lightlybloomed

[lightlybloomed]

"You Passed?!"

Lando helps you learn to drive. When you come back with your results, it’s all worth it.

You hadn’t planned on asking Lando Norris to teach you how to drive. It just kind of… happened. One moment you were griping about your driving instructor bailing last minute (again), and the next moment he was tossing you his car keys—his car keys—and grinning like it was the best idea he’d ever had.

“Come on,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Famous last words,” you muttered as you slid into the driver’s seat.

He was, unsurprisingly, a good teacher. He kept it fun, never shouted (even when you nearly reversed into a bin), and offered tips no normal instructor ever would. Things like how to handle corners like a Formula 1 pro—not super helpful when you’re driving a 20mph zone, but still. It helped. He helped.

You’d never seen him so serious and focused and also somehow still so Lando—a mix of technical knowledge and chaotic encouragement, like: “Okay now pretend the examiner’s a race steward and you’ve gotta impress them to keep your license.” “Lando, that’s not how it works—” “Shhh just go with it.”

You practiced until your hands didn’t tremble when you reached for the gearstick. Until hill starts felt less like a panic attack and more like second nature. Until Lando leaned over, unbuckled his seatbelt dramatically, and said, “You’re ready.”

Your test was the next morning.

You made him stay home.

“If you wait at the test centre, I’ll fail,” you told him. “I’ll see your stupid hat out the window and panic.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. But you have to come back here after. Straight away. No detours.”

You nodded.

He grinned.

You drove off.

—

And now, an hour later, you're standing outside his flat, trying to calm your heartbeat. A crisp white pass certificate is folded in your pocket, slightly crumpled from the way you gripped it all the way here.

You knock once.

The door swings open within seconds.

Lando’s eyes land on you, searching your face. You say nothing.

He blinks. “Well?”

You grin.

“I passed.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“NO WAY!”

He practically launches at you, arms wrapping tight around your waist as he lifts you off the ground and spins you in the doorway. You yelp, laughing.

“Lando! Oh my god—”

“You passed!” he cheers, setting you down but still holding you by the shoulders like you might float off. “I knew you would, but I was also like 10% terrified you’d crash into a tree and I’d be legally responsible.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you say, snorting.

“No seriously—I’m so proud of you.” His face softens, eyes warm and wide and ridiculously pretty. “You’ve worked so hard. And I know how nervous you were.”

You look down, suddenly shy. “You helped.”

He nudges your chin up with his knuckle. “Yeah, but you did the driving. I was just your emotional support co-driver.”

You laugh. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

“Obviously,” he says, mock-offended. Then he pulls you in for a proper hug—warm and grounding, like the kind you didn’t know you needed until now.

You tuck your head into his hoodie. “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

He kisses the top of your head. “You did. With traffic lights and pedestrians and a man with a clipboard silently judging your every move.”

You stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other, until he suddenly pulls back, eyes wide.

“Wait. Does this mean you can legally drive me around now?”

You smirk. “Depends. How well do you behave in the passenger seat?”

He gasps. “Are you saying I’m a bad passenger?”

You raise an eyebrow.

He gasps again, dramatically this time. “Wow. I teach you to drive and this is the thanks I get. I’m heartbroken.”

You pat his cheek. “You’ll survive.”

“Will I?” he sighs, before grinning. “Come on. We’re celebrating. I’m making pancakes.”

“It’s 4 p.m.”

“Exactly. Pancake o’clock.”

You follow him inside, heart still buzzing.

You passed.

And Lando Norris is proud of you.

Honestly? That’s better than the license.

The kitchen smells like vanilla and syrup within minutes.

Lando flips pancakes with far more flair than necessary, like he's trying to win a Michelin star in pancake art. You sit at the island counter, chin resting in your hand, just… watching him. The way he hums off-key, barefoot in his sweatpants, hair still slightly damp from a mid-day shower. The little things that make up the Lando only you get to see.

It hits you then—how lucky you are. Not just because he helped you learn to drive. But because he made you feel like you could do it. Like failing wasn’t even a concept. Just another story to laugh about later.

He slides a pancake onto your plate and nudges a bottle of syrup your way. “Voilà.”

You blink, pretending to be unimpressed. “This looks suspiciously perfect. What did you do, Lando? Bribe the batter?”

“I used a secret ingredient,” he says solemnly, leaning across the counter. “Victory.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He watches you take a bite and light up. “Okay, fine,” you admit through a mouthful. “I take it back. You’re a genius.”

“I knew I’d win you over with carbs.”

You both eat, trading stories from the test—how your examiner had a resting death glare, how you parallel parked like your life depended on it, how your hands were sweating so badly on the wheel it was borderline embarrassing.

Lando listens like every detail matters.

And when you pause mid-sentence, staring out the window, he nudges your leg under the counter.

“What’s up?”

You shrug, but it’s more of a sigh. “It’s just weird. I spent so long dreading that test. Like, it was this massive mountain. And now it’s… over.”

He studies you, quieter now. “You’re allowed to feel weird about that. But I am so proud of you.”

You look over, surprised at the softness in his voice.

“Lando…”

“Yeah?”

You pause. “Thanks for being proud of me. Like, genuinely.”

He leans forward on his elbows, head tilted. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno. It’s just… I’ve failed stuff before. Given up on things. Driving felt like it was gonna be one of those. And you didn’t let it be.”

His smile falters a little, turns into something deeper. “You think I would’ve let you give up?”

You shrug.

He stands, walks around the counter, and pulls you up gently by the hand. Now you’re standing in front of him, pancakes forgotten.

“I need you to listen, okay?” he says softly. “You’re allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to be scared. But I will never be disappointed in you for trying. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll show up every time.”

You feel your eyes sting a bit. You hate crying. But this kind of kindness—it disarms you.

“God,” you laugh wetly. “You’re such a sap.”

He grins, brushing his thumb under your eye. “Only for you.”

You wrap your arms around his waist and he pulls you in close. It’s quiet for a while. Just the sound of his heartbeat and yours syncing up, his fingers drawing soft circles on your back.

Then, without letting go, he murmurs, “So… first road trip. When are we doing it?”

You snort. “Oh, now you trust me to drive you places?”

“I said road trip, not a death wish. I’ll bring a helmet.”

You slap his shoulder. “I’ll leave you at a service station.”

He laughs, but when he pulls back, he’s still holding you—his arms around your waist, your hands looped behind his neck.

He looks at you like he’s about to say something. Something big.

But instead, he just kisses your forehead.

Soft. Certain. Safe.

And somehow, that says more than words ever could.

You don’t need to hear it. Not yet.

You already know.

Later that night, when he drops you back home (yes, he still drove, despite the license), he waits until you’re at your door, then rolls down the window.

“Hey,” he calls.

You turn.

He grins. “Proud of you. Again.”

You beam. “I know.”

And maybe you’ve just passed your test, and maybe this whole thing started because you needed someone to teach you how to drive.

But somewhere along the way, Lando taught you a little more than that.

Like how to believe in yourself.

How to lean on someone when things get messy.

How to laugh through the panic.

And maybe—just maybe—what it feels like to be loved.

[lightlybloomed]

Hello I was wondering if I could give u a request for George Clarke I was wondering if you could do where reader has a boyfriend but doesn’t know what she’s likes he favourite places food that kind of stuff. And George notices and she breaks up with her boyfriend and comes crying to him and then they realise that’s they are ment to be together you get me

hi! here it is - thank you so much for the request and i hope you enjoy :)

[lightlybloomed]

You Knew Without Asking (G.C)

You show up at George Clarke's flat after a breakup. He’s always known the things you never had to say — and maybe that’s exactly what love is.

thank you to anon for the request :)

You never expected the moment of clarity to hit you in a booth at a ramen place you didn’t even like.

Your boyfriend — well, now your ex, though you hadn’t said the words aloud yet — sat across from you, chopsticks clumsily clinking against the ceramic bowl, talking about someone at work and laughing like everything was fine. Like everything was normal.

But it wasn’t.

The miso was too salty. The noodles were rubbery. And worst of all, he hadn’t noticed your silence.

You’d told him before that this place wasn’t your thing. Three times, actually. And yet here you were, again. The same corner booth, the same indifferent waiter, the same ache in your chest.

“Everything alright?” he asked mid-laugh, sipping his beer.

You smiled, tightly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And maybe that was the most honest thing you could say.

Because you were tired. Tired of pretending, of accepting crumbs and calling it love. Tired of forcing small talk when what you really wanted was someone who noticed. Who saw you.

You let the conversation drift around you, your mind miles away, quietly folding the corner of your napkin over and over in your lap. When he suggested going for drinks after, you shook your head. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

He nodded, unfazed. “Cool, I’ll see you later then.”

No kiss on the cheek. No concern. Just… cool.

You were halfway down the street when you opened your phone and typed out a message without thinking:

You up for tea?

The reply came seconds later.

Always. I’ll put the kettle on.

You nearly cried, standing there under a flickering streetlight, phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

George’s flat was warm and soft-lit, smelling like bergamot and whatever candle he always had burning in the corner. He opened the door in joggers and a hoodie, hair slightly messy, a tea towel flung over his shoulder.

He looked at you like he knew.

Not just that you’d been crying in the Uber over something you couldn’t quite name, or that your jacket wasn’t warm enough for the weather. But like he knew you.

“Hey,” he said, gently.

And that was it. That one word broke something in you.

You barely got inside before you were in his arms, sobbing into the fabric of his hoodie. His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, and he didn’t ask questions. Just held you like he’d been waiting to.

It took a while for the tears to stop.

When they did, George handed you a mug of tea — just the way you liked it — and guided you to his couch, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. You sniffled and leaned into the corner of the sofa, hands wrapped around the ceramic for warmth.

“I broke up with him,” you said eventually, voice hoarse.

George didn’t flinch. “I figured.”

“I mean, I didn’t say it, but… it’s done. It has to be.” You looked down at your lap. “He didn’t know me, George. Not really. Not in the ways that count.”

George stayed quiet, but you could feel the weight of his attention.

“I told him I hated that ramen place,” you continued. “I told him three times. And yet he booked it for date night like it was this big gesture. And he doesn’t know my favourite colour. Or that I hate coriander. Or that I hate being the last one to leave a party.”

Your voice cracked. “He doesn’t see me.”

George leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Some people love the version of you that’s easiest to be around. But not everyone wants to learn the parts that take time.”

You stared at him.

“And you?” you whispered.

He looked up at you then, eyes soft. “I want to know all of it.”

You fell asleep in his hoodie, curled up on the sofa, your head resting against his shoulder. He stayed up beside you, scrolling quietly through his phone, his other hand tucked beneath the blanket near yours.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you mumbled something in your sleep — something about daffodils, and missing your mum, and the smell of old books. He smiled.

Even in your dreams, you made sense to him.

You woke to the smell of pancakes and the low hum of George singing something under his breath in the kitchen. Your heart did this weird, warm flip in your chest.

He was there, sleeves pushed up, flipping pancakes with a confidence that probably wasn’t deserved, but the smile on his face made up for any culinary failures.

“These might be slightly undercooked,” he admitted when he caught you watching from the doorway, “but I remembered you like crispy edges. And syrup on the side.”

You blinked, stunned. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

He shrugged. “You didn’t have to.”

You sat across from each other at his small kitchen table, sleepy and silent in the golden morning light.

After a few minutes, George cleared his throat.

He leaned forward slightly, “I'll always notice, you know. When you’re quiet in a way that doesn’t feel right. Or knowing when you need space but not distance. Or that you always hum when you're focusing, and your left eyebrow twitches when you're lying.”

You blinked at him, completely still.

“I know you, because I want to,” he said simply. “Not because I’m trying to get it right. Just because… I care.”

Something in your chest gave way.

He looked suddenly shy. “That was probably too much.”

“It wasn’t,” you whispered. “It wasn’t too much.”

You didn’t plan to kiss him.

But when you stood up to bring your plate to the sink, and he met you halfway with his hand on your waist and those familiar, kind eyes — it happened.

Soft. Sure. Real.

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything. Just gave.

When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I think I finally am.”

That afternoon, the two of you sat in his living room, wrapped in blankets and watching your favourite show. You sipped your second cup of tea, your head on his shoulder, and for the first time in forever, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for something else to happen.

“What now?” you asked.

George tilted his head, thoughtful. “Now we take it slow. Or fast. Or somewhere in between. Whatever you want.”

You looked up at him. “As long as it’s with you?”

He grinned. “As long as it’s with me.”

[lightlybloomed]

Just needed to say quiet hearts break loudest is insanely good! I love love love it!

aw thank you so much!

[lightlybloomed]

wow

Yeah.

[lightlybloomed]

When quiet hearts break loudest (J.B)

When news quietly breaks that Joe Burrow and his long-time girlfriend have parted ways, the internet reacts.

It wasn’t the kind of news that exploded. Not at first.

There wasn’t a dramatic unfollowing spree, no cryptic song lyrics posted at 2 a.m, no blurry paparazzi photos of Joe with someone new. Just a quiet confirmation buried halfway down a local Ohio sports report: Sources close to the quarterback confirm that Joe Burrow and his longtime girlfriend have amicably parted ways.

And that was it.

Except of course, it wasn’t.

Because even though she had always stayed behind the curtain—soft-spoken, shy, the kind of person who genuinely didn’t seem to care about the cameras or the chaos—people noticed.

People loved her for it. She was the calm in the storm of his rising fame, the gentle nod in the background at charity events, the girl who clapped quietly from a VIP box while everyone else screamed.

She never posted much. No couple TikToks. No matching outfits. Her Instagram, set to private. Her name? Rarely mentioned.

But fans knew. The way he’d glance into the crowd after a win, scanning for one face. The way he once stuttered and smiled in an interview when asked about “someone special.” She was there—woven into the fabric of his life without needing to shout about it.

So when the breakup finally surfaced, the internet didn’t roar. It sighed. It mourned the kind of love that felt like a secret garden—private, peaceful, and maybe too good for the noise of the world.

“Not Joe Burrow and his girlfriend breaking up… they were the only couple I trusted 😭” — @bengalsgirl94 “She was like… the final boss of lowkey girlfriends. I respected her so much. Hope she’s okay fr.” — @lovelyquiettype “This feels like finding out your grandparents are divorcing.” — @sportssofties

It wasn’t about drama. It wasn’t even about picking sides. It was about the quiet grief of watching something soft end.

There were no public statements. No messy “we still care about each other” Instagram posts with mismatched fonts. Just… silence. The kind that makes you wonder if the love they had was realer than most, precisely because they never had to prove it to anyone.

They reminisce about her thoughtfulness when asked about Joe; “I cared because he cared,” she stated, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I started learning it so I could understand what made him light up.”

She wasn’t built for the spotlight. It made her stomach twist. She’d walk three paces behind at events, always dressed in something simple. But Joe—he’d glance back, make sure she was there. And when she smiled, he relaxed.

And even then, you carry the story with you.

People will speculate. They already are. Some think it was the pressure of his career, others say they simply grew apart.

But the truth is simpler than all that—they ended things because love, even when it’s good and steady, doesn’t always last forever. Not when two people want different futures. Not when one of them is meant for the spotlight, and the other has always shied from it.

They loved each other. That’s not up for debate. But love alone wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t meant to live in the glare of stadium lights and endless cameras. She tried—God, she tried. But every game day came with eyes on her, every post-game photo sparked speculation.

She loved Joe, but not the life that came with loving someone like him. And in the end, she chose herself. Quietly. Bravely.

There won’t be public statements. No soft-launch heartbreaks or PR-friendly “we remain friends.” They’ve said their goodbyes privately, in words the rest of us will never hear. He’s back on the field, throwing passes like nothing’s changed. But it has. You can see it in the way he doesn’t glance at the stands anymore.

She’s gone. And he let her go.

Not all breakups are messy. Some are just the quiet, clean breaking of something that once fit perfectly—and doesn’t anymore.

And this was one of those.

[lightlybloomed]

Notifications and Nervous Glances (L.N)

Lando Norris can't help but smile when fans tease him for continuously checking his phone for a certain someone to message.

The midday sun hung lazily over Monaco, casting golden stripes of light through the open balcony doors of Lando’s apartment. The sea beyond glittered like a jewel, but Lando was inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffed in every direction from running his hands through it too many times. He was mid-Twitch stream, headset on, fingers flying over his controller.

“Alright, alright, I swear this is the last race,” he laughed, eyes flicking toward the live chat as messages scrolled faster than he could read. “If I win this, you all have to stop saying I'm washed, deal?”

“Yeah right, mate!” came Max Fewtrell’s voice through the headset. “If anything, you’re gonna rage quit before we even hit the third lap.”

Lando grinned. “Not this time.”

But just as the race loaded, a soft chime rang out—his phone, buzzing on the desk to his right. His hand twitched toward it instinctively before pulling back.

He kept his eyes on the screen. Focus. Except now he wasn’t focused at all.

The chat noticed.

"👀 not you checking your phone AGAIN" "who you waiting for, loverboy?" "she texted yet???" "just CALL HER YOU COWARD" "lando’s in his 'will she text me' era"

He blinked, trying not to smile. Tried and failed.

“You guys are so annoying,” he muttered, adjusting his mic. “Can’t a guy check the time?”

“Time?” Max said dryly. “Mate, your phone’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree and you haven’t stopped sneaking glances since we started.”

Lando flushed. “It’s not—okay, shut up.”

The chat went wild again.

"GUILTY!" "he's so whipped and it's not even official" "bet it’s that girl from the paddock 👀"

And okay, maybe they weren’t wrong.

You’d met during the chaos of the last race weekend—some mutual friends, a few too many drinks, and the kind of conversation that left him grinning long after it ended. You weren’t a celebrity. Weren’t chasing fame. Just... smart, grounded, and funny in a way that disarmed him.

You’d left the next day for a work trip, but you’d been texting every day since. Nothing flirty, not exactly. But something was there. At least, he hoped so.

The last message had come a few hours ago—“Landing soon. Might be off the grid for a bit, but I’ll message you when I can! :)”—and he’d been low-key checking his phone ever since.

Just in case.

As the race ended (he came second, to Max’s eternal smugness), Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending not to care as he casually picked up his phone.

Nothing.

He dropped it again, face slightly warm.

“You know,” Max said, his tone teasing but not unkind, “you could just text her first. Say hi. Ask if she landed okay. You’re allowed to show interest, mate. It's not a crime.”

“I know,” Lando mumbled.

But still, he didn’t.

The chat rallied again, this time with emojis and messages of encouragement and chaos in equal measure.

"we believe in you 🫶" "text her or we riot" "lando, you’re literally a Formula 1 driver and you're scared to double text???"

“Alright, that’s it,” Lando said, throwing his hands up. “This stream is bullying now.”

He was laughing though, eyes crinkled in that way his fans loved, cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll text her,” he added under his breath, like it was a secret he couldn’t help but share.

And he did. Right there, in front of thousands of people.

“Hey, just checking in—hope your flight went okay :)”

He hit send, then instantly tossed his phone onto the sofa like it had burned him.

“I’m done for today,” he declared, stretching with a groan. “That’s enough emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” Max repeated. “You texted a girl ‘hi.’ Are you twelve?”

“I hate you.”

The stream ended not long after, fans flooding Twitter and Tumblr with screencaps and memes: Lando’s face mid-phone-check, the exact moment he blushed, the chat going absolutely feral.

But Lando barely noticed.

Because twenty minutes later, while he was lazily scrolling through delivery apps and wondering if gelato for dinner was socially acceptable, his phone buzzed again.

“Just saw your message—landed safely :) stuck in traffic now but excited to finally be home. Also, I missed talking to you. ❤️”

Lando stared at the screen, lips parting in a slow, dumb smile.

Then, with a quiet laugh, he typed back:

“Welcome home. Wanna come over later?”

And this time, he didn’t throw the phone away. He held onto it, just in case the reply came quickly.

It did.

[lightlybloomed]

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

Hi! New blog, new stories, hope you enjoy!

if you have a story request/suggestion, message me :)

𝓛𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓼

When You Showed Up - Lando Norris is struggling at the beginning of the 2025 season, that is, until his childhood friend shows up.

Notifications & Nervous Glances - Lando Norris can't help but smile when fans tease him for continuously checking his phone for a certain someone to message.

"You Passed?!" - Lando helps you learn to drive. When you come back with your results, it’s all worth it.

𝓖𝓮𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓮 𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓮

You Knew Without Asking - You show up at George Clarke's flat after a breakup. He’s always known the things you never had to say — and maybe that’s exactly what love is.

𝓙𝓸𝓮 𝓑𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀

When Quiet Hearts Break Loudest - When news quietly breaks that Joe Burrow and his long-time girlfriend have parted ways, the internet reacts.

[lightlybloomed]

When You Showed Up (L.N)

Lando Norris is struggling at the beginning of the 2025 season, that is, until his childhood friend shows up.

The 2025 season had started with more smoke than spark. Five races in, one win, yet the media circus was beating him for falling behind his teammate. Lando was trying to keep his head above water, but the weight of expectation was heavier than ever.

It was a grey Thursday in Miami, and Lando was leaning against the pit wall, arms crossed, jaw tight, his cap pulled low. Mechanics buzzed around like they were trying to fix something more than just a car. Maybe they were. Maybe it was him that needed fixing.

He didn’t hear the footsteps. He didn’t hear anything until a voice—soft, familiar, almost forgotten—cut through the haze.

“Well. You’re taller.”

He turned. And froze.

You stood there, hands in the pockets of your hoodie, eyes a little tired from travel, but smiling like it was still summer in 2014 and you were standing next to him at a karting track in the rain.

“Holy sh—” He moved quickly, pulling you into a hug so tight you squeaked. “What are you doing here?”

“I figured someone should check on you. And your messages were getting really dramatic.”

“I was not being dramatic,” he muttered into your hair.

“Lando. You texted me ‘I think I’m cursed. Please send holy water or a time machine.’”

“…Okay, maybe slightly dramatic.”

You pulled back and looked at him properly, and the flicker in his eyes—the one you remembered from when you were kids—was dimmer now. But it was still there. Just buried.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s go get some air.”

You found a quiet spot above the paddock, where the views of Miami rolled out like a painting. It smelled like fuel and freshly cut grass. Lando sat beside you on the low wall, head tilted back, sunglasses on even though the sun hadn’t broken through all morning.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he said, finally. “Everyone says we’ve got the pace. But something always goes wrong. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m screwing it all up.”

You nudged his leg with your knee. “You’re not screwing anything up. You’re human.”

He looked over at you. “That’s the problem. In this sport, being human feels like a liability.”

“You’ve always been human. That’s why people love you. You don’t hide it.”

Lando smiled faintly. “Yeah, well, maybe I should start.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there, letting the wind pull at your hair. Then:

“Do you remember what you said to me before my uni exams?”

He rolled his eyes. “If this is the part where I get quoted against my will—”

“You said, ‘Pressure means it matters. But if it matters, then that means you’re doing something worth doing.’”

“Ugh. That sounds way too wise for me.”

“You said it with a mouth full of Pringles, so it was a little less poetic. But still. You’re doing something worth doing, Lando. Even if it’s hard right now.”

He went quiet. But something in his posture shifted, shoulders easing just slightly.

Then he said, “You know, I used to imagine you sitting in the garage during my races. When things got bad. I’d pretend I could hear you yelling at the engineers.”

You grinned. “I would’ve yelled. Especially at that one guy who kept calling you ‘kid.’”

“Oh my god, yes! Thank you!”

He laughed, real and sudden, and for a second it broke through the grey.

“I missed you,” he added softly.

“I missed you too,” you said.

The next day was qualifying.

You stayed tucked in the back of the McLaren garage, headset pressed against your ear. And when Lando pulled out of the pits for his flying lap, Zak gave you a knowing nod.

The track was dry but slick with tension. Everyone was watching.

And then he was flying.

Clean lines. Sharp exits. The kind of precision you only get when your heart is a little steadier. When you remember who you are.

P1.

The garage erupted. Engineers high-fived. Cameras swarmed. But Lando didn’t head to the media pen right away. He pulled into the garage, jumped out of the car, helmet off, curls wild, and came straight to you.

“Told you,” you said, smiling.

“You’re never leaving another race weekend again,” he said, out of breath.

“Good,” you said. “Because I already packed for Italy.”

Later that night, back at the hotel, you sat on the balcony, legs stretched out, the lights of Imola twinkling below. Lando joined you with two mugs of tea and a tired but happy expression.

He handed you a mug and bumped your shoulder gently.

“You saved me this week,” he said.

You sipped your tea. “You did the driving, Norris.”

“Yeah, but… I think I forgot why I was doing it. You reminded me.”

There was a pause. He looked at you carefully, like he was seeing you all over again.

“Stay a little longer?”

You raised a brow. “Just for the points, or…?”

He grinned, shy and boyish. “For everything.”

And in that quiet moment, as the stars blinked into view and the pressure melted away with the steam from your mugs, you knew: this was where you were always meant to be.