursions.

“But th’lass hog it.”

Lando barely registered the comment. His gaze stayed locked on the boat’s hull. He swallowed hard as he counted the cracks; a few more had appeared since the last time.

“Ain’t tricky. Got a m’tor an’ a tiller. Good bit o’machin’ this one,” he added, giving it an affectionate slap. “Y’wanna go right? Turn left. W’nna go left? Tu’n right.”

Lando blinked, then nodded weakly. He silently cursed himself for saying yes to this outing, maybe even to this whole spiritual retreat.

Jacques, lost in his explanation, did not notice his torment.

“Wave comes at ye, only two ways. Gun it or fac’ it head-‘n. Ye? Ain’t cut f’tha’ yet. Most ‘portant thing. N’ver let th’crest catch ye. Else yer done. Seen too many men lost tha’ way. Got it?”

“Not really?”

“S’fine. Ye’ll learn on th’boat.”

He motioned to the rickety craft, which swayed under their weight.

They set out. Soon, the rocks vanished from view. The tide had risen, and with it, his nausea. Lando bent his knees, struggling to find balance on the ever-moving sea. One must adapt to the wave, not the other way around.

He paled when Jacques handed him the tiller. Right is left. Left is right, he recited in his head. Before them, the sea stirred—eager to test the fledgling sailor. Fear clenched Lando’s gut and compressed his lungs. The ocean seemed to challenge him, conjuring deep-born waves to prove its dominance.

Lando looked back at the shore, his back soaked, already nostalgic for solid ground. When he turned his head, the lighthouse—the one from his morning run—towered above the rocks, far more imposing than he’d remembered.

Without thinking, he turned to Jacques.

“Can we go there?”

The sailor stared, puffed his pipe.

“Ye askin’ th’wrong sailor, lad.”

A wave splashed his face, the salt stinging his eyes, cutting the exchange short, but Lando did not look away from the lighthouse. Seawater dripped from his hair, clung to his lashes, slid down his neck. He didn’t care, mesmerised.

Something thudded against the boat. Jacques’s roar burst into Lando’s ears. Straighten th’rudder, god’s sake! He obeyed, barely. For a few seconds, he stood defiant against a raging Poseidon. Then the god grew bored and summoned a wave. Lando stared at it, so vast and immense. The Sublime washed over him, weakened his limbs. How small man was, before Mother Nature.

With a crash, the wave broke over them. He barely had time to shut his eyes. The deck flooded. So did his shoes. And finally, his stomach surrendered.

He leaned overboard just in time to vomit up his breakfast.

The two men returned to the inn in silence.

“What’d ye do to the poor lad, Jacquot? He’s lookin’ green as seaweed,” was Solange’s first remark as she handed Lando a towel.

Too busy lamenting his fate, he didn’t notice the fourth figure on the dock. It was only when a mischievous and feminine laugh rang out that he looked up and froze.

You reminded him of an endless summer. Sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles from hours outdoors. Salt-kissed hair lightened by the sea breeze.

Too beautiful to be real.

A faint memory from school—English class, perhaps—surged in his mind; a tale of sirens, and the men who fell for their charms.

Lando figured one must have swum up the Tyrrhenian and into the Mediterranean Sea.

Your shirt danced in the breeze, but he didn’t notice, captivated by the wide smile on your face. He scrubbed his hair with the towel, suddenly painfully aware of himself, of the sick still clinging to the corners of his mouth, and of you watching him.

“Hi,” you finally said. “I’m the other guest. You must be Lando. Sol’ told me about you.”

“That’s right,” he stammered, offering his hand.

You gave him your name. He tried not to dwell on the feel of your palm against his or the sound of his name on your tongue.

Two wrinkled hands seized his shoulders and yanked him away before he could humiliate himself further. Solange guided him back toward the inn, promising grilled sea bream with herbs.

“Nothin’ better t’set ye straight.”

Lando didn’t even think to grimace, too busy glancing over his shoulder, desperate for one more look at the siren—an anomaly surely sculpted by the gods.

A wave of disappointment struck as he realised you would not be following them. Instead, you were already deep in conversation with Jacques. The old sailor had transformed. He gestured broadly, enunciated his vowels, even stowed his pipe.

For a brief moment, your eyes met his. You winked.

Lando flushed.

Then you leapt into a small sailboat—one Lando swore hadn’t been there a minute ago—and loosened the ropes.

You waved and set sail.

When he awoke the next morning, the seagulls already shrieking at his window, Lando wondered if he had imagined last night’s outing and his encounter with the second host—a mirage, conjured by sea gods to punish his mediocre seafaring talents.

A knock at the door drew him from his lamentations. Three firm raps that startled him upright and tore him from his briny dreams.

Lando nearly choked when he opened the door—still in boxers—and found you standing in the doorway, barefoot, your skin salted by the morning wind.

“Solange’s been going on about bringing you at sea. She says you’re bored. So get ready. We leave in half an hour. Oh! And bring a swimsuit.”

Without waiting for an answer, you turned on your heel and vanished down the stairs, leaving behind a trail of salt and fig, the scented air threatening to drag him under a wave of dreamy sirens and lovesick drownings.

When Lando reached the jetty, the little sailboat from the day before was bobbing just above the water’s surface; you, one knee to the ground, were fastening a rope with a focused expression that he found utterly endearing.

You looked up at him suddenly, wind tangling your hair, and smiled.

“Right on time. You ready?”

Lando nodded and stepped over the hull. You followed with an ease he could not help but envy.

“The sea’s calmer than yesterday,” you reassured him quickly, catching his wary glance at the swell. “I don’t know what Jacques was thinking, taking you out in a weather like that.”

“Maybe he wanted to get rid of me,” Lando joked weakly, gripping the edge of the boat a little tighter.

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “No one really knows what’s going on in his head.”

You untied the lines and pushed against the dock with your foot. Softly, the boat began to drift away.

The two of you left the island in a trail of foam. The water—already glinting under the morning sun—barely rippled beneath the prow, but the gentle rocking was enough to rouse Lando’s stomach.

A hand began to stroke his back as he leaned over the edge, gasping.

“Breathe through your nose. Look at the horizon,” you advised, sitting down beside him.

The now-familiar perfume of fig and salt wrapped around him, drowning out the stench of algae and rotten fish. The nausea began to ease.

Lando straightened, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“So, uh… have you been here long?”

If you caught on to his attempt at changing the subject, you gave no sign, simply returning to the helm. Lando stifled his disappointment as your hand left his back.

“Almost two months now.”

You ducked beneath the boom with the unconscious agility of someone who’d done it a thousand times (which, Lando figured, you probably had), and smiled as you adjusted your sunglasses.

“I was only meant to stay a week,” you went on. “But Solange can be pretty persuasive when she wants. I think she realised before I did. That I needed a bit more time away from all that.”

Lando understood, even without further explanation. ‘All that’ had a way of ruining people’s lives.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the gentle slap of waves and the occasional cry of seagulls.

He watched you. The ease with which you steered the boat through the swells and rocks. That quiet confidence. An instinctive mastery that reminded him of his own connection to his car.

You tamed the Unpredictable with a calm that demanded admiration.

“Was it Jacques who taught you to sail like that?” he asked after a while.

A bright, unrestrained laugh burst from your throat. Your head tilted back, and Lando watched, entranced, as saltwater droplets glistened on your neck.

“Goodness, no! I don’t think anyone’s ever learned anything from that old sea-beard! You’d have to understand what he’s mumbling for that. No. I learned as a kid. I’m from Saint-Malo. In Brittany.”

Seeing Lando’s blank expression, you added: “It’s in France, on the Atlantic coast. Not far from Jersey, actually. My dad is a fisherman, so I grew up on boats.”

“Sounds cool.”

“It was.” Your smile softened, clearly sculpted by the memories of a joyful childhood. “But probably not as cool as driving cars.”

Lando tensed instantly.

Your eyes sparkled.

Smirking, you tilted your chin toward the west, where a jagged line broke the horizon.

“Marseille’s less than forty minutes from here. Go on another hour–” You pointed at a faint smear of land farther east. “–and you’ll reach Monaco. It’s hard to escape Formula One around these parts, even if you couldn’t care less.”

“So tell me,” you continued. “What’s Lando Norris doing in the middle of nowhere?”

You had said his name with a familiarity he only ever heard from those who knew who he was, and everything that came with it.

His shoulders stiffened.

“Relax,” she said, and somehow, he did. “Your secret’s safe with me. Hell, even if I wanted to shout it from the rooftops, I’d have to sail all the way to the village. And no offence, superstar, but the ten old southerners who live there couldn’t care less.”

He hesitated, then conceded you were right—the world was far away, and here, he was no one. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he felt the urge to confide in you, this stranger who no longer felt like one—tossing a bottle into the sea, fully aware of the tide.

“I was tired of being watched. Judged for every little thing I do. I wanted to disappear for a few days. I knew I wouldn’t get any peace in Ibiza. Or Portugal. Or Greece. Anywhere with Internet, really.”

You slid back to sit beside him, your pinkie finger grazing his. Lando had to resist the sudden, foolish urge to intertwine them. There was something about you—something familiar, fig-scented, salt-kissed—that he did not understand but welcomed deep in his chest, and lower.

“My best mate helped me find the inn. I wanted him to come at first, but he said it’d do me good. To be alone.”

He glanced at you, searching for a reaction, but your smile did not waver. It even widened as you looked past him.

“We’re here.”

Lando turned, and promptly flinched at the sudden sight of the lighthouse, closer than ever. A tower of stone, so tall it pierced the sky open.

You moored the boat to a dock even older than the one back on the island and held out your hand to help him down. Lando’s heart skipped, but he masked it and clasped your hand.

You tugged him toward the lighthouse. He barely had time to take in the flaking paint, the worn stone; you threw open the door with a bang and led him up the stairs, higher and higher, your palm never leaving his.

Inside, the lighthouse was nothing like the cold, empty place he’d expected. Though the enormous lantern sat dormant at its centre, the room felt lived in.

Loose pages littered the floor and steps, some scribbled with a cursive handwriting, others with doodles or strange shapes with no obvious meaning. Mismatched cushions were heaped in a corner atop frayed blankets, surrounded by half-open books and board games missing pieces.

The scent of figs and salt hung in the air, and through the cracked glass panes, the Mediterranean sparkled.

“You did all this?”

You flopped onto the cushions.

“Yes. I got tired of picking figs and oranges back on the island. The rustic charm wears off pretty quick. I ended up here by accident, during a storm, and cleaned everything. Took me two weeks just to clear the spider nests.”

He lay down beside you. Your shoulders touched. Your pinkies searched for one another

Staring up at the dome, where a lopsided and seemingly recent mural of sea creatures stretched across the ceiling, Lando thought he could get used to this place.

“Earlier,” he began, tracing the misshapen tentacles of a purple octopus, “you said you needed to get away from things.”

Beside him, you shifted. On impulse, his hand found yours and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I was lost,” you said, voice almost a whisper. “I think I still am, in a way.”

Lando turned his head. He looked at you—this woman with sea-water hair and fig-scented skin—and thought you were like a shoreline: untameable, impossible to grasp, but utterly, achingly beautiful.

“It’s hard to know who you are when all your friends have their lives figured out,” you continued. “My best friend’s getting married in six months. Another already has three kids. All have big careers, big lives. And me? Well, I guess I felt like I was behind. Wandering without a purpose. Maybe to put off the inevitable. Responsibilities. Adulthood. All that.”

You turned to look at him. Your noses nearly touched. Neither of you pulled away from the newfound closeness.

“So I left,” you murmured, eyes flicking briefly to his lips. “Just like that. To try and find something. A purpose. Something to guide me.”

You pulled away and gestured around the room.

“There are loads of lighthouses in Brittany. I know them all by heart. My dad’s obsessed with them. He used to say they’d help me find my way if I were ever lost at sea.”

You cleared your throat and began to play with one of his curls, watching it spring back into place.

“I knew I had to find my lighthouse. One that was just mine. To guide me through storms.”

“And did you?” Lando asked, breathless, eyes locked on your mouth.

You gave him an incredulous look.

“Well, yeah? You’re in it.”

He spluttered. You burst out laughing.

“I’m messing with you.”

You paused, then added more quietly: “Fixing this ruin helped me figure things out. It was therapeutic, all those trips alone. Gave me a purpose and time to think.”

Suddenly, you clapped your thighs and stood. Lando jumped. The moment vanished.

“Right! Up you get! It’s far too hot not to enjoy the beach.”

You went back down.

In front of you, the Mediterranean shimmered, turquoise and undisturbed by the breeze.

“A proper millpond!” you said.

Without hesitation, you stripped off your shirt and shorts, wedging them beneath a stone—or maybe it was a shard of sea-glass, smoothed by the tide—then turned toward him.

Lando, behind his sunglasses, let his gaze drift down your body. He swallowed hard and adjusted his shorts.

“Last one in does the dishes for three days!”

You took off running before he could react.

“Come on! That’s not fair!” he shouted, laughing, before peeling off his shirt and dashing after you.

You plunged—Lando five seconds behind—into a chaotic splash that sent gulls scattering from the rocks.

“Looks like Solange found herself a new kitchen por—”

Lando didn’t let you finish. He raised an arm and sent a wave crashing over you. You yelped. He roared with laughter.

“Oh, you’re on!” you cried, sputtering seawater before lunging at him.

You chased and splashed each other, minutes dissolving into the rise and fall of the waves you stirred and your laughter.

When your legs finally began to tire, you made your way back to shore. Lando collapsed onto the sand, panting, while you climbed aboard the sailboat. You soon returned with a canvas bag full of boxes and fruit, which you set down on your shirt, by his side.

“Solange made the picnic,” you explained, handing him a slice of cold tomato quiche. “Lucky for you. Otherwise, I’d probably have poisoned you.”

They ate in silence, legs buried in the sand, skin still damp from the sea. When the sensation became too much, you pulled two towels from your bag and laid them side by side.

Time dissolved into a familiar post-lunch drowsiness and the lazy rhythm of the waves. You didn’t speak, basking in the presence of the other, content not just to be, but to be together.

You swam again, and again, drifting ever closer, nudged by the waves and something deeper, something that strangely looked like Fate.

Lando realised, watching you draw suns and shells in the sand only to let the ocean erase them and start again, that it had been a long time since he’d felt this at peace.

Max had been right. This spiritual retreat was a good idea.

“Do you think we could come back tomorrow?” he asked suddenly, almost shyly, eyes on the waves.

“Depends,” you replied at once. “You planning to puke on my boat again?”

“No promises. My stomach has a mind of its own. But I’ll do my best.”

“Hm. Then it’s a yes.”

Because a promise is a promise, you both went back the next day. And the day after that. Soon enough, the lighthouse became a landmark, a secret haven just for the two of you.

You climbed over rocks, swam for hours, savoured Solange’s picnics between bouts of laughter, collected seashells or simply sat in silence, gazing out at the horizon.

Days passed, each one perfumed with the same bouquet of salt, sun, and insouciance.

On the evening of the fourth day since that first expedition to the lighthouse, Solange—as she always did—set a plate for you at the table, before letting out a wistful sigh.

“I’m glad the girl’s op’ning to ye,” she said, staring at the empty chair with melancholy in her eyes. “She used to be an oyster, that one. If y’get a moment, tell her I’d love if she joined us for supper sometime.”

Lando opened his mouth to promise he would try his best, but a clamour of creaking steps cut him off before he could. Solange dropped her tea towel when you suddenly burst down the stairs and sat yourself at the table without a word.

“What? I mean. Are you–?” she stammered, mouth agape.

“I thought I might eat with you tonight. If that’s alright for you, Sol’?”

“Yes!” she blurted out immediately, trembling with delight. “Yes, of course, darlin’! No trouble at all. Wait till ye try my red mullet tart — ye’ll be beggin’ for the recipe, I swear!”

She gave your shoulders a quick squeeze before vanishing into the kitchen with a squeal of joy.

“I think you broke her,” Lando chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself, and Lando couldn’t help but do the same, charmed by the playful tilt of your expression.

When Solange returned, she carried in a steaming tart smelling of fish. Lando’s stomach churned at the scent. His grimace made you snort. As he accepted a slice with a tight-lipped smile—he never could say no to Solange—he kicked you under the table. You yelped.

“What’s wrong with you, girl?” Solange asked, frowning.

“Nothing.”

“If ye say so. Here, try this!” She sliced you a generous portion. “Patrick brought in the best red mullet o’the season! Oh– hold on, forgot the vinaigrette for the salad!”

Lando didn’t dwell on who Patrick was, or his mysterious status in the island’s tiny ecosystem. His eyes stayed glued to his plate; he swallowed with difficulty, his saliva thickening at once.

Even on land, he hadn’t quite shaken off his seasickness.

You kicked him again. Thinking it was retaliation, he returned the favour—ever the competitor—but you only rolled your eyes.

“No, idiot. Give me your tart,” you whispered, glancing over your shoulder to ensure Solange was still occupied in the kitchen.

In one deft motion, you stole his slice.

“I’ve got biscuits upstairs for this type of emergencies,” you added, sitting upright again as you devoured the tart in four greedy bites.

When Solange came back, vinaigrette in hand, her eyes drifted to Lando’s plate.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Looks like someone liked my tart. Want another slice?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

You shared a knowing smile as Solange launched into the latest village gossip, courtesy of Patrick, who, Lando soon learned, was a fisherman.

From that evening on, you joined them for dinner each night. This new routine became as familiar as your lighthouse visits. Soon, only the dark of night separated you from Lando.

Your days—governed by the philosophy of the farniente—drifted gently by, suspended between two islands: the inn’s and the lighthouse’s. Nothing existed outside the microcosm you’d built together, where trust flowed freely, and nothing needed to be hidden or explained.

Lando told you things even Max didn’t know, and never once considered regretting it. Summer had a way of making one careless; duties, obligations, and consequences melted away in the golden hours. Anyone who surrendered to Summer was trapped in a parallel pocket of time, shaped by cicada song and the crash of waves.

Lando was no exception—enchanted by you, the very embodiment of the season—and, without even noticing, he stopped counting the days left before returning to the mainland.

Until one morning, when Solange, after setting down a plate of fresh fruit, asked casually: “So– what time d’ye want Jacques to fetch ye on Monday?”

Lando frowned.

“Monday?”

“Ten? Or earlier?” she went on. “He’s off to the village after noon, so before then’s best. Someone waitin’ for ye on land, is there?

Lando froze. His eyes darted to the calendar on the wall, and he choked at the date. August 21. A piece of melon slid from his fork into the bowl with a dull thud.

Only four days left.

“Oh.”

Solange gave him a pitying smile, as if she knew what he was thinking of (she probably was). Lando had to look away, embarrassed by the lump forming in his throat.

That was when you came down the stairs, and, seeing both their faces, frowned.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothin’, love,” Solange said gently. “Nothin’, love. Just figurin’ when Landon’s headin’ off Monday.”

“Oh,” you echoed, your voice hollow.

You slumped into your chair, suddenly as heavy as the air between you all.

Your eyes met his. You tried to smile, but it faltered just as quickly. Lando looked down and poked at his melon. Neither of you had to speak to know what the other was thinking: the end was near, and with it came the terrifying thought that you might never see each other again.

“Tell ye what– how ‘bout ye skip the lighthouse fo’ today and go pick me some lemons instead. I’m makin’ a tart for tea. Might as well put ye young ones to use while I still can.”

Solange didn’t wait for a reply. Two wicker baskets were thrust into your arms with startling speed before she slammed the door in both of your faces.

You stared at it, stunned. Then marched off towards the garden, where citrus, figs, and olives weighed down the trees and filled the air with their ripe, sticky perfume.

“Hey! Wait up!”

“Don’t tell me I’m too fast for you, Norris? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of elite athlete?” you shouted over your shoulder, before breaking into a sprint.

He caught up with you in no time and flung an arm around your shoulders to pull you into his side. You glanced up at him, one brow arched, before adjusting your grip on your basket so you could thread your fingers through his. He squeezed your hand three times and didn’t let go until you stood in the shade of the lemon trees.

“Looking forward to seeing your friends again?” you asked, picking your first lemon.

A twinge of guilt pricked his chest as Lando realised he hadn’t thought of them in days, too consumed by you.

“Of course,” he lied, only partially.

It was true, in a way. He did want to tell Max about the boat, the lighthouse, the fish he had eaten (even if it had been against his will). He missed their banter, their inside jokes, the easy bond between them. But he also knew that going back on land meant putting to an end the memories he’d been making with you.

And that, he wasn’t ready for.

“They’re going to freak when I tell them I sailed a boat and slept in a lighthouse.”

“You gonna tell them you threw up about ten times too?”

“I don’t need to share everything.”

You burst out laughing. Lando beamed with pride at the sound.

You kept working under the unforgiving sun. Bit by bit, the fruits piled up in your baskets. Lando wandered between the rows, lips dry, shirt damp under the arms. The air was thick, stifling; he kept wiping his nape with the back of his hand.

“This heat is insane,” you muttered.

From your back pocket, you pulled a small Opinel knife, flicked open the blade, and sliced into an orange. Juice streamed down your hand, dripping into the scorched grass.

You lifted the fruit to your mouth, eyes half-closed. The nectar slid down your chin, along your throat, and disappeared into your neckline.

Lando followed its trail, unable to look away.

Something cracked open inside him when, with a slow—and far too late—flick of your tongue, you caught a drop lingering on your lip.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned, pulling you toward him before kissing you. Right there. Beneath the orange trees.

The scent of figs surrounded him as you wound your arms around his neck and kissed him back, deeper and deeper. He drank you in—orange juice and soft moans—until your fingers crept beneath his shirt, grazing his stomach. He pressed you against the tree, his knee slipping between your thighs.

“Oi! How long’m I waitin’ on those lemons?” Solange’s voice rang out in the distance.

You both sprang apart, flushed and breathless, lips swollen but bearing the same dazed smile.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he murmured, before placing a quick peck on your mouth.

“Me too.”

You returned to the inn with your baskets and hearts full.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said the next day, three days before your departure. You were both lying atop the lighthouse, limbs entangled in an intimate embrace, listening to the waves break on the shore.

You gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, laughing, before softening the blow with a kiss a second later.

The citrus-sweet kiss you had shared the day before had opened Pandora’s box. An arm slipping around your waist to squeeze past you. A hand squeezing your thigh during a boat ride. A stolen hug in the kitchen in the morning. Like your trips to the lighthouse and your shared dinners, these tender gestures had become part of your shared routine.

Earlier, you had even kissed him in front of Solange, without thinking. The innkeeper had spilled her coffee in a burst of poorly contained joy before pulling you both into a flowery-aproned embrace.

“I knew it would happen!” She had screamed. “You’ve been dancing around each other for days. ‘Twas driving me mad!”

You had laughed. He had blushed.

Your voice pulled him back from his thoughts.

“Don’t be silly. You’ll get to drive again.”

“Yes, but you won’t be there.”

Your smile faltered.

He nestled his head into the curve of your neck and breathed in the scent of figs like a man famished.

“Is this just going to be a summer fling?” he murmured against your skin, barely audible, as if speaking it aloud might make it real.

“Would it be so bad if it were?” you whispered in reply.

He didn’t answer and just held you tighter.

“I think I love you,” he confessed. “Is that crazy?”

“Crazier than driving a car at 300km/h? I doubt it.”

He raised his head and gazed at you for a few seconds before kissing you softly. You returned the kiss, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips. When you parted, and emboldened by your closeness, he summoned all his courage to ask the question that had been circling in his head for days: “Now that the lighthouse is fixed up… don’t you think you could make room for a second purpose?”

He finished his thought before you could interrupt.

“What if I asked you to come with me?” he added, his voice barely above a whisper, far meeker than he’d intended.

You didn't answer. Instead, you placed a long, lingering, kiss on his forehead.

The conversation ended there. You didn't speak about it again, and Lando was smart enough to understand the no hidden in this silence. Not wanting to spoil the little time you had left together, he swallowed his pain and pretended nothing had happened.

The final two days passed in a softness unmatched, though touched with the weight of the Inevitable. You went back to the lighthouse, ate the inn’s oranges, swam, and kissed each other breathless.

On the very last evening, Lando crossed the threshold of your room for the first and last time, breaking a rule he’d silently set for himself.

You kissed. Your hands joined in. At first hesitant, then more assured. Breaths quickened. Sheets tangled beneath your movements. You clung to his back, your back arched, soft moans escaping your throat like a secret offered to the night. Lando found you all the more beautiful, abandoned to your desire. When he felt you tremble against him, he closed his eyes and followed you into completion.

Then came the quiet. Your body softened against his. You fell asleep naked, your head resting on his chest. Lando tried to view this carnal embrace as something other than a goodbye, but he couldn't, and so, he held you tighter before closing his eyes too.

The irregular growl of an old engine pulled Lando from his pleasant dreams and tolled the bell. Dread washed over him. That mechanical crackling heralded his departure, the one he had tried to postpone. It was the end of summer, and of so much more.

He reached out to his right. His hand met only the sheet, cold, empty.

Maybe she’s just gone downstairs, he told himself, though even he didn’t believe the lie.

In the two weeks he had spent with you, Lando had come to learn you were a wave—unpredictable and untameable. No cotton-sheet bed could restrain you. You would never wait for anyone, not even him.

His chest tightened, and suddenly he felt exposed in his own skin, acutely aware of his nudity. He pulled the sheet up to cover his chest as his breath quickened. Did you regret it? Why hadn’t you waited for him?

Lando stared blankly at the window. Outside, the sea rolled in on itself, whispering its salt-tinged taunts to the shore. It felt, to him, like mockery.

That knot in his stomach followed him all the way to the kitchen, where Solange was waiting.

His eyes went straight to your chair at the table. The untouched plate. The cooling but full coffee cup. His face dropped. He shut his eyes, less for self-pity than to avoid Solange’s knowing gaze.

“Jacques is a bit early,” was all the innkeeper said her voice subdued, but breaking the heavy silence all the same. “If ye want, I’ll tell him ye’re ready.”

“Might as well,” he said, bitterness bubbling up like brackish water, translating as a hollow laugh that made her wince. “There’s nothing keeping me here now, is there?”

Solange gave him a sad smile.

He sat, turning his back to her, and forced down his breakfast, pretending not to feel the lump in his throat.

Once his bowl was empty, he went back upstairs wordlessly. He packed slowly, tucking away the laptop with the training programme he had abandoned after a day.

Before zipping up the bag, he looked around the room one last time. The salt-bleached walls, the half-open window, the bed unmade. In the hallway, his eyes drifted toward your door. He stood there for a moment, taking in the remains of yesterday, then descended the creaking steps of the inn for the last time.

Downstairs, Solange wasted no time to embrace him.

He closed his eyes and nestled into her flowered apron, which reeked of fish, citrus, and olives. He searched the hug for even a trace of fig but caught himself and clung harder. That was when he felt her body tremble against his.

“Sol’?”

“It’s that blasted sea air,” she sniffed into his shoulder. “Makes me sneezy.”

She wiped her nose and looked up at him, her chin trembling.

“Ye’ll come back, won’t ye? That room’s yers now.”

She stepped back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening.

He nodded and, at last, stepped out of the inn, his heart heavy.

Ahead of him, the waves, always the waves. They danced in that natural rhythm of theirs, lifting, falling, crashing against the coast—a heartbeat born out of salt and sea.

Lando matched his breath to the swell.

This, he knew, was what he’d miss most. In Monaco, the sea drowned beneath the engines of monstrous yachts and behind the towers of concrete.

He turned his head.

In a bittersweet echo of their first encounter, Jacques stood on the jetty, pipe in mouth, silent. Only his old boat remained moored. Your sailboat was missing, having left behind nothing but a pile of frayed ropes.

You were gone. Without a word. Without a glance.

A flush rose to his cheeks—wrath and heartbreak intertwined. You had chosen to slip away, to avoid goodbyes.

Coward, a voice shouted in his mind.

Lando reached Jacques, jaw clenched. Without a word, he climbed aboard while the sailor cast off the rope. The engine coughed under them, then settled into a steady purr. Lando kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, shoulders tight.

He did not look back once, not at the inn, already shrinking behind them, nor at the lighthouse island, for fear of seeing a familiar sailboat there.

As they neared the mainland, a strange nausea coiled in his belly. The port appeared, then the village. He saw coloured cars parked haphazardly up the slope, terracotta-and-concrete houses perched like watchful birds on the green mountains.

Lando heaved.

Great, he thought, bitter. Now I have landsickness.

When they reached the shore, Jacques cut the engine and leapt out to tie up the boat. Lando followed, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes hollow.

The old man laid a big and calloused hand on his shoulder, gave it a firm squeeze, before nodding once. Lando felt a sting behind his eyes, and returned the gesture, swallowing hard. He didn’t think the sailor would handle it well if he burst into tears, so he didn’t.

Jacques didn’t linger. Lando hadn’t expected him to. The old man climbed back onto his creaking boat and disappeared into the waves, leaving Lando alone with his bag and his pain.

He stood frozen on the deck for a minute, eyes lost in the horizon, before startling out of his reverie and checking his watch. 10:12.

Before leaving for the inn, two weeks ago, he’d arranged for Max to pick him up by car at noon.

Out of habit, he switched on his phone. Hundreds of notifications flooded the screen, overwhelming him. Lando swallowed.

He hadn’t missed any of this.

His eyes flicked through the chaos, trying to make sense of it, but a headache was already blooming behind his temples.

A message from Max, sent barely an hour ago, caught his eye.

[09:21] Max: Sorry, mate. Something came up. Can’t pick you up.

Lando sighed, pocketed the phone, and slumped onto a bench at the port, defeated.

This day can’t get any worse, he thought.

He cursed the sea gods and fate—maybe they were the same beings—for making him their scapegoat. What had he done to deserve it?

Suddenly, a car horn blared behind him, jolting him from his brooding.

Lando spun around, and nearly choked.

You.

You, with your salt-frizzed hair and sun-burnt skin.

If he closed his eyes, Lando could almost imagine your fig fragrance, but the mirage quickly disappeared in the hints of diesel emanating from the exhaust pipe of the convertible you were driving.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, breathless just from the sight of you, solid and earthly.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to see you away from the sea, the lighthouse, your sailboat.

You pushed your sunglasses to your forehead and winked.

“Heard someone needed a ride to Monaco.”

For a moment he stood dumbstruck, staring.

Then he sprang into motion, dashed to the passenger side when you opened the door for him, tossed his bag into the back seat before kissing you. Hard.

“I thought you’d left without saying goodbye,” he said when you finally broke apart.

“I wanted to surprise you. Sol’ helped.”

“Of course she did,” he laughed, breathless.

He kissed you again, then froze.

“But– the lighthouse?” he stammered.

You waved it off.

“Turns out a lighthouse doesn’t have to be an actual one,” you said at last. “That was just me being dramatic. Took me a while to realise it could also be someone. I think that’s what my dad meant all along.”

“And… have you found that someone?”

“Yes. Even if he’d be useless if I’m lost at sea. He tends to throw up as soon as he's on a boat.”

You both laughed, more from relief than humour. Then you looked at him, softly.

“The lighthouse, even the inn– It kept me busy just long enough,” you said. “But it’s time to go back to the real world.”

He took your hand and squeezed it three times.

“And did you know,” you continued, “there are eighteen lighthouses on the Côte d’Azur? One of them’s in Monaco. I think I’ll be just fine there.”

It was only then that he noticed the suitcase tucked behind the driver’s seat.

“Does this mean…?”

He left the sentence hanging.

“Yes. I mean– if that’s alright with you, of course,” you added shyly.

“Of course it is! Hell, you can even move in with me!”

His enthusiasm made you burst out laughing.

“Calm down, Romeo. I’ve got a flat in Nice. But I could be convinced to spend a few nights at yours.”

You winked, pecked his lips, and finally started the car.

You drove along the coast, never straying too far from the sea, as if She refused to let go of the story she had helped shape—love erosion.

The radio crackled and filled the air with old French songs, riding the salty wind. Lando closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he turned toward the horizon.

He squinted.

Out there, just above the waves, he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of the lighthouse.

#cloves list of fics that she adores #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #ln4 x reader #lando norris fluff #this is so very mamma mia coded idk #poor guy couldn’t control his stomach

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clovermoters · 1 month ago

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these are so smau coded hold on i’m thinking thoughts

#lando norris #ln4 #formula 1 #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #lando norris fic #lando fluff #lando norris fluff

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clovermoters · 1 month ago

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oh my gosh folks httyd!lando has come home again briefly im about to be incredibly annoying again

drawing hearts in the byline ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

you’re not a creature to be studied. you’re a flicker, a hum beneath his ribs. a grin he remembers too well. he draws you not because he wants to understand you, but because he’s terrified of forgetting you. (or: an offshoot from my 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘵𝘵𝘺𝘥 𝘢𝘶, like all-fire.)

ꔮ starring: dragon rider!lando norris x dragon hunter!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.2k. ꔮ includes: romance, action, pinch of angst. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: how to train your dragon. depictions of blood, violence; mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. vignettes based on the main piece of work, lando yearns..., rivals to lovers, established relationship. title from taylor swift’s tolerate it. ꔮ commentary box: when i first wrote httyd!lando, it was purely to torture tara. imagine my surprise to find so many people caring deeply for this au 🍀 i’ve had this little extra piece on the backburner for a while now, and i truly must dedicate it to @clovermoters!!! my darling clove, thank you for always being so kind to this verse. i adore you to no end ‹𝟹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⸻ THIS IS BEST READ AFTER LIKE ALL-FIRE (PART ONE & PART TWO)!

You knew the angles of a hunt the way others knew prayer. But Lando had dropped from the sky like a storybook curse.

Lando licks salt off his teeth as Moomoo circles the ridge, wings cutting silently through the pine-stung air. Below, the traps flicker like candlelight through the mist. Wire. Bone. Little fire-bombs arranged in the jagged geometry of someone who knows exactly where dragons bleed.

Not a poacher. Too clean. Too confident.

He almost laughs. Almost. Then he sees you.

You’re crouched near a trap, dagger drawn, face streaked with ash like war paint. Your hair’s matted to your brow. Blood, maybe. Or sweat. Your hands move fast. Practiced. You don’t look up when Moomoo shifts overhead, even when her shadow slices the clearing in half.

You knew you were being watched.

Lando drops from the sky. Lands just behind you with the smug confidence of someone who grew up earning applause for sticking every landing. Boots kiss dirt. His cloak flares. He’s smiling before he even speaks.

“You’re trespassing.”

You whirl like a blade unsheathed. No hesitation. Just pure reaction: elbow to mouth, dagger to chest. He jerks back a half-beat too slow, and your elbow clips his lip. He tastes blood.

You scowl at him like he’s the offense. “I’m cleaning up your mess.”

That gets a grin. Unbidden. Unhelpful.

Still, there it is.

The rogue Devilish Dervish screeches somewhere in the trees. Moomoo clicks her jaw in answer, tail flicking like a warning. You don’t flinch. You cock your head toward the noise, eyes flinty. Focused.

Lando watches you like someone clocking a storm on the horizon. The damage is coming. It just hasn’t landed yet.

You vanish into the trees without another word, and he doesn’t stop you.

Back at the stronghold, he pretends not to think about you. That lasts roughly eleven minutes.

He sits cross-legged on his bunk, sketchbook balanced against one knee. Moomoo huffs near the fireplace, smoke curling from her nostrils like she’s dreaming of cinders. The room smells of burnt pine and old ink.

Lando sharpens a charcoal stick and sets to work.

Not you, exactly. A dragon.

But the jawline is yours. The eyes, too sharp. The mouth: a curve that looks like it’s halfway to cursing him out.

He sketches horns that arc like your daggers. Adds winglines that slash across the page like you slashed through that clearing.

He pauses. Tries again.

He can’t get the snarl right.

Lando tries a few versions. Broad wings. Sleeker spines. A Stormcutter silhouette, but more brutal. Something feral. Something fast.

It keeps coming out wrong. You weren’t graceful. You were precise.

He flips the page. Tries to remember the angle of your eyes when you looked at him like he was the idiot. The exact shape of your disgust. The tilt of your chin.

It won’t sit still in his hand.

Eventually, he tosses the sketchbook aside. It lands with a thud beside his boots. Moomoo snorts like she’s judging him.

He leans back on his elbows and stares up at the stone ceiling.

Just needs a refresher, he tells himself. That’s all.

He hopes you show up again. He’s fairly sure you will.

After that, it became a pattern. You found dragons, he found you. Sometimes too late to stop you, always just in time to scold. Sometimes you slipped away. Sometimes he let you. Once, during a wildfire in the Valley of Bones, you worked together.

The Valley of Bones is burning.

Lando tastes ash on his tongue before he sees the flames. Smoke yawns across the sky in slow, terrible ribbons, turning the ridges into ghosts. Moomoo dips lower, wings shearing through the soot like scissors through silk. Beneath them: orange crawl, black ruin, panic.

He spots you by the second ridge.

You’re waist-deep in smoke, face streaked with grime, eyes sharp as ever. The fire paints your silhouette in flickers. A blade cutting through chaos. You don’t see him. You’re too busy hauling half a nest out from under a crumbling rock shelf, the other half already ablaze behind you.

Three dragonlings chirp, mouths wide, too young to know their world is ending.

Lando slides off Moomoo before she lands. Hits the ground running.

You don’t flinch when he appears beside you. You only nod toward the nest and keep moving. It shouldn’t work, but it does.

No talking. No plan. Just motion.

Lando throws his cloak over the scorched half, beats out the flames. You dig with bare hands, cutting a path down the slope. He follows, cradling a squealing dragonling like it’s made of glass. His chest is burning. Not from the heat.

By the time you reach the creekbed, he can barely breathe. You collapse to your knees, soaking your sleeve, wiping soot off the smallest dragon’s snout. Lando watches you. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t bring himself to turn away.

Your hair is a mess. Your knuckles are torn. There’s a smudge of blood on your cheek that isn’t yours.

You look like hell.

You look magnificent.

He digs into his saddlebag. Pulls out the waterskin. The one he spent a week’s coin on. The one he told himself he’d break in on a long solo flight, ideally while impressively shirtless. He tosses it your way without looking.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he mutters.

You don’t even thank him—ungrateful brute. You take the waterskin the same way you’ve taken his heart.

Lando’s airborne again within the hour. The fire is dying. The nestlings are safe, curled in a crevice with the rookery scouts. You disappear before he can say anything stupid, which is both annoying and a form of grace. Because he had planned something stupid. Maybe.

Now, Moomoo glides silent across the dusk, the Valley shrinking behind her. The wind snaps at Lando’s sleeves. He stretches across her back, one hand threaded through the leather harness, the other curled under his head.

He tells himself he isn’t grinning.

“Did you see her face?” he says, loudly, to no one but his dragon.

Moomoo grunts.

“The timing on that ridge jump—deadly. Actually deadly. Could’ve snapped her ankle. Did she hesitate? Nope. Not even for a second. Insane. Amazing. Probably bleeding internally. Gods, I hope not.”

He exhales. “She saved them, you know. Those little nightmares. I barely did anything. Just followed her lead.”

Moomoo huffs, offended.

“Okay, we helped,” Lando amends. “But she started it. Just saying.”

Clouds swallow the last of the light. His voice gets quieter.

“I thought she was just a hunter. One of the brutal ones. But she—I don’t know. She looked at that nest like it mattered.”

He shifts, awkward in his own skin. “I mean, obviously dragons matter. But her? Caring about them? That wasn’t in the file.”

Moomoo makes a low clicking sound. Either agreement or indigestion. Lando doesn’t talk the rest of the way.

He just lies back against the saddle, legs hanging off one side, wind in his teeth. Somewhere between ridge and rookery, he mentally traces the arch of your fingers.

You began to map the shape of him like you did the sky. The way he always flew low before a dive. The way he clicked his tongue to steady Moomoo. The way he looked at dragons—not like a rider, not like a soldier. Like a boy looking at constellations. You began to wonder if you had been wrong.

He tells himself it’s tactical—standard scouting procedure, rider responsibility, all that. But Lando starts noticing when the ridgebirds stop nesting near the cliffs. When the ground-beasts steer clear of the western inlet. When the old trees downwind from the Spine Ridge get that still, breathless hush that means something bloody passed through.

Your patterns.

He doesn’t name them aloud. He just learns them. Learns you.

You always set your snares near shallow water. You use crushed fireglass in your tripwires, which sparkle like cursed starlight when the sun hits them. You double back. Change elevation. Move like wind disguised as a person.

You hunt clever. Mean. Clean.

Lando starts flying low more often. Pretends Moomoo is restless. She’s not.

The next time he finds you, you’re perched on a boulder, sharpening something wicked-looking. Your hair is shorter. He notices that first.

Also: the way you tuck your chin when you concentrate. The three freckles by your jaw. The scar at your knuckle, split like a tiny white grin.

He lands two meters away. Doesn’t dismount. “You know, stalking people is generally frowned upon,” you say dryly.

“Stalking? Please. I was on a scenic ride.” He swings a leg over, slides off Moomoo with theatrical grace. “You just happen to haunt all the prettiest places.”

You glance up. Flat. Unimpressed. “Flirt harder. Maybe the rocks will swoon.”

He presses a hand to his heart. “They aren’t already?”

“Not yet.”

Moomoo snorts like she’s enjoying herself.

You sigh. “Get out of here,” you grunt, sounding very much like Lando’s existence is a burden in its own. “I’m hunting.”

“Dangerous ones?”

“The usual.”

“So I should definitely stay, then. To supervise.”

You roll your eyes so hard he almost hears it. “Your version of supervision is getting caught in one of my traps and bleeding on my boots.”

He grins. “Worth it to spend a little more time with you.”

You throw a pebble at his foot. Not hard. Not soft either. He doesn’t move, and you have to chase him out with threats of worse bodily harm.

That night, he sketches.

He doesn’t mean to.

It’s late. The stronghold is quiet except for the scratch of charcoal and Moomoo shifting in her sleep. He starts with the usual. Winglines, motion studies, a new design for her saddle straps.

Then he draws a face.

Yours.

He gets the angles wrong. The mouth, right. The hair—short now. He adds the scar, the freckles. Frowns at the page.

Not soft enough. Not sharp enough. He tries again.

This time, he gets the way your eyes crescent when you’re holding back an insult. He closes the sketchbook when he’s done. Palms the cover like it might cool him off.

Lando doesn’t realize it yet, but he’s started to map the shape of you like he does the wind.

The way you favor high ground. The way you test a snare with the back of your wrist. The way you look at dragons. Not like prey, not like trophies. Like myths you aren’t ready to stop believing in.

He begins to wonder if he had been wrong.

Behind you, Lando’s laugh chases you out the door. He doesn’t even follow you, which leads you to think that there was no prize to win in the first place.

The door swings shut behind you.

Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t bolt after you. Doesn’t call your name.

He just watches the space you left behind like it’s still full of you. The ripple in the air, the ghost of your elbow in his ribs. Then he exhales, long and slow, and tips back the rest of his drink.

The stew-smelling server glances over. “Rough date?”

Lando grins without teeth. “She stole my notes.”

The server raises a brow, unimpressed. “That a metaphor?”

“Unfortunately not.”

Someone in the corner snickers. Another patron claps him on the shoulder in solidarity. Lando raises his empty mug like a toast and says to the room at large, “Don’t worry, everyone, she only broke my satchel and my heart. Nothing vital.”

He gets a cheer for that. Or a jeer. He can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that his notes were decoys. Old drafts. Half-legible diagrams and nonsense glyphs, packed full of enough fake theory to make a real scholar weep. The real ones—the real you ones—aren’t in there.

Those are hidden beneath his cot back home, tucked inside the hollowed-out base of a gearbox he swiped from the engineering yard.

He stumbles out of the tavern an hour later, loose-limbed and too warm. The night air smacks him gently across the cheeks. Moomoo’s waiting, curled like a patient question mark by the cliffside. She rumbles at him as he approaches.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. I deserved it.”

He climbs into the saddle awkwardly, still tipsy, still grinning like a man who should be upset and just isn’t. Moomoo takes off without needing a command. The sky splits open around them. Cold wind, sharp stars.

Lando touches his lips.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. Not even close. But the almost of it burns hotter than any campfire. He presses his thumb against his mouth like he’s trying to remember something he’s never actually known.

He doesn’t sketch that night.

Too drunk. Too full.

But he dreams in ink lines and smoke. In knife-flash and laughter. In the exact tilt of your head when you called him out, and the softer thing hiding just behind it.

The next morning, he drags the gearbox out from under the cot. Lifts the lid.

Pages spill into his lap. Your jawline. Your posture. The flick of your wrist as you laid a trap.

He reaches for the charcoal. Doesn’t hesitate. His head is pounding from the alcohol, from the rough flight after it, but he’s still got some hazy image of you in the back of his mind. The way you looked, lit by firelight and refusing to be caught. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to have.

Lando sketches like he flies: fast, instinctive, chasing something he knows he’ll never quite pin down.

He chases all the same.

“I thought you knew me better than that, Norris,” you answer, and he looks up at you like the world is caving in on him.

Lando is already fuming when he leaves Berk, the burn of frost on his cheeks doing nothing to snuff the slow, creeping rage curled in his chest. Snow crunches underfoot like broken glass. He doesn’t say goodbye to anyone. Just swings himself onto Moomoo, says, “Home,” like the word doesn’t taste like blood.

By the time he reaches Formulae, he’s exhausted. Not from the flight. No, that part was easy. Predictable. You pitch your body forward, and the dragon responds. You don’t have to explain to a dragon what you can’t put into words.

But words have always been his problem.

The moment he’s through the door of his room, he goes for his sketches. Dozens of them. Strewn across the desk, pinned to the wall, curling at the edges on the floor. Your face. Your scowl. The scar on your collarbone. The bowline of your shoulders when you think no one’s watching.

He doesn’t remember doing half of them. They’re not good. Not all of them. But there’s too many. Too many for someone who’s supposedly trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“Fuck,” Lando mutters, and grabs the nearest stack.

He lights them. Just the edges.

The flame licks up the parchment like it agrees with him. Like it knows how stupid he is for thinking you—you, of all people—could be simple. That what happened in that inn room was anything but borrowed time.

The fire crackles, and then panic punches through the rage.

He bats at the flame, dousing it with a blanket, cursing under his breath as smoke curls through the room. It doesn’t catch, gratefully, but it’d been close.

He stares at the blackened corner of a half-finished portrait. Your eyes, untouched. Watching him. Judging. Maybe forgiving. He throws it against the wall.

Tantrum, now. No other word for it.

He kicks the chair until his good leg is screeching with pain. Slams the drawer shut so hard it bounces open again. His prosthetic leg clunks uselessly against the edge of the bedframe when he tries to pace, like it, too, is fed up with him.

The wreckage is quiet when it ends. He sits in it, breath ragged, palm still tingling from where he touched you.

He digs through the rubble.

Finds one of the newer drawings. Freckles. He hadn’t noticed them until you fell asleep against him. Hair shorter. He remembers the way your fingers ghosted over your neck when you muttered something about needing a change.

Try as he might, he doesn’t know how to erase you.

Your meetings with Lando become just that. A string of stolen pleasures, one after the other, stitched into the fabric of days spent pretending.

The thing about secret rendezvous is that Lando gets very good at pretending.

He comes back from them with twigs in his curls, the smell of charred meat clinging to his sleeves, and a stupid grin he blames on sea wind. He files his reports with charming efficiency, hands them to Lewis with the easy confidence of someone who hasn’t been lying through his teeth every other day. Oscar barely blinks. Alex watches him like he might spontaneously combust. Lando smiles wider.

He’s not proud of how good he is at it. But gods, he doesn’t stop.

There’s the cove, and then there’s you. And somewhere in the middle, he forgets he’s not supposed to want this.

The first time he draws you again, it’s muscle memory. He doesn’t mean to. He’s just back on the island, still a little drunk on the sound of your voice, and he picks up the stub of charcoal by instinct. It scratches across the back of a shipping manifest. Your profile, turned slightly, brow furrowed as you consider a broken compass. There’s a smear of soot where your mouth should be. He rubs it out and redraws it twice.

He slides it under the cot.

He tells himself he will now most definitely be normal about you, since you two are kind-of, sort-of, maybe dating.

Lando draws you again the next night. And the night after that. Crude doodles, sometimes. The slope of your nose, the angle of your elbow braced against a saddle. He sketches you half-laughing, mid-glare, mid-stride. He sketches your dragon too, in fits and starts, with more guesswork than grace. There’s one of you brushing dirt off your sleeve. Another where you’re pressed to his side, legs tangled, looking away.

There’s one he doesn’t finish. You, sleeping.

He keeps those pages hidden beneath his cot, folded and tucked behind a loose panel in the wood. It’s not shame, exactly. It’s—private. Sacred. The kind of thing that feels less like art and more like keeping record in case you disappear. A ward. A record.

He used to draw dragons the same way. Back when he was still learning them, trying to memorize the lines of their wings, the dip of their spines. Back when knowledge meant protection, and sketches meant survival.

But he draws you for different reasons.

You’re not a creature to be studied. You’re a flicker, a hum beneath his ribs. A grin he remembers too well. He draws you not because he wants to understand you, but because he’s terrified of forgetting you.

He tells himself he’s got the hang of this. The lying. The not-looking-like-he’s-in-love thing.

But you meet him in the cove again two days later, hair windblown and face sunburnt, and the first thing you say is, “You look like you got in a fight with a nettle bush.”

He grins, exaggerated and wounded. “I battled through foliage to bring you this,” he declares, holding up what is absolutely a pilfered flask of cider. “Show some gratitude.”

You take it without comment, drink, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Your dragon grumbles behind you, all three tails twitching. Lucky eyes it with the disdain of someone who’s learned not to pick fights unless absolutely necessary. Lando suspects they’re having a telepathic pissing contest.

“You drew me again, didn’t you?” you ask casually, like you’re asking what he had for breakfast.

Lando freezes. Then laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only draw dragons.”

You don’t press. You only take another swig and sit down beside him, shoulder brushing his. “Sure you do.”

There’s a pause. The sky burns low, golden against the horizon. A breeze shifts the trees. Your dragons doze.

“Do I at least look cool?” you ask.

“Debatable,” Lando says, as casually as he can manage. He’s not in the business of confirming or denying your suspicions. “Though your glower has improved. Very menacing. I might even flinch next time.”

You elbow him lightly. He lets himself lean in just enough.

Later that night, he sketches again. You, this time, holding the cider flask and trying not to smile. Lucky peeking into the edge of the frame like a disapproving parent. The lines come easy.

He signs it with a scribble. Folds it. Hides it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever tell you about this hobby, this habit, this compulsion.

But if the time comes, he wants proof that this happened. That you were here. That he didn’t dream the whole damn thing.

Just in case.

You shout into the sky, wild and breathless. Below, the ocean gleams like glass. Lucky flanks you on one side, Lando grinning like he’s just won the world. And maybe, maybe you’re starting to understand the feeling.

There’s a rhythm to it now.

You show up to the training fields in the mornings, earlier than anyone should have to exist. The grass is still damp with dew, and the dragons are half-awake and wholly irritable. The recruits stumble in not long after, looking every inch the sleep-deprived, barely competent gaggle they are. And Lando—

Lando is already there. Always.

It should be suspicious. It is suspicious, if you ask Oscar or Alex or any of the dozen people who now raise eyebrows when Lando turns up within spitting distance of you at all hours of the day. Which is often.

He’s leaned against a fence post, trying to look casual, but he’s grinning the way a boy does when he’s just discovered that the girl he likes knows how to throw a knife.

“Morning, coach,” he calls.

“You’re not a recruit,” you deadpan.

“No, but I am incredibly supportive and moderately useful.”

“Moderately.”

“Exceptionally, if you count morale.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Which is maybe its own kind of love confession.

The recruits have caught on. Ollie keeps trying to place bets on how many minutes it’ll take before Lando gets you to smile. Gabi once shouted “just kiss already” in the middle of a sparring drill and nearly got a tail swipe to the face from Charm, who seems equally exasperated by the entire ordeal.

You’re composed, mostly. Focused. Your commands are crisp. You don’t give Lando any extra attention. At least, not obviously. But you catch yourself looking, sometimes. Noting the way his curls get curlier in the humidity. The sun on his cheekbones. The way he says your name like it’s both a tease and a tether.

He tries to behave. He really does. But he looks at you like you’re a miracle he hasn’t earned, and it’s making people sick.

“You’re the most lovesick fool I’ve ever met,” Oscar tells him one evening, watching from the hangar as you demonstrate a mounted roll with Charm. “You used to be cool.”

“I was never cool,” Lando replies. “I was just lonely.”

Oscar snarls. “Disgusting. I’m telling Lewis you said that. He’ll dock your salary for emotional instability.”

Lando doesn’t care. He leans on the railing and watches you with that same insufferable, open-mouthed awe. You’re arguing with Gabi about grip positioning, your hands firm and your face animated. There’s a smear of soot on your jaw. He wants to lick it off.

Instead, he pulls out his notebook and sketches the angle of your hand, the lines of your spine, the tilt of your head when you’re trying not to yell. Even now, even when you’re supposedly his, he’s still selfish about the parts of you that he can catalogue and keep.

You catch him watching. He doesn’t look away. You even pretend to be surprised when you find him loitering by the tack room.

“Did you want something?” you ask.

“Always,” he says, too fast. Then backtracks: “I mean, a reason. To be here. Yes. I do. I wanted to ask if you wanted to, uh, grab a drink.”

Your brows furrow. “We see each other twelve hours a day.”

“That’s hardly enough.”

You lean in, close enough to smell the soap he uses. Thyme and something citrus. “You’re terrible at pretending this is casual,” you accuse him.

Lando grins. Not the bright showman smile, but the smaller, devastating one. “That’s because it’s not. Not for me.”

You kiss him, chaste and indulgent, before he can say anything else. He chases it when you pull away.

“I have work to do,” you say, feigning exasperation.

“You always have work to do.”

“And you always have a face that makes me consider quitting.”

He laughs. The dragons rumble low. The evening light turns the cliffs gold. And Lando Norris stays hopelessly in love with you.

Lando burns the onions.

He’s halfway through explaining how the Academy’s rations aren’t that bad if you season them right—his hand gesturing dangerously with a wooden spoon, posture leaning dramatic against the stone counter—when the pan hisses like it’s personally offended. He curses under his breath, scrambling to turn the flame down, but it’s too late. The edges are charred, bitter smoke rising in lazy accusation. He fans it with a plate, swearing more creatively now.

Behind him, the bedsheets rustle.

Your voice floats in, amused: “Did you draw me sleeping, Norris? That’s kind of creepy.”

He whips around so fast he nearly knocks over the oil.

“Hey! Don’t go through my things!” he protests, ears already turning traitorously red. You’re lounging across his cot, legs tangled in the thin blanket, flipping through a stack of parchment like it’s your birthright.

“Relax,” you say, smiling that infuriating, fond smile. “It’s not like I found a shrine. Just pages. Of my face. From multiple angles. While I was clearly unaware.”

“They’re studies,” Lando sputters, turning back to the kitchen like the onions can somehow save him from this conversation. “For... dragon behavior. Facial expressions. Tactical relevance.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. The bed creaks as you shift, rustling through more parchment. “So me in profile, me laughing, me braiding my hair, me eating a plum—those are all strategic diagrams?”

Lando sighs. The onions are past saving. He grabs the edge of the skillet to move it, and hisses as heat bites into his palm.

“Fuck—!” He drops the handle, reaching for the nearest cloth, which turns out to be your sleeve. You offer your arm like a queen offering knighthood, amused and maddeningly calm.

“Cooking injury? How tragic. Burned by the fire of your own devotion,” you drawl.

He glares. You smile innocently.

“Do not make this poetic,” he grumbles, pressing the cloth to his hand. “It’s embarrassing enough.”

“I think it’s adorable. All this effort. And yet…” You hold up one of the drawings, squinting at it dramatically. “This one makes me look like I’m scowling at a pigeon.”

“That was a candid moment! You were actually scowling at a pigeon!”

He abandons the kitchen entirely. In the next breath, he’s kissing you to shut you up. Your laugh melts against his mouth. Your hand curls behind his neck, fingers threading through his curls.

He doesn’t remember when the sketches fall from your fingers. Only that later, much later, your body is pressed against his, breath warm, limbs tangled, heartbeat echoing against his ribs like a second pulse.

“You’re relentless,” he mutters, face buried in the crook of your neck. His voice is muffled, shame-coated. “Stop. You’re going to find the bad ones.”

“They’re all bad,” you tease, thumbing through the stack like you’re searching for something. The kind of teasing that feels too gentle to be real. You don’t mean what you say, and it’s evident in the way you treat his drawings with a holy sort of reverence.

“Hey,” you ask after a beat, “what are these smudges?”

He doesn’t answer. Because he knows. He knows what they are.

Little hearts. Unconscious things he’s doodled next to your elbows, your hair, your silhouette in flight. Next to the curl of your mouth when you’re fighting a smile. They’re stupid and tiny and pathetic. Lovesick nonsense. The kind of thing you draw without thinking. Without defense.

“Smudges,” he lies. “Probably charcoal. Got lazy with the fixative.”

You hum, amused. You probably know he’s lying. But you don’t press.

Instead, you carefully set the pages aside. You slide your hand down his chest, settle into his warmth like it’s a language only the two of you understand. Your legs tangle with his under the covers. Your fingers rest against the side of his neck, tracing idle shapes like you’re sketching him in return.

Lando still can’t believe you’re here. In his bed, in his house, in the lines of every page he couldn’t stop drawing.

He thinks maybe that’s enough. Even if you never say anything about the hearts. Even if you never ask what they mean.

He suspects, with a kind of quiet devastation, that you already know.

The morning sun finds Lando shirtless, half-asleep, and completely content. He pads barefoot across his crooked kitchen, still flushed from sleep and you. Pages are still scattered across the floor, a testament to both his chaos and your curiosity.

You’re gone from the bed, but not far. He hears the unmistakable rhythm of your pacing, soft but pointed, like you’re gearing up for a duel no one asked for. It’s either trouble or scheming. Possibly both.

He flips an egg anyway, because rituals matter. Even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. It wobbles in the pan like his composure.

By the time he plates breakfast (burned just enough to prove he cooked it himself), you’re sitting on his windowsill like some cryptic prophecy. Legs drawn up, expression unreadable, arms crossed with enough tension to power a siege weapon. You’re pretending to be casual, but your posture screams Notice me. No, wait. Don’t.

He leans against the table, mirroring your pose, lips already twitching. “So. Should I be worried? Or is this just your constipated way of showing affection again?”

You don’t look at him. Just mutter, “Shut up,” and shove something across the table. A crumpled piece of parchment, stained with what looks suspiciously like soy sauce and definitely like shame.

He takes it. Eyes scanning.

It’s… art. Technically. In the same way a tree branch is technically a weapon. Charcoal lines forming two vaguely humanoid blobs. One has a sword. Or a stick. Or possibly a very floppy fish. The perspective is nonexistent. The anatomy is illegal.

“Is this from one of the village kids?” he asks, genuinely puzzled, voice innocent. Which—judging by the sound you make—was the absolute wrong thing to say.

You turn your head, sharp and scathing. “No, you donkey. That’s me. And you. Gods, you’re such an idiot.”

Lando stares harder. The blob on the left—you, presumably—does have a braid. Or maybe a tail. The one on the right has what might be hair. And a grin big enough to swallow kingdoms.

“Oh,” he says, a bit breathless now. Then, softer: “You drew us.”

You shrug, arms tightening around yourself. “Don’t make it a thing. It’s dumb. You’re always sketching me like it’s nothing, like you’re just breathing. I thought… I don’t know. I wanted to try.”

The parchment crackles in his hands, too delicate for the weight it now carries.

He drops to his knees.

You blink. “What are you doing.”

“Marrying you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Because it is. Because of course it is. “I am on my knees, proposing.”

“Get up,” you say, instantly horrified. “Don’t do this. Not over that.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with me now,” he says, grasping your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles like he’s some medieval prince and you’re a very grumpy monarch. You try to yank your hand back. He doesn’t let you.

He pulls. You resist. He pulls harder. You land in his lap, knees everywhere, elbow in his ribs. Swearing like a sailor.

“This is undignified,” you hiss, already flushed.

“So’s loving you,” he exhales, and starts kissing you anyway. Your jaw. Your cheek. The tender patch behind your ear. Each one soft and sure. Worship disguised as irreverence. Devotion in the shape of mockery.

You pretend to hate it. But your hand fumbles for his anyway.

Lando feels like he’s been split open with joy. It hurts, in the way flying sometimes hurts—when the air’s too thin and the earth looks too far away.

He looks at the drawing again later, when you’re half-asleep atop his chest. The stick figures are uneven. The background smudged beyond salvation. But there you are. And here he is. Side by side, drawn by your hand.

And in the middle of it all, a crooked little heart. ⛐

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #hiccup!lando my angel boy #cloves list of fics that she adores

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