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understeeringirl · 5 hours ago

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If we're pretending, let's be convincing

summary: the internet starts noticing. As the fake dating begins to spiral into something bigger, you and Lando hold tight to what’s always been yours: the inside jokes, the late-night calls, the unshakeable bond. warnings: social media chaos, public speculation??, emotional suppression, mutual pining if you squint pairing: lando norris x fem!reader word count: ~2.3k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two

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It starts with coffee.

You're walking down the sun-warmed streets of Monaco, sunglasses perched on your nose, a croissant in one hand and Lando’s hoodie drowning your frame. He’s beside you, matching your pace like it's second nature, cap pulled low, phone in one hand, a drink in the other.

Neither of you planned it. Not really. You just happened to both be hungry. You just happened to walk out together.

And someone just happened to take a photo.

You don’t even see them. But they see you. And by the time your croissant is half-eaten, the internet has seen you too.

By noon, it’s on Instagram. By three, there’s TikToks. By dinner, you’re the subject of a Reddit thread titled Lando Norris’ New Girlfriend: Who is She and Where Did She Come From?

You scroll through the headlines while Lando scrolls through his phone.

“‘Lando Norris Soft Launches Romance in Monaco.’” You raise your brows. “We’ve been launched. Congrats.”

He smirks, still looking at his phone. “Told you I was good at this.”

You throw a pillow at his head. He ducks. Laughs.

That night, he posts a photo. It’s not a selfie. It’s not even staged. It’s a blurry pic of you two from behind, walking toward the harbour. The caption reads: partners in crime (coffee edition)

You don’t reply. But you repost it to your story with a heart emoji.

The internet explodes.

Pierre sends a screenshot to the group chat and writes: finally. i was getting bored.

Your cousin texts you: are you serious or is this another one of your bits??

Even your mum likes the post.

You and Lando spend half the night scrolling. Sending each other the best memes. Making up ship names. Laughing until your stomach hurts.

But in the morning, you wake up to a tabloid headline calling you “F1’s new power couple.” And even though you know it’s fake, your chest feels weird.

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By the time the next race weekend rolls around, the whispers have turned into headlines. Speculation runs rampant. PR teams start slipping your name into prep documents. Cameras linger on you longer in the paddock. Even the commentators mention you—just once, briefly, but enough.

And then comes the interview.

Lando’s halfway through a press day, sunglasses perched on his head, McLaren fireproofs zipped halfway. He’s relaxed, smiling. Playing it cool, like always.

And then the reporter asks it: “So… are the dating rumors true?”

There’s a split second where he almost laughs. But he doesn’t. Instead, he glances to the side and says, calm as ever, “I’d rather keep that between us.”

And that’s it.

You watch it later from your phone, curled up on your bed, biting the inside of your cheek.

It’s weird how convincing he sounds.

He calls that night. You answer before it finishes ringing.

“Did I sound mysterious?” he asks.

“You sounded like a rom-com lead.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Just enough to send the TikTok girlies into a tailspin.”

You laugh. It’s easy. Normal. Like the last few days haven’t been weird at all.

“Honestly,” you say, “you’re a little too good at this.”

“It’s a skill,” he says. “Charm. Stage presence. Marketability.”

“Big words for someone who once wore socks with banana prints to a gala.”

“Fashion-forward,” he insists.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, more casually: “It’s kinda fun though, right?”

You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “You mean the public chaos?”

“The pretending,” he says. “It’s like… our most dramatic bit ever.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, let’s hope we don’t forget our lines.”

“Nah,” he says. “We’ve been best friends too long to screw this up.”

You hum in agreement. Let the silence stretch comfortably.

Then, he adds, “Wanna plan the next post tomorrow?”

You nod to yourself. “Sure. Might as well go all in.”

“Great. I was thinking: hand-holding. Candid smiles. Something painfully couple-y.”

You roll your eyes. “If you make a heart with your hands, I’m blocking you.”

“Worth it.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Somewhere underneath the jokes and the staged softness, something itches at the back of your brain. But you don’t scratch it. Not yet.

Because this is still fun. Still safe. Still just a game.

And you’re both really, really good at games.

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You’re seventeen the first time it almost happens.

It’s the night after one of his junior wins—big, exhausting, emotional. You’re staying at a hotel in Belgium, sharing a room because it’s always been easier that way. The lights are off. The TV is on, volume low. You’re both lying in bed, barely touching.

He says something—quiet, tired, sweet. You don’t remember the words. Just the way his voice sounded in the dark. You turn your head to look at him.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s a moment. A tiny shift. He leans in, like instinct.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

But then his phone buzzes on the nightstand and the moment vanishes.

He turns away to check it. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep.

Neither of you mentions it again.

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The next public moment comes after a race win.

You’re there in the garage, surrounded by champagne and mechanics and chaos. Lando finds you in the crowd, helmet still in hand, curls plastered to his forehead.

He grins like a kid, all adrenaline and joy. And then—without warning—he lifts you off the ground in a spinning hug. You yelp. Laugh. Hang onto him.

The cameras catch all of it.

Later, you see the footage. Slow-mo replays. TikToks set to love songs. A Twitter thread that analyzes the way he looks at you like he’s never seen anyone else in his life.

Your phone lights up all day.

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That afternoon, after everything dies down, you’re back at his place. Still a little buzzed from celebration. Still in your paddock pass and team jacket.

He hands you a drink and flops onto the couch beside you.

“Not bad for a fake couple, huh?” he says, bumping his shoulder against yours.

You roll your eyes. “The internet’s planning our wedding.”

“We’ll need a cool hashtag,” he says. “#LanandY/N.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Fine. You come up with one.”

“#PR relationships my ass.”

He grins. “Catchy.”

You sip your drink. “How does it feel? Winning.”

He shrugs. “Good. Surreal. Loud.”

“Better with me there?”

He looks over at you. His smile softens.

“Always.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Careful. Say one more sweet thing and I might catch feelings.”

He snorts. “Impossible. You’re heartless.”

“You’re projecting.”

“You’re deflecting.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re annoying.”

He shrugs. “You’re still here.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter.

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back smugly, “you’d be lost without me.”

You pretend to consider. “Hmm. I'd probably get more sleep. Have fewer memes in my camera roll. Eat my own fries.”

He gasps. “You love when I steal your fries.”

“I tolerate it. Out of pity.”

He grins, victorious. “See? That’s love.”

You throw a cushion at him. He lets it hit him square in the face.

“Fake love,” you remind him.

He wiggles his brows. “For now.”

You groan. “I swear to god, if you start saying things like ‘I always knew it would be you,’ I’m going to fake break up with you just to spite your captions.”

Lando laughs, stretching out on the couch, one arm slung over the back. “Admit it. This is the most fun you’ve had in ages.”

You smile without meaning to. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

He leans his head back, eyes closed. “Too late.”

You watch him for a second, something warm curling in your chest.

And then you kick his shin. “Move over, you’re hogging the couch.”

He groans dramatically. “Abuse. This is abuse.”

“Shut up and put on a movie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

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A few days later, it’s your turn in the spotlight.

Your first big campaign drops at midnight. A glossy, high-fashion shoot for a major brand. The kind that gets tagged in Vogue moodboards and inspires Pinterest girls for months. You wake up to your face on a billboard in Soho, your inbox full of emojis, and your agent sending messages in all caps.

You scroll through the photos, heart thudding a little. Not just because you like them, but because they feel like proof. You’re not just someone on the arm of a famous driver. You’re someone.

The comments are different this time.

“She’s actually stunning??” “Wait I didn’t know she was a real model I thought she was just his gf lol” “This is main character behavior.”

You let yourself read them. All of them. For once, they don’t hurt.

Lando texts you the campaign shot he liked best — one of you in a silver dress, back arched, staring down the camera like you’re daring it to blink first.

His message just says: that’s my fake girlfriend 🔥🔥🔥 and then: kill me for saying that but you look insane.

You roll your eyes and type back: you’re insufferable. and then: but thanks.

He sends a selfie from the gym with his tongue out. You send him a voice memo of you mocking his sweaty face. He threatens to leak your middle school haircut if you ever do it again.

By noon, you’re laughing too hard to remember why you were nervous.

And for a few hours, it’s not about pretending or planning or headlines.

It’s just your life. And it’s finally getting louder in the best way.

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That weekend, you both end up at a chaotic group dinner in Monaco — Lando, Max, a couple of mutual friends and their couples. Someone suggests a game, and before long it’s a wild mix of dares and “never have I ever.”

Someone jokes about couples knowing each other best. Pierre grins at Lando. “What’s her coffee order, Norris?”

Without missing a beat, Lando rattles it off. You blink.

Someone else asks who said “I love you” first. Lando doesn’t flinch. “Me. Obviously. She’s shy.”

You kick his shin under the table. He winces. Everyone laughs.

Later, one of your friends posts a picture of you and Lando mid-laugh, shoulders pressed together. The caption says: most annoying couple award goes to...

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Some time next week, you’re stopped outside a shoot by a fan who asks, “So when did you realize you loved him?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second too long.

Then you laugh. “I’m under strict orders not to answer that.”

The clip goes viral.

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That night, you FaceTime Lando from your hotel. He answers from bed, hair wet, shirtless, already under the covers.

“I heard you went viral today,” he says.

“I plead the fifth,” you say. “You looked like a golden retriever in your press photos.”

“Thank you.”

You talk for an hour. About everything and nothing. About your outfits for the next event. About Pierre’s new shoes. About a girl he went to school with who’s now in a soap opera.

You fall asleep mid-call. He screenshots it.

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The next post comes from you.

You in his hoodie. Him mid-laugh. A blurry one of your intertwined fingers under a table.

Caption: 🤍 found him on the pit wall

The internet loses it. Again.

You close the app, smiling.

Let them guess.

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A few weeks later, you’re both in Monaco again, tucked into the quiet of his apartment. The windows are open, letting in the soft night air. There's music playing low—something chill and forgettable—and takeout boxes between you on the couch.

Neither of you is in a rush to talk. You’re watching the ceiling like it’s more interesting than your thoughts. Lando’s scrolling aimlessly on his phone, then sets it down with a sigh.

“You ever think about how weird this all is?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him. “Define weird. Like… fake dating your best friend weird, or being mildly famous weird?”

He laughs. “Both, I guess.”

You nod, pulling your knees up. “Yeah. It’s insane when you think about it too hard.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I was thinking earlier… if I wasn’t doing this, if none of this F1 stuff ever happened, I wonder if we’d still be this close.”

You blink. “What kind of sad midnight crisis is this?”

He smiles, but it’s soft. Real. “I just mean—life’s gone a bit mad. And somehow, we still find our way back to each other.”

You don’t answer right away. Because it’s true. Through the chaos and the cameras and the fake dating façade, there’s still this unshakeable thing between you. The kind of closeness that makes everything else seem quieter.

“I think we’d always find a way,” you say, honest.

Lando looks over at you, eyes a little too gentle. “You’re the only person who’s known me before all of this. Before the wins. The attention. The pressure.”

“You’re the only person who knew me before heels and hair extensions and Vogue calling.”

He smiles. “I still remember when you used to cut your own bangs with safety scissors.”

You groan. “Don’t bring that up.”

“I liked it. It was chaotic.”

“You like chaos.”

“I like you.”

You freeze for a second—but he doesn’t mean it like that. You know he doesn’t. It’s just Lando being Lando, casually affectionate like always.

Still, your chest does that stupid flutter.

You cover it with a smirk. “Even with my tragic fringe phase?”

“Especially then,” he says.

There’s a moment of silence, not uncomfortable. Just full.

“Thanks for sticking around,” you say, quietly. “Even when things got messy. Even now.”

He bumps your knee with his. “Always.”

You nudge him back. “And thanks for fake dating me.”

“The pleasure is mine, darling,” he says, putting on a ridiculous accent.

You both laugh.

And just like that, the serious moment folds itself back into the warmth of your friendship. Safe. Steady. Real.

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so... chapter two! omg i feel like this is so confusing i swear i'm trying to make it better 😭😭 but anyway, here's some one sided crush for you (..or is it?)

see you next lap, -N 🏁

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando fanfic #f1 x reader #understeeringirl logs #f1 fanfic

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understeeringirl · 9 hours ago

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We'll fake it your way

summary: a photo, a headline, and a quiet unraveling. three days after canada, the internet gets too loud, so you and lando set the rules. warnings: fake dating trope, social media mentions, hurt/comfort, soft emotional flashbacks, banter, protective!lando pairing: lando norris x fem!reader word count: 1.8k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two

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It starts three days after Canada.

Lando texts you twice. Calls once. Leaves a voice note that you never open. You’re not ignoring him on purpose. You’re just tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes, either. The kind that sits in your bones, that makes your phone feel heavy in your hand. You tell yourself you’ll answer tomorrow. Then tomorrow becomes the day after. Then the day after that.

And then you’re trending. Not because of something you did. Because someone posted a blurry photo of you leaving a casting call in Monaco, and the internet decided it was open season.

"She's not even pretty." "Is this the girl who's always clinging to Lando?" "Why is she even famous?"

It spirals fast. You scroll too long. You know better. But it’s like picking at a scab—you can’t stop even when it hurts. Someone finds a race weekend clip of you standing next to Lando in the McLaren hospitality and overlays it with a Taylor Swift song about begging to be chosen. It gets over 200k likes. You close your phone. Your stomach sinks.

That night, you call him.

He answers on the second ring. “Took you long enough,” he jokes, voice warm. “Missed me?”

You smile faintly. “Hey.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You okay?”

You shift, staring out your window. “We should do it. The fake dating thing. For real.”

There’s a pause. You expect hesitation. You get none.

“Alright,” he says easily. “Let’s do it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he repeats. “Wanna come over?”

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His apartment in Monaco is clean in a way that screams he hasn’t been home in weeks. There’s a suitcase half-unpacked by the door. Trophies on shelves you’re not sure he dusts. A hoodie of yours in the living room chair you forgot you left.

You sit cross-legged on the couch. He brings you a cup of tea like it’s muscle memory. “So,” you say, sitting across from him. “We need to set rules.”

Lando leans back, eyeing you. “Yeah?”

“You’re way too chill about this,” you say. “Which is why I need rules. Because I know you.”

He grins. “That’s fair.”

You sip your tea. “If we’re going to pull this off without losing our minds, or our friendship, we need boundaries.”

“Lay them on me.”

You sit up straighter. “Okay. What are we even trying to do with this?”

He shrugs. “Make the internet shut up. Protect you. Maybe help me get through a few interviews without dodging relationship questions.”

“So it’s part public perception, part mutual survival.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And you get full creative control over what we post. I’m not touching captions.”

“You mean no more cryptic one-liners?”

He smirks. “I’m evolving.”

He pulls out his phone and opens the Notes app. "Okay," he says, thumbs poised. "Terms and conditions. Let’s make it official."

You raise an eyebrow. "You’re writing it down?"

"We need receipts in case you sue me for emotional damage," he deadpans.

You laugh. It’s the first time tonight it doesn’t feel forced.

He starts typing.

Fake Dating Agreement:

Rule #1: No kissing unless it’s for PR. Rule #2: Weekly Instagram activity required. Stories count. Rule #3: No getting jealous. Of anything. Ever. Rule #4: Either one of us can end it. No questions asked.

He grins. “Also, I reserve the right to flirt in public. For realism.”

You roll your eyes. “Only if I can call you embarrassing nicknames in interviews.”

“Deal,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s pumpkin.”

You groan. He’s insufferable. You try not to look at his mouth when he does.

“Anything else?” he asks. You hesitate. Then say, “Let’s just not make it harder than it needs to be.”

His face shifts, just for a second. Something flickers behind his eyes. But he nods.

“Deal.”

He reaches out his hand like this is a contract and you’re business partners. You shake on it.

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Later, after you leave, you sit on the steps outside your flat and remember a race from years ago. You were thirteen. He had just won some junior karting final, still bouncing on his heels from the adrenaline.

A local reporter asked if you were his girlfriend. You’d laughed too hard. Said “God, no.” Loud enough for him to hear.

He’d looked over, confused but not offended. “You wish,” he teased. You rolled your eyes and tossed a water bottle at him.

But it stuck with you. Not the reporter. Not the question. Just the way you couldn’t stop wondering what he would’ve said if you hadn’t spoken first.

______________________________________________________________

Lando posts something the next day.

It’s a carousel on Instagram: his post-race weekend photo dump. Slide one is him in the garage. Slide two is his engineer mid-yell. Slide three is you, barely in frame, headset on, laughing at something he said.

Caption: she makes the headphones look better

Your heart catches. Because you weren’t expecting it. Because you didn’t know he was looking.

You repost it to your story with no caption. The internet notices.

And just like that, you’re not the girl in the background anymore. You’re the girl on his feed.

Two hours later, you get an email from McLaren’s media team. It's short and vague—more curious than directive.

Subject: Content Coordination & Public Messaging From: McLaren Media To: Lando Norris, Y/N

Hello team,

Noticing the spike in engagement following yesterday’s post — exciting stuff! Let us know if you need support managing DMs or fan messaging. We’re prepping light briefing notes in case media picks up on this before Austria.

No pressure, just flagging we may want to prep some soft-launch language for Lando’s press day.

Best, Holly // McLaren Communications

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

“They think it’s real,” you say aloud.

You forward it to Lando with no message.

He replies two minutes later:

"Ignore it unless you want to do something. They don’t need to know anything. This is for us."

You wish you believed him. But when you open Instagram again, your face is everywhere. And you’re not sure who the hell you are in any of the photos.

______________________________________________________________

Like some nights, you can’t sleep.

You spend too long rereading the comments under his post. You shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to. Most of them are supportive. Some are suspicious. A few sting.

It’s past 1 a.m. when you text him.

you up?

He replies instantly:

always. what’s up?

can’t sleep. it’s too quiet.

wanna call?

You hesitate. Then:

yeah.

He calls right away. You don’t even say hi—just listen to his breathing for a second.

“You okay?” he asks.

You roll onto your back, eyes on the ceiling. “Not really.”

There’s a pause. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I dunno. It’s just… weird.”

“Weird how?”

You exhale. “All of it. Us. This. The fake dating thing. People looking at us like we’re—” You stop.

“Like we’re not just us?” he finishes.

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, gently: “We’ve always been us. Doesn’t matter what anyone else sees.”

You let that sit between you. Because it’s true. Because that’s what this whole thing is supposed to be about—protecting that. Holding onto the only thing that’s ever really made sense.

“I’m glad it’s you,” you say softly.

You hear the smile in his voice when he replies. “Me too.”

There's a pause, then he says, “So what kept you up? Modeling drama? Existential dread? TikTok holes?”

You snort. “A bit of everything. Also I accidentally found a conspiracy thread about us being childhood enemies turned lovers.”

He laughs, a real one this time. “Wait—enemies? That’s slander. I shared my juice boxes with you.”

“You stole my fries for two years straight.”

“Out of love,” he says smugly.

You smile despite yourself. “How was media day?”

“Long. Boring. Someone asked me if I was in love. I think I said something about tire degradation.”

“Poetic,” you reply.

He hums. “You?”

“Shot a campaign. The stylist gave me a beret and said I looked like a depressed French poet.”

“Hot.”

“Shut up.”

He yawns, soft and sleepy. “I like this.”

“What?”

“This. You calling. Talking like we used to. Makes the rest of it feel less weird.”

You nod. “Yeah. Same.”

There's a pause, then he says: “You wanna do the first official post tomorrow?”

You chew your lip. “Yeah. Might as well. Let’s go big or go home.”

He hums again. “We fake it so well, people are gonna think we’ve been in love since we were ten.”

You don’t respond right away. Then you say, “Wouldn’t be the worst story.”

And he doesn’t answer, but you both fall into a silence that feels… comfortable. Familiar. Like slipping into a well-worn hoodie.

He clears his throat first. “So, if we’re doing this whole thing properly—what’s our story?”

“Our story?”

“Yeah. You know. How we 'fell in love.'”

You groan. “God, we’re gonna have to come up with an origin story.”

“Dramatic meet-cute? Shared trauma? Accidental hand brush that changed everything?”

You laugh. “It started when you made me eat a worm because you said it was a friendship ritual.”

“Character building,” he says. “Look at you now. Resilient. Gorgeous. Immunized.”

You roll your eyes. “I think we should just keep it vague. Let them guess.”

“Bold. Mysterious.” He pauses. “And then I get to say, ‘I’d rather keep that between us’ in interviews and look all coy.”

“That’s the dream,” you say dryly. “Just don’t oversell it.”

“No promises.”

A beat.

Then you say, “Hey, thanks for not making this weird.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome for being incredibly cool and chill and fake-dateable.”

“Pumpkin.”

He groans. “I regret everything.”

______________________________________________________________

A few days later, your first public moment happens without planning.

It’s a sunny Thursday in Monaco, and you’re both on a coffee run. Paparazzi don’t usually wait outside the café on the corner, but someone spots him. Then someone spots you. Then someone yells his name.

He grabs your hand like it’s second nature. You blink down at it, then up at him. He just grins. Keeps walking.

You think it’ll be a passing thing—maybe a blurry photo, a headline buried under the next scandal. But by the time you’re home, it’s already on TikTok.

“Lando Norris soft-launching his girlfriend??” “He’s holding her hand like it’s his job.” “No one act surprised when they drop matching tattoos.”

You drop your forehead against the counter. Regret sighs out of you.

Lando, meanwhile, looks extremely pleased with himself. “Told you I’m good at this.”

“You’re going to ruin your own PR reputation.”

“Please,” he says, tossing you a bottle of water. “They love a little mystery. And now you’re not just a model. You’re my model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He taps a finger against his temple. “Strategic. There's a difference.”

You hate that he’s kind of right.

That night, you fall asleep with your phone buzzing under your pillow and his contact pinned at the top of your messages.

You dream about the karting track. About when it was just you and him, and the noise of the world hadn’t found its way in yet.

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hey!! here's part one of my first series, hope you like it! if i'm being honest it feels a little messy, so please tell me if it's bad 😭😭 i'll probably upload part two today or tomorrow, hehe

see you next lap ;), -N 🏁

#lando norris x reader #lando fanfic #lando x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #understeeringirl logs

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understeeringirl · 11 hours ago

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Wrong side of the camera - intro

summary: a childhood friendship built on kart tracks and inside jokes. years later, you’re a rising model in his orbit — visible, vulnerable, and just close enough to get caught in the fire. when the rumors get cruel and the media won’t let go, lando offers a solution: fake dating. it’s supposed to protect you. but you’ve been in love with him for years. content: childhood best friends to lovers, fake dating, slow burn, emotional repression, secret pining, rising fame, internet hate, media pressure, lando is oblivious (for now), angsty but tender, one bed (eventually), fluff and ache in equal measure word count: 1,0k pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

wrong side of the camera — series

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡

You’re eight years old the first time you meet Lando Norris.

It’s at a karting track somewhere on the edge of a grey weekend in the UK, the kind of place that smells like petrol and rain. Your older cousin’s racing. You’re bored. Wandering the paddock. Tugging at the worn out sleeves of your hoodie. And then you hear him — loud, slightly posh, and already talking about racing lines like he invented them.

He's got a helmet tucked under his arm and a gap in his teeth when he smiles at you. “You lost?” “No,” you lie, even though you definitely are. He blinks at you, then shrugs. “You wanna see my kart?”. You nod, because why not.

And that’s it. That’s the start.

From then on, it’s a blur of weekends and text messages and dumb inside jokes that never die. Summer breaks spent on opposite ends of a beanbag playing Mario Kart until your eyes blur. Sleepovers where he falls asleep mid-movie and drools on your shoulder. Birthday parties where he yells I’m not crying, you’re crying because you made him a scrapbook of every helmet design he’s ever doodled.

He's annoying. And loud. And always hungry. But he’s your annoying, loud, always-hungry best friend.

He’s the one who texts you after your first low-budget catalog job like you just walked the Met Gala. You’re the one who calls him after his first F2 win, screaming so loudly he hangs up on you, only to call back three seconds later so you can do it again.

Years go by. Your world gets bigger. So does his. And somehow, you never lose each other in the noise.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

“You okay?” he asks now, voice low, a bit scratchy from talking all day.

You’re sitting in his hotel room after the race weekend in Canada. He’s thrown his hoodie over your shoulders because the AC won’t quit and your own jacket’s in your bag somewhere. You nod. Lie. You’d been fine all day. Until your phone lit up with new notifications.

Until someone made a TikTok comparing you to Lando’s last girlfriend. Until the comments started rolling in.

“She’s mid at best.” “How does she always show up to races dressed like that lol.” “He could do better. He has done better.”

You didn’t mean to read them. They just… appeared. Like they always do. Like they’ve learned how to find you.

He leans in, nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been quiet.” You shrug. Try to smile. “Tired.” He doesn’t buy it. He rarely does. But he lets it go for now, tugging the hoodie’s sleeves down your arms like that’ll fix it.

“You looked nice today,” he says, casually, like it’s nothing. It isn’t. Not to him. But to you, it’s everything.

Because you’d spent half the morning deciding if your outfit looked too nice. If people would say you were trying too hard. If they’d accuse you of chasing attention — his attention — again.

You want to tell him. You want to say, This is getting too loud. You want to ask, Do you know what it’s like to be hated for existing beside you? But it feels too dramatic. Too heavy. Too not you — at least not the version of you that Lando’s always known. So you just pull your knees up to your chest and say, “They’re getting mean again.” He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t have to.

A pause. Then: “They don’t know you.” That makes your throat go tight.

Because it’s true. The world sees a filtered version. The internet gets fragments. People post your photos like you’re public property — like proximity to him is enough to make you interesting, or enough to make you a target.

But he knows better. Or at least, he used to.

Sometimes it feels like even he’s starting to forget who you were before the noise. You say, “Maybe I should stop coming to races.” He sits up straighter. “What? Why would you—?”

“They’re just going to keep talking,” you say, suddenly wishing you hadn’t said anything. “It’s not worth it.” His eyebrows pull together. “You love being in the garage.” You look away. “It’s different now.” He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then he moves closer, like he’s trying to read something in your expression. “It’s not your fault,” he says softly. “They’re just… bored people online.”

You let the silence settle between you for a moment. Then he adds, “You know, if they thought we were actually dating, they’d probably shut up.”

You turn your head slowly. “What?”

He leans back, more defensive now. “I just mean… if they think it’s real, it’s harder to tear it apart. You wouldn’t be the random girl. You’d be… I dunno. My girlfriend.”

You laugh — a dry, surprised sound. “That’s the most Lando Norris solution I’ve ever heard.” He shrugs. “It makes sense.” “No,” you say, trying to sound amused, not heartbroken. “It makes chaos.”

“You’re telling me you can’t act like you’re in love with me?” he grins, teasing. You look at him for a beat too long. Then you say, lightly, “It’s not that hard. You’re mildly tolerable.”

He beams like you handed him a trophy. And maybe that’s why you say it — why you let it hang in the air like an idea that hasn’t landed yet. You say, “It wouldn’t be forever.” “No,” he says, thoughtful. “Just until they forget how awful they are.”

You nod.

He looks back at you. And in the dim yellow hotel light, with his curls sticking up and his hoodie swallowing your frame, he still looks like the boy from the karting garage. The one who offered you a seat next to him like it was the only one that mattered.

Except now you know what it means to love him. Now you know that pretending might be worse than silence.

But you also know what it means to be hated for being near him. And maybe, just maybe, this is a way out.

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no either.

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