farfromharry

[farfromharry]

What the fuck? | Lando Norris

Transformers au

Summary: A successful date turns into a living nightmare when Y/N comes face to face with the alien living in Lando’s garage. Oh, and it also doubles as his car too…?

w/c 3155

a/n i rewatched transformers the other day and this came to mind idk, its pretty random but i had to get it out of my head

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Lando Norris was hot. 

For months he had been coming into your work for coffee. He was that customer that every worker fawned over. There was a cat fight every time the bell above the door sounded and he stepped inside. Everyone wanted to be the one to take his order. He was polite to everyone, as he should be. There was only one person who he flirted with though. Y/N. 

On the off chance that everyone else was busy and she finally got the opportunity to serve him, they chatted for ages. He was constantly asking her questions that had obvious answers, just so he could talk to her for longer. They talked about their days, he complimented her and she always drew a little heart by his name when handing him his cup.

Really it was only a matter of time before he asked her out. 

For weeks he had been building up the courage. Coming into the cafe and pretending to stare at the menu until she was free. He saw how they bickered when he came in. It would have done wonders for his ego had he not been trying to impress someone specific. She hadn’t picked up on it though. Y/N thought it was just luck that everyone else was busy. If only she knew that he was there for her– he didn’t even like coffee.

“Would you like to go out sometime?” She was clearly caught off guard. “With me, I mean.”

Nervously, her eyes darted to the side, where an older lady stood watching them. It wasn’t the first time he had seen her around. He assumed she was the manager or something of the sorts. His mouth formed an O shape. Now wasn’t a good time for them to talk about this.

“Your total is £3.86.” 

The man tapped his card, nodded at her and then moved off to the side to wait for his drink. There was no mention of his offer when she called his name to collect, but as he was leaving he did notice the number and the smiley face jotted down on the side of his cup. A laugh bubble in his throat. The little minx. 

When a text from a random number came through to Y/N’s phone a day later, she grinned to herself. Lando was persistent, she would give him that. 

It took all of 2 minutes to spill it to her roommate and given how often she talked about the hot customer that came in practically every day, she insisted she go for it. Who was she to turn down a man that looked like that and was very clearly interested in her? She was very quick to say yes. 

He picked her up from her apartment, his pricey Porsche practically sparkling under the street lights. She was in awe. The dark green exterior was gorgeous, to die for. It must have been cleaned recently, but he did seem like the type to take care of his car. He was leaning against it when she emerged from her building, his arms crossed, stretching the material of his button up tightly over his chest and his arms. Those arms… She had no idea how she was going to survive this date.

But she did and she had a great time. He was funny, charming and a mighty good kisser. They could barely keep their hands off of each other. In the car on the way back, his hand rested on her leg, bordering on dangerous with how close it was to the hem of her dress. She loved it though and as soon as the car was stopped she was the first to launch herself at him. He was slightly caught off guard, but quickly kissed her back. 

She didn’t expect him to push her away. Fear filled her. The idea that she had read something wrong or gotten mixed signals was horrifying. It must have been written all over her face. His hand settled on her cheek, silently asking her to look at him. When she did he was smiling. 

“I’m not rejecting you.” That was a good start at least. He pulled the keys from the ignition and winked at her. “Just think we should head inside.”

The dread that had once been written all over her face was quickly replaced by lust. With how he looked in the moonlight right now, curls falling over his forehead, facial hair he was too stubborn to shave and just the right amount of buttons undone on his shirt, there was no way she was going to turn down that offer. “Lead the way, Norris.” 

When she stepped out of the car the wind bit at her face, the chill sent down her spine forcing her to wrap her arms around herself. How she would love a bit of Lando’s body heat mixing with hers right now. Even just when his hand touched the small of her back she immediately felt warmer. 

Like the gentleman he tried so hard to be, he unlocked the front door and let her in first. Only when she stood in the doorway awkwardly did he remember she had never been in his house before; she had no idea where she was going. 

Lando laughed. “Right. My bad.”

After closing the door behind him, he laced his fingers with hers tugging her in the direction of the couch in the living room. He sat down first, sinking into the couch, legs spread and head leaning on the back, eyes staring up at her with a silent invitation. He looked edible. Any normal person would probably see the empty space beside him and claim that, but not Y/N. The most inviting place for her right now was that of his lap. Why waste time? 

Apparently straddling him was a good idea. Helped set the mood. Lando enjoyed it anyway. Big hands came to hold her sides, the smirk sneaking onto his face annoyingly attractive. 

“Hi,” he whispered. 

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, another finding its way into the long curls at the back of his neck. Not yet tugging, but considering it. “Hello.” 

Neither of them were sure who initiated it. One minute she was practically drooling over the way he was gazing up at her, eyes dilated and lips slightly parted, the next he was mentally thanking whatever miracles had allowed him to be in this moment. Soft lips met his, stealing his breath. Their noses bumped. Teeth clashed. Lando never wanted it to end. 

A loud crash from somewhere in the house stole her attention. Their lips briefly separated. As much as she would have liked to keep kissing him, the noise was loud and distracting. “What was that?” she asked, trying to ignore the way his thumb stroked her cheek. He was incredibly intoxicating in the best way. 

He tried to shake it off. Of course he had heard it, but he knew exactly what the culprit was and really didn’t want to share. “I didn’t hear anything.” In his mind, denial was the best way to go, followed by distraction. The perfect distraction would be his lips in this case.

Gently, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger, guiding her face back to his. Their lips connected again and she sighed heartily against his mouth. He smiled briefly, but it disappeared as soon as he found himself lost in the kiss again. His other hand was on her hip, keeping her pressed tightly to his body. He didn’t want even a centimetre of space between them. If anyone were to look at them they wouldn’t know where he started and she ended. The way she kissed was intoxicating. 

Bang. 

There was that noise again. Y/N pulled back, but Lando wasn’t done. Swollen lips found her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses on her skin. Her eyes fluttered but she quickly snapped herself out of it. Letting herself get distracted by his touch was exactly what he wanted. Whether he liked it or not, she was going to get to the bottom of that noise. 

When she climbed out of his lap like a woman on a mission, his heart dropped. He had to keep her out of the garage at all costs. 

“Y/N, hey. What are you doing?” The look on his face was far from calm. It would be obvious to anyone in a 10 foot range that he was hiding something. And if anyone was listening, she was praying it wasn’t something weird because he was just so hot. 

“Tell me what that noise is.”

It wasn’t a question, it was an order. 

Looking right at him was a face of fury. She had just wanted a good night, a normal date for once in her life. Lando was supposed to be a good one. The night had been going so well and now here she was. The man visibly deflated. Clearly she was upset, annoyed– a whole mix of different emotions, but none of them good. Maybe coming clean was the best idea. 

A sigh, then a longing look at the Porsche beside them.

The next time he looked at her it was with such desperation that her chest actually ached for him. He didn’t know what to do. “Look, what I’m gonna say is…” How was he supposed to put it? There was no sane way of coming clean here. “It’s crazy. But I need you to know I am telling the truth. If you promise not to freak out I’ll show you.”

Understandably, she was hesitant. There was something in his eyes though that told her she could trust him on this. “Okay.”

With a nod, he tapped the roof of the car twice. “Show her.”

She wasn’t sure what she was witnessing was real. Right before her eyes the Porsche in front of her shifted from a car into something that resembled a… person. It even blinked, waved at her. She thought she was losing her mind. Surely this was some illusion, a trick of the light or something he used to impress women. When she turned to look at him, he looked completely unbothered, like this was something he was totally used to.

“What the fuck?” she yelled, eyes blown wide as she stared at the car turned… thing that she couldn’t even find a logical explanation for. Had she taken a drug that she didn’t know about, or maybe her world was turning upside down? Either way, she sort of felt nauseous. Lando’s hand was quick to come up and cover her mouth when she screamed again. The last thing he needed was his neighbours getting worried that someone was being murdered in his garage. 

Wide eyes were frantically darting all over the place, trying to conjure up a reasonable explanation for whatever the fuck was happening. 

Lando was just trying to soothe her. “Listen to me, I need you to calm down.”

That was a rich suggestion. Who was he to tell her to calm down? It wasn’t everyday someone saw a literal car transform into something almost human. Her chest was heaving, clearly startled, scared out of her mind. Maybe there were better ways he could have broken this news to her. 

Just as he thought he might be starting to make progress, the robot opened its mouth and sent her spiraling all over again. “Hello.” It even waved. 

Lando cursed, shooting the Porsche quite a harsh glare. Then he placed his attention back on Y/N, placing his hands on her arms in an effort to keep her focused on him. “Breathe with me. Come on.” 

It took a while, but eventually she managed to match his breathing. Her mind was still racing, but she was definitely more relaxed. He smiled. 

“Good. You feeling better?”

She let out a breath. “I think so. But can you please explain what the hell is going on?” She looked desperate. He was starting to feel guilty for dropping this on her. 

The thing is, he didn’t really know himself. Months ago, Lando had been going through a crisis and thought the best way to fix it was to buy a run down version of one of his dream cars. Then he would fix it up, make it all shiny and new again. Only, one day had entered his garage to find it was exactly how he pictured it in his mind. He had paused, stared at it blankly for a few seconds and then it had done it for the first time. The car, his car, literally transformed into some sort of robot. It even spoke to him, assured him he was harmless. At no point did he explain why or how he was here, and Lando had never really asked. 

“Um, well, he’s an Autobot, from space.” It was a shitty explanation, one that did nothing to make her feel better. This thing was an alien and Lando was standing here acting like this was normal. “He’s harmless, I swear. His name’s Mirage.” He added that extra bit of information like it would make everything better. 

The next thing either of them knew she was hitting the group with quite the thump. Faintly she might have heard Lando’s panicked gasp, but she wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

When her eyes fluttered open she assumed it was a few hours later. It was darker now outside and she was laying in an unfamiliar living room. She groaned, rubbing at her head that was throbbing slightly— probably from how hard she hit the floor. Lando was by her side the second he realised she was awake.

“Hey, gave us quite the scare there. Feeling okay?”

She smiled softly, rather happy with how attentive he was being for a first date. “Yeah. I had such a crazy dream,” she laughed, “your car—“ Her brain seemed to suddenly catch up to what he’d said, her brow furrowing and her eyes darting to him. “Wait, who’s us?” 

He smiled sheepishly. There was a tap on the window. Part of her wanted to ignore it, but another part of her was desperate to know if what she’d just witnessed was real. Even if it was terrifying. This time he didn’t try to stop her, just let her sit up and peer around the arm of the couch to look out the window. The moment she noticed was obvious. Her body went rigid. “Oh my god, it was real!” 

His laughter was strained. This was the last way he thought this first date was going to turn out. She probably thought the same thing. The only problem was that even if she never wanted to see him again, he had to make sure she kept his secret. Unfortunately she was going to have to stick around. 

“Look, about this whole thing… you can’t tell anyone.”

She scoffed. “Lando, you’ve just shown me an alien and you expect me to keep quiet?”

A frown crept onto his face. If he didn’t think he could trust her, he wouldn’t have told her the truth. He would have made something up to throw her off the scent. But things had been going well and she seemed like the kind of person that could keep a secret if she knew it was important. This was the most important thing in the world to Lando. 

“No, Y/N, I’m serious.” His eyes were pleading with her. “Please, if anyone finds out about this I don’t know what they’d do to him. He left his planet to escape war, what do you think is gonna happen if people find out about this?”

It was understandable. Her fear was clouding her rational judgement. Once she managed to get her breathing under control, she felt like she could think more clearly. Lando’s words meant more sense. It wasn’t fair to ruin someone’s life because she was scared. 

He could see her start to calm down.

“Okay.” She nodded. “I won’t tell.”

Lando let out a breath and his whole body sagged. The relief he was feeling was blatant. “Thank you.”

Silence settled between them. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable per say, but neither of them were sure what to say. It was a weird situation. Certainly not one people found themselves in every day, or ever for that matter. She didn’t know how to handle it. No one knew about Lando’s secret. Not even his closest friends. This was something he hadn’t had to deal with before, he didn’t know what to do or what to say. 

“Do you, um, want to meet him properly?” Maybe if she could actually talk to him, see what he was like, she would understand. At least he hoped so. 

The look on her face was hard to read. Clearly she was weighing out the pros and cons of meeting an alien. If Lando had been given that choice when he and Mirage had first met, he probably would have panicked too, probably even ran away. On the brightside, she had someone by her side to make this whole thing a little less stressful. He didn’t have that back then. He sure would have liked to. 

“Okay.”

A sigh passed his lips. “He’s friendly, really.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but Lando was already taking her hand to guide her outside. Uncertainty was drowning her, but he seemed so sure. The thing– Mirage, she guessed– was waiting patiently outside to greet her. Upon first rational glance he seemed rather polite actually. She was surprised. 

Lando felt like a parent introducing his child to someone. “Say hello.” Gently he nudged her forward. He knew his car well and he wouldn’t be on anything but his best behaviour. 

“Um, hi there.” An awkward wave followed. 

The man tried to stifle his laugh but considering the glare she shot his way, he suspected she might have heard it. 

Mirage sort of smiled. “Hello.” He held out his hand, a hand shake being a gesture that Lando had taught him in a bid to make him more used to people. 

Her eyes were wide. Nonetheless she took his… hand, and shook it. Her head was spinning. “This is fucking crazy,” she whispered.

Lando was beaming, his grin stretching from one ear to the other. He whispered right back. “I know, right.” 

Looking at him now, she couldn’t believe she used to think he was just a normal guy that had become a regular at her job. “You’re, like, the coolest guy I’ve ever met.”

He really liked the sound of that. The compliment literally went straight to his head and he had no shame about it. “So, does that mean there’s gonna be a second date?” 

She laughed. “I’m about to propose, so.”

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[farfromharry]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. ��Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[farfromharry]

The Long Way Home I Interlude

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Tell a friend to tell a friend… she’s backkkkkk. P.S. We’ll pick up Oscar, Harper and baby Clem in the next chapter which will begin our F2 era (forgive me for skipping F3, but we will revisit that era in the future!)

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They started to call it home before they even had the keys.

It was the kind of flat you only ever saw in a glossy magazine or on a Netflix teen drama — all clean lines and warm wood, soft lighting that dimmed with a voice command, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the city skyline into wallpaper. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a concierge who knew them by name, underground parking, and a leafy park nearby with a duck pond.

It was somewhere in Zone 2 — close enough to the centre for Harper to feel like part of something, far enough out for Oscar to breathe. Within easy driving distance of Silverstone, and surrounded by three coffee shops that all knew Harper's name and her usual: an oat flat white, extra hot, one sugar. Coffee had become a staple since becoming a mum. It was either that or total collapse.

They signed the lease two weeks before Clem's second birthday. Moved in one week after. Harper carried the baby through the door on her hip, while Oscar fumbled with the keys and kept asking, "Are we really doing this?" as though the furniture wouldn't show up in four hours and make it permanent.

Oscar had taken a year out of racing after Clementine was born.

It wasn't a planned decision, and it wasn't one many people understood — least of all the people who'd watched him dominate junior karting and expected him to rise like smoke through the open-wheel ranks. But he'd missed too much school. Missed too many nights, too many hours of Harper crying or trying to make Clementine latch, or just needing someone to keep her upright. And when he was asked — really asked — Are you sure you're not throwing it all away? his answer was always simple.

"She's my baby. Of course I'm sure."

So while others trained and raced and pushed for attention, Oscar Piastri vanished. No interviews, no paddock appearances. Just him, and Harper, and a squishy pink newborn who made the ceiling light look like a disco every time she waved her hands.

They stayed at Haileybury, still just fifteen, turning sixteen. They re-sat their missed GCSEs and passed on the second try. Clementine learned to crawl in the boys' dorm common room. She took her first steps in the school library.

Their friends — Jane and Sam and Matt and Alfie and the rest of that oddball, fiercely loyal circle — became her first family. Clementine had more teenaged godparents than anyone could count. She learned to walk holding onto Oscar's physics notes. She learned to talk sitting in Harper's lap as she typed HTML.

Then came the offer — again. F3. A team ready to take him as soon as he was ready to return. It had been a quiet year in the eyes of the motorsport world — but Oscar came back different. Sharper. More grounded. And far more terrifying behind the wheel.

So they moved into the London flat. Nicole helped decorate — soft colours, baby gates, a kitchen with pale blue cabinets and an American fridge.

Mark handled the other side of Oscar's life. The logistics. Contract offers that just kept getting longer.

Clementine's nursery was a vision board of calm: birchwood cot, pastel cloud decals, a plush rug like walking on cake.

Harper coded the baby monitor app herself — it had the ability to learn and distinguish between Clemmy's cries.

Oscar installed blackout blinds and built a mini bookshelf filled with picture books in three different languages.

They weren't struggling — not the way people expected seventeen-year-old parents to be. Not financially, anyway.

But money never softened the sharp edges of responsibility.

There were still nights where Clementine cried for hours and Harper paced in circles, whispering, 'You're okay, you're okay,' like a mantra she needed to believe herself. There were still moments where Oscar stared at the calendar on the fridge — race dates, interview days, booster shot appointments — and felt panic coil in his chest.

Still, they chose it. Every day. And every day it got a little easier.

In the two years after Clementine was born, the world became a blur of trackside hotel rooms and baby bottles tucked into designer handbags. Harper and Clem travelled with Oscar more often than not — Japan, Italy, Austria, France.

Harper made a rule: in every new country, within three days, she had to learn to order a coffee in the local language.

Oscar made a rule: Clementine got to press the elevator button in every hotel.

They were young. Strange. Wildly out of place sometimes — but a family all the same.

Harper built Oscar's official website from scratch — sleek, scalable, clean UX, dark mode toggle because he was picky. Max Verstappen emailed her after seeing it. (Hey — could you build me something similar?) She said she'd think about it.

She sat her A-levels online. She was already starting to specialise in full-stack development. Her dyscalculia made things hell sometimes — numbers swam on the screen — but she learned how to code by pattern and logic, by rhythm and recursion. She learned how to work with her brain, not against it.

Oscar kept racing. And winning. F4 became F3. Then whispers of F2 began. He got sharper in interviews, more polished for sponsors, more careful around cameras. But at night — when it was just them, limbs tangled on a hotel bed, or Clem snoring softly between them in the cot — he was still that awkward, soft-eyed boy.

They celebrated Clementine's second birthday in a hotel suite in Barcelona with balloons Oscar had blown up and a lopsided cake. They FaceTimed the Haileybury crew. Jane cried. Sam tried to teach Clementine to say fuck.

Later that month, they hung a print in the entryway of their flat. Just one word, in soft gold foil.

Our Home.

Because for all the flights and chaos and podiums and late-night feeds — that's what they were building. Slowly. Quietly. Against every odd and every doubt.

They were seventeen and a half. Young. Exhausted. Occasionally terrified.

But they were a family.

And it was messy, and real, and theirs.

[farfromharry]

What's in my bag ?

Summary : While filming a “What’s In My Bag?” video for TUMI during a dreamy shoot in Lake Como, Lando Norris proudly shares his favorite travel items: headphones, cinnamon mints, lucky charms… and a stack of Polaroids of his girlfriend.

Until one very private photo slips into the mix, and suddenly the internet sees a whole lot more than he meant to show.

Genre : suggestive, fluff, oneshot

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Warning : mature content, allusion to nude and sex activities

Main Masterlist

Author notes : funny and soft oneshot to bring a little bit of joy after the race of Sunday. Everyone please stay safe and if you can, stay away from social media if it gets too hard after this week-end race, love you all <3

Lake Como glistened in the soft morning light, its surface scattered with diamonds of sun as gentle waves rolled against the dock. A light breeze rustled the cypress trees lining the water’s edge, carrying with it the scent of pine and polished wood from the nearby villas. Birds chirped, water lapped, cameras clicked.

And somewhere on a private terrace above the lake, Lando Norris was trying not to sweat through his linen shirt.

“Alright, we’re rolling in three, two, one...” the cameraman’s voice faded into silence as the red light blinked on.

Lando sat back in the sleek director-style chair, a black TUMI backpack resting on his lap. He adjusted the strap, cleared his throat, and gave the camera his signature, cheeky grin.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.

“This is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when I’m traveling. It’s kind of like my...survival kit,” he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. “You’ll see what I mean.”

One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.

“First up: my headphones,” he said, holding up a sleek black pair. “Can’t live without these. Whether it’s music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.”

He paused and smirked at the camera. “They also help when I’m pretending not to hear Oscar.”

The staff behind the camera chuckled.

“Next... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.” He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. “I’m international, baby.”.”

He dug deeper into the backpack and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, he revealed several stone bracelets in warm earthy tones.

“My mum got me these for Christmas,” he said quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just… makes me feel a bit more grounded.”

He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.

“Cinnamon mints,” he declared proudly. “For the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you don’t eat like a raccoon at midnight.”

More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.

“Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”

He pulled out a tangled mess of keychains, one shaped like a tiny McLaren helmet, another a fluffy orange pom-pom, and the last: a piece of tissue with the initials LN sewn into it.

“A fan gave me this,” he said, holding it between his fingers. “I’ve had it for years. It’s falling apart but... can’t travel without it.”

He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.

“Oh... wait,” he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.

He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.

“Uhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely can’t show you,” he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say... it's better to stay protected”

The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic “ooooohhh.”

“What?” Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You never know, okay? I like to get prepared.”

Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.

“This guy comes everywhere with me,” he said. “I take film photos when I travel. Stuff that’s just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.”

He held it up with affection, then reached in again and began pulling out little mementos: a handmade skull keyring from Mexico, a folded receipt with something scribbled on the back, a broken friendship bracelet.

“I’m kind of a hoarder,” he admitted. “These are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.”

His hand brushed against something in the side pocket. A small, rubbery bottle.

He pulled it out before he registered what it was.

There was a beat.

He stared at the camera.

The bottle gleamed in the sunlight. Bright pink. Labelled clearly ' Lubricant: Strawberry flavor' .

“Oh. My god.”

He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.

“I...okay, that’s not, this is not...this wasn’t meant to be in here.”

He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.

The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.

“I swear this is not... I didn’t pack this bag this morning!” Lando stammered. “Okay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.”

Lando groaned. “Can we cut that out? Please? It’s for...dry skin.”

“Oh wich part of your skin?”

He buried his face in his hands and trie to change the subject.

Still flustered, he grabbed one of his tech pouches and unzipped it, desperate to pivot.

“Oh!” he beamed. “Okay. These are my favorites.”

From the padded pouch meant for a laptop, he pulled out a neat little stack of Polaroids tied with a red ribbon. He untied them quickly, holding the first one up to the camera.

“This... is my girlfriend.”

The way he said it, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was soft, sincere.

He flipped through the pictures with reverence.

“This is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.”

He laughed.

“This is us in Monaco. Don’t ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.”

Another.

“This is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.”

His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.

“And this...”

He held up the next Polaroid to the camera without looking at it first. There was a beat. A pause.

From behind the camera, someone made a choked noise.

Lando glanced up. “What?” Then looked at the picture.

“Oh...oh, no. No, no, no...”

He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.

“Shit, this isn’t...this was not supposed to be in that pile.”

He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.

“Oh my god, please can you blur it,” he groaned, covering his face. “That’s from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.”

The entire crew burst into cackles.

“I swear to god if that makes the cut, I’m a dead man. She’s going to kill me.”

“Was that a nude?” someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.

“I am not answering that.”

“Was it?” the assistant pressed.

“I plead the fifth,” Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. “Blur it. Blur it, please. I’m begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.”

He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.

“Anyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.”

But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.

“Alright. That’s what’s in my bag,” he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. “And apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.”

He groaned again. “Can we cut that part? Please? I swear, she’s gonna make me sleep on the balcony.”

The red light turned off.

The staff burst into applause.

“Best interview yet,” one of the directors laughed, clapping. “Gonna break the internet.”

@TUMIofficial

WHAT’S IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with him👀

@_user1 WAIT. Did he just… show a nude of his gf on camera?? 😭😭😭

@_user2 THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die 💀💀💀

@_user3 No bc I NEED to know what was on that Polaroid. Was it like artsy nude or nude-nude?

@_user4 LMFAO he had the audacity to hint at condoms, then literally WHIPPED OUT A NUDE LIKE IT’S A FAMILY VACAY SNAP 💀💀

@_user5 He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? man’s layered fr

@_user6 Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad 😭 someone check on the TUMI PR team

@_user7 Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. He’s packing for a weekend of sin.

@_user8 He really said: “this is her being pretty, this is her sleeping… and this is her NAKED” lmao LANDO WHYYYYY

@_user9 This man is not traveling. He’s on a mission.

@_user10 Lando really opened that bag and gave us: emotional support bracelets, cinnamon mints, protection, lube, porn. He's got range.

@_user11 “Some stuff I can’t show you” and then five minutes later accidentally shows us 😭 this man has NO filter and NO chill

@_user12 This isn’t a “what’s in my bag” this was a “what’s in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpak”

@_user13 He said “I like to be prepared” and I believe him now

@_user14 “That’s from the other pile” UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??

@_user15 Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando

@_user16 He really said “what’s in my bag?” and the answer was: horniness

Texts messages

Y/N Just watched the TUMI video 😇

Lando Oh no.

Y/N The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? 🤗

Lando BABE It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing I didn’t mean to pull that photo I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where you’re wearing my hoodie!!

Y/N So you show the one where i’m wearing nothing at all?

Lando I’m sweating I’m actually sweating I’m gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents

Y/N My mum did text me She said “interesting campaign... very modern”

Lando NOOOOOOOOOOOO I’m crawling into the lake

Y/N Also “i like to be prepared”? Really? What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? 🤔

Lando Dry skin!!! I said it's for my dry skin!!!!!

Y/N Right Because when i think of skin hydratation i think of edible lubricant 🙃

Lando I’m scared to check twitter Someone called my bag “frat boy coded" They’re not wrong

Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack You’re like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex

Lando DORA?!?!?! 😭

Y/N “What’s in my bag?” Everything but self-control

Lando Okay, first of all, RUDE Second of all… the lube smells nice Third of all… You didn’t complain last time

Y/N Oh so now you’re doubling down??

Lando Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation Besides What’s so wrong with carrying a few... essentials? A man’s gotta travel prepared

Y/N You sound like a horny boy scout

Lando “Always be ready” is a valid motto 🙋‍♂️

Y/N Valid until you drop a bottle of lube in front of a camera crew

Lando They laughed so hard i thought someone was gonna need CPR

Y/N You’re lucky i love you And you’re lucky the nude was actually a good one

Lando Thank you 🥺 i almost show the one where you’re biting the sheet but i had... instincts

Y/N INSTINCTS???? You mean your last two brain cells had a moment of clarity

Lando Pls Do you still love me?

Y/N Debatable Might depend on whether or not you bring me almond croissants when you will come back

Lando Deal But only if you let me take a new Polaroid… One just for me to see😉

Y/N … Good luck on media day tomorrow Norris

Lando Oh no god I forgot about that

The paddock was already buzzing by the time Lando arrived, hoodie up over his head like he was trying to go incognito. Not that it helped, cameras turned as soon as he walked through the gates.

Media day.

He kept his head down, offering a few tight-lipped smiles to passing crew and journalists. He could feel the looks. The barely contained smirks. The PR team had already warned him to "expect commentary.” He hadn’t realized commentary meant the entire motorsport world was now intimately familiar with the contents of his bag.

He reached the McLaren hospitality unit and headed straight for the driver lounge.

Oscar was already there.

He looked up from his phone the second Lando walked in, and the smile started immediately.

“Morning,” Oscar said, way too casual. “Sleep well?”

Lando didn’t answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.

Oscar waited half a beat.

Then: “So… what’s in your bag today?”

Lando groaned, eyes closing. “No.”

“No what?” Oscar asked, blinking innocently.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. “Right. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.”

Lando didn’t move but look at him shocked. “Oscar!”

“Yes?”

“I will actually fight you if you keep talking”

Oscar continued, unfazed. “I’ve learned a lot about you this week.”

“Please stop.”

“Your skincare routine. Your travel essentials.”

“It’s for my girlfriend,” Lando muttered.

Oscar nodded slowly. “Romantic.”

Lando looked at him. “I didn’t mean to show half that stuff.”

Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: “You were really sweating.”

“I was panicking, Oscar.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

There was a pause.

Oscar looked back down at his phone.

“I just didn’t know you were the type to carry… souvenirs.”

Lando threw his head back and groaned. “It’s private. It’s supposed to stay private.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You handed it to a camera crew.”

“I didn’t know it was that one.”

Oscar hummed. “Risky system.”

Lando covered his face. “I’m not coming out for media. Tell them I’ve combusted.”

Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. “Might be safer. Someone from Williams asked if you’re sponsored by Durex now.”

Lando didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.

Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.

Then, after a beat: “At least the mints were normal.”

“Thanks,” Lando said miserably. “Really comforting.”

Oscar took another sip from his water bottle, then looked back at Lando, who was still sulking in the chair across from him, hoodie half over his face.

After a moment, Oscar spoke again. Calm. Curious.

“Okay, but... I actually have a question now.”

Lando didn’t move. “Please don’t.”

Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. “What’s in the pile?”

Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. “What the hell, Oscar?”

Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. “You said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then there’s the private-private pile. So… what’s in it?”

“I am not...” Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. “...having this conversation with you.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Just curious. For science.”

Lando stood up instantly. “I’m leaving.”

Oscar shrugged. “Fair.”

Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.

He was halfway out when,

“Oi!” Oscar called after him. “Don’t forget your backpack, Norris.”

Lando froze mid-step.

Oscar was already grinning.

“You left it,” he added, far too casually. “Y’know… the one with your precious things in it.”

Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.

“Stop talking about it,” he muttered.

Oscar just smiled. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You are thinking them.”

Oscar leaned back, unfazed. “I’m not.”

“You’re being insufferable.”

Lando slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out without another word.

As the door shut behind him, Oscar shook his head slightly and let out a quiet laugh, just enough to himself, just loud enough for it to echo in Lando’s memory for years to come.

taglist : @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie

[farfromharry]

Baby Norris | LANDOLOG 033

Summary: Sweet moments caught on camera during Lando's 9 month journey of becoming a father.

Lando Norris x Reader

w/c 13,331

a/n honestly its like i forgot the concept about halfway through so pls just ignore that, thanks!

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

2025-01-15 14:09:31

The video began with a wide shot of the Norris bathroom. Y/N wasn’t yet in frame but shuffling could be heard just to the side of the camera. Only seconds later did she appear, a watery smile on her face that told the viewers things were about to be emotional. Y/N had featured in Lando’s vlogs before, but not too often and certainly not on her own.

This was a different type of video. Lando didn’t even know she had his camera.

“Hello, I don’t even know if anyone will be watching this video, but if you are…hi.” She had to admit she was actually a little nervous. Her hands were trembling, which was probably noticeable on camera. “Lando’s training right now, so I thought I’d film this moment for him.”

She let out a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief moment. She puckered up the test that was ‘cooking’ on the counter, showing it to the camera like she was doing some kind of regular makeup haul. “I just took one of these- well, a few of these actually.” She chuckled to herself. The woman wasn’t leaving any room for doubt, she would take a thousand pregnancy tests if it meant she got a solid answer. “I’m waiting for the result, and it’s taking forever, and I’m so nervous.”

The timer on her phone was ticking down, but to her it felt frozen. It felt like she had been in this bathroom for an eternity.

“I want to surprise him, if it’s positive, but I really would have liked him to be here to hold my hand right now.” It sounded needy, but the comfort of her boyfriend was a magical thing. He had an effect on her nervous system that she could never explain with words. He soothed her, silenced all her worries with a simple look. She could have really used that kind of love right now.

Y/N took a seat on the floor, bringing her knees to her chest. Like this she looked small, almost like she was afraid. She was trying to hide from what this all meant. Obviously she was an adult, but since she turned 18, since she met Lando and began building her life with him, they’d had fun. They spent their days being carefree, without any real responsibilities. But a baby? That was a huge obligation. A baby would rely on them for everything. They couldn’t be selfish, careless adults anymore. No, they would have to be parents.

She didn’t know if they were ready for that. But they might have to be. Her commentary in this moment wasn’t exactly exciting for the viewers. They probably wouldn’t want to hear her thoughts right now anyway.

“I don’t know what I’m hoping for.” If you’d asked her a couple years ago she would have panicked, probably thrown up at the thought of having a baby, but she was starting to like the idea. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, she was 24, with a lovely partner and a home. She could do this. “I think I’ll be happy if it’s positive. This is scary though, right? Can you ever really be prepared for this?” She was rambling now.

The alarm on her phone blared, cutting her off like it was fate. Her eyes went wide, heart in her throat. Did she have the courage to get to her feet and check what they said?

“I’m so scared,” she admitted, really to no one but herself. She breathed through her panic, taking deep breaths until she felt like she could get back onto her feet. She eyed the camera. “I guess it’s now or never.”

Once she was on her feet it was clear how her eyes shone with tears as she looked over the results of the various tests. They all said the same thing. If the camera didn’t already know by her reaction what the answer was, they definitely did when she turned it around and showed them all off.

When she turned the camera back to her, the tears had already begun to fall. “I’m pregnant.” A sob bubbled up in her throat as she finally said the words out loud. She hadn’t expected to get so emotional. She would blame that on the pregnancy hormones she just found out she has.

She set the camera down on the counter so she could bury her face in her hands. Crying on film like this was a little embarrassing.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled. As soon as she moved her hands the camera could see the bright grin on her face. She was going through practically every emotion a person could go through in the span of a couple minutes. None of this felt real. “Fuck, I’m having a baby.” She froze. “I probably shouldn’t swear if my future child is going to watch this, sorry.” It was a moment her and Lando would look back on and laugh at.

The odds of there being any physical signs of pregnancy already were slim, regardless she pulled up her shirt and turned to the side. Her eyes were focused on her reflection. She swore if she squinted she could see how her belly swelled- she was probably just seeing things. Her hand settled over her stomach and a pleasant warmth spread through her chest. Contentment.

“Hi baby, I’m your mum.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-01-26 09:25:22

Lando had been out all day for something to do with Quadrant, which gave her all the time in the world to prepare to tell him her big news. She had her first ultrasound that morning, getting a small clip of the monitor when connected with her belly. There wasn’t much to see, but it was still surreal nonetheless. The second the heartbeat sounded through the room, the tears began to fall. The thumping sound was rapid. Their baby.

She left the doctor’s office with a picture of their baby tucked into her bag, one she was going to use in her masterplan to surprise Lando. It was nothing big or fancy— they had enough glamour in their lives to last a lifetime— some things had earned the right to be small, intimate

She was excited about it from the second she got home. It felt like the hours between now and when he finally walked through the door around 6pm, stretched on for far too long. It was probably her excitement speaking. He must have known something was off when she was throwing herself at him before he even managed to close the front door behind him.

The man eyed her suspiciously, dropping his bag by the door. Over the years he had been victim to her tricks and tiktok pranks plenty of times. More than enough to know when she was plotting. He had to tread lightly. “What are you up to?”

Her smile was blinding. “I have a surprise for you.”

His eyes narrowed. “What did you do? Is this another tiktok thing?” He started looking around wearily. “Is something gonna jump out at me?” His expression resembled something of a deflated balloon. It made her chuckle.

“No. This is a… nice surprise.” The muttered ‘I hope’ went unheard by his ears. Y/N moved into the kitchen, grabbing the box off of the counter and flashing the camera a sneaky smile. Genuinely it was a miracle Lando couldn’t hear her heart pounding.

A plain box in her outstretched hands paired with that menacing twinkle in her eyes, did nothing to soothe his fears. He was still convinced something was going to jump out of the box and bite him. But, she said it wasn’t like the other times and he trusted her with his life. Against his better judgement, he opened the box, albeit slowly just in case anything was alive in there.

Cake was the last thing he expected to see. A plain, small, white cake with something swirled in icing in the middle. When the lid was fully up he could finally read it. His heart stopped beating. Baby Norris October 2025.

Baby Norris.

Baby.

They were having a fucking baby.

For a minute Y/N thought he was going to bolt. His face couldn’t stop on one single emotion, until suddenly he just wasn’t displaying any.

“Are you being serious?”

She moved the cake into one hand and used the other to pull the sonogram from her back pocket, bringing it to where he could see it. He took it from her, examining it like he was trying to figure out if it was real. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe because he was scared if he didn’t he would forget how.

For the first time since she’d met him, she couldn’t read what he was thinking. He was hiding his emotions pretty well right now. She was terrified. She nodded shyly. Her mind flicked back to the camera currently filming from the counter. If this was to go sideways, it was going to record the whole thing. She didn’t want to have to relive the moment that ruined them.

In case she had to do some damage control, she placed the cake on the counter, swallowing as she tried to psych herself up to hear that he didn’t want this. Just as she thought things were going to blow up in her face, he laughed, a watery laugh that she had heard too many times before. The tears started coming only seconds later. Lando was crying freely.

He didn’t say anything, just opened his arms and almost ran at her. Her laughter could be heard even from where it was being muffled by his hoodie. It was the joy of a woman who was truly happy.

His head was tucked into her neck, the typical Lando Norris hug. At this angle the camera could see the way his eyes sparkled and he simply couldn’t stop smiling. That grin was unmovable. He tilted his head so his mouth was beside her ear. “I love you so much,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her temple. Once the kisses started they didn’t stop. One on her head, 2 on her cheek, another on her nose, over and over again until she was squealing and trying to writhe out of his arms.

“Lando!”

When he finally parted from her, she realised she had never seen happiness like it. He was finding it hard to believe this moment was real.

“You are the best part of my life,” he confessed. Sappy Lando wasn’t a common occurrence. Sure he was loving, romantic, cosy, but sappy Lando was reserved for the moments where he truly felt like his heart would burst if he didn’t express his love. This side of him wasn’t one she saw often, but was by far one of her favourites. It gave her an insight into how much he really loved her, and if he was telling the truth, which she had no doubt about, it was a scary amount. “Thank you for choosing me. For choosing to love me, to give me this. You have no idea what this means to me.”

They had very briefly touched on the topic of kids before, usually in very late night conversations about their future. She knew he wanted kids someday, but she hadn’t realised being a dad meant this much to him.

When he kissed her he poured his soul into it. The passion shared between them in such a simple act was utterly breathtaking. She almost lost her balance. Would have if his hands weren’t there to steady her. For a moment they just breathed deeply together, trying to catch their breaths after such a kiss.

Y/N thought a bit of humour would be good to ease them back into a more chill atmosphere. “Is now a good time to tell you I was filming this whole thing?” She smiled shyly.

His cheeks would be hurting by the end of the day with how much he was smiling. “Everyone already knew I was goner for you anyway.” That much was true.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-03-09 20:38:16

It had become a habit now for either of them to pick up Lando’s camera and film baby related updates at a second’s notice. They liked knowing they could look back on these soft moments between them, that their child would be able to see they came from a loving family. It was important to them.

Lando was due to leave for Australia in no later than 2 days, that was the warning he’d been given. He was soaking up all the time he could cuddled up to his lover before he had to give it up for a few weeks. They would be reunited at the end of the month, before they were due to jet off to Japan together, but 2 weeks away from her was too much for him. He didn’t know how he would survive.

It was hard to tell where he started and she ended. Their legs were tangled together, one hand on her belly, his head tucked below her chin and her nails scratching lightly at his back. It was comfortable.

She was on the verge of falling asleep. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was heavy. He wasn’t positive she was actually awake.

His focus was on other things. His eyes were watching her belly, narrowed like he was trying to figure something out. There was no way he could come out and say what he was thinking without potentially insulting her. But he was positive there was a swell to her belly that wasn’t there before. It would be the first time either of them saw any noticeable signs of pregnancy and he believed it was rather exciting.

“Y/N?” he whispered. He hoped she was still awake. He got a hum back in response. There wasn’t much energy behind it though. Ever so lightly he stroked his hand over her stomach. The man was in a trance. “Do you feel that?”

She managed to just about crack her eyes open, peering down at him like he was crazy. She would love to just fall asleep but of course he wasn’t going to let that happen so easily.

He guided her hand over the path his own had just taken. He saw it the moment it hit her.

She suddenly perked up and his first thought was to reach over to their bedside and grab his camera. He set it to record, pointing it at their faces that were now displaying wide grins.

“What do you see, gorgeous?”

Y/N felt like she could cry. Pregnancy hormones were already getting the better of her, but this moment would have made any soon to be parent emotional. “Our baby.” When the light hit just right the camera was able to capture the way tears shone in both her’s and Lando’s eyes.

The curly-haired man flipped the camera, pointed at the place where their hands had naturally intertwined on her stomach.

The angle was probably horrible. No one would be able to see what they were talking about, he couldn’t even see through his tears to know what the camera was seeing, but Lando didn’t care. The whole point of the vlogs was to capture the emotion, not the perfect shot. He wasn’t trying to be some artsy videographer this time around.

Things were starting to feel more real now.

Lando was excited, more excited than he ever had been for anything before. He dropped the camera, needing a free hand to wipe away his falling tears. But it was still recording.

“We’re having a baby.” He said it like he hadn’t already known. With all the joy of when he’d first found out. She beamed, bringing her free hand to cup his cheek. There was this dreamy look in his eyes, like she had hung the moon. Never would he be able to put into words how much he loved the woman before him. This time when he spoke his voice was airy, like he was in disbelief. “We’re having a baby.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-03-11 08:15:03

“Lando’s leaving me.” She had been this dramatic all night prior to his day of departure. A sigh could be heard just off to the side. Moments later he was wrapping his arms around her and smothering her cheek with kisses. The couple wasn’t always one for PDA, but the video they were creating felt like an exception. Maybe just this once it would be okay for the world to see how much they adored one another. For their future child to see that mum and dad truly loved each other.

“‘M not leaving you, I’m going to work.” 

Regardless of the technicalities, she was still going to spend the weeks they were apart pouting. 

“Exactly.” She was frowning, a sight he couldn’t stand to see. If it was up to him he would either take her everywhere or never leave her. Being apart from her was the worst part of his job by a mile. Even worse now that he knew she was carrying their baby. What if something happened while he wasn’t there? He was going to be halfway across the world, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do from there if she needed him. 

Packing his suitcase was not a chore he enjoyed, but it was certainly made harder when his lovely, pregnant girlfriend was so desperate for his attention. She wasn’t letting him forget. He put down the clothes he was supposed to fold and tuck into the case, heading over to the bed where she was lounging under her fluffy blanket. He didn’t waste any time climbing under it with her and wrapping his arms around her body.

She made a happy noise, melting into him. “Nevermind, I’m happy again,” she informed the camera. She didn’t see how he rolled his eyes but the camera definitely did. 

“You’re a bad influence,” he grumbled. 

What followed was a lot of shifting from Lando. He pulled the blanket off of her at least 3 times, poked her uncomfortably more than once and just didn’t seem to settle. She was starting to regret pining for his attention. “Can you sit still?” she hissed. 

He froze, but little did she know he had finally worked his way to the place he wanted to be. His head was by her stomach, looking up at her with the most innocent eyes he could muster. If he looked at her like that, how was she supposed to stay mad at him? 

She eyed him warily, like she wasn’t sure what he was doing. He was just being Lando. 

He didn’t leave her in the dark for much longer. His mouth was planted right next to her stomach, where their baby would be made at home for the next few months. And without an ounce of self consciousness, he began to speak. “Hi baby, it’s your dad.” His voice was so gentle. 

Her heart clenched at the tender moment. She turned the camera so it focused on him, wanting to have this not only engrained in her memory, but forever captured on film too.

“We don’t know if you’re a girl or a boy yet, or what your name’s gonna be… but we do love you already.” He was caressing her skin lovingly. “We can’t wait to meet you. I already know everyone’s gonna be so excited about you.” It was true. They both had a strong feeling they were going to break the internet when the news got out. The plan was to keep it quiet at least until the birth, but they didn’t know how realistic that was considering how nosey some people come be. And their families, well their families would probably be ecstatic. 

A baby was certainly going to be a surprise for people. No one knew they were trying for a baby, not even them. This was coming completely out of nowhere. But they hoped people in their lives would be proud at how well they were adapting. 

Y/N was the first to know and even she was surprised with how quickly Lando had taken to the news. He had gone from thinking a baby was something that might ruin his life, to embracing it, even planning for it. She had a sneaky suspicion he was more excited than she was. Which was a crazy thought.

Lando placed a gentle kiss right in the middle of her stomach, just over her clothes, where he assumed their baby’s heart or maybe head might be. “Love you. I’ll see you when I get back from Australia.” It was a promise.

His eyes flickered back up to his girlfriends, finding the camera in her hands and the tears lining her eyes. He grinned. “Are you crying?” His heart was so full. The whole world would one day see how he softened for her. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She smiled. “I’m just so happy.”

“You’re happy?” She nodded, sniffling so loudly that the camera could probably hear. Nothing would ever compare to the feeling in his chest right now. “Good. Me too.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-04-01 11:21:49

The video began with an extreme zoom in on Lando’s face. Y/N was laughing, he was grinning, trying to steal the camera from her hands. They were sitting next to each other, on a plane it seemed. It was loud, wherever they were. They looked happy.

“Baby’s first holiday,” Y/N cheered quietly. There was obviously someone else on the plane. They were trying to keep it quiet.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t think this counts.” 

“What, why not?” 

He couldn’t believe the two of them were about to get into a philosophical conversation about what counted as a first during their baby’s development. “I think they have to be fully formed and you know, like, born.” She didn’t know. She had never done this before. Neither had he though, so she was happy to believe whatever she wanted because she knew very well that he was clueless on the subject.

“What baby?” 

The looks that crossed their faces were nothing short of comedy gold. Lando looked like he had literally seen a ghost. They thought they were being quiet, obviously not quiet enough though. His head whipped around to face Oscar, smiling shyly at the bewildered look on the man’s face. They were planning on keeping this a secret for a bit longer, but plans changed. It looked like they were going to have to tell Oscar a little early. 

“Surprise,” Y/N said. 

The Aussie looked like he was going through a hundred emotions. It was the most Y/N had ever seen him react to something. “What, you, your–” His brain couldn’t comprehend it. His teammate was just so… Lando, he couldn’t imagine him as a father to a real human baby. The man he knew was childish and wore mismatched clothes, sometimes even forgetting to feed himself. The idea of him being entirely responsible for a child was crazy. 

Oscar sank back down into his seat, taking a minute to let this news sink in. He was muttering under his breath. 

The couple laughed, leaving him to have a minute. A short time later, he turned back around to look at them, a softer expression on his face. “You’re pregnant?”

She nodded, not expecting him to literally launch himself at her for a hug. Her laughter was loud and she lost her grip on the camera as she wrapped her arms around him. Lando reached for it from the floor, pointing it at the 3 of them. “I guess Oscar knows now.”

That seemed to grab his attention. “Am I the first to know?” He was going to be so incredibly smug about that if it was the case. 

Lando rolled his eyes. Max and his parents were never going to let him live this down if they found out. Which was pretty much inevitable. “Yes. We were meant to keep it quiet.” It was a slight weight off his back if he was being honest. He was terrified he was going to be the one to slip up and ruin everything. He had a fear of mentioning it by accident in the middle of an interview or something. But luckily, she had done it first. Something he was going to hold over her while he could. “But somebody had to go and spoil it.”

She huffed, swatting his arm. “Shut up.”

“Nope. I’m just glad it wasn’t me. You need to own up to your mistakes.” They shared a look. She knew he was only teasing. She also knew he was absolutely right. If he had been the one to spill it by accident, she would have rinsed him for it. The look was something tender. Something to say she knew he wasn’t really annoyed with her. It was all fun.

Watching them brought a smile to Oscar’s face. He had to clear his throat just to remind them he was there. He didn’t want to have to be witness to their PDA if they forgot about him. “I’m happy for you.” He raised his fist to bump into Lando’s. “Congrats man.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-05-05 20:56:22

Miami was fun. Another trophy to add to the collection and another podium to add to his stats. As the pair flew back to the UK, they were on a high, they started scheming. By the time they landed, they had a plan and it felt right. It was time to tell their families. 

As always, when they pulled up at the Norris household unannounced, they were greeted with open arms. Cisca was always happy to have her son home, even more so her daughter-in-law. She thought there was something up with the surprise visit, but she didn’t voice her suspicions straight away. She would wait, see if they wanted to come clean. She suspected a proposal, but without seeing a ring she couldn’t be sure. 

Nothing happened straight away. They acted as normal as they could for hours, until Adam caught them whispering like giddy teenagers in the kitchen. They had to do it now before they exploded. 

Lando set up the camera on the mantel in the living room, mouthing a little ‘oh my god’ that stemmed from pure nerves. While Y/N coaxed them all in. His hands were trembling with the excitement of it all, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest. This had been their secret (beside’s Oscar) for 4 months now. Of course he knew it was real, but somehow telling others made it feel so much more authentic. Y/N felt a little nauseous and she was inclined to believe it wasn’t to do with the baby. She knew her boyfriend’s family loved her, but there was still a little part of her that worried they wouldn’t be as happy as the 2 of them were. 

The mother of 4 sat smugly beside her husband as the couple fumbled around, clearly up to something. She had been right after all. She knew her boy better than he knew himself. 

“Okay,” Lando rubbed his hands together like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, before finally setting one on Y/N’s back, “We have news.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Flo, be nice.” 

The girl in question scoffed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Well, some of us have stuff to do and he’s dragging this whole thing out. It’d be quicker if he just got to the point.” Her brother squared his shoulders slightly, like he was about ready to start a fight with her. Lando would never lay his hands on a woman, but his sisters didn’t count. They weren’t women, they were little demons that made it their mission to embarrass him. 

“You can talk to your boyfriend later, this is our moment, Florence.” That was a piece of information that was supposed to be a secret, a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. He only knew because Y/N had told him after Flo told her, not maliciously in any way, but Y/N told her lover everything. 

The younger sibling gasped, sitting upright as her cheeks flushed and she avoided her parent’s eyes. “Y/N! You weren’t supposed to tell!” The two that hadn’t gotten involved were loving every second of the bickering. 

She looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.” She truly hoped she hadn’t betrayed the girl’s trust. 

Cisca was losing her patience with the kids. “Florence, we’ll talk about that later,” the girl grumbled and sunk further into the sofa, “Can you two please just tell us what’s going on?”

Lando visibly softened as he remembered what they were doing this for. He looked at the woman by his side and was so overcome with love for her. The words tumbled past his lips with ease, like they were meant to be spoken. Everything felt so right. “We’re having a baby.”

Considering the fact she knew something was up, this hadn’t crossed his mother’s mind even once. The tears started to fall instantly. Lando awed, wrapping the woman in a hug in an effort to comfort her. How was her baby having his own baby already? It felt like just yesterday she was holding his hand as they crossed the road, singing him lullabies to make sure he got to sleep okay. Now she was due to be a grandmother? 

While the mother and son had a moment, the rest of the Norris family swarmed Y/N, practically drowning her in hugs. She didn’t know if she had ever felt so loved before. 

She could have sworn the 2 Norris girls were crying, over the moon to be an auntie again. Oliver was happy his own daughter was going to have a friend and Adam was sort of relieved. 

Even though his youngest son was a grown man, 25 years of age, sometimes he worried that he was too focused on racing. He was proud of Lando, endlessly, for fulfilling his dream in such a cut-throat sport, but sometimes he wondered if he would ever have anything other than motorsport. He’d had to be focused his entire life. He had already missed out on so much. Then he met Y/N and he became a little less worried. Now though he was going to experience fatherhood, something arguably greater than any lifelong dream. If Lando thought he loved winning, he would be in for a surprise when this baby arrived. Nothing else was going to matter the second he held that baby for the first time. 

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Adam whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple lovingly. 

She sniffled, trying not to cry but the pregnancy hormones were a lot. Recently the woman had found herself emotional over things that weren’t even remotely, well… emotional. It was driving her insane and she had another 5 months to go. 

The driver was quickly tackled by his siblings, all in different stages of glee. Their father watched on with a bright smile. He was a patient man, he could wait for his special moment with his boy. As for their mother, she made her way over to Y/N who was just taking the camera down. It captured their interaction perfectly. 

“Are you excited?” Y/N asked, shyly. 

The older woman didn’t say a word, just pulled her into a hug that left her breathless. Cisca had so much love to give and she was more than happy to be on the receiving end of some of it. “I’m overjoyed. Thank you.”

Her brow furrowed. “What for?”

“For loving him, for completing him,” she let out a sigh that could only be described as dreamy, “For just being you.” Lando had a few relationships/flings over the years that she hadn’t approved of, but Y/N? She considered her one of her own. She was elated he had found someone that fit him so well. Someone he could start a family with and feel nothing but content. “I’m so happy it’s you.” She kissed her cheek, taking a second to really look at her like she almost couldn’t believe this moment was real. There was going to be another baby Norris soon and she couldn’t wait. 

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-05-25 16:53:20

The couple had been unsure whether she should attend Monaco or just watch it from their apartment. Her bump was certainly more prominent now and they weren’t ready for the world to know. Was it worth the risk just to watch him race in person? The chances of him winning at Charles’ home race were slim to none anyway. But then she had found the perfect orange top, just flowy enough not to make anything obvious unless you knew what you were looking for. 

In his driver’s room before the race, she had been worried, turning every which way in front of the mirror to double check the camera’s wouldn’t be able to tell. As for Lando? He was amused and documented the whole thing. 

He zoomed in on her, watching through the lens as she smoothed the material down around her bump. She frowned, her palms growing more sweaty. She wished she could just throw on a hoodie or something but the weather wouldn’t allow it. She would probably collapse from heat exhaustion. 

“Are you sure you can’t tell?”

“Baby, yes.” He had already said it a thousand times. “This is a good quality camera and it can’t see a thing. It is picking up your wrinkles though.” It was just teasing. 

She scoffed, glaring at him and then examining her face closely in the mirror. “I don’t have wrinkles.” The way she’d been frowning had in fact brought on the start of a wrinkle or two and she quickly smoothed them out. He could be an ass sometimes. She would have loved to just let it all go and not care, but the internet and media outlets were harsh. They would scrutinise her the second she stepped foot outside. “What if they notice how big my boobs have gotten? That’s a sure sign of pregnancy.”

“Or a boob job,” he muttered. He raised his free hand in his defence when she shot him a deadly look through the mirror. “I hope they don’t notice your boobs cause those are mine.”

The claim was full of confidence. 

One eyebrow raised. “Are they now?”

He turned the camera around to him, pointing his finger right down the lens. “You know it, I know it and the world knows it, baby.” She had no idea how she tolerated him sometimes. 

As soon as Lando settled in the car, she forgot all about her worries. He was on pole; In Monaco; The track that was famous for having limited overtaking opportunities. It was almost a sure win. All she could focus on was the thumping of her heart that grew quicker with every lap. He was going to do it. He had to do it. 

By the time lap 78 rolled around, he was still number one. Monaco, the most prestigious race on the entire calendar and her man had just won it. Y/N pulled out the camera before she even knew what she was doing. She aimed it at the screen she had been watching, then back to herself and the way she was ugly crying. “He won,” she sobbed. She would blame the tears on the baby no doubt, but she would have reacted like this pregnant or not. 

As much as she would have loved to go and watch the podium ceremony, it didn’t feel like a smart idea. Instead she stayed back in his room, watching it play out on the TV; just her and the camera. He looked like he belonged on that top step. She didn’t know if she was ever going to stop crying. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy,” she whispered. That probably sounded bad considering she had recently discovered she was with child, and her child might see this video one day, but she just couldn’t believe today was real. Her boyfriend, the love of her life, was a Monaco Grand Prix winner. He was a history maker. One of the few. The pride in her chest was overwhelming. She would probably hide when Lando watched this back, made to feel shy for how she so freely expressed her love for him. He was nothing if not a tease when it came to her feelings. 

It was another 30 minutes or so before Lando made it back to her and she could feel the joy radiating from him before he even stepped foot into the room. When the door opened, the trophy was clutched tightly in his hand and he smelled of a weird mix of sweat and champagne, the smell of victory she supposed. 

As soon as the valuable was safely on the ground, so as to not have another broken trophy incident, he launched himself at her. She barely had time to set the camera down on the massage table before he broke that too. 

She loved him and his affection dearly, but he was drowning her in his stench. “I am so proud of you, but baby you stink.” Her laughter came straight from her chest, real and infectious. He found himself chuckling along. 

He cradled her face. His touch was gentle, like she was made of literal glass. “Just let me love you a bit. Then I’ll shower, promise.” 

That was okay with her. 

The TV was still playing replays in the background. She heard part of his post-race interview again, the part where he talked about winning this for his family. People assumed he meant his parents, his siblings, but little did they know he was quietly dedicating this historic win to the family he and Y/N were in the process of creating. It made her swoon.

“I can’t believe you won.” Even though he had been the one in the car, leading the laps, crossing the finish line first, he didn’t believe it either. “You really did it.”

His happiness was all encompassing. It felt like he was wrapped up in a blanket of triumph that he wouldn’t be able to take off any time soon. And if he was being honest, he wouldn’t want to. He wanted to ride this high for as long as he could possibly drag out– just before people got sick of him talking about it. In his mind it seemed like the perfect time to add to it, to properly bring her into his happy bubble. 

“Marry me.”

She laughed, loud and watery. “What?” His words caught her off guard. It wasn’t what she always dreamed of with a proposal. He wasn’t down on one knee, there was no romantic build up or speech, there was no ring worst of all. But at the same time, she wouldn’t have wanted anything different for them. “Are you serious? Actually, scratch that, are you insane?”

His smile was wider than she had ever seen before and his eyes crinkled to match. “Insanely in love with you. Come on, marry me.” She had never seen him quite so genuine.

She searched his eyes for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty, but she was coming up empty. Lando had never been more sure about anything in his life. If there was one person he would want by his side for the rest of his life, it was Y/N. It wasn’t that she was unsure. There was really nothing more she would want. Her anxiety was creeping in though. Was he just saying this in the heat of the moment? Did he actually want this or did it just slip out?

One look at her and he could tell she was spiralling. “I have a ring at home.” That information made her perk up. She did most things at home, his washing being one of them, how could she have missed an engagement ring? “I bought it months ago and hid it in my suitcase ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t look there.” At least that cleared up her confusion. “I’m serious about this, Y/N. I want nothing more than to be able to call you my wife.” 

She let out a breath, then laughed and practically melted into his arms. “There was no way I was ever going to say no.” He was going to marry her. She would soon be married to a Monaco winner. How many people could say that? “That ring better be huge with the paycheck you’re gonna get from this.”

He threw his head back with a laugh. “Only the best for you, baby.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-06-19 10:03:42

Lando had been home from Canada for 3 days when she decided she wanted to know the gender of their baby. It wouldn’t change how either of them felt towards the little foetus growing in her belly, but liked the idea of knowing. She didn’t want some big party or anything that had the chance to go horribly wrong. She wanted it to be just them, quiet, intimate. He was more than happy to make that happen. 

The only person he had allowed to know was his sister. Despite the way they bickered, they did get along really well and he knew he could trust her with this. The envelope containing the important slip of paper from their doctor was given to her, seen by only her and the woman who made the cupcake.

Flo dropped it off at their place and then it was just them, ready to find out.

She set up the camera, the two of them perched on the floor of their bedroom. It all looked very cosy. Neither of them had been awake very long, choosing to spend the day lazing around their apartment. Lando was in his pyjamas; a pair of checkered blue bottoms and an old shirt that might have been his dad’s at some point. Y/N opted to be warmer, donning a pair of plain joggers and a soft hoodie any eagle-eyed fan would be able to tell was his, paired with some fluffy pink socks to keep her feet warm. To many she would appear in too many layers for the Monaco weather, but she liked being snug. 

Lando’s hair was messy, a little flat, but she hadn’t given him time to fix it. It was a reflection of her own that was tied back. He had a sleepy grin on his face and a hand on her knee. Not possessive, just resting there like it was made to fit. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

It was more nerve wracking than she thought it would be for some reason. Their baby would be loved eternally regardless, but that didn’t make it any less scary. “Ready.”

He picked up the small bun, holding it to her mouth for her to take a bite. She barely sunk her teeth into the sponge when he was smushing it against her mouth. She coughed quickly, then laughed, a laugh that was pure shock. “You dick,” she huffed. But she wasn’t really angry. If she was actually angry she would have killed him by now. 

The man was laughing, the loud gremlin-like laugh he did when he just couldn’t help it. She didn’t waste a second. Y/N lunged at him with the rest of the cupcake gripped in her fist. They ended up in a pile on the floor, her on top of him with a flattened sweet treat between them. They were making a mess but neither of them really cared to acknowledge it. She was the first to get up, her cheeks hurting from smiling so much. 

The sight in front of her was amusing. She had got him back, arguably worse than he had gotten her originally. Only once they were both covered in icing and sponge did they remember what they were doing. Her eyes went wide when she saw the pink covering the lower half of his face. He must have seen it around the same time. His entire expression changed. 

“A girl?”

She nodded, bottom lip between her teeth as she tried to keep her tears at bay. She wanted to know how he felt about it before she let herself get excited. Some men didn’t want daughters and she truly hoped Lando wasn’t going to be one of those people. Luckily for her, he rubbed at his eyes and the tears began to fall. Before she knew it he was borderline sobbing. He should have been the one comforting her, but now it was the other way round. 

The woman cooed. “Lan…” She clambered into his lap, wrapping her arms around his head. He didn’t even need encouragement to bury his face in her neck, he just went. He clinged to her, like he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

It didn’t matter that tears were soaking the material of her hoodie or that they were covered in sticky icing, this moment would be cherished. She cast a quick glance to the camera, almost like she was in The Office, showcasing with her expression how much she couldn’t believe this. This kind of reaction was the thing you saw in fairytales, not real life. 

“Are you happy?” she questioned. 

He nodded rapidly, then finally pulled away so she could see his face. The smile he was wearing was huge. “I’m so happy.” He brushed away the few tears of hers that had dripped onto her cheeks. “Are you?” 

“Yeah.” She kissed him softly. This was better than anything she could have dreamed of. 

He leaned forward and stole another kiss. There was a tugging sensation in his chest, like he was being drawn to her. If he thought he was clingy before, he was going to be even worse now that he knew he had a little girl on the way– a mini Y/N. If she resembled her mother in any way he feared he would never use the word ‘no’ again. She wasn’t even born and he was already wrapped around her finger. 

“A little you,” he whispered. 

She hummed, resting her forehead against his. Neither of them acknowledged that the camera was still rolling, but it didn’t matter anymore. “A little me.” 

They breathed softly together, just enjoying one another’s presence. He brushed a little bit of icing from her cheek, not that it made much of a difference at all. “You had a little something,” he joked. 

Y/N giggled. “Oh really?” she teased. 

He kissed her one more time, just for good measure and then his gaze fell to the camera. “She’s gonna watch this and think we’re disgustingly cute, you know.”

She couldn’t say she was upset about that. If their child knew her parents were truly and hopelessly in love, Y/N would actually sleep better at night. Not everyone could say the same. “Good,” her hand drifted down to her belly, “Our little girl.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-07-10 13:02:39

The summer break was a welcomed bit of time off. Y/N and Lando felt like their schedules were just too busy to actually spend a good chunk of time together. But now he was free for almost a month and they were going to spend every waking minute together. First up, they had to make a nursery that was the perfect place for their baby to live in. Well, Lando did. 

Y/N was using the excuse that she was 6 months pregnant to do as little as possible. She was happy to sit in the little rocking chair in the corner and tell him what to do. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d listen to every word she said. 

When picking a theme she was adamant it couldn’t be car related. No doubt their lovely girl was going to have Formula 1 centered in her life for a long time, Y/N wanted to give her the chance to at least have a space that was an exception to that. Lando had grumbled, but gone along with it anyway. He could understand what she was talking about at least. Instead of cars or racing, they had agreed on wildflowers. It was going to look like walking through a gorgeous meadow, animals and all. 

Music played softly while Lando built the furniture. He looked like the epitome of manly. Y/N didn’t know if she had ever been more attracted to him. 

“You know, if there wasn’t already a baby in me-”

He gasped like he had been scandalised. “The camera’s still on, you dirty dog.”

She chuckled, but admittedly her cheeks did begin to burn. She wasn’t quiet in her love and attraction for her fiance, but there were certain things she would like to keep private about them. Their sex life for example. “I’m just saying, you look really hot.”

The expression on his face was painfully smug. “Yeah? Is it the DILF energy?”

Her face twisted into one of disgust. “Never say that again.”

He winked. “No promises.”

After the crib was done, Lando took to painting the walls. They settled on a soft pink colour, something cosy and yet still colourful. 

Y/N was thoroughly enjoying having her feet up while he worked hard. Occasionally she would offer him a snack, a piece of fruit, a sandwich, some chocolate. She already seemed to have the mum thing down. It was all incredibly domestic– other than the occasional horny comment that made her ears burn. 

“Baby, could you pass me that roller, please?” He had quickly realised that handpainting was going to take far too long. There was no harm in trying other methods. But he had a plan, a sneaky one at that. Just as she turned away, he dipped his palms in the tub of paint and grabbed her bum.

“Lando!” she screeched. There were 2 hand prints now painted onto her pyjama bottoms, right on her backside. He grinned cheekily, offering her a wink as he ducked away from the swat she tried to aim at him. The camera could clearly see the 2 marks made by paint and she was sure the internet would have a field day with them when they found out. “Harrassing a pregnant woman, unbelievable.”

When he was sure she wasn’t going to try and hit him again, he placed a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. Her nose scrunched and she grumbled under her breath, but she loved it. They both knew that. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It took a couple days for everything to be finished in the nursery, but it was certainly worth the wait in the end. After the paint was on the walls, Lando banned her from entering the room. The fumes, he said. She probably would have been perfectly fine, but he was taking her health and safety very seriously. He wasn’t going to risk anything happening to her. He also wanted there to be some element of surprise. 

He was making her close her eyes, camera in hand so he could really capture her first impression properly. Lando was proud of himself. With a little help from his mum, he had turned the room into any child’s dream. It looked lovely, cosy and bright. He could already picture their girl in the crib he’d built for her. 

“Are you ready?” His voice was so close to her ear that it startled her. He chuckled at the way she jumped.

“Yes.”

When did Lando ever make things easy? “Are you sure?” There was nothing he loved quite like teasing her. After all these years he knew how to perfectly push her buttons too. 

The woman sighed. “Yes, Lando.”

“Positive?”

“Oh my god, just show me!”

He was grinning now. He pushed open the door and guided her in. His heart was beating rapidly, nerves swirling in his stomach, scared that she might not like it. Her pulse was equally as quick, but she was filled with excitement. 

When she finally opened her eyes the tears were instant. She couldn’t even control them. 

The nursery looked a million times better than she could have predicted. The flowers, handpainted by Lando and Cisca, looked perfect. The stuffed animals decorating the nursing chair were so cute and squishy. The pictures on the walls of forest animals, the bunny and the deer, made her heart swoon. She never knew Lando had such an eye for interior design, especially given how bachelor-y his apartment was when they started dating. Maybe she didn’t give him enough credit where it was due. 

She hadn’t said anything yet and that was worrying him. He was terrified that she hated it. “What do you think?” His voice was quiet and she could hear the insecurity lingering in his tone. She threw herself into his arms, not caring how the camera was squished between their bodies. 

“I love it. You did such a good job.”

Lando’s face visibly lit up. “Yeah?” He was glad. He took the camera, setting it on top of the drawers and out of the way. Their future viewers would now have a full view of the newly decorated nursery. “I might have one more surprise.”

He took her hand and led her over to the crib. There was a new addition waiting inside that she hadn’t seen before now. Her eyes widened and her heart grew at least 3 sizes. “Is that Mr snuggles?” Her childhood stuffed bunny, the one that had gone everywhere with her until the age of 12. She thought it was still in her room back at her parent’s house, but clearly he had worked some of his magic. 

Purely the fault of the pregnancy hormones (not true), she was getting emotional over everything. She tucked her face into Lando’s shoulder, enjoying the way he stroked her hair. He was always so gentle with her.

The man nodded. “I had your parents send him over a couple days ago. I thought baby girl would love it because her mum loved it.” 

Her heart clenched. This man meant everything to her. “Thank you.”

They were quiet for a little bit, just enjoying the moment, holding one another. “Can you believe she’s going to be here soon, in this bed?” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. His heart felt so full and she hadn’t even arrived yet. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to feel when she was finally here. Fatherhood was already so intoxicating. He couldn’t get enough. 

Y/N leaned back into him, sighing happily and blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “I can’t wait. She’s going to be so loved, Lan.”

The moment was so intimate and pure. The camera caught them in each other’s arms but their voices were too low for it to pick up the volume. That was something that would stay between them, just how they liked it.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-07-18 15:28:33

Lando had decided a babymoon was absolutely necessary. Just him and her, no families, no racing, no interruptions, before their baby arrived and shook up their whole lives. Y/N had to admit, the idea of the two of them on a yacht off the coast of some gorgeous island for a week? It was enticing. She hadn’t needed much convincing.

As soon as she found herself lounging on the deck, soaking up the sun (ogling her shirtless fiance behind her sunglasses mainly) she knew she had made the right choice.

Lando was filming her, she could see that out of the corner of her eye, acting like he was in some kind of wildlife documentary. She was trying not to smile, not wanting to encourage him, but as soon as he started doing the David Attenborough voice, she cracked a grin. 

“And here we see the expecting mother in her natural habitat…” 

She turned her head his way, pushing her sunglasses up so he could see the amusement on her face. “What are you doing?” There was no doubt in her mind that he was zooming right in on her face. She would probably grimace at the sight when she watched the footage back, even when he insisted she looked utterly perfect. 

“I’m taking a video of my gorgeous, radiant, breathtaking, sexy–”

“Lando.”

He beamed. “You look beautiful right now. The way the sun’s hitting you,” he groaned, a sound that startled a laugh out of you, “It’s a photographer's dream.” The point of the baby vlog wasn’t to be pretty or aesthetic, it was to document their love throughout the pregnancy. But sue him if there were some beautiful shots of his lover thrown in there. 

A plan had already been formed when he got to his feet. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t just throw a pregnant woman in the ocean. No one needed to outright tell him that was a horrible idea. But he could ask politely. 

The menacing sparkle in his eye as he sat beside her was enough for her to know he was up to something. The man was far from subtle. 

“What do you want?”

“Come swimming with me.” Lando’s voice was sickly sweet. It was all in a bid to coax her into agreeing. When it came to him and those puppy eyes of his, she never stood a chance. One of his hands was on her bare leg, warm and safe. The other was still angling the camera in her face. She was seconds away from swatting it out of his hands. “Guys, she doesn’t love me. Let it be known that she hates me.” The teasing was exactly what he needed to finally get under her skin. 

With a quick move she took the camera out of his hands and turned it around on him. Considering it was part of his job, he was more than used to being on camera. Irritatingly he was also incredibly photogenic. So he simply smiled, looked as handsome as ever. She sighed as she looked at him on the screen. How was this man all hers?

“Come on,” he begged.

“Fine.”

Lando set the camera up on the deck. Rather dangerously too. She wouldn’t be surprised if it fell into the water at some point– a devastating loss considering what was on the camera. He was adamant everything would be fine. As soon as she saw the footage of them swimming, it was worth the risk. 

The water was nice. A relief from the scorching heat. She let herself float, enjoying the way baby girl kicked like she herself was trying to swim away. It made the woman laugh. Lando was watching her. It was impossible not to notice the pair of eyes burning into her. In a weird way, she knew what was coming. If she didn’t make it known soon that he was about to make a bad decision, the day would take a nasty turn. Insulting a pregnant woman was a horrible idea. 

“If you make one whale joke I’ll drown you.” It was a threat. A serious one. If he knew what was good for him he would take it seriously. He quickly closed his mouth, looking rather guilty. No joke was made. She had trained him well. 

Even if he couldn’t use humour to get her attention, he still wanted to bother her. It wasn’t exactly bothering per say, he just liked being with her. Being next to her. She felt him creep up beside her. Had no problem with the way he wrapped his arms around her. Despite inviting her to swim, they weren’t actually doing much swimming at all. 

A kiss. That was what he was after. She should have known, though she was happy to give it to him. 

“Baby girl likes the water. She’s kicking like crazy.” Their hands moved together over the swell of her belly. As if the girl inside knew her dad was there, she kicked harshly at his hand. Quite a few times. If it wasn’t bringing so much joy to both of them, she would only be focused on how badly it hurt her ribs.

The smile on her lover’s face made it all worth it. It was surreal. There was really a baby in there. “Maybe we’ve got a footballer on our hands,” he suggested. Another athlete in the family was the last thing she wanted, but at least football had less chances of a fiery death than Formula One. Although if she was a natural footballer, she definitely didn’t get that talent from her dad. He had little to no co-ordination with his feet. It was actually rather funny. 

“Doesn’t get that from you then.”

A scoff, then a splash of water aimed at her. 

“Lando!” She splashed him right back. 

That simple retaliation had started a downright war. It would be a miracle if their laughter wasn’t heard by those on the nearby island. Surely anyone would know they were just 2 crazy kids in love. Who could be mad at that?

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-09-21 17:29:04

The setup of the camera was much like the day Y/N found out she was pregnant. The circumstances too. She was in the bathroom, stressed, Lando nowhere to be seen. Only this time the stakes were higher. Was she about to have this baby on their bathroom floor?

“So, I might be having the baby early.” The fear in her voice was overwhelming. If you couldn’t already tell just from the look on her face, you definitely could the moment she opened her mouth. “Lando’s not here, he’s in Azerbaijan, literally just got out of the car.” She let out a deep breath. “I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.” 

The talking was more for her than anything else. Obviously the camera couldn’t help her, nor could those who would end up watching the video. It would all be over by then. Putting her thoughts out into the air helped calm her for some reason.

“I called one of my friends, she’s on her way to take me to the hospital. I also called Lando’s mum ‘cause I panicked.” The woman had given her the best advice she could. There was only so much she could do from another country. How she wished she could be there holding her hand when her son couldn’t. 

It looked like it all seemed to hit her at once. Her face fell. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “I might be having a baby today.” 

A phone ringing interrupted her freakout. Lando. Finally. 

Turns out he was fairing no better than her. His voice immediately came booming through the speaker. Panic lacing his tone. “Are you okay? What am I supposed to do? I’m so sorry I’m not there.” It was easy to picture him right now. Running his hands through his hair. Pacing up and down his driver’s room. He probably hadn’t stayed for the podium celebrations. Maybe even on his way to the airport. The last thing he wanted was to miss the birth of his first born, to leave his lover on her own for this. Only a monster would do such a thing. He wasn’t a monster. No, he was devoted to her. 

“I’m okay. Getting a lift to the hospital soon.”

That didn’t make him feel any better at all. “Fuck.” He was struggling to grasp just one thought at a time. Being there with her was the biggest issue. There was no quick way of getting to Monaco from where he was, not even if he left right this second. Lando prided himself in being pretty good at taking care of Y/N, but right now he was at a loss. How did he make this situation better? “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do, but it’s okay. I’m gonna be fine.”

As suspected, Lando was on his way to the airport and he only had a very short amount of time before his flight. Even though it was the very last thing he wanted to do, he said his goodbyes, wished her luck. She would update him every step of the way. That was a promise. He was with her in spirit. And she couldn’t do this without that knowledge. 

The hospital, as expected, was nerve wracking. A pregnant woman experiencing potential labour meant she was at the top of the emergency list. Seen right away. It felt like every test in the world was being run on her and yet no answers were being given. Lando’s texts were coming through rapidly, every few seconds, but she didn’t have any updates for him right away. It would be nice if she did. 

Once the doctors deduced that she wasn’t actively about to give birth, things died down a little. Pain had stopped rippling through her body hours ago, but they didn’t stop running tests. Pregnant women were much more at risk of everything. They had to be cautious. She didn’t know how long she was going to be here. The doctor’s face was a welcomed one. 

“Good news, Miss Y/L/N, it was a false alarm.”

Her eyes went wide. A weight lifted off of her shoulders. “Really? So, I’m not in labour?”

The kind doctor shook her head. “No. False labour is very common at this point in pregnancy. It’s her way of making sure you’re ready for the big day.”

This kind of thing had been mentioned in the pregnancy books she’d read, but she hadn’t anticipated it to feel so authentic. Everything in her believed she would be having their baby today. It had all felt so real. “She’s okay then?”

A soft smile. “She’s perfect. A healthy baby who’s going to stay with her mum a bit longer.”

Y/N chuckled. She was grateful. There were certainly more desirable circumstances that she would like to give birth in. Preferably ones where her fiance was present and not currently losing his head 37,000 feet in the sky. 

“We would like to keep you in for the night, just for some monitoring. If that’s okay?”

She nodded. “That’s fine.”

But nothing was really fine until he got there early the next morning. His flight landed around 6 and he made it to her bedside by 6:35. No time was wasted on his behalf. He knew it was a false alarm, she had texted him during his flight, but it didn’t make him any less panicked. Even the smallest of things normally could be incredibly dangerous in the late stages of pregnancy. He was worried about her.

There seemed to be 101 forms to sign to get her discharged. She would just be happy when she could go home and finally climb into her own bed. 

The camera picked up again once the pair of them were home and relaxed again. Hours had passed. Lando had flown home immediately, a 12 hour flight that felt like days knowing she was at home and scared. The hospital had kept her overnight, just for observation. Once they were positive it was just a mishap, they allowed her to head home and nothing else unusual was going to happen. Luckily Lando had arrived by that point. 

Since they got back into their apartment, they hadn’t moved from one spot. The sofa was probably molded to fit them permanently now. 

Y/N sighed, exhausted from the chaos. Yet she still smiled into the camera, even if her head felt heavy and she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to stay awake. 

“No baby yet,” Lando explained, “Still safe inside for now.” In the very corner of the screen, eagle eyed viewers might be able to see how his thumb was rubbing gentle circles on her belly. It was soothing for both her and baby girl. A kiss was placed to her head. “Quite a big scare though. And a very long day.”

There was a hum from Y/N. She curled further into him. “She’s dramatic, just like her dad.”

The curly-haired man let out a scoff, but unfortunately she was right. He was a drama queen and there was enough evidence online to back up her claim. There was no use in arguing. So he let her win. He would always let her win.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-10-20 02:54:32

The camera was focused on Y/N, sitting on the sofa, free hand holding some kind of ice cream while there was frantic rushing in the background. Lando’s frantic rushing. The simple shot sort of perfectly described their personalities. 

She smiled at the camera. “So, I’m in labour and Lando’s losing his mind.” She was finding it rather funny. Though she looked far too calm for a woman who was due to give birth today. She turned the camera around, catching him just as he zipped past to grab something from the bedroom. Usually she would have had some sympathy, but she had been telling him to pack the hospital bag for weeks and he hadn’t. Really this was all on him.

But she wasn’t laughing for long. A wave of pain rippled through her body, the woman almost dropping her ice cream in the process. She certainly would have cried if she had done that. 

Her gasp was so loud that it startled her lover. “Lando.”

He knew just from the strain in her voice that she was having a contraction. In an instant he dropped everything, rushing over to her and offering his hand out. She took it as soon as she could reach, squeezing to try and relieve some of the sharp pain running through her body. 

The man frowned. He hated the idea that she was in pain. If he could take it away from her, he would do so immediately. As gentle as he could, he brushed some loose hair out of her face, kissing her forehead. It didn’t take the pain away but it did make things a little better.

When the pain passed, she let out a sigh. “Thank you.”

One more kiss was placed on her head for luck and then he got back to his frantic packing. Despite the nerves building up, she did manage to let out a brief laugh. He was done as quickly as he could be and then all his attention turned to her. Y/N was actually rather impressed with how well he was taking charge of the situation. 

The moment her water broke he helped her change, sat her down and handed her a tub of ice cream that she had been munching away on ever since. Everything else was handled by him. She didn’t have to lift a finger.

Now that he was done, he kneeled down in front of her, making sure her eyes were on him. “How far apart?” 

The only job she had was to time how far apart her contractions were. Then they would know when to head to the hospital. “6 minutes.” That meant they had to leave, like, now. She was supposed to tell him when they were 10 minutes apart, so he had some sort of warning at least. But he was already doing so much that she didn’t want to add to his stress. Unknowingly she had made it even worse by not telling him sooner.

Despite his job being to drive at 300km/h every weekend, he had never driven as fast as he did to the hospital. Without a doubt multiple speeding tickets would be coming through the post soon. He was almost positive every dad must be like this when their partner was giving birth, but the look on the nurse’s faces when he came rushing into reception like a crazy person said otherwise.

“My fiance’s in labour.”

People started to quickly understand his panic. So much was happening at once that he could barely keep up. Lando ended up following the doctor around like a lost puppy, just waiting to see where they would take her. He was glad when they finally got her into a room where she could have some privacy. It was too risky being out in the main bit of the hospital for too long. There were too many people around, too much opportunity for someone to spot them and break the news they’d been so good at hiding. 

Laying in the hospital bed with a doctor checking how dilated she was, she looked incredibly sad. The woman was pouting, a sight that made him chuckle. This was one of the brief moments where the contractions had halted, which meant he was allowed to joke. 

“Why did I let you do this to me?” she whined.

“Because you love me.” 

She huffed, a quip of some sort on the tip of her tongue ready to fire back at him. And she would have had she not been hit with another wave of shooting pain. 

He offered his hand to her, which she didn’t hesitate to take. The first squeeze made him regret everything, but he wasn’t exactly going to reject her when she was suffering far more than he was. He would do anything she needed him to to make things better for her.

She was slowly losing her mind laying there waiting for this to be over. And the worst part was no one could give her a straight answer of how much longer this was going to take. No one knew. It was different for everyone. But they did know baby girl wasn’t coming anytime soon, that much was a guarantee. They were going to have to wait this out a little longer. She hated every second of it. And he was no better. 

His hand was one squeeze away from the bones being shattered. It would be wrong to blame her for it though. She was definitely going through a lot worse. “Looks like baby girl is still gonna take a while yet,” he told the camera. At the reminder Y/N shot him a glare. It was to tell him to shut up. Lando thought it best to turn the camera off before she literally ripped his head off. Or said something that got him in trouble with his PR manager. He sent the camera one final grin. One last smile before he became a dad for real. It was all so exciting. “See you on the other side.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-10-20 21:34:59

The next time the camera turned on, things were much quieter. The chaos had died down. Y/N was no longer in agony. And they were both officially parents. There was a grin on Lando’s face that looked permanent, like he’d tattooed it on there and it had zero plans of disappearing any time soon. His cheeks physically hurt from it.

From what the camera could see, they were lying on the bed together. He had climbed behind her, letting her rest against his chest as she was more comfortable that way. It was clear she was holding something, cradling their baby. They looked happy. Tired, but happy.

“Everyone say hello to Rosie Norris.” The camera panned down, but her face stayed hidden. A baby, tiny, wrapped in a pink blanket, so content in her mother’s arms. Lando was in love. 

His life was so public that they had agreed they wanted to keep some things private. The whole reason they had kept her pregnancy secret was so they could properly enjoy it. Little Rosie was another thing. Other than a brief glimpse at her where they couldn’t prevent it, they wanted to give her the most normal childhood possible. No invading cameras, no massive crowds. The 2 of them would try their very best to keep her out of the spotlight. 

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off of the sweet baby. 

“She’s healthy, cried her eyes out for the first 15 minutes of her life.” The pair laughed. She had barely been in the world for 3 hours and she was already bringing such light to her parent’s lives. “She’s perfect and we’re obsessed.”

Anyone could tell that they were truthful. Lots of people had kids, but Lando and Y/N were meant to have children. They were born to be parents. Their entire being belonged to that little girl. Already she had them wrapped around her tiny finger. 

There wasn’t much to film or say to the camera. Both of them wanted to be present. Actually in the moment. Not much was happening now the chaos was all over. Still, he didn’t turn the camera off. He let it run, sitting it on the table beside the bed, capturing the first few moments of this new family. It was sweet. A piece of video that would be cherished. 

His head leaned against hers, ignoring how her hair was still damp with sweat. There had been enough times where she had done the same for him after a particularly hot race. 

They were talking mindlessly, discussing anything that came to their minds just to pass the time. The camera could barely hear them with how low their voices were. That didn’t upset them though. It was just another thing that could be saved just for them. At some point Rosie cooed, letting her parents know she was finally awake and vying for their attention. 

Green eyes, identical to her dad’s, were staring right at them both. Y/N didn’t know when she would stop falling in love. Every new little detail that she discovered had another part of her heart dedicating itself to Rosie. Soon enough she was positive that little girl would be her entire being. She would be perfectly happy with that. 

Lando literally shed a tear. “She’s looking at us.” He was so in awe. This was his child. Half him, half Y/N. They had somehow created her and now got to appreciate that for the rest of their lives. “She looks just like you.” With the most gentle touch he could muster, the man traced his finger over her tiny cheek. It felt like if he didn’t keep checking she was real every now and then, she might disappear.

“She has your eyes.” There was no denying that. One might be able to drown in them if they looked too long. Y/N didn’t know how to look away.

It was quiet for a while. She was on the verge of falling asleep. Lando wasn’t helping with his warmth and the way he was stroking her hair. It had been a long day and as much as she wanted to stay awake and watch their girl exist forever, she had to give in to the sleep she was fighting sooner or later. 

“I’m tired,” she mumbled, blinking slowly. 

After some brief fumbling, he was more than happy to take Rosie from her arms so she could get some sleep. It was definitely deserved after the day she’d had. With the baby tucked up in his arms, he placed a quick kiss on Y/N’s head and then took a seat in the comfy armchair in the corner of the room. The camera watched as Rosie and him would spend the next few hours snuggled up together exactly like that, with him gazing down at her like she had hung the stars. It was the start of a new chapter in his life that he was finding himself utterly infatuated with.

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

[farfromharry]

fan favourites

Summary : Fans compiled clips of their favourite moments between Lando and Aston Martin driver!reader.

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: swearing

Speculation continues to swirl around McLaren’s Lando Norris and you, Aston Martin’s young star, with many fans convinced there's more than just friendship between the two of you. Though neither you, nor Lando had confirmed anything, and no solid evidence had surfaced—your playful interactions and unmistakable chemistry have only added fuel to the fire.

these moments do not help your case.

The water bottle

It was post-race at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. Lando, Max and you, sat slumped on the nearest sofa, drained after securing P1, P2, and P3 respectively. The heat still clung to the air, even off-track, and your race suit stuck uncomfortably to your skin. The podium made it all worth it—but right now, all you wanted was a cold drink and a second to breathe.

You reached for the bottle water baside you lazily, hand sluggish and aching, half-listening to Lando as he answered a journalist's question about race strategy. The exhaustion weighed on your limbs, making the simplest takst of uncapping the bottle feel like such a challenge.

“The team knew what was needed to stay ahead of Max and—ugh, sorry. Here, let me.”

Without skipping a beat, he set down his mic, reached over, and easily twisted the cap open before handing the bottle back to you. You blinked in surprise, lips parting, but all that came out was a quiet, breathless “Thanks” as you took a sip.

Max let out a snort of laughter beside you. “Sorry, let’s pause the whole interview for this sweet little moment,” he teased, shaking his head.

Lando just rolled his eyes and grabbed his mic again, continuing as if nothing had happened. But judging by the grins from the journalists, and the certainty that the clip would be everywhere within the hour—it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

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Champagne problems

Lando is known for his champagne celebrations on the podium. Sure, it looks glorious, basking in victory, champagne flying through the air—but no one ever talks about the reality: it burns your eyes, floods your nose, and leaves your skin and hair sticky.

You stood tall on the top step, your first-ever win still sinking in. The crowd roared as your national anthem played, and you could feel your heartbeat thundering in your chest, pride swelling with every note. On either side of you stood Lando and Lewis, but it was Lando’s cheeky grin that caught your attention just as the anthem reached its peak.

The second it ended, chaos began.

Corks popped. Champagne exploded. And Lando, of course, immediately slammed his bottle down and aimed it straight at you.

You barely had a second to react. The cold spray hit from both sides, soaking you instantly as you struggled to open your own bottle. It poured down your face, into your suit, burning your eyes and blurring your vision. Lando’s laugh, loud, carefree, unmistakable, rang out over the madness.

You blinked rapidly, trying to wipe your face, unable to see a thing. Your expression probably said it all: somewhere between shocked and helplessly amused.

Then, through the chaos, you felt his hands on your face, gentle and steady. Lando’s fireproof sleeves brushed against your skin as he carefully wiped away the champagne from around your eyes, his thumbs moving with a softness that contrasted sharply with the wildness around you.

“You good?” he asked, laughing quietly, his grin now more sincere than mischievous.

You nodded, finally able to meet his gaze again, still catching your breath. “I swear, I’m never letting you near me with champagne again.”

Lando’s smile widened as he gave you a pat on the back. “I had to make it memorable!”

And God, he really had.

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Dinner with the Sainz Family

This video clip sent your's and Lando's shippers into a full-on spiral. After the Mexico Grand Prix, where Carlos Sainz and Lando secured an electrifying 1-2 finish, the pair were spotted celebrating with Carlos’ friends and family over dinner. A few lighthearted posts even made their way onto social media.

But what really caught fans’ attention was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it detail in one of the photos. In the background, seated next to Lando, was someone who sharp-eyed fans quickly identified, you. Wearing the same distinctive sweater you were seen in earlier that day when leaving the paddock, and the unmistakable bracelets you frequently wore throughout the season.

There was no official mention or tag, but that didn’t stop the speculation. For many fans, it was another subtle breadcrumb confirming what they’d suspected all along. The internet lit up with theories, edits, and speculation, convinced that yet another quiet public appearance had just taken place this time, tucked into a cozy moment with the Sainz family.

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daniel.jpg

Lando and you have made several unexpected appearances on Daniel Ricciardo’s iconic JPG Instagram account. While it wasn’t unusual for the three of you to be seen together, given the tight-knit friendship between Daniel, Lando, and yourself—fans didn’t hesitate to dive deep into the posts, convinced they were subtle clues feeding the long-standing theory that there’s more between you and Lando than just friendship.

One photo showed the three of you in a mirror selfie inside an elevator. Daniel, played photographer, camera in hand, while you and Lando stood casually beside him. At first glance, it looked like a typical group pic, until fans zoomed in. Slung over Lando’s shoulder was your bag, resting there like it belonged, as if it had found its place without either of you thinking twice about it.

Another upload showed a moment at a karting track. You were standing beside your kart, preparing to head out, when fans noticed the figure next to you. Though his helmet covered most of his face, there was no mistaking it, Lando. He stood close, hands carefully adjusting your helmet strap, focused and steady. The gesture was small, but intimate, and the natural ease between you didn’t go unnoticed.

Within hours, the comment sections were flooded with theories and heart-eyed emojis. To the internet, these weren’t just photos, they were proof.

---------------------------------------------------------

Driver's Parade

The truck moved at a crawl, weaving past grandstands packed with fans shouting your names and waving flags like their lives depended on it. You kept your sunglasses on, smile practiced, waving just enough to look friendly, nothing more, nothing less.

Lando stood beside you, doing the exact same thing. Waving, smiling, keeping the conversation low between the two of you. Like you weren’t both trying not to laugh at the stupid inside joke he’d just whispered about a guy holding a "Marry Me, Lando" sign.

He’d helped you into the truck earlier, hand out like a reflex, fingers brushing yours a second longer than necessary. No one caught that. At least, you thought so.

And then came the moment. You were both waving, smiling, still laughing at something only you two found funny, when Lando’s hand casually dropped to the small of your back as the truck began to make a turn at a corner. Barely there. Light. Familiar.

Too familiar.

It lingered for just a second before he suddenly realized. His hand flew back like he’d touched something hot, and he looked ahead like nothing happened. But you could see the panic flash across his face for a split second.

You didn’t say anything, just smirked.

Unfortunately for both of you, Charles did notice, and so did your fans. From the truck behind, he leaned over dramatically and yelled, “Oooohhh! I saw that, penalty for Norris”

Lando groaned under his breath. You tried, and failed, not to laugh, biting your lip as your shoulders shook.

“Smooth,” you teased him, still smiling to the crowd.

“Tiny slip up, just a friendly hand” he whispered, eyes still forward like a guilty schoolboy.

He glanced over his shoulder, then muttered with a grin, “If this ends up on a fan cam—”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “Please. They’ve already made ten TikToks about us just from this truck ride alone.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Rain

The rain had been relentless, hammering down onto the track, forcing a red flag that left drivers scattered around the paddock like bored students on a rainy field trip. Some retreated to their garages, napping, listening to music to stay focused, while others found creative ways to pass the time. A few were even caught playing football with balled-up tire warmers.

You, Lando, and Carlos had ended up in a quiet corner of the paddock, chatting while waiting out the weather. The broadcast cameras, desperate for content, eventually found their way to your little trio, panning slowly toward the three of you laughing at something Carlos had said.

Then the focus shifted—subtly, but noticeably—to just you and Lando.

Lando stood close, holding an umbrella tilted almost entirely your way, rain spattering off the edges while he stayed mostly outside the shelter himself. His hoodie was already damp, but he didn’t seem to care. You nudged him at one point, trying to shift it so he wasn’t fully out in the wet, but he just gave you a boyish grin and said something that made you laugh.

That’s when the Max Fewtrell, Lando's good friend, side eyes his running twitch stream, knowing full well the moment the camera just caught would send fans into a full blown spiral.

Max paused. Blinked. And then, slowly, looked straight into the camera with the most dramatic, expression he could manage.

“Right,” he said, eyes wide, the corners of his mouth twitching with a grin. “So it’s that kind of weather delay, huh?”

The chat exploded within seconds, fans already reading into the umbrella, the body language, the fact that Lando didn’t seem remotely interested in moving.

Max leaned in, voice dropping and thick with teasing. “Alright chat, calm down—cut our boy some slack and give him a fighting chance.”

Back on screen, Lando caught the camera out of the corner of his eye, shifted the umbrella just enough… and casually rested a hand on your back, if only for a moment.

Carlos caught it. You caught the smirk.

Max definitely caught it.

“Look at these two—already causing more buzz than the race itself.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Secret Santa

To this day, fans swear the annual driver Christmas gift exchange was the clearest sign that something more was going on between you and Lando Norris.

It was already suspicious enough that, out of all the names in the bucket, you and Lando somehow ended up picking each other. But what truly sent the internet into a frenzy were the gifts—thoughtful, personal, impossibly specific. The kind of presents only two people who knew each other too well would give.

Lando was mid-unwrapping, his usual excited grin slipping into a confused frown as he rotated the box in his hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Oh, sh—” His eyes widened. “—Sorry, cut that out,” he added quickly, glancing toward the crew with a sheepish grin.

Inside the box: a 1:1 LEGO replica of Lando’s first-ever karting helmet. Every detail was there—from the exact color scheme to the little decals only a handful of people would remember. Attached to the side of the box was a small envelope. He opened it and read aloud:

“From someone who knows how much this still means to you.”

Lando went quiet. Just for a second. The camera zoomed in slightly, catching the subtle shift in his expression.

“Who do you think your Secret Santa was?” someone asked off-camera.

“Oh, I know exactly who it was,” Lando said, chuckling softly. “Still kinda freaky how she managed to pull this off—I’m guessing my mum or dad helped her out.”

“Did they do a good job?”

“It’s perfect,” he said, smiling as he gently patted the box. “I love it. Definitely looking forward to building it and putting it on display.”

“And do you think the person you got will like their gift?”

Lando laughed under his breath. “I mean… I got her. And she’s already beaten me in the gift department—but yeah, I really hope she does.”

The video then cut to you, sitting just outside Aston Martin’s hospitality unit, carefully unwrapping a paper bag handed to you just before filming began.

“Who do you think your Secret Santa is?”

You glanced up, laughing as you peeled away the last bit of tissue paper. “Charles, maybe? He’s been asking me about my hobbies recently—like, weirdly specific questions.”

Your eyes dropped to the contents of the bag: a vintage film camera and a leather-bound journal. Your race number and initials were engraved on the cover in gold. You flipped it open slowly, revealing a message on the inside page:

For every moment you want to remember, and the ones you think you’ll forget.

You let out a breath, covering your mouth with your hand. “No way. This is so—” You shook your head, smiling. “This is so nice. You guys… best Secret Santa season ever, I think.”

Then you paused, adding with a laugh, “No offense to Alex—he got me that spa voucher last year and it was amazing.”

“Any idea who your Secret Santa was?”

You smiled, chuckling as you hugged the journal to your chest. “Yeah, I do.”

“Still think it was Charles?”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure he was just genuinely curious about my hobbies,” you laugh.

“Any other guesses?”

You shake your head with a grin. “Nope. I know exactly who it was—and I really hope he liked what I got him, too.”

[farfromharry]

Summary: Oscar’s extra soft in the mornings and you love it

Oscar Piastri x Reader

w/c 724

Oscar was always more soft in the mornings. Something changed in him right after he woke up. He was clingy, more loving. She couldn’t explain it, but she would never complain.

Y/N was a little groggy upon first opening her eyes, just as any non-morning person would be. Being surrounded by the warmth of her lover certainly helped though. He was curled against her back, legs tangled with hers, his eyes still closed and his breathing deep. She might think he was asleep if it wasn’t for the kisses he placed sporadically on her neck and shoulders. The room was shrouded in peace, silent other than their quiet breathing. It would be boring to some, but they couldn’t ask for anything better.

She knew he was beginning to rouse when he began running his nose along her neck. He pressed a kiss on her jaw, tugging her a little closer to his body. “Love you.”

Her stomach fluttered. His arms circled her body, one of his hands splayed over her forearm, tracing patterns against her skin. At least she thought they were patterns. The more she paid attention, the more she realised he was spelling something out. She felt bad for taking so long to realise it. I L O V E Y O U.

A surge of affection rushed through her and she linked one of her hands with his, bringing it up to press a few kisses to his knuckles. She adored him. 

They laid there tangled together for what felt like minutes but was really quite a while. The day was flying by and Y/N thought it best to get up and get ready, make the most of one of Oscar’s rare days off. He wasn’t sharing the same sentiment. Sure his trainer would probably rage if he knew he hadn’t had breakfast or done a workout today, but the Aussie was simply planning on not telling him. To Oscar, this would be a day well spent. 

She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “We need to get up, sleepyhead. I’ll make us some breakfast.” She kept her voice to a whisper, not wanting to be too loud when he was clearly still tired. She respected his desire for peace.

Her legs had barely got out of his before he was whining. It was supposed to coax her back to him, but it hadn’t worked how he had hoped. Instead she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the cool floor with a soft thud. Apparently this greatly upset him. “No, come back.” His arms were tight around her waist, giving her no wiggle room to escape. She laughed, her hand finding its way into his unruly hair in an attempt to tidy it up a little. “5 more minutes, please. Not done loving you.”

It was a miracle she hadn’t melted into a puddle. 

She did in fact climb back into the bed, turned to face him with a shy look on her face. His face was still sleepy, but it only made her long for him more. “Hi,” she whispered. 

His lips curled into a grin. “Hi, lovely.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Just two people hopelessly in love. Oscar leaned in, bumping the tip of his nose against hers and tilting his head to the side ever so slightly so he could slot his lips against hers. Her hands rested on his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft on her palms. Meanwhile his own hands had snuck under her shirt, running up her back with the lightest of scratches that made her shiver. He knew every button to press and spot to touch to make her fall even more in love with him. 

She pulled away first, tucking her head just under his chin. He held her close. There were never any expectations with Oscar, just pure, unfiltered love. A calm morning didn’t have to be anything other than exactly that. 

“Can we stay here forever?” he asked, quietly.

This was a side of him that no one saw but her and she cherished that. Oscar Piastri had many sides to him, but his soft side was her favourite now and forever. She grinned into his shirt, snuggling impossibly closer to him. “I’d love that.”

[farfromharry]

five ways he loves you – OP81

cw: pure fluff, established relationship, lots of cuddly boyfriend energy

✦

Oscar Piastri is not a loud lover. He doesn’t yell it to the world or post a million photos of you online (unless you’re both drunk and giggling in the back of a golf cart). But the boy loves hard. Quietly. Consistently. In ways that make you melt from the inside out.

1. Words of Affirmation. He says “I’m proud of you” so often it’s like punctuation to him. You burn toast? “Still proud of you.” You get a raise? “I knew they’d notice how amazing you are.” You get sad for no reason and cry on the couch in his hoodie? “I’m proud of you for feeling things and letting it out. That’s hard.” And sometimes, when you least expect it, he slips in a low, sleepy “I love you more than anything,” like he’s letting you in on a secret he’s kept since the first time he saw you.

2. Quality Time. Oscar’s version of quality time is not extravagant. It’s the way he sits beside you in comfortable silence, sharing a blanket, each of you doing your own thing but still touching. It’s post-race nights in hotel rooms, where you lie on his chest and watch trashy TV while he absentmindedly plays with your fingers. It’s road trips where he lets you DJ, even when you add questionable 2000s pop hits, and he just laughs, shaking his head like he’s doomed and in love.

3. Acts of Service. You don’t even notice half the things he does. Until one day you realize your car has a full tank, your favorite snacks are stocked, your charger was untangled and neatly placed on the nightstand. He’ll stay up to double-check your flight details, or fix that annoying kitchen cabinet that creaks without a word. His version of “I love you” is “already took care of it.” And it’s never about being thanked — he just wants to make life easier for you.

4. Gifts. Oscar isn’t flashy, but he’s thoughtful. A tiny koala keychain when he comes back from Melbourne. A limited-edition notebook because you mentioned needing a new one (once). A necklace with your birthstone, given so casually over breakfast that it takes you a full minute to register what just happened. He never says why he bought it. But the way he looks at you when you open it — that little proud smile and soft eyes — says everything.

5. Physical Touch. This is his weakness. Oscar is so touch-starved when it comes to you, it’s embarrassing (to him, not to you). He’ll pretend to stretch, then wrap an arm around you. He’ll pull you close during interviews when you’re just off-camera. He’ll come home, drop his bag, and immediately bury his face in your neck. He rubs circles on your thigh when you’re anxious, kisses your forehead when you’re sleepy, laces his fingers with yours under tables. He’d spend hours like that if you let him. And you do.

✦

Oscar doesn’t love in loud, chaotic ways. He loves like a steady hum — the kind you don’t notice until it’s gone. But with him? It’s never going anywhere.

He’s all five love languages. And somehow, all five belong to you.

©p1girlfriend

[farfromharry]

for baby norris are we thinking lando’s a girl dad or a boy dad?

[farfromharry]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eleven

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Boarding School Era is over after this chapter. Are we going to miss it? *Everyone drops to their knees and starts wailing*

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It starts like this.

Harper Grace Whiatt is half an hour into her English Literature exam when the cramps start.

She frowns, drinks some water, and glances around anxiously at her classmates. Heads down, full focus. Pens flying. The low, scratchy murmur of papers turning.

She looks down at her stomach, round and heavy on her thighs, and thinks, No. There's no way.

It's probably Braxton Hicks again. It has to be. She's been getting them on and off for weeks. The nurse and her midwife said it was normal. Said it was her body preparing and practicing.

But twenty minutes later, when she's halfway through the third question—something about dramatic irony in Macbeth, which she's managed to write exactly two and a half paragraphs on—it happens.

It's not like in the movies. No gasping, no screaming, no dramatic splash of water across the floor. Just... a slow, horrible trickle. Warm and humiliating and sudden. It puddles under her, darkening the plastic seat beneath her uniform skirt.

She freezes. Blinks.

And then the next cramp hits.

This one is different. Sharp, low, deep. Her whole body folds with it, involuntary. Her hands fist around the metal sides of her desk, her pen clatters to the floor, and—

Yep. She's crying.

The invigilator is already standing. Someone's chair scrapes back. Everyone is staring.

And then Oscar is there.

Up from his seat across the exam hall, papers forgotten, stepping over bags and chairs like none of it matters. He's kneeling beside her desk before the invigilator even manages to speak.

"Hey. Harp." His voice is tight. Controlled. He's trying not to panic, and failing. "You okay?"

She can't answer. She just shakes her head, because the pain's ramping up now, another contraction building low in her spine. She clutches the underside of her belly with one hand and his forearm with the other.

Oscar looks up. His eyes are wide and he's breathing fast. But he sounds steady when he says, "She needs an ambulance. Now."

"Out of the exam, both of you—" the invigilator starts, flustered.

"I don't give a shit about the exam!" He snaps, louder than anyone's ever heard him. "She's having a baby."

Someone swears.

Sam stands up from the back row, nearly knocking over his chair. "What? Now?"

"She's thirty-five weeks," Oscar says through his teeth, arm already around her shoulder, helping her stand even as she leans into him. "It's early but it's happening."

"Matt, get the nurse!" Someone yells.

Jane's already halfway down the row, pushing past a stunned Alfie and hauling Harper's bag up off the floor.

The whole room blurs.

But Oscar holds steady. He keeps one hand flat on Harper's lower back, the other gripping hers like a lifeline, and he says quietly, just to her:

"I've got you. You're okay. We're okay."

And somehow, through the tears and pain and mortification, Harper believes him.

—

The ambulance lights blur red and white against the stone front of Haileybury as the doors slam shut behind them.

Harper is strapped onto the stretcher, still in her school blouse, damp and wrinkled and stuck to her back. Her skirt's bunched under the curve of her bump, and there's dried tears on her cheeks. Oscar sits beside her, gripping the side rail with white knuckles. His tie is askew and one of his shoes is half-on, like he didn't have time to fix it when he sprinted from the exam hall.

He hadn't.

The paramedics are talking in a calm, professional blur—"thirty-five weeks... irregular contractions... possible rupture..."—but it all sounds like background noise.

Oscar fumbles for his phone. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks on the first ring.

"Dad—"

Chris' voice comes through immediately, sharp with concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"It's Harper. She's in labour. Her water broke—during the exam, we're—we're in the ambulance. I don't—" He cuts himself off. His throat is too tight.

"Okay, okay—fucking hell. Listen to me, son. We're in Barcelona—Oscar, breathe, alright? We're getting the next flight over. Me and your mum, we'll be there as soon as we can. Just stay with her. Don't you dare leave her side, Oscar Jack Piastri. You hear me?"

Oscar just nods even though his dad can't see him. "Okay."

He looks at Harper. She's gripping his fingers in both hands now, her face pale and pinched, her breaths going tight again as another wave of pain hits.

"Hurts," she whispers. "I want it to stop."

"I know." He presses a kiss to her knuckles, helpless. "You're doing so good, Harp. Just hang on. We're nearly there."

—

The hospital is all bright lights and sharp corners and words they don't understand.

She's whisked into a room. Oscar stays beside her, even when a nurse tells him to wait. "No. I'm staying. I'm her—" he stumbles on the word. What was he? Boyfriend? Partner? Father of her child? He'd only turned sixteen last week. "I'm staying," he repeats, and no one stops him.

There are too many people. Too many hands. Too many questions.

"How far along did you say she is?"

"Thirty-five weeks, four days."

There's a hundred people surrounding them suddenly. Harper's skirt is cut off, her tights too, and then there's another flurry of movement.

"She's breech."

"Baby's presenting bottom-first. That's not ideal, given mum's small stature."

"She's how old?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, Christ."

Harper is shaking. One of the nurses places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We're going to take care of you, sweetheart. But we need to move quickly. Your baby girl isn't in the right position, and your contractions aren't doing their job right now."

"I don't—" she gasps. "I don't know what they're supposed to do."

One of the doctors crouches down to their level. "Okay, here's the deal. We need to deliver your little girl and we need to do it soon. Right now, given your size and age, the safest way is a caesarean section. It's surgery, but you'll be awake the entire time, and we'll be right here with you. Do you understand?"

Harper looks at Oscar, then back at the doctor. "But I didn't even pack anything," she says weakly. "I didn't bring anything with me."

Oscar wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "We'll get it after. It doesn't matter. I promise it doesn't matter."

"Okay. Harper, darling, you're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine," the doctor says gently. "We just need to get a move on."

"Can he come?" Harper asks, voice small.

The nurse nods. "He's dad?"

Oscar nods. So does Harper.

"Then of course can come. Dad, let's scrub you up."

They wheel her out. Oscar walks beside the gurney like he's not entirely sure where his feet are taking him. He's barely heard the words "breach" or "c-section" before today. He still had an hour left on his exam. Somehow, he's only wearing one shoe.

None of that matters.

The fluorescent lights blur overhead, and he holds her hand the whole way.

—

Oscar's never known this kind of silence before. Not even on the grid, not even at the start of a race when every nerve is coiled and waiting.

This is different. The air is sharp with antiseptic and adrenaline, and the lights above the operating table buzz faintly, almost drowned out by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the low hum of voices murmuring things like "scalpel" and "next layer."

He's sitting on a stool next to Harper's head, hidden behind the curtain that separates them from the surgery. She's pale and half-dazed, the drugs making her eyes heavy, her fingers curling weakly in his hand.

"You're doing good," he whispers, even though he's not sure she can really hear him. "You're so brave, Harp. I swear, I've never seen anyone braver."

And then one of the nurses says something quietly—"we're ready"—and the stillness breaks.

There's a sudden shift in the room, a new focus. Oscar hears the surgeon say something about "gentle traction" and "legs first." And then:

"Here she comes."

Oscar stands, just enough to peek over the curtain. And there—

There she is.

Tiny. Pink. Furious.

There's blood, and there's motion, and she's slippery and folded up like she was curled into a puzzle piece—but she's alive. She's squirming, kicking, red-faced and loud.

Oscar's mouth drops open. His whole body goes still.

Then she cries.

A shrieking, furious wail that pierces right through him.

And he's crying before he even realises it.

"Oh my god," he whispers, voice cracking hard. "Oh my god, she's—"

The midwife glances at him, softening. "She's got lungs, this one."

Another nurse is already wrapping the baby in a towel, suctioning her nose gently, checking her fingers, her toes, everything so careful and practised.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" One asks.

He doesn't answer—just nods, stumbling forward on shaking legs. They guide his hand to the scissors, show him where to snip.

His hands are trembling so hard he misses the first time.

"Easy," the nurse says gently. "There you go."

He cuts.

And just like that—she's theirs.

Someone brings her over, naked and still squalling, and lays her down on Harper's chest.

Harper is crying now too, dazed and exhausted and blinking like she can't quite make sense of it all. Her hand comes up, instinctive, resting on the baby's back.

"She's so small," she whispers, her voice cracking like wet paper. "She's so small, Oscar."

"I know," he says.

He's still crying.

He crouches beside the bed, resting his forehead against Harper's arm, one hand on his daughter's tiny spine, the other still clutching Harper's fingers.

No one tells them what to do. No one says anything at all for a while.

And for a second they can pretend that it's just the three of them.

—

The recovery room was quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind that made Oscar's ears ring with the silence.

Harper was asleep, her head turned slightly to the side, pale against the white hospital pillow. She hadn't said much since they'd moved her out of surgery — just held their daughter to her chest until she'd drifted off, finally, like her body couldn't handle being awake a second longer.

Their baby — their actual baby — was in the little heated bassinet beside the bed. Still tiny. Still pink. Still real.

Oscar sat in the chair pulled up close, one hand resting on the plastic side of the crib like he couldn't quite stop touching something that proved all of this wasn't a dream.

He hadn't slept. Didn't even know what time it was.

But then the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head in.

"Are you Oscar?" She asked gently. "There's... well. There's kind of a group of teenagers, your age, I suppose, downstairs. Insisting they're all somehow your next of kin."

Oscar blinked. "Wait—what?"

"They're being very persistent. One of them's threatening to call Ofsted — although I'm not sure what they think that would do."

Oscar let out a tired, stunned breath. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

⸻

The moment he stepped into the corridor outside reception, he heard them before he saw them.

Sam. "You think I won't scale that fucking desk?"

Jane, sharply. "Obviously we're family. Can't you tell? We're quadruplets!"

Matt. "Sam, don't—okay, Sam's climbing the desk—"

Alfie. "Christ. You're all going to get us kicked out."

"Oi!" Oscar called across the room, humiliated and warm all at once.

The four of them turned in unison.

Oscar barely got a word out before Jane had practically launched herself at him.

He caught her, stumbling back a little, and then the rest of them joined in — Alfie clapping his back too hard, Matt wrapping an arm around his neck, Sam hovering awkwardly until Oscar yanked him into the circle too.

For a second, just a second, Oscar let himself lean into it.

Just stood there in the middle of a huddle of teenage arms and deodorant and half-tied ties, and let himself feel.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were wet and he hadn't even realised he was crying again.

"She's okay," he said thickly. "They're both okay. The baby... she's really small, but she's okay. They said her lungs are strong. She—she cried. She was loud. Harper's asleep now. She's okay too."

"Jesus," Matt muttered. "Did it all go alright?"

Oscar gave a weak, crooked smile. "They cut her open. Like—she didn't have to push or anything. A C-section. They didn't even let us wait. She's—Harper's so small, and she was in so much pain, and I didn't—I couldn't do anything."

Sam looked at him for a second. Then just pulled him into another hug, wordlessly.

Jane leaned her head on Oscar's shoulder. "You did exactly what you were supposed to, Osc. You got her here. You stayed with her. You held it together."

He didn't say anything. Just nodded, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes.

Matt cleared his throat. "So... can we meet her?"

Oscar shook his head. "Not yet. She's... she came early, and they don't want too many people near her while her immune system's still new. But—soon. You will. She's got this frowny face, like Harper. It's mad."

Alfie grinned. "Glad she didn't inherit your ugly mug."

"I bet she's gorgeous," Jane added.

Oscar looked at them all, his ridiculous, chaotic, loyal little found family. "Thanks for coming," he mumbled.

"Don't be stupid," Jane said. "Where else would we be?"

They stayed until the nurse kicked them out.

—

Harper woke slowly.

Not all at once, the way she did from nightmares or Oscar's too-early alarm. This was foggy and sore and strange — her body aching in places she didn't even have names for.

The lights were low in the hospital room. The air smelled of antiseptic and warm baby skin.

And her daughter, her daughter, was curled against her chest in a bundle of soft blankets and quiet huffing breaths.

Oscar sat beside her on the bed, one knee pulled up, his fingers gently stroking the baby's back. He looked up when he saw her stir.

"Hey," he whispered, voice thick with softness.

Harper blinked slowly. "Hey."

"Sorry. I just— put her on you. She was crying and she's already been fed, so I think she just wanted to be with you," he stumbled, and the relief in his face almost too much to look at.

She shifted slightly, wincing. Her stomach felt heavy and wrong and tight, like it had been sewn back together with fishing line.

"I can't remember it," she murmured.

"What?"

"The birth," she said. "The—surgery. Everything's blurry. I remember pain, and crying, and being so scared. And then... nothing. Just waking up here."

Oscar nodded. "You were... out of it. They gave you something once they decided to go for the C-section."

Her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the baby. Oscar reached out, steadying her.

"You were amazing," he said. "I know you don't remember it. But you were so brave."

She shook her head. "I was terrified."

"I know." He swallowed. "So was I."

He hesitated, then told her everything — how the nurses had run with her down the corridor, how he'd had to stop at the surgery doors and wait in scrubs, alone, cold with fear. How he'd been shaking when they finally let him in, when they raised the curtain and let him sit beside her head and hold her hand.

"You kept asking if she was okay," he said. "You don't remember that?"

Harper blinked hard. "No."

"You were half-asleep, but every few minutes you'd whisper, 'Is she okay? Is she okay?'"

He paused.

"And then... they pulled her out. And she cried. Loud. Screamed, actually."

Harper gave a broken little laugh, her free hand brushing at her cheeks. "That's my girl."

"They put her on your chest, and you smiled," he said. "You were still sort of out of it, but you smiled. I cut the cord. My hands were shaking so bad."

"I wish I remembered," Harper whispered.

"I remember enough for both of us," Oscar said softly.

There was a pause. Harper looked down at the baby, at her tiny scrunched-up face and her head of soft downy hair.

And then—loud footsteps. A voice.

"Oscar!"

It was his mum.

Nicole burst into the room first, Chris a step behind her, both of them breathless from the corridor. Oscar barely had time to turn before his mum was pulling him into her arms, hugging him tight, stroking his hair like he was five years old again.

"Oh my god, sweetheart," she said. "Oh my god."

He let himself go limp in her arms, the tension pouring out of him all at once. A full-body exhale.

"Is she okay?" Nicole said, already moving toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. "Is Harper—"

"I'm fine," Harper said weakly. "A bit... sliced open. But fine."

Nicole was already at her side, brushing Harper's hair off her forehead, looking down at the baby with wide, reverent eyes. "She's beautiful. Oh, sweetheart. You did it."

And Chris — always more reserved — stood at the end of the bed and gave a slow, stunned shake of his head. "Jesus, Oscar," he murmured. "You're a dad."

Oscar gave a dazed, lopsided grin. "Yeah."

Chris clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

He nodded. Then swallowed. "Now that you're here."

Harper blinked up at them. At Nicole. Her bottom lip trembled. "Thank you for coming."

Nicole squeezed her hand. Leaned down and kissed her forehead. "You're our babies. I'm just sorry we couldn't be here sooner."

—

The hospital room was dark, save for the low yellow glow of the lamp near the cot. Outside, the corridors were quiet, the world hushed and sleeping.

Inside, Harper sat upright in the narrow hospital bed, her legs stretched out stiffly under the thin blanket, her daughter nestled in the crook of one arm and a bottle in the other. Oscar sat behind her, his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped gently around her — like if he let go, she might come apart.

The baby suckled softly at the bottle, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling near her face. The only sounds were her quiet drinking and Harper's occasional, sniffling breaths.

"I'm sorry," Harper whispered.

Oscar shook his head against the back of hers. "Don't be."

"I just— I couldn't do it. I tried. I really tried. The nurse kept saying I was doing it wrong, and then she latched wrong and it hurt, and then she just— screamed and screamed and— I just want her to eat. I don't care if it's not my body feeding her, I just— she was hungry and I couldn't— I didn't—" Her voice cracked, her whole body trembling against his.

Oscar tightened his arms around her, leaning in closer. "She's eating now," he said quietly. "She's fine. Look at her. She's okay."

"She deserves better," Harper whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Oscar sat there silently for a moment, his hands splayed protectively over her ribs, one of them gently stroking up and down her arm.

"You're seventeen hours out of major surgery," he murmured. "You're holding her. You're feeding her."

"I just wanted to do it right."

"She's eating. That's all that matters."

Harper wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her hospital gown, sniffling again. "Do you think she'll hate me?"

Oscar let out the smallest, broken sound. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. "No. No, Harp. Never."

The bottle clicked as the baby finished the last of the formula. Harper tipped it gently away, cradling her daughter tighter, staring down at her flushed, soft face.

"I think she looks like you," she whispered.

Oscar smiled faintly. "She's got your hands."

They sat like that for a while — in borrowed pyjamas and rumpled clothes, huddled together in a too-small hospital bed, holding this impossibly small person who had turned their whole world inside out.

"She's so little," Harper whispered, voice cracking again.

"So are we."

She let out a soft laugh that was really more of a sob, and Oscar buried his face in her neck.

Neither of them said it — how scared they were, how much it hurt to feel like they weren't enough, how wildly, madly they loved this baby they barely knew. But it was all there, in the way Oscar kept holding her even after their daughter had been gentle burped and promptly fallen asleep. In the way Harper didn't flinch when he took the bottle from her hands and leaned forward to kiss the top of their daughter's head.

It was 5:47 a.m., and they were still just kids.

But their baby girl was warm and full and safe.

And that was enough.

—

Clementine Grace Piastri was born on the day the rest of England's Year 11 students sat their English Literature GCSE.

Oscar and Harper both failed the exam, having missed most of the questions — for fairly obvious reasons.

Their friends sat the paper in the aftermath and passed with flying colours; even Matt. 

Jane and Sam were given the honour of being Clementine's "godparents", a title they took far too seriously far too quickly.

And when Harper received a text from her mother asking for a photo of her granddaughter, she didn't hesitate.

She blocked the number.

[farfromharry]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Ten

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Cricket Oscar I repeat Cricket Oscar! Also... you know that whole 'ten chapters per era' thing? Yeah, scratch that. I'm just going with the vibes. They have more story to tell than I thought! We're almost at the end of Boarding School era though. Almost.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The outfield shimmered under the kind of sun you could almost believe was nearly summer, not just the British version where your nose still ran but your calves were burning.

Harper was stretched across the cricket pavilion steps, blazer bundled under her head, school skirt hitched to mid-thigh. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her legs — bare, pale, with a fresh constellation of freckles — were aimed straight at the sky like solar panels.

"Do you think it's working?" She asked, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Jane, sat beside her with her knees up and a blue slushie in one hand, sniffed. "Your thighs still look like milk, but your knees might be caramelising slightly."

"Excellent," Harper muttered. "Just what every girl dreams of. Caramelised knees."

On the pitch below, the Year 11 and 12 boys were playing some kind of friendly cricket match, which was loosely organised and entirely chaotic.

Oscar, Sam, and Matt were all in full whites — jumpers on, shirts rolled at the sleeves, trousers already grass-stained and untucked. Oscar bowled like he was in the Ashes. Sam swung the bat like he was in a pub fight. Matt had no idea what he was doing, but his mum was a big donator to the sports department, so he was on every team they had.

Jane slurped her drink loudly. "How do they look fit in cricket whites? Like. That shouldn't be hot. But it is."

Harper hummed in agreement. "Oscar looks so good."

"I'd let Sam ruin my life," Jane said mildly, tilting her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. "Just for the record."

"That's a given," said Alfie from behind them.

He was leaning against the pavilion rail with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a bouncer at a VIP tanning party, watching the crowd.

Harper smirked. "You alright there, security?"

"I'm good," he said, not moving. "Just enjoying the weather. And making sure no one ogles the royal bump or the goth queen over here for too long."

Jane fluttered her lashes. "Aw, Alfie. That's so sweet."

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but didn't deny it.

Two Year 10s walked by, gawking a bit too long at Harper's stomach. Alfie flipped them off without looking away from the field.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "It's like they've never seen a pregnant girl before. Weirdos."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Leave them alone, Alf. Our sex-ed programme here is awful."

On the pitch, Oscar had just clean bowled a year 12 twice his size. He didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his mark like a soldier reloading his gun.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off a sliding catch and promptly started peacocking like a West End actor. Matt attempted a cartwheel and fell flat on his face.

The girls howled with laughter.

"They're so stupid," Jane said, beaming.

"They're our stupid, though," Harper replied.

"And you're stuck with them forever," Alfie added, which made Harper laugh so hard she snorted.

Oscar looked up at the sound — squinting toward the pavilion — and smiled when he saw her, quick and quiet and just for her. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, waved once, then turned back to the game.

Jane sipped her slushie. "God, you two are cute."

"Shut up," Harper said, but she was still smiling.

The sun drifted a little lower. Somewhere in the background, the school bell rang for Sunday chapel — and nobody moved.

For a moment, just one, they weren't kids dealing with exams and babies and contracts and races and aristocratic uncles and tabloid magazines.

They were just fifteen and full of sugar, with sun warmed skin, watching the boys they liked pretend to be grown-ups in too-big uniforms and too-small egos.

It was perfect. Brief. Messy.

Life.

—

The boys came trudging up the slope from the pitch victorious — Sam with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, Matt skipping like he'd just won Eurovision, and Oscar... quiet, scuffed, a bit pink in the face and pretending he didn't notice Harper jogging down the last few steps to meet him.

"Oi, lovers!" Jane called, slapping her empty slushie cup onto Alfie's head. "We're going this way!"

Harper didn't care. She launched herself at Oscar, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand.

"You were so good," she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. "Seriously, I think I'm ovulating. I don't care that I already have a baby inside me."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alfie, who had not asked to hear that.

Oscar went bright red. He kept his arms mostly around her waist but was clearly short-circuiting in front of his friends.

"Harps," he mumbled, shifting his grip awkwardly. "There's, like—people watching..."

"Let them watch," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're so fit."

Sam passed by, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. "You're a proper stallion, mate. Well done."

"I hate all of you," Oscar muttered, voice muffled by Harper's hair.

Jane high-fived Matt for literally no reason. "Good effort, you absolute weapon."

Matt beamed. "I caught a ball with my face."

"And still the girls love you," Jane sighed. "Life's unfair."

As they reached the top of the hill, the group slowed — sweat-stained boys dragging their jumpers over their heads, the girls walking barefoot across the hot pavement in socks.

Alfie rolled his eyes as Harper kissed Oscar on the neck. "Get a room."

"We've got a room," Harper said sweetly. "Yours. I sleep in it four nights a week."

Sam gagged. "Alright, alright — leave some dignity on the grass."

Oscar was flustered beyond speech. He kissed Harper's temple, quickly, like a reflex, then shoved his kit bag higher on his shoulder and marched ahead of them.

The rest of the group, of course, followed him, cackling like feral hyenas.

By the time they reached the dorm block, Oscar had nearly made it to the stairwell alone — but Harper caught his wrist and tugged him back.

"You alright?" She asked, quieter now.

He glanced around — no one right next to them, just the echo of stomping boots on the stairs.

Then he nodded. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Oscar looked at her, eyes soft now that it was just them. "I don't mind the kissing. Just...not when Sam's narrating it."

Harper grinned. "Sorry. It's the hormones."

"Okay," he said, leaning in and kissing her properly this time — quick, but real. "I like when it's just us."

She smiled. "Me too."

"Also I think Sam might throw up if he ever wakes up when we're — you know."

"Sucks to suck." She said.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

They walked the rest of the way up together, quietly bickering over whose turn it was to nick KitKats from the vending machine and which bed they were claiming tonight.

Down the hall, someone yelled that Matt had thrown a sweaty sock at the fire alarm, because Jane was already in the process of burning her toast.

Harper smiled at Oscar.

Oscar smiled at Harper.

—

The classroom windows were cracked open, but the air still tasted like too many bodies in one place — biro ink, cheap deodorant, and GCSE anxiety.

Harper sat at the back, her copy of Macbeth balanced on top of a closed ring binder. She had a pen tucked behind one ear, a half-drunk bottle of Lucozade on the desk, and one hand pressed to the base of her spine like she could physically will the ache away.

Miss Freeman was rambling up front about ambition and power, pacing between the whiteboard and her desk with her usual furious energy. Her voice was sharp, quick — trying to cram five months' worth of content into five minutes, as if the sheer velocity of her teaching could force it into their heads.

"Harper," she called without turning, "what's Macbeth's fatal flaw?"

Harper blinked, sat up straighter. "Uh — ambition?"

"Good. Expand."

She swallowed. "He... wants power more than he wants to do the right thing. Even though he's full of doubt, he still goes through with it. Because he wants it too much."

Miss Freeman turned and pointed her marker like a sword. "Yes. Wanting something doesn't make you worthy of it. Write that down."

The room scratched with the sound of pens on paper.

Harper tried to focus — genuinely, she did — but her lower back was killing her. Not sharp pain, just that low, constant pressure, like someone had tied a sack of flour to her spine and told her to sit still with it.

She shifted slightly in her chair, trying to stretch out discreetly, but the movement drew a glance from the boy next to her — Toby something, always smelled like orange body spray and stale chewing gum.

He leaned slightly away, like she might suddenly explode.

"You alright?" He asked, face pinched.

Harper raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

He stared at her stomach like it had just started glowing.

"It's not catching, you know," she added dryly, turning back to her notes.

Toby flushed. "Didn't say it was."

"Didn't have to."

He said nothing after that, except to edge his chair a full six inches away.

Harper bit back a sigh, pressed her fingers harder into the knot at her back, and underlined the word ambition three times.

Across the room, she caught Jane's eye — Jane raised both eyebrows and mimed stabbing herself with her pen.

Harper smiled, barely, then went back to her book.

The clock ticked too slowly. The air buzzed. And the ache in her spine crept up just a little further.

—

The school nurse's office was too bright, too white. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sharp against Harper's already pounding head. She sat stiffly on the low cot near the radiator, both hands braced on either side of her bump. Her back hurt — a dull, dragging ache low in her spine that came and went like waves. Not agony, but not normal either.

She'd tried to ignore it in class. Kept her head down, revising and pretending the ache wasn't spreading like warm pressure across her belly. Until she couldn't anymore.

So she'd texted Oscar.

Can you come with me to the nurse? Not urgent just... a bit of pain.

He hadn't replied.

He'd shown up at the English classroom less than two minutes later, breathless, eyes wide.

Now he was sitting beside her, not saying much, hand closed tightly over hers. She could feel how tense he was in the way his thumb didn't move, how his leg bounced nervously even though he was trying not to fidget.

Mrs. Lyle, the school nurse, was kneeling by a cabinet, flipping through a stack of maternity leaflets she hadn't touched in probably two years. That's how long it'd been since the Haileybury baby.

"You said it's low back pain? Tightening?"

Harper nodded. "Sort of like... pulling. Like pressure. Not sharp, but weird."

Oscar's fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Mrs. Lyle stood and crossed to them, sitting down on the little stool by the cot. "Sounds like Braxton Hicks. You're about what — thirty weeks now?"

"Almost thirty-two," Oscar said, before Harper could answer.

Mrs. Lyle smiled softly. "Right. That makes sense, then. These start around now — practice contractions, essentially. Not actual labour, but your body's working out the muscles. Like rehearsal, in a way."

"But it hurt," Harper said, quietly. "I mean, not properly. But it felt like..."

"Something more serious?" The nurse finished for her, nodding. "It's normal to worry. It's good you came in."

Oscar looked down, jaw clenched. "So it's not — she's okay? The baby's okay?"

"Everything sounds textbook," Mrs. Lyle said calmly. "Nothing to panic about. She needs rest, hydration, and someone to carry her backpack for the rest of the day."

"Oscar always carries my bag." She said, automatically. Then she let out a breath, trying not to sag too visibly into Oscar's side. But he felt it anyway, leaned a little closer like it was instinct. His thumb finally moved, brushing against the edge of her knuckle. "I didn't know what to do," she said quietly.

"You scared me," he replied.

"I thought maybe it was real. Like — too early. I thought something was wrong."

"I know," he said. "I thought that too."

The nurse busied herself across the room, giving them quiet.

Oscar stared at the floor, then looked at her again. "I'm going to switch English periods. So I'm with you most of the day. Only class we'll have separate is Maths."

"Thanks." She whispered.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his hand lingering at her jaw. "I keep thinking I'm going to mess this up. Like there'll be a moment, and I won't know what to do, and you'll be hurting, and I'll just... freeze."

Harper turned toward him, forehead brushing his. "You didn't freeze, though. You ran out of class and came to get me."

"I got detention for it," he muttered.

"Worth it?"

"Obviously."

She smiled faintly, and for a second it almost didn't hurt anymore.

Mrs. Lyle came back with a bottle of water and some instructions about warning signs. Harper nodded through them, Oscar listening like it was life-or-death briefing.

Later, when they walked back toward the dorms together, Harper's bag slung over Oscar's shoulder and her hand in his hoodie pocket, she felt it again — the ache, the low pull in her back.

But she breathed through it. Didn't let herself panic.

Oscar stopped, watched her, gave her a minute.

And when she gave him a tiny little nod, they started walking again.

—

Oscar's pit garage was alive with movement — laptop screens glowing, air compressors hissing, the sharp scent of tyre rubber and brake dust thick in the air. The mechanics were everywhere, half-in and half-out of red team jackets, their radios clipped to belt loops, voices clipped and fast in the way only race days made necessary.

Harper sat on a crate in the back corner, half out of sight, a bottle of orange Lucozade in one hand and Oscar's helmet balanced beside her. She was wearing his old team fleece, zipped to the chin. Her legs ached from walking too much around the paddock that morning, and the baby — thirty-three weeks now, she kept reminding herself — was sitting weirdly on her spine. But none of that mattered.

She'd learned the names of all the engineers now. Matteo, who let her plug in tyre temp data to practice her number handling skills; Hugo, who always made her tea when it rained; and Ana, who'd secretly slipped her a granola bar the first time she nearly fainted from the garage heat.

They didn't look at her like she was a distraction.

They looked at her like she belonged.

"You're back early, Harps," Hugo said, passing her a stack of pit notes. "Track walk not worth the dust?"

She smiled faintly. "It was just Oscar doing that thing where he looks at gravel and pretends he understands how it affects his drive."

"Funny kid. Acting like he doesn't just drive like a lunatic every weekend and somehow make it work," Matteo added, grinning.

Harper smiled wider, adjusting the fleece over her bump. "We like lunatics."

There was the clatter of boots on metal and a burst of voices outside the canopy. Then Oscar pushed in through the side flap of the tent, tugging off his headset, face flushed and bright-eyed. His hair stuck up on one side, and he looked like he'd just run three miles.

He spotted her instantly.

"Harper—" His voice was breathless. He crossed the garage fast, past the prep bench, around the team radio desk, and knelt beside her like he couldn't get close enough fast enough. "Come here. Two seconds. Just—"

She blinked, startled, letting him pull her up by the hand and half-drag her toward the quiet side of the tent, near the stacks of spare slicks and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull.

Oscar looked like he might combust.

She tilted her head. "You alright?"

He looked at her for a second like he was checking if it was real.

Then he said, "Prema wants me. For F3."

Her mouth parted.

"What?"

He nodded, quickly, still flushed, eyes almost glassy with adrenaline. "Just talked to Marco. They want me. Already. Like—next season. They said I'm tracking above expectations. They want to get me in the F3 car before the year's out. Testing. Maybe a free practice."

"Wait—wait, wait," Harper said, stepping in closer. "Oscar, are you—are you serious?"

"I think I'm going to cry or be sick," he said, but he was smiling, wide and unguarded.

She grabbed his face with both hands, stared at him like she was trying to press the words into his skin. "You're going to F3."

"Yeah."

"You're actually—"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and kissed him. It wasn't a careful kiss. It was messy, hot with nerves, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that comes after months of half-holding your breath and hoping everything you're building doesn't slip through your fingers.

When they broke apart, Harper kept her forehead against his.

"You deserve this," she whispered. "You've worked so fucking hard, Osc. This isn't luck. This is you."

He didn't say anything at first. Just closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were clear and determined.

"I want it," he said. "I want it bad. But I'm scared that—"

"Don't," she said. "We'll make it work."

Someone called Oscar's name from the garage entrance.

He kissed her again, faster this time, and muttered, "Gotta go."

"Win this one," she said, still breathless.

"I will."

As he jogged back to his engineer, helmet under one arm, Harper stayed near the stack of tyres, heart hammering in time with the noise of the circuit starting to come alive beyond the paddock.

F3.

It wasn't just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

Step by step, formula by formula.

Her boyfriend was going to be a world champion one day.

And she'd be right next to him when it happened.

—

The computer lab always smelled like dust and old wires, the kind of cold room that was either boiling from server fans or freezing from the busted window. Today it was somewhere in between.

Harper sat in the corner by the window, legs tucked under her in the school's worst office chair, a hoodie tugged over her bump and a stubborn frown etched into her face.

"Line thirty-six," Matt said, leaning over her screen from the side. "You've got a missing semicolon."

She groaned and dropped her head to the desk.

"I hate JavaScript. I hate the entire concept of JavaScript. It's all chaos and no laws."

"You're learning React, which is basically JavaScript on crack."

"I chose this language because it was meant to be user-friendly."

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. "It's not. It lies."

Harper sat back up, cracking her knuckles. "Whatever. It's a project site, not a space launch. It just needs to work."

On her screen: a rough landing page — bold, accessible design, a mockup portfolio header, a contact form that mostly worked, and a bright pink font that she'd argued about with her teacher twice already.

The title read: Harper Grace Whiatt | Front-End Developer.

"You're not even doing this for class anymore, are you?" Matt asked, squinting at the layout.

"Nope," she said, popping her lips. "I've been attending this accredited course online, doing the certification stuff. Once I get my GCSEs out of the way and baby is born, I'm going to spend all my free time on it. Maybe go freelance. Build stuff."

Matt blinked. "Like... actual websites? For people?"

"Yeah," Harper said, tapping her space bar like it owed her money. "There's this girl I follow on Instagram — she's eighteen, self-taught, does Squarespace templates and Shopify setups, makes more than a junior lawyer. I figured, you know... it's smart. Futureproof."

She said it like a defence. Like she had to prove to everyone — to herself — that she wasn't going to be the story people had already decided for her.

"You don't have to," Matt said after a moment. "Prove anything. We already know you're clever. And, like. Kind of terrifying."

"Aw," Harper said. "You're sweet." Then she said . "Ever say that again and I'll launch this keyboard at your head."

Matt rolled his eyes, but grinned. "You're going to be good at it."

She looked back at the screen, the site stubby and full of placeholder text, but real. Hers.

"I want to build stuff people actually use," she said, softer now. "Not just pretty things. Useful ones. That don't assume you've got perfect eyesight or that you know where all the buttons are."

"Accessible design?" He asked, a little impressed.

Harper shrugged. "Bit ironic, right? Couldn't pass GCSE Maths if you paid me, but give me a CSS framework and I can make your entire checkout system retina-ready."

"You're the only person in this school who knows what 'retina-ready' means."

She grinned. "Maybe."

A message pinged on her screen — a Discord notification from a dev server she'd joined the week before. Someone had commented on her mock portfolio build: Nice typography choices. Would love to see more of your work.

She stared at it for a second.

Maybe this wasn't some pretend future. Maybe this was real.

Her world didn't have to shrink. It could shift. Change shape. But it didn't have to vanish.

Her laptop fan wheezed and clicked. She opened her browser, pulled up her GitHub, and started typing.

—

Oscar was lying flat on his bed, hair still wet from his post-training shower, eating Haribo one by one like they were sacred. Harper was on the floor cross-legged, MacBook balanced on her knees, pyjama sleeves pulled over her hands. Her bump curved gently under the fabric, resting against her thighs.

The screen glowed blue in the dim light.

"You're not allowed to look yet," she said, waving him off.

"It's going to be my website," Oscar muttered, tossing a Haribo into his mouth and missing.

Sam snorted from the other side of the room. "To be fair, you couldn't design a website if your life depended on it, Piastri. You'd just put a picture of your face and 'vroom' underneath."

Oscar threw a sock at him.

Harper kept typing.

They'd been working on it — quietly, between revision and races and everything else — for the last two weeks. He hadn't told anyone yet. Mark knew, obviously. And Alfie, by accident, when Harper asked if anyone had high-res images from Oscar's most recent F4 race.

They'd all gone to watch him from the grandstands like normal fans. Sam, Alfie, Jane, Matt — and obviously Harper. It'd been like a weird, fun little school trip.

Now the website was almost done.

"Okay," Harper said finally. "Try it."

Oscar leaned over and squinted at the screen. Then blinked.

The landing page was sharp and minimal, black background, bold white type. A full-width photo of him racing — visor down, car catching the light just right — stretched across the top.

OscarPiastri.com

"Whoa."

She kept scrolling for him. Stats. Race results. An embedded video reel Mark had helped them trim. A bio she'd bullied him into writing. Sponsor contact section. News feed. Instagram integration. All responsive. All accessible.

"You made this?" He said, eyebrows high.

She nodded. "Built from scratch. No Wix bullshit. I even set up the CMS so Mark can update the results and press stuff without breaking anything."

He just stared. "It's so... professional."

"I am professional."

Oscar looked properly impressed. Then a little overwhelmed. "You're literally fifteen."

"Sixteen in, like, nine weeks," she corrected, deadpan.

He reached for her, pulled her gently up onto the bed beside him, and kissed her temple.

"Thank you," he said, soft.

"'s nothing," she said, tucking herself under his arm. "I liked doing it. Made me feel like I'm... part of it."

"You are part of it."

She didn't say anything. Just closed the lid of her laptop and leaned against him.

Across the room, Sam looked up. "Wait. If you're building sites now... think you could make me one for my rap career?"

Harper didn't even blink. "No. I want nothing to do with that disaster."

Oscar laughed.

Sam sulked.

—

The early morning light filtered through the cracked dorm window, casting a pale glow on the cluttered room. Harper sat on the edge of her bed, fiddling nervously with the hem of her jumper. Oscar leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes tired but trying to look calm.

"First one," Harper muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. "Biology. Easy, yeah?"

She snorted. "You're joking. You've seen my biology notes."

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you've got this. We've done the revision, the late nights, the panic... now it's just another test."

Harper bit her lip. "I'm scared. What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down?"

Oscar crouched down, grabbing her hands. "No one's expecting perfection. And what does a biology result matter anyway?"

She squeezed his hands, trying to hold onto that steady feeling. "Thanks, Osc."

He smiled, awkward and sincere. "We celebrate. Whatever happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

He pulled her into a quick hug, warm and tight. "Go smash it."

NEXT CHAPTER

[farfromharry]

now i'm all yours, baby (yours until the end)

pairing: lando norris x best friend!reader

prompt: feeling their temperature — requested by anon here, from this list! (2.6k)

a/n: if there's one thing i'll never get tired of it's putting lando in every single friends to lovers arc known to man :) title from fall into you by daniel seavey and fic also loosely inspired by it if you squint hard enough lol

“I think I’m dying.” 

You glance up from the pan of eggs you’ve got going on the stove at Lando’s hoarse voice to see him standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking absolutely bedraggled in just a pair of soft looking shorts with a blanket haphazardly thrown over his shoulders.

Your eyes involuntarily linger on the tanned skin of his chest for just a split second before you snap your attention back to where it should be. 

He drags a hand back through his wild curls, the other scratching at his stomach absentmindedly. 

“That is typically what happens after coming home from yet another rager at some ungodly hour in the morning, yes,” You say, amused. Lando rolls his eyes. “Seriously, what time was it? I heard you stomping around like a fucking elephant.” 

“Four AM,” He mutters, brows furrowing. “Never again. I’m never drinking ever again.” 

“Isn’t that what you said last time?” 

“Shut up.” 

You fight a snicker at his scowl. “I’m just pointing out what you’ve already said.” 

“Is that how you treat people who feel like death?” 

“You’re hungover, you big baby. You’re not dying.” 

“But it feels like I am!” Lando moans, collapsing onto one of the counter stools dramatically. He straightens up a split second later at the sound of the laugh that spills out of your mouth, aiming a pout in your direction. “Have a little compassion, you monster.” 

“Fine, I’ll play along.” You pad over to him, laying your palm against his forehead as if you’re checking his temperature. “Oh no, is poor Lando feeling sick?” 

Lando swats your hand away from his face with a grumble. “Y’know, you could be a bit more supportive when I feel like dogshit.” 

“Excuse you, I am being supportive.” 

“Yeah? Don’t see how!” 

“Who do you think I’m making this for?” You ask, hurrying back over to the hot pan. 

Lando’s eyes go from the eggs, next to you to the two pieces of buttered toast laying on a plate, then to the steaming mug of tea, before landing back on you. His cheeks flame red at the realization. “Yeah, it’s for you and your dumb hangover.” 

“Thanks,” He says sheepishly. You scoop a generous helping of freshly scrambled eggs into the space next to the toast, pushing it across the counter to him with a little nod instead of responding.

Lando immediately digs in with the vigor of a starving man, scarfing down the first piece of toast in two bites. You nurse your own plate across from him, albeit much slower, fighting a fond smile at his predictability. 

“Can I have some of yours?” He asks with a cheeky grin, eyeballing your half done plate as soon as he finishes inhaling his. You roll your eyes but pass it over anyways, much to his excitement. 

You knew he was going to ask because he has a stomach like a black hole and always asks for your food, just like you knew he’d wake up with a massive hangover because he never eats enough before going out. That’s why you’d made sure to have something to fill that black hole stomach of his, otherwise he’d be an absolute drama queen about it. 

You know that because you know him.

You’ve been roommates for a while now, best friends for even longer. It’s easy to think of this situation with Lando as a sure thing. You’d live together forever, if you had the choice. Life is just easier when Lando is weaved through the fabric of it. 

Unfortunately, you know it isn't forever. One day, hopefully not anytime soon, he’ll leave. Maybe for a bigger place somewhere else whenever his career takes him, maybe because he wanted to live on his own for a change. 

Maybe because he’d found someone he loves more than you. 

You shudder even as the thought crosses your mind. You’re just friends, for fuck’s sake. You don’t have any right to be this ruffled about something you shouldn’t even be worried about. 

Then again, you didn’t expect to fall in love with him either. He just made it so damn easy. 

“What?” Lando’s confused voice draws you out of your thoughts, and you focus back on him to see him with his mouth full of egg, looking puzzled. “Why are you looking at me like that? Have I got something on my face?” 

“No reason. Was just thinking,” You say quickly, shaking your head. He tilts his head quizzically. “Uh…dinner tonight. How does pasta sound?”

That seems to quell his curiosity, because he shrugs, going back to his food. “Sounds mint! Max sent a photo of some chicken pasta thingy P made the other night, it looked amazing.” 

The mention of the Fewtrell boy jogs your memory of something you were supposed to inform Lando of when he woke up, and you straighten up. “Oh! Speaking of Max, he called earlier. Told me to tell you he’ll be by ‘round half past noon to come stream on Twitch.” 

“Half past—that’s in fifteen minutes, you ass!” Lando exclaims, shoveling the rest of the eggs into his mouth. “Fuck, that's hot!” 

You snicker. “Oops?” 

“Not funny! I love you, but you’re awful at relaying messages.”

The pitter patter of your heart in your chest grows a little harder to ignore. Even though he doesn’t mean it in the way you want it to. You press your lips into a thin smile. “That’s because I’m not your secretary.” 

“I didn’t—you know that’s not what I meant,” He insists, brows furrowing. “I appreciate you, love.” 

There he goes again, making you fall a little more for him without even knowing he is. You’re so far gone at this point it's getting pathetic.  

A knock at the door cuts through the silence before either of you can say anything. 

Lando scrambles for the front door with the last half of his toast sticking out of his mouth before you can move to go grab it, leaving you behind dwelling on thinking about him. Again. 

Max shuffles into the kitchen looking rather chipper, smiling at you. “Morning! Heard you made breakfast.” 

“I did. But your boyfriend ate all of it.” 

“Sounds about right, that,” He sighs, shaking his head. You giggle at the fact that he doesn't bother to correct your calling Lando his boyfriend. He’s used to it by now. 

“I’m a growing boy!” Lando protests. He comes over to stand next to you, arms crossed over his chest and scowling at Max like he's been accused of something atrocious. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make a deposit.” 

Max exhales through his nose, grimacing. “Mate, stop telling people when you need to take a dump. It’s disgusting.” 

“Aw, c’mon,” Lando snickers, hip checking you instead of digesting Max’s jab. “You think it’s endearing, don’t you?” 

You wrinkle your nose in mild disgust while trying to keep a straight face at his stupid grin. “Not really.” 

“You love me. I know you do.” Lando loops an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you in a quick side hug. Oh, if only he knew how true that was. “Thanks for breakfast. I owe you one.” 

You open your mouth to tell him there's no need to thank you, but then he drops a lightning fast kiss to your cheek. 

And then he scurries away like he hadn’t just made your brain short circuit. 

Lando doesn’t kiss. He hugs you and sprawls out into your space and holds your hand in crowded places sometimes, but he’s never kissed you. Granted, it was only an innocent cheek kiss—barely even a kiss, really—but it still stuns you all the same. 

Max observes the way you watch Lando leave, your expression somewhere a mix between shocked fondness and longing, and he sighs. It’s easy to catch onto, how much you care for your shared best friend—how much you love him. He’s had a front row seat to the journey so far. 

“Have you ever thought of telling him how you feel?” 

Your gaze snaps to his and you blink, caught off guard by the sudden ask. “What?” 

“Lando. Would you ever tell him you're in love with him?” 

“I’m not—” You begin to protest, but falter at Max’s skeptically raised brows. He can already see right through your half baked lie. “No. I can’t tell him how I feel about him.” 

As always, he’s prepared with a follow up question. “Why not?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Respectfully, because you know I love you, that’s bullshit.” 

“Max!” You whine, dragging out the last syllable. You prop your chin up in your hand, wrinkling your nose at the skeptical look he’s got aimed your way. “He doesn't like me like that.” 

That makes him laugh, and loudly. He laughs for what seems like forever, until you get tired of his cackling and throw a dish towel at his head. 

“I’m sorry, but that's the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” He sighs, still chuckling as he shakes his head. You show him your middle finger and he holds his hands up in surrender, smiling like he knows something you don't. 

“How is it dumb? There's no way on earth Lando feels the same way.” 

“You won't know if you don’t say anything.” 

“I don’t want to know. How would I even tell him? Hey Lan, you're my best friend. By the way, I fell in love with you.” 

“Yeah, exactly like that, actually.” 

“No, you knob! I’m not doing that. I can’t.” 

“You can, you just choose not to.” 

“Will you stop being so reasonable and let me have this, please?” You huff, scowling at Max, who looks like he’s about a second away from busting out laughing again. “Seriously, you get a girlfriend and suddenly you know everything about healthy communication? Fuck off.”

Max doesn’t say another word about it for the rest of the day. He does, however, stare at you for almost too long to be considered normal during dinner, as well as right before he leaves to go home. 

Though no words are spoken either time, you get the message loud and clear. You choose to ignore it. 

You’re cleaning up dinner when Lando stops. Middle of the room, takeaway containers in hand, he just…stops. You wind up walking face first into his back, smashing your nose against the hard bone of his shoulder blade.

“Ow, what the fuck, Lando?” You whine, wincing at the flash of pain that slices through your face. He still doesn’t say a word. You shoot him a curious sideways glance as you step around him towards the sink to drop off the plates. 

“I heard what you were talking about earlier. With Max.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Fuck, you think. This is it. 

You focus entirely too hard on scraping food into the bin, not giving any indication you've heard him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll go away. (He won’t. He never does.) 

He says your name softly, sounding much closer than before. Still, you refuse to face him, eyes squeezed shut now. “C’mon, would you look at me? Please?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“If I look at you, it means this is actually happening.” 

Gentle hands ease the plate out of your grip, fingers wrapping around your elbow, turning you around slowly. They move higher then, rubbing your shoulder. 

Your name leaves his lips again, only this time, you give in. Lando is looking right at you when you open your eyes, such a picture of softness and everything familiar it makes you want to scream. 

You’ve ruined this, ruined something good because you couldn’t help yourself, and you’re already kicking yourself for it.

“This,” He repeats, cautious. “What do you think this is?” 

You inhale deeply, shaking your head. “Don’t make me say it, Lando.”

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking, so I need you to.” 

“You already heard me say it to Max this morning.” 

“I wanna hear you say it to me.” He almost sounds a little pleading if you’re not mistaken, as if he needs to hear you confirm it for himself. 

You’d wonder why, but you’re a little busy making a mental note to find somewhere else to live at the moment. There’s no way you can stay after this. 

It actually kind of irks you that he’s trying to make you say it again, seems like he’s trying to weasel it out of you another time to just twist the knife in a little deeper. You haven’t known Lando to be cruel like this, which makes it hurt more. 

“I have feelings for you, Lando! There, I said it! Are you happy now?” You blurt, wrenching your shoulder out from under his hand. The weight of letting the secret out should feel relieving, but it doesn't. All it feels like is that you might lose your best friend. “I was stupid and went and fell in love with you, and now I’m just an idiot because you don't feel the same way.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

 You let out a slightly bitter chuckle, hands squeezed into fists so Lando won’t see them shake. “I’m right, aren't I? You can just tell me.” 

“You’re wrong,” He says immediately. Sharply. He licks his lips, blinks a few times, letting his shoulders come up in a shrug and then dropping. “You couldn’t be more wrong.” 

You lay your palm across his forehead like you're feeling his temperature, much to his confusion. 

“The fuck are you doing?” He blurts, rearing back. 

“Seeing if you've got a fever.” 

“Why?” 

“Trying to find an explanation to why you would choose me.” 

“Oh. Well, I didn't choose you,” He says matter-of-factly, shrugging. You can't control the way your face drops. Then he grins at you, nose scrunching in that way it always does when he thinks something is funny—your favorite way. “My heart did. It just took the rest of me a little longer to catch up. But I’m here now. I’ve been here for ages, I just—I didn’t know how to say it. How to bring it up without sounding like an absolute moron.” 

“You’ve never been good with words, have you?”

“You’re telling me! Thank god I drew you in with my boyish charm.”

“Charm!” You snort, brows flying high with amusement. “Oh, mate, you have less charm than a paper bag.” 

“Still worked on you.”

You cock your head to the side, feigning thoughtfulness. “Yes, well, I have questionable taste sometimes. We know this.” 

“But not this time, right? Not with me.” He closes the gap between you a little more, fingers brushing over your hand tentatively. 

“Not with you,” You echo, leaning towards him too. Lando’s eyes brighten. “Never with you.” 

“Good. Now am I allowed to kiss you? I’ve only been waiting…oh, I dunno, my whole life.” 

“We haven't even known each other our whole lives, you muppet.” 

“Sure feels like it.” He curls an arm around your hips, pulling you in to slot his mouth against yours softly. Slowly. Testing out the waters of this entirely new and entirely welcome change in your relationship.

You can tell how happy Lando is by feeling the big grin curving his lips as you kiss him, the soothing press of his thumb against your cheek and his other hand at your waist as a reassurance that this is actually happening.

It feels like the beginnings of a beautiful day, right when the sun pokes out from under the horizon and starts to project its rays onto everything in its path, makes warmth race through your bones the way he races through circuits for a living. 

And after convincing yourself that all you’d get was frozen out if you ever made your feelings for Lando known, you think you could get used to this warmth.

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[farfromharry]

Everyone Knows But Us

Lando Norris x Reader

It starts like it always does — at the Norris household, in the kitchen that somehow smells like home and Lando’s favorite chocolate biscuits. You're sitting on the counter, sipping tea made by his mum, and Lando's flipping through a cereal box like it has secrets to spill.

“You’re not gonna find treasure in there,” you tease.

“I might,” he grins, shooting you a glance, eyes crinkling in that way that still makes your stomach flutter — not that you’d ever admit that.

“You’re 25 years old.”

“And still youthful and hopeful. Unlike you, grandma.”

“You’re older than me.”

“By four months. Which means I’m wiser.”

From behind you, Cisca chuckles as she walks in, tea towel slung over her shoulder. “Honestly, you two,” she says fondly, shaking her head. “If I had a pound for every time someone asked when you were getting married—”

Lando almost chokes on his cereal. “Mum!”

You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks. Not the first time you’ve heard it — his cousins, friends, strangers online who see your photos on Instagram. Every time you attend a race, there’s a wave of speculation: Is she his girlfriend? Is she the one?

And you never correct it. Neither does he.

Because it’s easier to pretend you don’t notice.

You’ve known each other since you were six. Met at karting, obviously. You’d crashed into a hay bale and cried so hard your dad had carried you off the track. Lando had found you in the paddock with a snotty nose and a bruised ego.

“You want my sweets?” he’d offered.

You’d sniffled and nodded.

Since then — birthday parties, broken bones, inside jokes, 3 a.m. FaceTime calls when he’s jet-lagged. He texts you after every race. You were the first person he called when he got his first podium. The first to see him cry when he didn’t win one he wanted.

And you’ve never dated. Never kissed. Never even talked about it. Because why ruin the best thing in your life?

Still, sometimes you wonder.

Like now — he’s standing in front of you, in joggers and a hoodie, curls messy and eyes soft, smiling in that way he only does when it’s just the two of you.

“Your tea’s gone cold,” he says, nudging your foot with his knee.

“So’s your cereal,” you retort, hopping down from the counter.

Later that evening, you’re sprawled across his bed watching something stupid on Netflix. Your legs are tangled, as always. You’ve done this a thousand times. But it’s never felt quite so loud — the silence, the unsaid things.

His fingers brush yours as he passes you the remote.

Your heart skips.

You pull away first.

“Are you ever gonna tell her?” Max asks him two days later in Monaco.

Lando rolls his eyes, taking a swig of his drink. “Tell who what?”

“Mate.”

“Don’t start.”

“Everyone thinks you’re dating.”

“We’re not.”

“You want to.”

“I—” Lando pauses, exhales, runs a hand through his curls. “She’s… she’s my best friend.”

“And?”

“And I don’t want to lose that.”

Max just raises a brow. “You won’t. Unless someone else gets there first.”

That thought haunts Lando more than he wants to admit. He sees the way other guys look at you. Like the guy who tried to chat you up at the paddock in Miami. You’d laughed it off, brushed him away — but Lando felt something sharp twist in his chest.

That night, he asked you what your type was.

You blinked. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Just curious.”

You smiled. “Someone who knows me. Makes me laugh. Someone who feels like home.”

Lando swallowed hard. “Oh.”

You tilted your head. “What about you?”

He grinned, soft and crooked. “Someone who steals all my hoodies and knows my Spotify password.”

You threw a pillow at him. “So basically, me.”

His laugh was nervous. “Yeah. Basically.”

Neither of you said anything after that.

The moment it shifts — really shifts — is small and stupid.

You’re in the car, headed to dinner with his family. He’s ranting about something — the new sim setup, the logistics for Austria, the fact that he still doesn’t understand how to fold a bed sheet.

And you’re laughing, turning to say something when he glances over.

And he just… stares.

Not like before. Not like hey bestie.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Lan?” you ask, softly.

“Hm?”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

You blink. “What?”

He pulls over.

“What are you doing?” you ask, brow furrowed.

“I’m…” He exhales. “Okay. I’m going to say something, and if you hate it, we pretend I didn’t. Cool?”

You nod slowly, heart racing.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since you were thirteen and made me a Spotify playlist called Songs For When You Miss Me — and then didn’t talk to me for a week because you were embarrassed.”

You freeze.

“I think everyone knows it,” he says. “Except us.”

There’s a beat.

And then you laugh — breathless and shaky and a little bit in disbelief.

“You idiot,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I’ve been in love with you since you gave me the last cookie on your birthday. Who does that?”

Lando stares. “Wait. Seriously?”

You nod.

He breathes out a laugh — stunned, relieved, like the weight of five million unsaid things just evaporated.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice low.

You smile. “Finally.”

You show up to dinner hand in hand. His mum beams. His dad winks. His little sister shrieks, “Took you long enough!”

And you realize something:

Everyone knew.

Except you.

This was Requested.🫶🏼

[farfromharry]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eight

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — The sports day scene really had me in my feels omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The grass on the main field had been freshly mowed into lines, each one crooked enough to be noticeable. A cluster of teachers stood around with clipboards and stopwatches like they were auditioning for the Olympics, and the school's ancient PA system was making increasingly desperate attempts to stay audible over the wind.

Sports Day at Haileybury was not, as Harper had once assumed, a low-stakes afternoon of novelty races and post-Pimm's bruises. It was a full-scale military operation.

There were tents — tents, plural — each year had their own, flapping slightly in the breeze like they were preparing for battle. Some parents had actually brought champagne in coolers. A drone buzzed overhead. There was a pony somewhere. No one knew why.

Harper stood on the sidelines. It was March now, and at twenty-weeks, there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant. Unlike the others, who were in their P.E kits, she was in her usual uniform. Blazer, white shirt, plaid skirt, white knee-socks, and black Mary Jane shoes.

She had a whistle on a string around her neck, which she kept fiddling with.

Oscar had insisted she be starter for the boys' 400m. "You'll get the best view," he'd said with a grin, "and you don't even have to run."

Which was, frankly, ideal.

Sam was already moaning. He'd been forcibly signed up for hurdles after one of the Year 11s sprained their ankle falling off a climbing wall during warm-up.

"I'm gonna clip every single one," he declared, stretching dramatically. "I'm gonna eat turf in front of all these people. You're all going to laugh. I'm going to die. This is my legacy."

"Can't be worse than last year," Alfie said, lying facedown on a picnic blanket. "Remember when Jane bit it in the egg-and-spoon and still won?"

"I tripped!" Jane snapped. "And I powered through."

"You ate half the grass on the pitch," Matt said cheerfully.

"Whatever," she muttered. "Still beat all of your times, didn't I? Fucking idiots."

Oscar was off stretching with the other Year 11 and 12 boys, already wearing his signature smug-athlete expression. He lived for this day. Being good at things in front of a crowd was practically his love language.

Harper watched him jog past, the back of his shirt clinging to him just slightly, and felt her cheeks warm. He caught her eye and winked.

"God, you're pathetic," Jane muttered beside her. "You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The 'my super hot Australian boyfriend is about to lap the entire field and I'm sooo going to kiss him afterwards' face."

Harper smirked. "It's a good face."

"I'm revolted."

The PA system crackled again. "Year Eleven boys, to the starting line for the 400 metres, please. Starter, take your position."

Harper shuffled over to the line, earning a round of polite applause just for existing — or possibly because someone mistook her for a teacher.

"Is she blowing the whistle?" A parent whispered nearby.

"She's pregnant, darling. That doesn't make her a criminal," the other replied. "Besides, didn't your Francesca have her little boy when she was here? Fourteen, wasn't she?"

Oscar and the other boys lined up — all long legs, cocky grins, tracksuit bottoms in various stages of removal. One of them started doing the Mobot ironically.

Alfie was muttering what sounded like a prayer. Sam just looked like he was going to throw up.

Harper raised the whistle to her lips and gave Oscar one last lingering look. He gave her a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Then she blew the whistle as hard as she could.

And they were off.

Oscar tore down the lane like he'd been fired out of a cannon. Jane whooped. Someone else shouted, "Go on, Whitaker!" and Alfie immediately collapsed onto Harper's chair, dramatically fanning himself.

"G'won Piastri! Bloody run!" Jane screamed.

"Thank Christ I wasn't signed up for that," he said. "Look at your boyfriend's calves. They're like weapons. I'm not built for violence. Or physical exercise.

Harper didn't answer. She was too busy watching Oscar absolutely demolish the field.

He was three body-lengths ahead by the final curve. By the time he crossed the finish line, the next closest runner was still negotiating the last 50 metres.

Oscar skidded to a stop, hands on his head, chest heaving — and then pointed straight at her like a footballer scoring a goal.

Jane stopped cheering in order to gag. "He's so in love with you, it's disgusting," she said. "Please don't shag him behind the scoreboard. This is a family event."

"I'm pregnant," Harper said with a grin. "That makes us a family, doesn't it?"

Jane laughed.

Sam limped over, trailing after Oscar. "Did you see me trip?" He asked. "We're not talking about it. Okay? I'm just putting it out there that the field obviously wasn't flattened enough."

Oscar came jogging back over, red-faced and sweaty. He didn't even pause — just leaned in and kissed Harper full on the mouth like it was the finish line itself.

A few teachers grumbled unhappily. Parents whispered. Their mates hollered and whistled.

"You blew the whistle beautifully," he told her solemnly.

"I'm a natural," she replied, breathless with laughter.

"And I smoked all of them."

"You're a show-off."

"I'm a winner."

She rolled her eyes. "I know that, Piastri. I've seen your trophies."

"I'm gonna kiss you again."

"You're sweaty." She complained.

"Don't care."

And then he kissed her again.

Behind them, the sack race began with someone falling over immediately and landing in a cone. A boy from Year 9 started crying when he got hit by a flying beanbag. There was a faint chant building by the Year 8 tent involving someone's mum and the pony.

Harper just shook her head, leaned into Oscar, and thought, weirdly, that she might actually miss this place when they were gone.

—

The maths revision group (not to be confused with the Harper's Tutors group) had been Alfie's idea. Which was insane, really, because Alfie was objectively the worst at maths after Harper. But apparently he felt that gave him some sort of authority.

"It's all about teamwork," he'd said, dragging desks into a semi-circle like they were in some sort of low-budget TED Talk. "If we all suck, no one feels bad."

"That's not how GCSEs work," Jane said, already bored, perched on the edge of a desk with a highlighter in her mouth.

Oscar sat beside Harper, chewing the lid of his pen and pretending not to glance every three seconds at her workbook like he might be able to absorb her stress through osmosis.

Harper had her revision guide open but had spent the last ten minutes underlining the same heading: Foundation Paper — Non-Calculator Section.

The numbers swam a bit. They always did. Like they had a personal vendetta against her.

"Okay," Sam said, flipping a page in his own workbook. "Let's go over fractions again."

"I will literally walk into traffic," Harper muttered.

"No, you won't," Jane said without looking up. "You'd just miscalculate the angle and the car would miss you."

Alfie howled. "Oi. That's harsh."

Harper gave Jane a glare. Jane gave her a bored thumbs-up.

Oscar nudged her thigh with his knee. "Stop stressing."

"I'm not," she muttered. "My brains just broken."

"Mate," Sam cut in, "if your brain was broken, you'd be one of those people who claps when a plane lands. You're not. You're just maths-thick. It's a very specific kind of issue."

Harper stuck her middle finger up at him.

"This is supposed to be a supportive space." Oscar said, unimpressed.

Alfie was already drawing a diagram on the whiteboard someone had dragged in from the art room. "Right. Improper fractions. They're just fractions that think they're better than you. Like, calm down, you're literally top-heavy."

"I happen to like top-heavy." Jamie, one of the year 11's in her foundation maths class, said.

Sam threw a highlighter at him.

Matt, who'd somehow ended up being the quiet brains of the operation, raised his hand like they were in an actual classroom. "Can I please just explain it properly before Alfie confuses everyone again?"

Oscar nodded. "Please do."

Matt sighed. "Okay. Harper — look. You've got seven halves. That's just three wholes and a half. You already know that. You could do that in your sleep."

"Yeah, but ask me to write it down and I panic," she said. "It's like I know it in my head, but the second I see numbers on a page, it's like they're in a different language."

"That's 'cause school maths is designed by sadists," Sam said. "Don't let it get to you."

Jane reached into her bag and handed Harper a mini packet of Haribo. "Sugar for the brain," she said.

"Thanks," Harper said, taking it. She rested her head on Oscar's shoulder for a second, and he leaned into her just slightly. Just enough to be reassuring, not PDA.

Alfie pointed at the whiteboard. "Okay. Here's the deal. We go over ten problems tonight. If Harper gets through them all without throwing a chair or crying, we reward her with cake from the machine."

"I like that plan," Harper said. She'd perked up a bit at the mention of cake. Oscar laughed when he felt movement beneath his hand. Baby liked the idea of cake too.

"You get cake either way," Jane muttered. "So please throw a chair at him."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Can we just start?"

Later, they were on their way down to the astro for some fresh air. "You're doing better than you think," Oscar said.

Harper didn't say anything. Just unwrapped the cake, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in his mouth before he could keep talking.

"Shut up," she said.

He grinned. "Okay."

—

Oscar had been weird all day.

Not, like, noticeably weird to most people — but Harper could tell. He kept checking his phone and tapping his fingers like his body had extra electricity to burn.

At lunch, he barely touched his chips, which was criminal, and when she asked him if he was alright, he'd just muttered, "Yeah, fine," and went back to staring at his phone.

Now, in the common room, he was pacing.

Actually pacing. Back and forth across the threadbare carpet.

"Osc, what's up with you?" Harper asked finally, closing her science book and watching him with raised eyebrows. "You're making me dizzy." She sighed.

Oscar stopped pacing, spun around, then walked over and just—held his phone out to her.

She blinked at it. "What am I looking at?"

He shoved it closer.

It was an email. Official, professional, with a logo that looked like speed and money and adult careers.

Subject line: BRITISH FORMULA 4 – DRIVER PLACEMENT OFFER (CONFIDENTIAL)

She blinked again. Then looked up at him.

"No way."

Oscar ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "Mark wants me in for trials next month. If I do well, they'll sign me for the junior seat. Full kit. Sponsorship. Real team. Single seater."

Harper's eyes widened. "With TV coverage and contracts and all the posh helmets?"

"Yeah," he said, breathless. "Yeah."

She stood slowly, the email still glowing on his phone in her hand. "Oh my god. That's... huge."

"I know." He stared at her, eyes wild and overwhelmed. "It's insane. I didn't think they were even watching me this season. I thought they were going with the kid from Sheffield."

"Well, apparently not," she said, handing the phone back. "Osc..."

He let out a stunned, choked sort of laugh.

Sam, who had been half-asleep on the sofa under a textbook, sat up and said, "Wait, what? What's happening?"

"Oscar got scouted," Harper said. "British F4."

"No way," Sam said, eyes wide. "Holy shit, that's—wait, do you get free jackets? I want a jacket."

"Mate," Oscar said, sitting down on the arm of the chair like his legs had just remembered they were fifteen and overwhelmed, "I'm going to be a dad. In like... four months. And now I'm getting offered a chance to race across the country every other weekend."

Harper sat next to him. She was quiet for a second. "You want to do it?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "Of course I want to do it."

"Then you should."

"But what about—?"

"You're allowed to have something," she said, before he could even finish the sentence. "We knew that going into this, didn't we? That there'd have to be sacrifices. I want you to do this."

He stared at her like he didn't believe it. "Harper," he said quietly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," she replied. "This isn't leaving. This is just... adding something. You don't have to pick between the baby and racing. We'll figure it out. We always do."

Sam clapped dramatically. "Right, well, now that we've sorted your future — someone tell me what the actual fuck simultaneous equations are."

Oscar looked back at his phone. His hands were shaking slightly.

Harper nudged his shoulder. "You're going to be amazing," she said. "And I'm going to be there to watch you win, Osc. As often as I possibly can."

"No promises on the wins," he muttered, but he was smiling now, in that quiet, stunned way that said maybe—for a second—he actually believed he could do both. "But I'll try. For you."

—

There were five of them crammed onto the threadbare rug in front of the common room sofa, surrounded by empty crisp packets, half-finished smoothies, and someone's maths textbook that had been repurposed as a coaster.

"Okay," Jane said, flipping her notebook open like she was taking official minutes. "We've ruled out anything weird and American-sounding, and Alfie's last suggestion was 'Rogue,' so he's on name probation."

"Oi," Alfie muttered, mouth full of Pom-Bears. "It's gender neutral."

"It's also the name of an X-Man," Jane deadpanned. "Not happening."

Harper was lying on her side, head in Oscar's lap, one socked foot lazily nudging Matt's leg every time he got too lost in his book.

"We don't have to pick one today," she said, though she was smiling. "We've got plenty of time."

"No, because if you don't decide soon, Alfie's going to campaign for something unhinged like 'Peach' and convince you that it's cute," Matt said.

"'Peach' is adorable," Alfie said, utterly unbothered.

"Peach Whiatt-Piastri sounds like a cocktail you order by accident in Ibiza," Sam added.

Oscar was quiet. He was playing with the ends of Harper's hair, twisting the red strands absently around his fingers. He hadn't said much since they started this conversation — which, to be fair, had started because Jane had walked in and said, "Right, I've been thinking. If it's a boy, you can't call it anything that rhymes with 'fart.'"

Harper had gone pink and said, "We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet," and then they'd all gone down a rabbit hole of neutral names, none of which had made it past the group vote.

Now, Sam said, "We could do something badass, like River. Or Ash. That sounds like someone who'd wear leather and be in a boy band."

"I veto both of those names," Jane said.

Oscar let out a soft, distracted, "Yeah. I don't like those either."

Harper shifted slightly and said, "What about something literary? Like a cool author name?"

"Like what?" Matt asked.

"I don't know... Eliot? Or Austen?"

"Isn't Austen a bit on-the-nose?" Sam said. "With you being fancy and everything."

Harper threw a crisp at him.

They went back and forth for another ten minutes. Names got weirder. At one point, Jane suggested 'Moss'. Alfie floated the idea of 'Jelly'. Someone genuinely said 'Cricket'.

Eventually, Harper sighed, turned over to lie on her back and looked up at Oscar.

"You haven't said anything. What do you like?"

Oscar blinked. "I... dunno."

"Well, do you want something traditional or weird?"

"Just something nice, I guess. Something that suits her."

Silence.

Complete, stunned silence.

Matt dropped his can of Pepsi on the floor.

Jane gasped. "Wait. Her?"

Oscar blinked. "Oh. Shit."

Harper slapped a hand over her eyes. "Oscar, oh my God."

"You know the gender?" Sam practically shouted, scrambling to sit up straighter.

"We just found out at the scan on Thursday," Harper said, her face now redder than the KitKat wrapper on the table.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us!" Jane shrieked, half-laughing, half-scandalised.

"You're all so dramatic," Oscar muttered, clearly trying not to laugh. "It's normal not to tell people. We just wanted it to be a secret between us for a while."

"Mate, you're going to have a daughter," Alfie said, eyes wide. "That's so crazy."

"It's not that crazy," Harper argued, sitting up now.

"Oh my God," Jane whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. "We're going to be aunties and uncles to a tiny little baby girl. We have to buy her tiny Converse. Pink ones!"

"Do babies even wear shoes?" Sam asked.

"I think so," Jane said.

Oscar wrapped an arm around Harper and pulled her in a bit closer, his cheeks still pink. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out."

"I'm not mad," she said softly. "They'd find out eventually. And... it's kind of nice."

Matt was still staring at them. "A girl," he said again.

—

It was a Friday. The sky was low and grey, and Haileybury's quad looked like it had been dunked in dishwater. A breeze kept snapping at the blazers of students crossing between buildings. Harper was halfway through a very dull lunch of jacket potato and beans when the message came down from reception.

Someone was here to see her.

Not her mother. That had been her first question when the note from the admin office arrived.

No — it was a man. Mid-sixties, they said. Said he was her uncle.

"Is he angry?" Harper asked, standing beside the reception desk in her cardigan and too-small school skirt, her satchel cutting into her shoulder. The woman behind the desk — Mrs. Keller, who always looked like she was two sneezes away from retirement — blinked at her.

"Seemed... posh," she said, like it might be a warning. "Said he was your father's brother. Waitin' in the front hall."

Oscar was already there when she arrived — clearly having run the whole way from the library. His tie was half-askew and his hair was sticking up.

"You okay?" He asked. She'd texted him and asked him to meet her there.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Then they stepped inside.

He was waiting by the mantelpiece, spine straight as a gatepost, coat over one arm. His suit was cashmere. His shoes shone like piano keys. His face — older than she remembered, thinner — broke into a polite, somewhat startled smile when he saw her.

"Harper," he said, approaching.

She blinked. "Uncle Thomas?"

He took her hand, briefly. Warm palm, dry fingers. "It's been years. My God. You look so much like your father."

She swallowed.

"This is Oscar," she said stiffly, stepping aside.

Thomas gave a cordial nod, but didn't hold out his hand. "I know who he is. I've spoken to your mother once or twice recently."

Oscar flushed. Harper tensed.

"I haven't," she said flatly.

"Well," said Thomas. "Then I envy you."

"Why are you here?" She asked. "I haven't seen you in years. Since the funeral, probably."

He exhaled, then reached into his coat. Produced a leather folder, worn but clearly expensive. "I'm here," he said, "because there are some things you weren't told after your father passed away. Things your mother, I suspect, ensured stayed buried. But you're nearly sixteen now, and legally—well, let's just say, some things are coming due."

He opened the folder and pulled out a few pages, slid them into her hands. Old estate paperwork. Land registry documents. Bank account details. And her name — "Lady Harper Grace Whiatt" — right there, typed in thin, haughty letters.

She stared at it. "What is..."

"It is all yours," he said gently. "Left to you by your father. It was meant to become accessible upon your sixteenth birthday, barring any specific contest. Your mother..." He trailed off. "She was aware of your main trust-fund, but your father was worried that she might— well, I'm sure you understand."

Oscar leaned over to glance at the documents. His mouth opened, then shut again.

Harper still hadn't spoken. Her throat felt dry.

"She loved him," she said finally. "My mum. But she hated everything about his family."

Thomas gave a sharp little smile. "Yes, well. She made that abundantly clear. But hate does not negate legal reality."

There was a long pause. Outside, the wind rattled the old glass panes.

"And your, um, baby?" Thomas asked carefully, glancing at her belly, still small but no longer invisible. "Healthy?"

"Yes. Why?" Harper said, eyes narrowing.

"It could complicates things. The trust wasn't written with a... continuation clause. We may need to involve a solicitor."

Oscar stepped forward. "You don't get to use legal language to scare her."

"I'm not trying to scare anyone," Thomas said calmly. "I'm trying to be honest. Your child, Harper, will be entitled to things too. In time."

Harper looked down at the paper again. Her father's name. Her own. Words like "estate" and "trustee" and "inheritance".

Then, in a whisper, "Why didn't you come before now?"

Thomas blinked. His expression cracked slightly. "I was asked not to."

"By my mum?"

He nodded once.

Harper swallowed. Then she folded the paper back into the folder, held it tight to her chest like a shield. "I'm not a Lady. I'm just... I'm just a girl trying to get through her GCSEs. I live in a dorm with a bunch of boys who eat cereal out of mugs. I'm fifteen and pregnant. And now you're telling me that I've inherited... all of this?"

Thomas looked like he didn't quite know what to say.

Oscar put a hand on her back.

Harper looked up at him. She didn't say anything.

"I'll leave the documents with you," Thomas said finally. "And if you need help... I'm not your father, Harper. But I did love him. And I'd like to know you. If you'll let me."

He gave her a shallow bow, then turned and left — expensive shoes echoing off the flagstone floor.

Silence dropped in his wake.

"Did that actually just happen?" Oscar asked.

"I don't know," Harper said, staring down at the folder in her hands. "But I think I just inherited two million pounds and an estate."

Oscar blinked. "That's mental."

"Completely," she muttered. "Absolutely mental."

Then she looked at him and added, "It might... it might make things easier, though. Won't it? You won't have to rely on your parents to keep paying for you to race, Osc." She breathed.

He frowned at her. "It's your money."

"We're a family now. We made that decision together." She said, quietly. "I don't need that much money, Osc. We'll be smart with it. Invest it in your career. Doesn't that make sense?"

She was starting at him so earnestly.

He held her. Leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. "Think about it."

"I've thought about it." She said. "It's ours. We'll use it to make sure our baby gets the best of everything, and that you get the opportunity to get to the top. Yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay." He whispered. "Okay. This is insane, but... okay."

"We do this together, Osc. Everything." She told him. "The exams. The baby. Your career. My career. I'll be able to pay for a coding course and invest in my own projects." She said. Her eyes were sparkling. "I love you. And we're going to do this together, or not at all."

"Marry me." Was all he said.

She jerked away and laughed. "Shut up. We're fifteen!"

"Marry me." He said again.

She rolled her eyes. "We've got Chemistry in ten minutes, Piastri."

"Okay." He said. He was staring at her and smiling. "Okay, babe. Let's go to Chemistry."

NEXT CHAPTER

[farfromharry]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Nine

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Guys…. I was watching young!Oscar edits before writing this chapter and it’s made me so emotional omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It was colder than it looked.

The wind off the track cut straight through Harper's jumper, even with Mark's spare team jacket draped over her shoulders. It smelled faintly like petrol and stale coffee, but it was warm, and she wasn't about to complain.

Oscar was somewhere past the pit lane, already strapped into the car. The livery was nice — mostly black, matte, with just a splash of deep blue on the sides. The team was new, too. Small. Scrappy. Privately funded and all nerves and duct tape. But Oscar looked right in the car.

He looked like he belonged there.

Harper shifted on the folding chair outside the tent, hands tucked under her thighs to keep them warm. Five and a half months pregnant meant back pain and always being hungry — and maternity tights that itched like hell.

A few mechanics from other teams kept sneaking glances her way.

She couldn't hear them whispering, but she could imagine what they were saying.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Christ, they're only fifteen."

"Looks like she's gonna pop any minute..."

Mark handed her a paper cup of tea and sat down beside her without a word. He didn't look at the men. Didn't say anything about the whispers either. He just passed her a packet of Jaffa Cakes and kicked his feet up on the crate beside them like they were sitting at a beach instead of a professional racetrack.

"You alright, kid?" He asked eventually, his voice low and gruff in that Aussie way that sounded more like gravel than concern.

She nodded. "Just a bit tired. And uncomfortable."

He let out a soft grunt of sympathy. "Yeah. I bet."

Harper blinked. "You really never wanted kids?"

"Nah. Not yet. Still got time."

Harper sipped her tea. "Is it mad I'm more nervous than Oscar about today?"

Mark shook his head. "Not mad. Just means you give a shit. Which is nice."

From the garage, the radio crackled to life. Oscar's voice, tinny but steady. "Copy. Track feels good. Brake balance is stable."

Harper let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

One of the press photographers drifted too close, camera already raised. Mark turned his head just slightly, and that was enough. A look — one part ex-racer, one part protector — and the guy scuttled off like he'd nearly stepped on a landmine.

"Thanks," Harper murmured.

"You're with me," Mark said simply, like that explained everything. "They don't get to treat you like a bloody spectacle."

Across the paddock, Oscar's car wheeled into view, engine snarling, tyres twitching with that jumpy, pre-race tension. The pit crew moved in a flurry. Helmet on. Visor down. And then he was gone — off into the formation lap with that twitchy, fast grace he always had when he wasn't thinking too hard.

Harper watched the car disappear around the corner. Her hands curled around her bump.

"I hate this part," she whispered.

"The waiting?" Mark asked.

"The knowing he might crash," she admitted.

Mark nodded like he knew that fear well. "He's good," he said. "Bloody talented. But more than that, he's got the head for it. That's rare."

Harper blinked down at her belly. "Yeah," she said. "He'll be a good dad too."

Mark looked at her — not with pity, not with surprise — but with something older. Like respect.

"I think you're braver than he is," he said after a pause.

"Doubt it," she said quickly.

"Don't," he said. "You're a bloody teenager. But you're here. And you're not hiding."

She didn't answer, but she didn't look away either.

Then a shout went up from the track. The lights went out. The race had begun.

Harper's breath caught.

Oscar's car — P6 on the grid — slotted into the pack like it belonged there. And it wasn't even two laps before he was chasing the front runners, tyres biting, throttle feathered like a pro.

Mark leaned back, arms crossed.

"Told you," he said.

And Harper, despite the murmurs, despite the cold, despite the weight of everything pressing down on her chest — smiled.

Because yeah.

Oscar was flying.

—

The paddock was still buzzing — cars being wheeled off, radios crackling, tyres cooling, mechanics shouting over each other with the wild relief of a clean finish. Somewhere in the distance, someone was setting off an airhorn. Mark was yelling into a phone about tyres.

Oscar ducked under the awning, helmet tucked under his arm, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His race suit was half-unzipped, tied around his waist, black fireproof undershirt soaked through at the collar.

Harper was already there, perched on a crate by the spare front wing. Her hands were clenched in her lap, face flushed. When she saw him, she stood too fast, steadied herself, and exhaled.

"You finished fifth," she said breathlessly. "Fifth, Osc. Your single seater debut and you finished fifth!"

"I know." He was grinning so hard it barely fit on his face. "I overtook on Copse. Did you see it?"

"Did I—" She gave a strangled laugh. "Yes, I saw it! You nearly gave me a fucking aneurysm."

Oscar dropped his helmet and practically launched himself at her. His arms went around her, careful but tight, like he couldn't decide whether to hold her or just collapse.

Harper melted into the hug, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

"You smell awful," she muttered.

"Victory sweat," he said into her hair. "Don't disrespect it."

She made a noise halfway between a snort and a sob. Her hands clung to the back of his fireproofs, fingers knotting the fabric.

"People were staring," she said quietly. "It'll be all over the forums, soon. Twitter. Instagram. The fifteen year old F4 driver with a pregnant girlfriend." 

"I know."

"I don't want us to have a negative impact on your career."

Oscar's face softened. He glanced around — there were still people watching. Journalists, team members, other drivers. Some looking curiously. Some not bothering to hide their judgment.

He ducked his head, touched his forehead gently to hers. "Let them stare," he murmured. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't get to decide anything."

She blinked fast. "I cried during the final lap."

"Mark probably cried too. He's emotionally repressed — that man leaks feelings through his jaw tension."

Harper giggled in spite of herself. "I'm really proud of you, Osc."

Oscar smiled — not the flashy, race-day grin, but the soft, private one he only really gave to her. "Thanks for being here," he said.

"Thanks for not crashing." She whispered.

Oscar looked at her belly. Rested a hand there, carefully, then glanced around awkwardly to make sure nobody was around.

"She kicked right after you overtook that kid in the green car," Harper said softly.

His head turned back to her and his eyes widened. "Wait, really?"

"Swear to God. She's already got road rage."

Oscar laughed.

Then Mark shouted across the garage, "Oi, golden boy — debrief in ten, and put on a bloody shirt before someone files a harassment complaint!"

Oscar winced. "Sorry." He muttered.

Harper shook her head. "Go on. Go be told how amazing and fast and talented you are."

"You staying?"

"Obviously." She said. "I'm going to get a 99 from the ice cream van. Then I'll come back here and wait for you."

Oscar kissed her cheek and jogged off, still bouncing on adrenaline, slipping slightly on a rogue bit of tyre rubber.

Harper sat back down on the crate. Someone was still staring. She stared right back.

Because yeah — she was pregnant. And fifteen.

But her boyfriend had just placed fifth in his first-ever F4 race.

And that was worth staring at.

—

The TV was on but muted — something about rugby. Oscar was lying on his stomach on the hotel bed in a pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone. Harper sat against the headboard in one of his hoodies, her knees pulled up to her chest, laptop open, trying not to cry over a piece of geometry homework.

She wasn't looking at her maths anymore.

She was looking at Twitter.

And Twitter was, as always, a shitshow.

Great drive but this kid's clearly distracted. Pregnant girlfriend in the paddock at 15? Insane.

Piastri could be a serious talent. Shame he's going to have a kid to think about soon.

Imagine choosing fatherhood over your chance to get into Formula 1. Bet he'll be gone in two years.

She swallowed. Her stomach felt hollow.

Oscar hadn't noticed yet. He was watching some replay clips. Laughing occasionally.

She didn't want to ruin it. But her hand was gripping her laptop so hard her knuckles had gone white.

"...Harp?"

She didn't answer. Just tilted the screen so he could see.

His expression changed in slow motion. First confused, then wary, then flat.

He sat up. Took the laptop. Scrolled. Frowned. Clicked on a few replies.

"...Wow," he said finally. "Bit harsh."

Harper laughed — but it was brittle, bitter. "They think you've ruined your life."

"They're all middle-ages arseholes."

"They think I've ruined your life." She said again.

Oscar shut the laptop.

"Alright. First of all," he said, voice tight but trying for calm, "no more Twitter for you. Second, you have not, and will not, ruin anything."

As if summoned, Mark knocked on the adjoining door, then walked in without waiting for a response. He had a protein bar in one hand and a face like thunder.

"Piastri," he said, tossing his phone on the bed. "You seen this?"

"Yeah," Oscar said. "We were just looking."

Mark ran a hand through his hair. "Some knobhead ex-club driver started a whole thread about you being 'a warning to others'. Like you're a fucking cautionary tale."

Harper blinked. "Jesus."

"I know," Mark snapped. "I did ten years in F1. You want scandal? That sport invented it. Teen pregnancy is far from the craziest thing this sport has seen."

Oscar shrugged. "They'll forget in a week."

"They won't," Mark said bluntly. "They'll keep watching. Keep waiting for you to mess it up. But you're not going to."

Harper stayed quiet. Her throat felt tight.

Mark glanced at her, then back at Oscar.

"You know what they hate more than a scandal?" he said. "A happy ending."

Oscar looked confused. Harper blinked.

"They want the downfall," Mark said. "They want tears, breakups, chaos. Give them stability? A kid who knows what matters and still wins races?" He smiled grimly. "Boring as hell. That's when they'll move on."

Oscar leaned back against Harper. "Should be easy enough."

"Damn right," Mark muttered. "Now. Shut the laptop. Eat something. And get some sleep. We've got a long drive back to Haileybury in the morning."

Harper smiled weakly. Oscar reached over and twined their fingers together.

—

The media room was too warm. That annoying kind of hotel conference room warmth — recirculated air and instant coffee and the stink of fresh lanyards. Oscar sat in a folding chair between two cheap potted plants, fingers locked under his thigh to stop himself fidgeting.

The interviewer's name was Cal. Maybe Calum. He had a half-rolled sleeve and expensive trainers and a voice that sounded like it practiced banter in a mirror.

Oscar already hated him.

"So!" Cal beamed. "Oscar Piastri. Big weekend. Huge season ahead for you. People are saying you're the next big thing in motorsport."

Oscar blinked. "Okay."

Cal laughed. "Modest, huh? That an Aussie thing? You're a bit of an enigma to people. Quiet on socials. Not much media before now. First proper post-karts season. And now—" He leaned forward. "You've got a baby on the way?"

Oscar's jaw twitched. "Yep."

"That's... big, man. Most lads your age are just getting their first girlfriends, and you're going to be a dad. How does that feel?"

Oscar stared at him for a beat too long.

"I dunno," he said finally. "Feels like what it is. A big deal. Exciting."

"Right. And is that affecting how you train? I mean, balancing a championship with—"

"No."

Cal's eyebrows lifted.

"Right, right," he said. "But I mean — come on, be honest. There's gotta be some pressure. You've got the fans, the sponsors, and now you're about to start your own family. That's not a normal situation for a fifteen-year-old. Does it ever feel like... too much?"

Oscar shrugged. "I don't really think about it like that."

"Do you feel like people judge you for it?"

Oscar gave a small, unpleasant smile. "They judge me for everything. Winning. Not winning. What I wear. How I speak."

There was a brief silence. Cal glanced down at his notes, then back up again, brightening.

"And Harper — your girlfriend — is she here with you today?"

Oscar blinked once. "No. She's got an exam today."

"Ah. Fair enough. Does she follow your racing, though? Come to most of your events?"

"Yeah," Oscar said shortly. "When she can. She enjoys it."

"Was she with you after your debut this weekend?"

Oscar's voice was flat now. "Don't think that's your business, mate."

Cal laughed again — nervous this time. "Fair, fair. Just trying to paint the picture, y'know? Let fans in. They love a story. You two are young, expecting a baby — kind of a motorsport fairytale."

Oscar shifted in his seat. "It's not a fairytale."

"Okay. What is it, then?"

Oscar looked him dead in the eye. "It's just our life," he said.

Cal nodded. "Right. Okay, moving on—"

Mark was waiting outside the interview room with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.

Oscar walked straight past him. "Didn't say anything stupid," he muttered.

Mark raised a brow. "No, but you scared the life out of that guy. He looked like he was about to piss himself."

Oscar shrugged. "He was trying to get a headline out of me. Didn't want to let that happen."

Mark gave a short, approving nod. "Good lad."

⸻

It went live that night.

Harper sat cross-legged on Jane's bed, flicking through it with a familiar sinking feeling in her chest.

Prodigy Piastri — How The Karting Star Made It To F4 at Fifteen

He might be young, but he's not here for the headlines. In an exclusive with Race Circuit Magazine, the 15-year-old rising star gave his first ever interview since being promoted — and made it clear that while his driving's for the public, his private life stays off-track.

"It's not a fairytale," Piastri said when asked about his highly publicised relationship with girlfriend Harper Whiatt and their pregnancy. "It's just our life."

Harper exhaled. Somewhere between proud and rattled and hungry (always hungry).

Jane peeked over her shoulder. "He's a bit scary, isn't he? In interviews."

"Yeah," Harper said softly. "He just — he doesn't like the drama of it all. He just wants to drive fast and win races."

Jane snorted. "Well. He's definitely not a media darling."

"No," Harper murmured. "He's not. But he's mine."

—

The email came through just after prep. She hadn't even opened it straight away — just stared at the subject line, stomach knotting.

GCSE Maths Mock Results - Personal Performance Review Requested

She knew.

Didn't need to read the rest.

Now she was sitting at the end of Oscar's bed with her knees pulled up and her hands under her thighs like she was holding herself together. Her phone lay face-down on the blanket beside her. The others were filtering in slowly, already clocking the atmosphere.

"Harper?" Oscar asked, closing the door behind him, gently.

She didn't look up.

"Failed it," she said, voice flat. "The maths mock."

Sam paused halfway through opening a bag of Frazzles. Jane, already cross-legged on the rug, stopped fiddling with her pens. Matt and Alfie came to a sort of unspoken halt in the doorway like they'd stepped into bad weather.

Oscar moved to sit beside her, quiet. "By how much?"

"Twenty-three percent." She gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't even make it past halfway. Even with the extra time."

No one said anything.

She hated the silence. Hated what she imagined they were all thinking — that it had been obvious, that it was coming, that she wasn't cut out for this. For school. For exams. For any of it.

"I'm just —" She rubbed her eyes hard. "I'm trying. I'm really fucking trying."

Oscar didn't say anything. He just leaned in and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

"We know you are," he said quietly.

Jane dragged her bag over and pulled out a Tesco meal deal she'd been saving. Wordlessly handed Harper the chocolate bar.

"I don't want pity snacks," Harper muttered.

"Tough. It's not pity. It's a twirl."

Sam flopped onto his bed with a dramatic groan. "Do you seriously think any of us are going to actually pass that exam? I sat next to a guy who drew a dick on his calculator and still scored higher than me."

Alfie shrugged. "I once wrote the word 'MATHS' in block capitals and then panicked and cried into the desk for fifteen minutes. Still got a D."

Matt snorted. "I actually studied and still failed. So clearly, revision's a scam."

Harper huffed a little through her nose. "You're all idiots."

"Exactly," Jane said. "And we still believe in you more than we believe in ourselves, so."

Oscar nudged her leg. "We'll keep revising. There's still two months until the real thing."

She knew. Couldn't forget it, could she? Not when her due-date was two weeks after the last scheduled exam.

"I know," she said quietly.

For a moment, they just sat like that. Six teenagers in one too-small room, surrounded by piles of clothes and textbooks and that weird leftover smell of the chicken super noodles that Sam had brought back from the common room.

It was stuffy and crowded and stupidly warm from the broken radiator that now refused to ever stop emitting heat, but no one moved.

No one told her it was all going to be okay. No one made big promises. No one tried to fix it.

They just sat with her. Like a net beneath a tightrope.

Harper curled slightly into Oscar's side. Let herself breathe.

"Just a shit day," she murmured.

"Yeah," Sam said, mouth full of Frazzles. "We have those a lot. That's why we have each other."

—

Harper sat on the crinkly white paper lining the little bed, legs swinging nervously. The room was too bright. Oscar sat beside her in one of the plastic chairs, biting at the skin on his thumb.

"You alright?" She asked, glancing at him.

"I'm not the one about to get poked and prodded," he muttered.

She frowned at him. "Osc. You look more nervous than me."

"Not nervous. Just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Wish I could do something useful."

She snorted. "You brought me a Lucozade and remembered the stupid NHS letter."

Before he could reply, the door opened and the midwife breezed in — smiling, clipboard in hand, no-nonsense blonde bob.

"Hi, Harper. Hi, Oscar. Lovely to see you both again."

Oscar nodded awkwardly. Harper gave a small smile. "Hi, Rebecca."

"Alright then," Rebecca said, snapping on gloves. "We're just doing a very basic check-up today — nothing too scary. You're about twenty-three weeks, yeah?"

"Twenty-three and a half," Harper said, proud of how quickly it came out. "We had the anomaly scan — everything was good."

"Brilliant." Rebecca beamed. "Are you two finding out the sex, or keeping it a surprise?"

Oscar immediately busied himself with the bottle of hand sanitiser. Harper smirked. "We found out. It's a girl. Oscar told everyone."

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Ooh, exciting. Have you picked a name yet?"

"We're in committee with our friends," Harper said dryly. "It's not going well."

Oscar snorted. "Someone suggested 'Peach'."

Harper elbowed him.

"Alright," Rebecca laughed. "Well, let's have a little listen to baby's heartbeat today, yeah? Lie back for me."

Harper lay down carefully, tugging up her top and folding it beneath her chest. Her belly button had started to flatten out, which she hated. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes trained on her stomach.

Rebecca warmed the Doppler gel in her hands, then pressed the wand to Harper's skin.

Static. Then a swoosh. Then— there. A rapid, rhythmic gallop.

"I like this part," Oscar said. Quietly. "Hearing her."

Harper smiled without looking at him. "Me too."

Rebecca nodded. "Strong as anything. Around 145 bpm — that's a very happy, very wiggly baby."

Oscar was still smiling. "She's always moving."

"That's a very good sign," Rebecca said, wiping off the gel. "You two are doing just fine."

Harper tugged her shirt back down over the little swell of her belly, the cool jelly from the Doppler still tacky on her skin. She wiped her hand on a tissue and glanced at Oscar, who was perched rigidly on the chair next to the midwife's desk, like he was afraid to breathe wrong in case he broke something.

"She has a personality already," Harper said, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

Rebecca, the midwife, raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh yeah?"

Harper nodded, smoothing her hand down her stomach like she was trying to pat the baby through layers of uniform and nerves. "She's quiet in the mornings. Proper grumpy. But always awake at night. Fidgety. She kicks the second I lie down. And she loves watching Oscar race," Harper added, casting him a look. "Goes absolutely bonkers every time the engines start."

Oscar smiled faintly. "My girl."

"And she was obsessed with blackcurrant squash for two straight weeks," Harper continued. "But now she turns her nose up at it. Hates orange squash. Like... violently. I had some last week and she full-on elbowed my kidney."

Rebecca chuckled, tapping notes into the screen. "Sounds like she's already a bit of a drama queen."

Oscar grinned. "She's also a big fan of chocolate-flavoured anything — mousse, milkshake, pudding — but actual chocolate gives Harper brutal heartburn. So that's fun."

"I had a KitKat and had to lie down for an hour," Harper muttered. "It's really annoying, honestly."

Rebecca smiled warmly, clearly used to this particular kind of hormonal chaos. "She's certainly making herself known."

She clicked through a few tabs on the computer, then stood and crossed to the counter. "Alright, let's do a quick blood draw, Harper. Just to check your vitamin levels and keep an eye on blood pressure and iron. And we'll check your markers for pre-eclampsia."

Oscar immediately went still, eyes flicking up from Harper's belly to Rebecca.

"Wait — what's that?" he asked, voice a little too loud. "That sounds scary."

Harper gave him a look like please chill, but he ignored it, leaning forward in his chair.

Rebecca turned back with a gentle calm only midwives seemed to have. "It's a condition where blood pressure can spike during pregnancy. It can be serious, yes, but that's why we monitor for it so closely. Headaches, blurred vision, swelling — if anything feels off, you just tell us, okay?"

Harper nodded, but Oscar still looked vaguely stricken.

"She's fine," Harper said under her breath, nudging him. "We're just checking. It's just a check-up. That's what they do. Check things."

Oscar cleared his throat and nodded quickly, slumping back into the chair like someone had punched all the air out of his lungs. "Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Rebecca offered a reassuring smile. "You're being a really good, supportive partner, Oscar. It's good that you ask. And it's normal to worry."

That shut him up completely. His ears went red.

Harper tried not to giggle as Rebecca swabbed her arm and slid the needle in. Oscar looked like he wanted to throw himself between her and the needle but was too polite to actually move.

"It's just blood," Harper said.

"It's still your blood," Oscar muttered. "Which is, like... my second-favourite part of you."

She blinked. "What's your first-favourite part of me?"

He hesitated. Then, after a beat, said, "All the parts that grows small humans."

Rebecca laughed.

—

The engines were thunder.

Harper stood just behind the pit wall, oversized headset clamped over her ears, Mark Webber on one side of her and a row of engineers yelling data into radios on the other. The wind off the circuit was brutal — whipping her hair into her eyes, tugging at her coat. But she barely felt it.

Her heart was somewhere in her throat.

It was the final lap. Final corner. And Oscar was in second position.

She could see the shape of him — black-and-white race suit, helmet tucked low, the car twitching under pressure as he took the inside line — sharp, aggressive, clean.

And then he passed him.

"Oh my God," she sucked in a breath, gripping Mark's arm without thinking.

The car in front — the RedSpeed junior — went wide. Oscar ducked under, tyres screeching, engine screaming as he pulled into the lead like it belonged to him.

And then it was the straight.

The chequered flag waved and entire pit lane exploded — Mark swearing gleefully, the engineers howling into radios, one of the mechanics pounding his hands together.

Oscar had won.

He'd actually bloody won.

Harper was grinning like an idiot before she could even process it. Adrenaline and pride and disbelief hit her in a wave so huge she had to step back from the wall, laughing in that dazed, stunned way people only do when something brilliant happens and they have no idea how to react to it.

Mark turned to her, his voice muffled through both their headsets. "He just fucking did that."

"I know!" she shouted back, heart pounding.

"Christ, he's a machine. That move at the hairpin—" He clapped her shoulder like they were both drunk on the win. "Your bloke's got ice in his veins."

The camera crews were already swarming toward the parc fermé, where Oscar was climbing out of the car, helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, blinking like he'd just woken up from a long nap. He barely cracked a smile — just nodded once to the engineers, quiet, controlled. He always did this. Too stunned to celebrate properly. It was just how he was.

But when he saw her, standing behind the barrier, he smiled.

Not a grin. Not the shy little twitch of his mouth he gave to the cameras.

A real one. Like everything in him relaxed for just a second.

And then Harper did the very uncool thing of waving. Mark snorted beside her.

Oscar didn't wave back — too many people, too many eyes — but he dipped his head a fraction. Just enough.

She understood what it meant.

He'd won. And she'd been there to see it.

Someone near the press pen muttered, loud in ppl enough for her to hear. "Isn't that the girl? The pregnant one?"

Another voice. "Can you believe it? Fifteen."

But then the cameras and the attention turned again, as Oscar climbed up onto the podium, head down, hands behind his back, cheeks flushed with cold and quiet pride.

He didn't look at the cameras. Didn't wave. Didn't even really smile.

But when the national anthem started — just before the champagne — he looked across the track, through the fence, right at her.

And she'd never forget that smile.

[farfromharry]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Seven

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Surprise update! Yes, it's 1am and this is the longest chapter so far. Shhh. I'm craving porridge (is it the boarding school nostalgia? Probably)!

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They lay side by side in Oscar's narrow bed, Harper curled into his chest like she was trying to disappear into him. The radiator in the corner clicked every few minutes, rattling weakly like it was barely holding the heat hostage.

Sam was snoring softly in the other bed, back turned, face half-buried in his pillow. He hadn't asked many questions when Harper had climbed through the window earlier in her socks and school jumper. Just lifted his head, blinked once, and mumbled, "She staying?"

Oscar had nodded. Sam had grunted and rolled over.

Now, in the dark, the room felt small. Still. Safe, in that oddly teenage, temporary way — like nothing outside of it could reach them for a little while.

Harper's breath warmed the space between them. She shifted, tugging the scratchy blanket higher over her shoulders.

"I think I'm going to start showing soon," she whispered, voice barely there.

Oscar didn't say anything right away. His hand rested against the small of her back, thumb moving slow, calming circles just under the hem of her sweatshirt. He could feel the warmth of her skin and the tension still coiled beneath it.

"Maybe," he said eventually. "Dunno. Maybe not for a few more weeks."

"I'll need a new uniform skirt soon. Mine's tight."

"Headmaster said you could wear leggings if you wanted."

"I know." She exhaled sharply. "But I like wearing a skirt. And leggings'll just make people stare more than they already do."

Oscar winced slightly. "Yeah. Didn't take long for everyone to find out, did it?"

No. No, it hadn't.

It was late January now. They'd known about the baby for just over three weeks — and the school had known for at least two. She wasn't even sure how. Maybe someone overheard a call. Maybe someone read her expression too closely one morning in chapel. Or maybe it had just been Sam.

"Pretty sure it was your roommate," she murmured. "Can't keep a secret to save his life."

Oscar snorted under his breath. "Yeah. I love him, but he's hopeless."

She hummed. "I hate being stared at."

Oscar glanced down. Her voice had gone quiet again.

"I always hated it," she said. "Even before all this. The way people would look at me like I was some painting they want to own. It happened a lot when I was little. With my dad."

Oscar leaned in and kissed her forehead, slow and soft. "Then they don't get to look at you anymore," he said. "Just me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Possessive."

"Protective," he corrected, then blushed awkwardly.

That made her smile. She buried her face against his chest again.

Outside, snow tapped gently at the dorm window. The radiator clicked again.

After a long moment, she whispered, "I'm so relieved, you know. That you were okay with me... wanting to go through with this." Her voice wobbled. "I know it's mad. I know we're fifteen, and scared and it's going to make everything ten times harder than normal. But I think—" Her throat caught. "I think I already love it. The baby."

Oscar didn't move. For a second, she worried maybe he'd frozen. Maybe he'd changed his mind.

Then he nodded. Just once.

"Okay," he said.

She blinked up at him, eyes glossy. "Okay?"

"We'll make it work," he said. "Whatever you want, Harp. That's what we do. Already told you that, didn't I?"

She wiped her cheek with her sleeve, her breathing hitching. "You did."

For a while, they were quiet. Just the soft rise and fall of two bodies pressed together, trying to be brave.

Then, like a pebble dropped into still water, she asked, "What was it like? Growing up?"

Oscar looked at her. "Me?"

"No," she said, deadpan. "The other guy in this bed."

He laughed. "Alright. Cheeky." Then he shrugged. "I dunno. Normal? Mum made me packed lunches. Dad travelled a lot for work. I've had a hardcore obsession with cars since I was about two."

Harper smiled. "That's endearing."

"You?"

She made a soft, ambiguous noise in the back of her throat.

"Different," she said eventually. "My childhood didn't look like the ones on TV. There wasn't the little house on the end of the street with the dad in the driveway and the golden retriever named Biscuit. My dad... he was who he was. And my mum—her parents were rich, but Dad was something else."

"What was his title again?" Oscar asked gently.

"Officially? Duke of Northamptonshire."

Oscar hummed. "Like... an actual duke?"

"Mm-hmm." She didn't sound smug about it. She sounded tired. "Land, estates, racehorses. It was old money. Generational. My mum always wanted the fashion thing to stand on its own. But she married into the aristocracy and she'll never let anyone forget it."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, "What was he like? Your dad?"

She went still. Not tense. Just... still.

"He was kind," she said softly. "That's the word that sticks. Kind, and a bit soft around the edges. He never seemed like the aristocrat they wrote about in Tatler. He used to sing really badly when he made breakfast. Always wore old jumpers that smelled like stale coffee and barn hay. He taught me how to play chess. Bought me this ridiculous rocking horse when I was six because one of my friends had one in her nursery and I liked it."

Oscar didn't speak. Just kept tracing soft lines against her back.

"I don't think he really fit in with all of it," she said after a moment. "With the world he came from. He was born into it, but he didn't play the part very well. He cared more about people than image, and she my mum... She loved him, but she hated that: Said he was wasting his pedigree. Whatever that means."

"What happened?" Oscar asked. "I mean... after the crash. To you two. You and your mum."

Harper swallowed. "We inherited it all from him. The land and the estates and the horses. But it just... didn't feel right anymore. Maybe it never did. But my mum was in so much pain after losing him — I think I reminded her too much of him, you know? I was his kid in all the ways that mattered — and that didn't fit the mould she wanted for me."

Oscar was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he said, "I think he'd be proud of you. For standing up for yourself."

Harper blinked hard. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. He sounds like someone who would appreciate that."

She let out a shaky breath and tucked her face against his collarbone.

The radiator clicked again.

They didn't say much after that.

—

The common room had that early-evening stink to it — heat trapped under polyester, Lynx Africa, and the vague aftersmell of instant noodles someone had overcooked in the microwave.

Harper sat curled up in the corner armchair, legs tucked under her. Oscar was on the floor beside her, stretched out, one knee bouncing, thumb skimming idly along the edge of her sock. She was pretending to revise for maths. Mostly just staring at the page, eyes glazed. Sam lay on the rug like a chalk outline, feet shoved under the coffee table. Alfie and Matt were slouched on the opposite sofa, playing some game on Matt's phone with the sound off. Jane was painting her nails with Tippex and a biro.

It was quiet in the way that only a room full of teenagers rooms could be — full of shifting bodies and chewing and low muttering and the occasional sigh, like the air itself was tired.

Across the room, near the vending machines, three Year Thirteen girls were clustered in a semicircle of swishy ponytails, fake eyelashes, and aggressively rolled-up skirts. They had that perpetual stink of Clinique Happy and entitlement.

"Bet she thinks she's some sort of martyr or summat," one of them said, too loud to be an accident. "Proper bitch, if you ask me."

"It was bound to happen, wasn't it? The Aussie's here for what, five minutes? And she's got her claws in him. Investment, innit."

One of them made a clucking noise. "Mad, really. Her mum's some fashion type but she still dresses like she shops in M&S. Thinks she's posh just 'cos of her dad's name; but he's just dust in a crypt somewhere."

"Fancy name, fancy voice, still just a fucking slag."

Oscar stilled like someone had pulled the handbrake on him mid-thought. Sam sat up with the kind of speed he usually reserved for food or FIFA.

Jane didn't even look away from her nails. "Fuck off."

The girls blinked.

"What?"

"You heard me," Jane said, standing now, holding the little brush like a weapon. "Shut the fuck up. And fuck off."

One of them gave a mocking little laugh. "Bit aggressive, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well," Jane said sweetly, "maybe if you weren't so fucking clapped, you'd be capable of getting laid. Then you wouldn't be so obsessed with the people who are."

Sam hauled himself to his feet and pointed a Dorito at them like it was a wand. "Cunts."

"Sam," Matt muttered, horrified.

"I said what I said," Sam declared, unfazed. "Cunts. Both of 'em."

Alfie barely looked up. "Don't stir it, mate. Let 'em chat shit. You know what they're like. They're just fucking jealous."

Oscar rose to his feet slowly. His face was blank, eyes fixed on the girls — no shouting, no swearing, but there was steel in his silence.

The ringleader rolled her eyes. "Didn't mean anything by it."

"Sure," Jane said, arms folded. "You just woke up and decided to be a bunch of silly cunts. Congrats."

The girls left in a huff of swished ponytails, gum-snapping, and muttered slurs.

Silence settled over the room again, heavy and a little awkward.

Sam flopped back down onto the rug like nothing had happened. "Well that was fun. Anyone wanna order a pizza to the gates?"

Harper hadn't said a word the whole time.

Oscar looked up at her. "You alright?"

She nodded, but it was the kind of nod that looked more like bracing herself than answering a question. "Girls being girls. Was bound to happen."

Jane plonked back onto the armrest beside her and sighed. "I'm gonna put Nair in their shampoo. Watch me."

Harper snorted.

"I don't need you guys to fight my battles for me," she said after a beat, voice low but steady.

"Nah," said Alfie, not looking up. "We know. But you're our mate, yeah? And mates have each other's backs."

Harper blinked. She hadn't expected that from Alfie. He looked mildly horrified that he'd said something sincere, and immediately buried himself back in the game on Matt's phone.

Oscar leaned into her leg again, grounding her.

"Are they like that a lot?" He asked.

Harper gave a tired little shrug. "Some of them. It's just—That's how it is, Osc. Rich girls aren't taught how to make friends. We're taught to win rooms. Be the most valued person in it. At whatever cost."

Oscar frowned, then rested his chin against her knee. "You're the most valued person in this room."

"Only 'cause Jane hasn't finished her nails yet."

"Whatever you say, Lady Harper." He teased, lightly.

Harper huffed and let her eyes fall closed for a second. The warmth of him against her leg. Jane's foot gently nudging hers. Sam's fake-sleep breathing. The way Alfie kept pretending not to look up, like he'd jump in again if needed.

It didn't make everything okay.

But it made right now a little easier to bear.

—

The radiators were rattling again. They did that now — made a sort of mechanical clunk every ten minutes, like they were choking on their own ancient pipes. Sam had taken to kicking it every time it made a noise. So far, that hadn't fixed it. But it seemed to make him feel better.

Harper sat cross-legged at the foot of Oscar's bed, a Biology workbook open across her lap, biro tucked behind one ear, hair tied up with the bobble she'd stolen from Jane last week. Her blazer was somewhere on the floor in a heap, beside a half-eaten KitKat, an empty Ribena carton, and a pair of socks that definitely didn't belong to her.

Oscar was leaning against the wall, legs stretched out, a notebook in his lap. He was chewing the end of his pen like it had personally wronged him. His hair was a disaster — slightly flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. He hadn't shaved in three days and still couldn't grow a real moustache.

Sam was draped across his own bed, limbs splayed like he'd been dropped from a great height, chemistry flashcards held above his head like he was trying to burn the knowledge into his retinas.

"Is it February?" Sam asked suddenly.

Oscar blinked. "Yeah. It's the sixth."

"Oh. Happy February."

Harper let out a tired breath of a laugh. "Valentine's Day soon. You got a crush on anyone, Sammy?"

"Nah," he muttered. "Fuck love."

"Romantic," she said, eyebrows raised.

Oscar snorted. "That's our Sam."

"Better than what I said last year," Sam mumbled. "Told Miss Patel I hoped she got some on Valentine's and nearly got kicked out of school."

Harper snorted. "Jesus."

Oscar chuckled. "Still remember the look on her face."

"Yeah, well. You try doing triple science with raging hormones and Miss Patel reading Of Mice and Men in that voice."

"She's literally almost fifty."

"Doesn't matter," Sam muttered. "Voice like silk. Made me believe in the American Dream."

Harper groaned and flopped backwards. "I hate this room."

"You're in here more than your own."

"No I'm not." She argued.

Sam pointed a crisp at her. "You've basically moved in."

"I have not."

"You have a toothbrush in our bathroom."

Harper looked mildly indignant. "So? Doesn't mean I live here."

"You've got socks in Oscar's drawer."

"I have socks in lots of places."

Oscar smirked, eyes still on his notebook. "Do you?"

"Shut up."

Harper shifted slightly, wincing as she adjusted the waistband of her skirt. It was new — a size bigger than her old one, but it didn't feel like it. Everything felt tighter lately. Her jumper was clinging weirdly at the chest too. She tugged it forward and stared down at the buttons on her shirt.

"My boobs are massive," she muttered.

Oscar looked up. Then down. Then immediately went bright red. "No comment."

"Pervert."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to." She narrowed her eyes at him.

Sam made a strangled noise. "Please. I'm trying to focus. I cannot be thinking about Harper's tits right now."

"Fuck you!" Harper shrieked. She grabbed one of Oscar's pillows and hurled it across the room. It hit Sam square in the face.

"Assault!" he yelped, throwing his arms up dramatically. "I've been attacked in my own home."

Oscar snorted, folding his notes shut. "You're lucky that's all she threw."

"You're both annoying," Harper muttered, trying not to smile.

Sam peeked at her from behind the pillow. "You alright though? You've been making that... face."

"What face?"

"The 'everything hurts and I hate everyone' face."

Harper made a face. "That's just my face."

Oscar glanced over at her, more seriously now. "Anything feel off?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm just... heavy. Tired. I don't know. Apparently the baby's the size of a raspberry this week."

Sam perked up. "You're growing fruit in there?"

"Metaphorical, you idiot."

Oscar leaned over and brushed a bit of lint off her shoulder. "You want to lie down?"

"I'm alright." She smiled, faintly. "I like sitting and pretending to revise with you two."

"Oi," Sam said, wounded. "I'm absorbing this information with sheer force of will."

"You're absorbing crisps. That's it."

Oscar gave a low laugh, then glanced at Harper. "Remember, my mum's coming this weekend."

Harper looked up. "Right. Yeah. I know."

She went still for a second — just a flicker, like something locking up behind her eyes — then flipped a page in her workbook, trying to look casual about it. But her voice had gone a little too careful.

Oscar noticed. Of course he did.

"She really wants to meet you," he said, softer now. "She's been asking since... well, since last September when we started going out. I know you've spoken to her on FaceTime but it's not, like, the same, is it."

Harper gave a small, lopsided smile. "She's not fuming, then?"

"What?" He looked genuinely confused.

"Osc." She sighed. Gave him a look. "About the baby. About the fact that I might be ruining your life?"

Oscar dropped his pen and sat up straighter, frowning. "Harps. You're not ruining anything."

Sam chimed in from his bed. "Nicole's literally a saint. She's lovely."

"She's not mad." Oscar said quietly. Leaned in and touched Harper's lips with his thumb, like he was trying to physically wipe the frown off of her face. "She was... shocked, at first. But she's doing better with it now. She's been knitting."

Harper blinked. "She knits?"

"Badly."

"I'm scared," Harper admitted, very quietly. "Like... really scared. What if she hates me?"

Oscar leaned forward, nudging her foot with his. "She won't. I promise. My mum's not like that. She already calls you 'little love' in texts."

Harper let out a shaky laugh. "Does she?"

"Yeah. Wants to take you out for tea. Thinks you need feeding up."

"I agree," Sam muttered. "She's had half a KitKat and one of my crisps."

"I'm nervous," Harper said, then glanced at Oscar. "Not about her being mean. Just... I want her to like me. She's your mum."

Oscar smiled gently. "She will."

"I'm not used to nice mums." She whispered.

He leaned in. Kissed her softly. "I'm sorry."

Sam gagged. "Can you two fucking stop? I'm trying to eat."

—

The gravel drive outside the school crunched under the tyres of a silver Volvo as it rolled to a stop near the visitor bays.

Oscar spotted it first from the common room window. "She's here."

Harper immediately stood up, then sat back down. "Okay. I feel sick."

Sam didn't look up from his flashcards. "Don't puke on her. First impressions and all that."

Oscar gave her hand a squeeze. "She's excited. Honestly, she keeps texting me pictures of tiny socks."

"I don't know how to talk to mums," Harper muttered. "Mine doesn't count for obvious reasons."

"You've FaceTimed with her."

"FaceTime is different. That's like... TV. This is real life. What if she doesn't like me in real life?"

Oscar stood and tugged gently at her sleeve. "Come on. You'll be fine. She's got biscuits."

"...what kind?"

"Don't know. Probably the ones she always buys that no one actually likes but we all pretend we do because they're posh."

Harper followed him out across the courtyard, heart rattling inside her chest like a loose marble. It was cold — the kind of sharp, bright February cold that made your breath cloud up instantly. Her school coat was unzipped and flapping around her knees. She hadn't even checked her hair. Christ.

Nicole stepped out of the car wearing a giant woollen scarf and sunglasses too big for her face, carrying a tote bag that looked like it had seen every grocery store in Hertfordshire. She was taller than Harper expected — tall in that mum way, where it was all good posture and sensible boots. Her hair was curly and dyed dark at the roots with stubborn greys she hadn't bothered to cover. And she had the exact same laugh as Oscar, Harper realised — loud and too delighted.

"There's my boy," Nicole said, pulling Oscar into a proper, swaying hug that lifted him slightly off the ground. "God, look at your hair. Have you been brushing it with a fork?"

Oscar muffled something into her shoulder, cheeks pink. "Mum."

"And you must be Harper."

Harper froze for a split second — then managed a small smile. "Hi."

Nicole took one look at her and pulled her straight into a hug.

Warm. Solid. Smelling of fabric softener and mint gum.

It knocked the air right out of her.

"I feel like I already know you," Nicole said when she pulled back. "You're even prettier in person. Not that you aren't gorgeous on FaceTime. But I always think those calls make everyone look like they've been filmed on a potato."

Harper blinked. "Oh. Um. Thanks?"

"I brought biscuits," Nicole added, digging around in her tote. "And a scarf. You don't own a decent one, apparently."

She held it out — it was knitted. Badly. Yellow and lumpy and soft.

Harper stared at it. Then at her. "You made this?"

"Well, I had help. There's a very patient woman on YouTube called Marion who saved my life." She grinned. "Go on, take it. It's hideous but it'll keep you warm."

Harper took the scarf. Her fingers tingled. It was the first homemade thing anyone had ever given her.

"Thanks," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Nicole just smiled and tucked a stray curl behind Harper's ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You doing alright, love?"

Harper nodded. She wasn't, really. Not completely. But for the first time in weeks, the knot in her chest eased just slightly.

Oscar slipped his hand into hers. "Told you," he murmured.

And Harper — still clutching the scarf, still blinking like she wasn't sure what just happened — smiled. "Yeah," she whispered back. "You did."

—

The library windows were sweating — misted over from the inside, the radiator below doing its very best to boil Harper's ankles.

She sat cross-legged on the floor between the Philosophy and Biology sections, highlighters scattered across her lap, a mechanical pencil in her hair like a knitting needle. Her bump — barely visible unless you were looking for it — had finally made zipping up her skirt an Olympic event. She'd given up and worn leggings today, after Oscar talked her out of rage-quitting school entirely at 8:07 that morning.

Oscar was lying beside her, flipping through flashcards with the glazed look of someone being slowly crushed by the weight of the AQA specification.

"So," he said, tapping one against her knee. "Harper Whiatt. Mother of child. Knows what meiosis is. Who knew?"

"Shut up."

"Proud of you."

"You're not even revising that subject."

"Still proud."

She rolled her eyes. "You're annoying."

"Admit it," he said, leaning his head against her shoulder. "You'd miss me if I died in the corridor during your chemistry mock."

She snorted. "Only because you're the one who carries all my pens."

A few steps away, Sam sat at a table doing absolutely no work whatsoever. He had one wired earbud in, a can of Monster open, and a singular page of notes he'd spent forty-five minutes underlining in different colours.

"Oi," he said suddenly. "Osc. Your mum messaged me on Facebook earlier."

Harper looked up. "She what?"

"She sent me a meme of a baby wearing sunglasses and a fake moustache. Told me to show you. Said you'd been ignoring her messages again."

Oscar groaned. "She's unbelievable."

Harper glanced at him. "You're ignoring her messages?" She asked.

"Only the annoying ones." He winced.

There was a pause. It started to rain outside.

Harper let out a breath and pressed a hand lightly to her belly, almost without thinking.

Oscar watched her.

"You okay?" He asked softly.

She nodded. "Just... feel a bit sick. And I'm thinking."

"About?"

"Mock exams. Labour. Stretch marks. My mum. My future. What I want to do with my life."

He reached over and squeezed her knee. "I'll fail chemistry with you, if it helps."

She smiled faintly. "That's nice of you."

"It is," he said. "We'll be dumb together."

Sam looked up from his Monster. "Can't wait for the baby shower. Gonna bring a banner that says 'Congratulations on your accidental offspring.'"

"I'm not having a baby shower," Harper muttered, cheeks pink.

Sam grinned. "Tell Jane that."

Oscar groaned. "God, don't let Jane plan any kind of party. Please. Not after the last time."

Somewhere behind them, Miss Patel coughed loudly and glared.

They lowered their voices after that.

Sort of.

—

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and lemon floor cleaner. The chairs were plastic and uncomfortable. The kind of place where the ceiling tiles always looked slightly damp and the magazines were six months out of date.

Harper sat with her coat bunched up around her, school uniform replaced by a pair of leggings and one of Oscar's hoodies. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap. She hadn't spoken much in the car.

Oscar sat next to her, elbows on his knees, trainers scuffed from too many track walks. He kept glancing at the wall-mounted TV, where an animated diagram of a growing foetus looped every five minutes.

Chris was across from them, flicking through the appointment letter on his phone again, as if it might change.

"You alright?" Oscar asked, his voice quiet.

Harper nodded without looking at him. "Yeah."

"You don't have to be brave."

"I know." She paused. "I'm scared."

He leaned over, shoulder bumping hers. "Me too."

The door opened. A midwife popped her head around. "Harper Whiatt?"

Harper stood, legs stiff. Oscar got up with her.

The midwife smiled warmly. "You can both come in. You're her... partner?"

Oscar flushed. "Um. Yeah."

Chris made a small movement to stand but Harper looked back. "Can you wait here?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Course, kid. Whatever you prefer."

Inside, the room was small but warm. The ultrasound machine beeped quietly. A little cot of sterile supplies sat in the corner. It was more clinical than cosy.

"Alright, pop yourself up there," she said gently, gesturing to the bed.

Harper lay back, pulling her top up and the waistband of her leggings down just enough to expose her bump. She could feel Oscar's eyes on her — not gawking, just wide. Soft.

"This'll be a little cold," she warned, squeezing the gel onto Harper's belly.

Harper flinched. "Yup. Still gross."

The midwife smiled. "Won't last long. Let's see if this little one's cooperating today..."

She moved the probe over Harper's stomach, eyes fixed on the monitor. For a moment there was just static and shadows, and then — there it was. The unmistakable curve of a head. A little nose. Limbs.

Harper blinked.

Oscar made a sound like he'd just been punched in the chest. "Holy shit."

"Language," the midwife said mildly.

"Sorry. Just—" He reached for Harper's hand, gripped it. "That's... that's an actual baby."

She nodded slowly, her throat tight. "It is."

"Everything's measuring just right," the midwife said. "Spine's looking good. Heartbeat's strong. Want to hear it?"

Harper nodded.

The sound filled the room like drums underwater — a galloping, fast rhythm that didn't feel real.

Oscar was squeezing her hand hard.

She turned her head slightly to look at him. He looked stunned. Teary. And smiling.

The midwife chuckled. "That's the usual reaction."

They finished the scan. She wiped off the gel. Harper sat up, dazed. The midwife printed a few black-and-white images and handed them over.

"Here's your baby," she said softly. "You're around 18 weeks and five days, give or take. You'll be starting to feel more movement soon; those flutters you're feeling? That's your baby."

Harper stared at the picture. The tiny hand. The shape of a face that she somehow already recognised.

"Do you want to know the sex?" The midwife asked. "I can tell you now."

They glanced at each other. Harper opened her mouth, then closed it.

"Not yet," she said finally. "I don't want it to be... no. Just — not yet."

The midwife nodded, as if she understood exactly what she meant. "Alright. We'll leave it a surprise then."

When they left the room, Oscar still had the photo clutched between his fingers like it might disappear if he let go.

Chris stood. "How'd it go?"

Harper handed him one of the pictures.

His expression softened in a way she wasn't used to seeing. "Wow," he said quietly. "That's a baby."

She smiled faintly. "It is."

Chris handed the photo back and opened the car door for her. For once, she didn't protest.

Oscar waited until they were pulling out of the hospital car park to whisper, "I can't believe it, Harp." He said, his finger touching the baby's head on the photo. "I can't — It's so real."

"Yeah." She whispered. She pressed close to him and stared at the picture too.

—

The karting circuit smelled like oil, petrol and old toast — someone had clearly burned something in the staff kitchenette again. Engines buzzed constantly in the background, a low, waspish hum that made Harper's teeth itch.

She was sat on a plastic folding chair just behind the pit barrier, wrapped in hoodie and the scarf Nicole had made for her. Her coat was slung over the back of the chair, long forgotten. It had been cold when they'd arrived, but the sun was out now — faint, watery, but warm enough that she'd started to regret the extra layers.

Oscar had been out on track for nearly an hour. Mark stood nearby with a stopwatch, watching his lines, only occasionally muttering into the walkie-talkie clipped to his jacket.

It was oddly peaceful, in a sensory-overload sort of way. The scent, the noise, the blur of Oscar's kart skimming the corners — all of it had become familiar, almost comforting. Harper liked watching him like this. He looked free out there. Focused.

She shifted slightly in her seat, one hand dropping to rest on the small swell of her stomach. She wasn't huge yet — barely showing in a coat, but it was obvious now in anything fitted. She'd ordered a new school skirt again.

She yawned, stretching a little, fingers absently rubbing across her bump.

And then — something.

Not gas. Not indigestion. Not a cramp.

Something fluttered, just under her palm. Light and strange and soft — like a goldfish brushing against her from the inside. She froze.

There it was again. A nudge, low and quick. Almost like... a hello.

Her breath caught. She stared down at her belly.

Oscar zipped past again — then pulled into the pit lane, helmet tucked under one arm, flushed from the cold and the speed. He'd spotted her smile before he even reached her.

"What?" He asked, dropping down in front of her, a little breathless. "What's that face?"

She blinked at him. Then her hand moved instinctively back to her stomach.

"I think..." she said, eyes wide, voice soft with disbelief, "I think it just moved."

Oscar's eyebrows shot up. "What, really?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Like... it was tiny. Like someone flicked me from the inside. It was weird."

His grin was immediate and ridiculous. "That's so cool."

Harper laughed, still a bit stunned. "It's a bit freaky, actually."

"Freaky in a good way?"

"I dunno. I'll tell you when it does it again."

He reached up, gently pressing his hand beside hers. "That's insane," he whispered, like the baby might hear him.

Harper leaned forward. "It feels like there's an alien inside me, Osc."

He snickered. "Alien invasion?"

"Yeah." She giggled. It was ridiculous, but it was true.

Nearby, Mark pretended not to be eavesdropping. But Harper saw the way he smiled slightly to himself before turning back to his stopwatch.

[farfromharry]

guys im seeing joe keery today