hi i just wanna say that your work wassss soo amazing exp that lando norris one with medical student reader, and also im a med stud so i really like how you potray the character the difficulty being a med stud, and i do really hope you could make another medical student reader! xx
thank u sm for thisđ„č it honestly means the world!! that lando ficâs super close to my heart too (been thru the whole med grind myself so it def came from the heart lol), so i'm really glad it resonated w you. def planning more med student reader stuff soon so keep an eye out!! <3
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Sheâs Hollywoodâs favorite heartbreaker. Heâs Formula 1âs golden boy with a heartthrob smile. One offhand comment sparks a secret connection neither of them expected. Between fame, headlines, and disguises, something real begins to bloomâin the steady spaces between the lines.
Pairing: lando norris x actress! reader
Genre: slow burn romance, angst
TW: public shaming, mild swearing, media invasion, verbal argument
PART 1 | PART 2
We met behind my building just after seven.
The back exit wasnât exactly secretâbut no one ever used it, and it opened into an alley that disappeared fast into the side streets. He was already there when I stepped out, hood up, hands in his pockets, black leather jacket slung over one arm, the faintest grin pulling at the corners of his mouth when he saw me.
âI feel like Iâm about to get recruited into something illegal,â he said.
I held up a hand. âClose your eyes.â
He raised an eyebrow, amused, but did as I said. I dug into my tote bag, pulled out a pair of oversized black sunglasses and placed them carefully on his face.Â
âYou look fabulous,â I said, grinning wide.Â
He pulled up his phone, angled it at himself, then laughed. âThese look like safety goggles, you trying to sabotage me?â
âNo,â I said sweetly. âBut you do look like youâre auditioning for The Matrix.â
He flipped the hood down dramatically. âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
âItâs definitely a thing.â
He stepped closer, holding out the jacket that heâd brought. âYour turn.â
I took it, shrugging it on over my sweatshirt. It was warm from his hands, heavier than I expected, the lining soft against my skin. It hung off my shoulders in that effortless way menâs jackets always doâequal parts ridiculous and part intimate.
âConvincing?â I asked, tugging the collar up.
He stepped back like an appraiser at an auction. âYou look like youâre on the run. Iâd give you a five-star IMDb credit.â
âIâll take that as a compliment.â
Together, we slipped out into the quiet Manhattan nightâheads down, pace casual. Not rushed. Not obvious. Just a pair of silhouettes that didnât ask for attention.
The bagel shop was just as I remembered itâcramped, warm, faintly chaotic. A haven. A tiny, narrow spot on the edge of SoHo that always smelled like yeast and warm sesame. The walls were lined with photos of celebrities whoâd apparently visited over the years, most of them ancient or low-tier enough to not really count. It was mostly locals tonight. A sleepy couple at the window. A guy in scrubs scrolling his phone. No one looked up.
He held the door for me, and I gave a small bow in return, lips twitching.
I ordered us both lox bagelsâuntoasted, no cream cheese crimesâand we took the corner booth, facing each other across a sticky linoleum table that had probably seen more breakups than birthday parties.
âSo,â he said, resting his elbows on the table. âIf you werenât an actress, what would you be?â
I blinked. âThatâs a first-date question.â
He raised an eyebrow. âSo this is a date?â
I leaned back, smirking. âYouâre the one who wore my favorite sunglasses.â
He pointed a finger at me. âYouâre deflecting.â
âI donât know,â I said honestly. âI used to say writer. But I donât think Iâd like being alone with my thoughts that much. Or maybe a florist. Something small and nice.â
âA florist?â
âDonât mock me,â I warned. âFlowers are emotionally complex.â
He lifted both hands. âIâm not mocking. Iâm imagining you wielding scissors dramatically in a silk apron.â
The bagels arrivedâwarm, shiny, paper-wrapped. He looked like a kid handed a prize.
âOh my god,â he said, reverent.
âYou act like this is the first real food youâve had in months.â
âI havenât eaten something made with actual love since preseason testing.â
âYouâre dramatic.â
âYouâre underestimating this bagel.â
I took out my phone and snapped a pictureâof him, of the bagels, the wax paper, the way his sunglasses had slipped slightly down his nose.
He looked up mid-bite. âYouâre posting that?â
âNo way,â I said, suddenly serious. âIâm still waiting on Leila, remember?â
He chewed, then feigned woundedness âRight. Of course. Iâll just sit here. Mystery man. Anonymous. Abandoned.â
I rolled my eyes. âYouâre being dramatic.â
âAnd youâre being cute.â
That shut me up for a second. He smiled at the silence. âYou didnât deny it.â
I shook my head, lips twitching. âJust eat your bagel, Norris.â
We ate slowly. Talked about Tokyo, about bagels, about the worst disguises heâd ever seen other drivers wear in public. He told me a story about Daniel Ricciardo getting mistaken for a street magician in Rome, and I nearly choked on a sip of water.
And somewhere in between bites and laughter, I realized this was maybe the first time in a long time I wasnât acting. Wasnât pretending. I was just a girl in borrowed clothes, across the table from someone who saw meânot the headline version, not the performance. Just⊠me.
When we left, he didnât take my hand. But his shoulder brushed against me once, just enough for me to feel it. Like a quiet promise. Like a thread waiting to be tugged. And I didnât pull away.
The city had softened by the time we made our way back.
Shadows stretched longer. Street lamps hummed quietly overhead. We slipped through side alleys and dim corners like ghosts in borrowed clothes, the scent of sesame and rain still clinging faintly to us.
He walked me all the way to the back entrance of my building. Of course he did. No questions, no ask for more. Just⊠made sure I got home.
We paused at the door. The quiet between us wasnât awkwardâit was waiting.
âThanks for the bagel,â I said softly.
âThanks for the sunglasses,â he said, deadpan. âThey changed my entire identity.â
I smiled, hand already on the handle. But I didnât turn it.
He noticed. His voice gentled. âYou donât have toââ
âNo, I justâŠâ I hesitated. âIt feels rude not to invite you in.â
His brows lifted, almost cautiously. âReally?â
âI meanâŠâ I tucked my hands into the leather jacket sleeves. âItâs not a press thing. Or a headline. Just tea. Maybe a movie. Or silence. If thatâs what it is.â
He looked at me carefully, and for a second I saw itâthe flicker of doubt. Not rejection, but hesitation. Like he didnât want to take more than I was offering.
âAre you sure?â he asked quietly. âYou donât owe me anything. You donât have to feel bad.â
âI donât.â
He studied me a second longer. âI donât want to mess this up. And Iâd understand if tonight just ended here. It wouldnât offend me.â
I stepped a little closer, voice low. âYouâre not messing anything up. I asked you in because I want to. Not because I feel guilty.â
A beat passed. He nodded, barely, then smiledâsmall, careful, real.
âIn that case,â he said, âIâll take you up on the tea.â
And just like that, I opened the door. Let him step inside.
Still in our disguises. Still under borrowed names. But something about itâthis night, this quietâfelt like the most honest thing Iâd done in months.
The door clicked shut behind us with a soft, final sound.
I stepped out of my shoes, unzipping the borrowed leather jacket as I gestured him in. âYou can leave those by the door. Chili hates shoes on the rugâacts like itâs a personal insult.â
âChili?â he asked, just as a low whir echoed from the living room.
My cleaning robot rolled into view from beneath the sofa like it had been lying in wait for this dramatic entrance.
âOh shit,â Lando jumped a little, backing a step toward the wall, hands slightly raised like he was being approached by a very polite bomb. âIs that thing armed?â
I laughed, tossing my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. âJust with passive aggression. Itâs got one job and a superiority complex.â
Lando narrowed his eyes at it, then looked around slowly as he peeled off his hoodie. âSo this is where the mysterious Hollywood heartbreaker hides.â
I rolled my eyes and padded toward the kitchen. âDonât let the furniture fool you.â
But he didnât follow me right away. He drifted through the entry instead, running his fingers along the edge of a low bookshelf. His gaze trailed the spinesâplays, scripts, film theory, poetry. A few cracked-spined paperbacks. A vase filled with yellow daisies. A silver trophy glinted from one end.
âYou have an award for best original monologue at seventeen,â he read, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
âPrestigious, right?â I called. âBeat a girl who quoted Shakespeare in a southern accent.â
He laughed softly and stepped further in.
ThenâA small, soft weight pressed against his ankle. Chili.
My cat blinked up at him, then rubbed her face deliberately against the side of his feet. Then his shin. Then flopped in a full-bodied purr against the floor like theyâd been longtime conspirators.
I froze mid-step.
Lando blinked down at her. âIs she⊠okay?â
âShe hates people,â I said slowly. âShe once hissed at Josh for sneezing near her.â
But Chili was now curled around his feet like he was the second coming of tuna.
Lando leaned down, cautiously scratching behind her ear. âHey, little traitor.â
âI think Iâm going to be sick.â
âDonât be jealous,â he said with a smirk, glancing up. âShe knows Iâm sensitive. We vibe.â
I just shook my head, trying not to smile too wide.
He moved toward the hallway while I filled the kettle, his eyes catching the framed photo wall just outside the bedroom. Dozens of black-and-white prints, all in a tidy gridâme on set, me with Andrea, a few candids with Josh at beach bonfires or airport gates. My parents, young and sepia-toned. A birthday party in blurry focus. Chili as a kitten, biting a birthday candle.
He paused at one.
âWaitâthis guy. I saw him with you at Suzuka.â
I leaned out from the kitchen, smiling. âYeah. Thatâs Josh.â
Lando turned, brow raised. âJosh...?â
âMy brother. Technically my older brother, though emotionally Iâve got the edge.â
He grinned. âSo heâs the reason you showed up to the race.â
âYup. Dragged me halfway across the world for a weekend in the paddock. I bribed him with free skincare samples to keep his mouth shut about it.â
He was still looking at the photo. âHe seems cool.â
âHe is. Heâs the reason I havenât lost my mind yet. Or burned every bridge with a flamethrower.â
I turned back to pour the tea, then called over my shoulder. âYou want peppermint or the sleepy one with valerian root that tastes like forest floor?â
âSleepy forest dirt, please.â
A beat passed. Then he appeared at the edge of the kitchen, leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, that softened look back in his eyes.
âNice place,â he said. âItâs very you.â
I handed him the mug, our fingers brushing for a second too long. âYou say that like youâve figured me out.â
He smiled into his cup. âNo. Just⊠catching pieces.â
We settled into the sofa like weâd done it beforeâme cross-legged with a blanket over my knees, Chili curled between us like a smug little chaperone, and Lando sunk low into the cushions, his tea steaming gently in his hands.
Outside, the city had gone quiet. The occasional car passed below. The sound of my neighborâs TV filtered faintly through the wall. Nothing demanded us. Nothing interrupted.
He tilted his head toward the photo wall again, eyes thoughtful. âYouâve lived a lot of lives already.â
I shrugged. âComes with the job.â
âMust be weird though. Letting people believe they know you from the outside.â
I smiled faintly, swirling my tea. âYeah. Youâd be surprised how many people think Iâm the same person they saw in that one movie where I threw a chair through a glass door.â
He snorted. âOkay, but it was a good scene.â
âThat wasnât even in the script,â I said, smirking.
He turned toward me, really turned this time, one arm slung across the back of the couch. âSo whatâs the real you, then? You always this cryptic?â
âOnly with guys who wear my sunglasses better than I do.â
He laughed again, soft and genuine, and my gaze flicked to his face before I could stop myself.
I hadnât noticed it beforeânot in the photos, not on the screen, not even at the race.
But his eyes werenât just green.
They were layeredâshifting with the light, like sea glass. A pale, stormy aquamarine that caught flecks of grey near the pupil. They tilted up slightly at the corners when he smiled. His lashes were longer than I expected, dark and curled at the ends, soft as smudged charcoal. There were freckles, tooâbarely there, scattered across the bridge of his nose like someone had dusted them on in a rush.
Details you wouldnât catch unless you were looking. Unless you wanted to look.
He noticed me staring, but didnât say anything. Just held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. âI like you.â
Simple. No buildup. No trapdoor beneath it.
I blinked. âThat so?â
He nodded once. âI donât know where it goes. Or what it is. But I like being near you. Talking to you. Even when youâre deflecting with sarcasm and vague metaphors.â
âThatâs my brand,â I muttered.
He smiled again, smaller this time. âIâm not asking for all of you. But Iâm not gonna lie about what I feel.â
That caught somewhere in my chestâhot and sharp and dangerous.
I set my tea down on the side table. Carefully. Like I could pretend my hands didnât tremble.
âIâm not easy,â I said softly.
He looked at me, brow raisedânot surprised, just listening.
âI disappear sometimes,â I added. âNot physically. But mentally. Emotionally. I can... slip into things too deep. Characters. Pressure. Whole other versions of myself. I become the role. And sometimes it takes me a while to come back.â
He didnât flinch. Didnât blink. Instead, he leaned forward just slightly and asked, âAnd if I wait, will you?â
My throat tightened. I looked downâat Chili asleep between us, at our tea mugs, at the place where our knees brushed beneath the blanket.
âMaybe,â I whispered. âIf I know itâs worth coming back to.â
His hand movedânot forceful, not demandingâjust rested lightly over mine. Warm. Steady.
âI think it might be,â he said.
I looked up. His eyesâthose not-green, not-blue, not-just-anything eyesâwere still on me. And for the first time in a long time, I didnât want to disappear.
We stayed like that for a while. His hand resting lightly over mine. Neither of us moving. The apartment had dimmed into something softerâjust the amber flicker from the floor lamp and the slow breaths of a cat who, for once, didnât seem interested in policing the room.
I shifted slightly, letting my body turn toward him more fully.
âCan I ask you something?â I said, voice low.
He nodded, thumb brushing gently against my hand. âAnything.â
âDo youâŠâ I hesitated. âDo you love it? Racing, I mean. Or is it just something youâre good at?â
Lando looked up at the ceiling for a long beat. His voice, when it came, was softer than I expected.
âI do,â he said. âMost days. Thereâs nothing like it. The speed, the controlâor lack of it. You feel alive in a way thatâs hard to explain.â
I watched his face in profile, the way the light hit his cheekbone, the small furrow between his brows.
âBut sometimes,â he continued, âitâs exhausting. Not the driving part. The rest. The noise. The pressure. People trying to write your story before you get to live it.â
I swallowed. âI get that.â
He turned to face me again. âI know you do.â
There was a pause. Then I asked, âAnd your family? Do they come to races?â
He smiled a little, eyes softening. âSometimes. My mum comes when she can. My dad used to. Heâs proud, just⊠not always present. Itâs complicated.â
âIsnât it always?â
He let out a quiet laugh. âWhat about yours?â
I tucked my feet under me, fingers curling slightly in the blanket. âWeâre close. Not perfect. But close. Josh is kind of my anchor.â
âI figured.â
I looked at him. âHow?â
âThe way you talk about him. Like he sees all of you.â
I didnât say anything right away. Just held his gaze.
Then I said, quietly, âMost people only want to see the version that fits their idea. Pretty. Polished. Unmessy.â
âYouâre not messy,â he said.
I raised an eyebrow. âArenât I?â
He leaned in just slightly. âYouâre layered. Thatâs different.â
My heart gave a quiet tug at that.
He saw meâreally saw meâand didnât flinch.
I glanced down at our hands again, then murmured, âIâve been in relationships where I felt like I had to shrink myself. Make myself simpler. Quieter. Easier to understand.â
Landoâs brow creased, but he didnât interrupt.
âI think I convinced myself that was the price of being wanted,â I went on. âThat if I made too much noise or needed too much space, theyâd leave. And most of them did.â
Silence fell again, gentle but weighted.
Then I said itâslipped, like I hadnât meant to, like it tumbled out of the space between honesty and fear. âBut you⊠youâre different. I didnât see you coming. And now youâre just⊠here.â
His eyes softened. âDo you want me to be?â
I didnât answer right away. My chest was too full. My pulse too loud. But I nodded, slow. Certain.
âYeah,â I whispered. âI do.â
He shifted closer, his voice low, velvet-wrapped. âThen Iâll stay. As long as you want me to.â
I looked up again, into those not-green eyes with oceans in them, and felt something steady click into place inside me.
Not fireworks. Not chaos. Just⊠peace.
He was still watching me.
Not in the way men look at me. Not like I was something to frame or claim. But like I was something heâd been trying to understandâand now, finally, did. I felt it building in the quiet. That slow and steady tilt toward something we hadnât named yet. The way the room felt too small. The way my pulse rose like it was answering a call.
I looked at his mouth. Then away. Then back again. Lando didnât move. Not toward me. Not away.
He just⊠waited.
And maybe thatâs what did it. The fact that he didnât chase the moment. He held it.
A space. An offering.
My heart thudded once, sharp and deep, before I whispered, âI donât usually do this.â
His voice was steady. âDo what?â
âThis,â I said. âLet someone in before I can.. label it.â
His expression didnât shift. But I saw the way his fingers curled slightly in the blanket. The way his breath caught.
âThen donât label it,â he said. âJust feel it.â
My chest rose, then fell. I almost said no. Almost turned away again, back into safety, back into the armor Iâd spent years learning to wear so well.
But insteadâI leaned in. Just a breath at first. Enough to see if heâd meet me there.
He did. His hand rose gently to my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my jaw like heâd been thinking about that moment longer than I had.
And thenâour mouths met.
Soft at first. Not demanding. Not frantic. Just a quiet, reverent kind of kiss. Like we were both trying to memorize something that might vanish if we werenât careful. He tasted like tea and something sweeterâwarmth, maybe. Or relief.
And when I didnât pull away, when I leaned just a little closerâhis other hand found the curve of my waist, anchoring me like I might float off. I broke the kiss first, breathless and blinking.
He didnât speak. Just touched his forehead to mine. I smiled. Tiny. Unsteady.
âThat was unexpected,â I whispered.
Lando grinned against my cheek. âYou kissed me.â
âI did.â
âI liked it.â
I huffed a laugh, suddenly shy. âYeah. Me too.â
We didnât rush the moment. Just let it hum around us. Chili snored softly between our legs, completely uninterested in our romantic revelation.
We stayed there for a whileâcurled into the quiet, the air between us warm and slow.
But eventually, the clock crept forward. He shifted first, glancing at the time on his phone, then winced. âShit. I should go.â
I sat up, hair falling from where it had been lazily tucked. âRight. Bahrain.â
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. âMy flightâs early. I havenât packed. Or slept.â
I stood with him, Chili now curled into a dramatic sideways sprawl across the rug like sheâd personally bonded and couldnât believe we were tearing the family apart.
At the door, Lando hesitated. One hand already on the knob, hoodie back on. âThanks for tonight.â
âFor the bagel?â I teased.
He grinned. âFor not running.â
That quiet stretched again. Soft and close.
And this time, I kissed him. Not uncertain or hesitantâjust warm. Familiar already. My hand at the collar of his hoodie, his at my waist.
When I pulled away, he rested his forehead lightly against mine. âThatâs twice now,â he murmured.
âMhm.â
He leaned back just enough to look at me. âOkay butâhear me outâif Iâve kissed you twice, does that mean I can finally get your number? Or are we gonna keep doing flirty DMs like weâre in high school?â
I snorted. âYouâre the one who opened with âhey.ââ
âAnd you answered. Eventually.â
I smiled and took his phone when he offered it, typing in my number, then giving it a second before adding, âUndercover Bagel Queen. Just to keep you humble.â
His laugh was soft but bright. âPerfect.â
Another pause. Neither of us quite moving. Then he said, quieter, âIâll see you soon?â
I nodded. âGood luck in Bahrain.â
He hesitated, then kissed me again. Short. Certain. A promise wrapped in brevity. And then he slipped through the door and disappeared into the early hours of morning, leaving nothing behind but the scent of his hoodie, a name on my phone, and the steady thrum in my chest.
The next morning came fast, pulled in by the scent of coffee, the soft clatter of hangers, and the low murmur of a glam team already in rhythm. Iâd barely had time to brush my teeth before a stylist was zipping me into the first lookâcream silk, draped like water, pinned just so.
The studio was downtown. Raw floors. Pale light. Mood boards pinned to cork walls and someone always adjusting a fan. It was a campaign shoot for a luxury brandâclean silhouettes, quiet luxury, cold expressions. The kind of thing I could do half-asleep. But today, I was alert. Bracing.
âHead up just a touchâyes, there.â
Click.
âBrow softer.â
Click.
âDonât blink yetâokay, beautiful.â
It went on like that for hours. Shot after shot, look after look. Silk dresses, tailored coats, jewelry layered like whispers. I changed behind a folding screen that smelled faintly of glue and steam, snacking on cubes of mango between outfit swaps. The glam team fluttered around me like quiet butterflies, fixing stray hairs and smoothing lip tint.
Between wardrobe changes, I finally glanced at my phone. A single message from Lando.
Lando:
landed. still thinking about that tea, your robot, and your cat whoâs now legally mine.
I smiled, thumb grazing the screen. I didnât reply right away.
The next setup was moodyâcool light, darker wardrobe. I sat on a velvet stool in a black structured coat, ankle boots laced up tight, smoky liner smudged just enough to look like I hadn't slept (which, ironically, I hadnât). I tilted my chin and held still while the photographer adjusted a filter.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Hours passed. A late lunch was brought inâa tray of seared tuna, pickled daikon, rice I didnât touch. My assistant gently nudged the tray toward me, and I gave her a grateful look but waved it off. Too jittery to eat.
I checked my phone again while waiting for touch-ups. Another message had arrived.
Lando:
hope todayâs going okay. if anyone gives you a hard time just tell them your bodyguard is on a racetrack somewhere, waiting
I bit the inside of my cheek, warmth crawling up my neck.
Still, I didnât answer. Not yet.
Instead, I turned back to the camera, letting the lens swallow me again. Posing, tilting, holding the emotion in my eyes like it was a secret only I knew. Between shots, I thought of Bahrain. Of his hoodie in my closet. Of how his laugh had sounded in my kitchen, startled by Chiliâs dramatic entrance like a guest star in a soap opera.
When we wrapped, it was nearly dusk. I peeled off the last lookâwide-legged white trousers and a backless blouseâand slipped into my own clothes: high-waisted jeans, a soft navy sweater, my hair still curled around my shoulders.
Outside, the air smelled like the city winding down. Orange light filtered through the trees. I climbed into the car waiting out front and finally opened our thread again.
I stared at it for a momentâthumb poisedâthen typed:
You:
long day. but i made it through. no bodyguard necessary
unless you count the curling iron i almost threw at someone
He replied within minutes.
Lando:
i like it. want me to send in backup anyway? iâve got some sunglasses and a black hoodie that miss you.
I smiled, finally letting myself lean back into the seat. The day was done. But him? He was still there.
In my phone. In my thoughts. And, inconveniently, in the place Iâd spent so long keeping off-limits.
Josh showed up the next morning with bagels.
Wellâtechnically, he claimed they were âjust in the neighborhood,â but he had Chiliâs favorite treats in one hand and an oat latte in the other, which meant this was a full-on emotional wellness check disguised as brunch.
I let them in, still in my robe, hair damp from the shower.
Andrea followed behind, balancing her phone, sunglasses, and a very large iced coffee. âYou look tired,â she said without judgment.
âI was up late,â I murmured, padding barefoot toward the kitchen.
Josh raised a brow as he dropped the bag of bagels on the counter. âWorking?â
âNot exactly.â
Andrea narrowed her eyes. I stayed quiet, tearing off a piece of cinnamon bagel and chewing slowly. Josh leaned against the counter, waiting.
Andrea crossed her arms. âOkay, out with it.â
I looked between them. âLando came over. The night before his flight to Bahrain.â
Andrea blinked. âWaitâwhat?â
âYou said you were just walking him outââ
âI was,â I said quietly, brushing crumbs from my fingertips. âBut I asked him up. We talked. A lot. It felt... like something.â
Josh frowned. âYou invited him up? Into your apartment?â
Andrea shot him a look. âSheâs an adult, Josh.â
âI know, Iâm justâJesus. Lando Norris? Like, Lando?â
I gave him a flat look. âYes. Like Lando.â
He ran a hand through his hair, muttering, âI haven't even talk to the guy yet and he's already walking around your apartment like itâs home base.â
âHe didnât walk around. He was polite,â I said defensively.
Andrea raised a brow. âDid Chili like him?â
I hesitated. âHe... snuggled his foot.â
Andrea gasped. âChili? Our antisocial queen of darkness? She snuggled a man?â
âSheâs never done that with anyone,â I muttered, half to myself. âEver.â
Josh folded his arms. âOkay, now I want to meet him. Because either heâs a cat whisperer or a very attractive demon.â
âPossibly both,â Andrea deadpanned. âSo you are telling me you had a thingâa nightâwith Lando Norris, and then went to a shoot the next morning like it was nothing?â
âIâm telling you it didnât feel like nothing,â I said softly.
They both fell quiet. Chili trotted in, bumping against Joshâs ankle before curling up beneath the stool like an old lady clocking in for her day shift.
I exhaled, finally saying it. âI donât know what this is. Weâre texting. Talking. He came back to see me, guys. And itâs not... superficial. Not just flirtation. I think he sees me, which is terrifying, because I donât know how to do this halfway.â
Andreaâs expression shiftedâsoftening, but still wary. âDo you want something with him?â
I hesitated. Then nodded. âI might. I donât know what it is yet. But I might be starting something.â
Josh, bless him, just reached across the counter and offered me the other half of his bagel. âOkay..but I reserve the right to interrogate him.â
Andreaâs gaze lingered on me. âYou know the timingâs tricky. The chemistry read, Leila, the press still poking aroundâŠâ
âI know.â
âYouâll have to protect this. And yourself.â
âIâm trying,â I said. âBut I also donât want to keep living like Iâm preparing for damage control. Iâm tired of always expecting the fallout before I let myself enjoy whatâs good.â
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Then Andrea lifted her coffee, clinked it lightly against my tea mug. âOkay. If youâre in itâthen weâll be in it with you. But stay smart. And donât let him distract you from the read.â
âI wonât,â I said. âBut heâs not a distraction. Heâs... something else.â
Josh grinned. âSounds like someoneâs caught feelings.â
âShut up,â I muttered, hiding my smile in the rim of my mug.
Andrea just gave me a knowing look. âThen go nail that chemistry read. Be Leila. And if you fall a little more for him in the meantime, just donât trip. Weâll figure out the rest after.â
The callback was set in a downtown studio with high ceilings, industrial beams, and the kind of lighting that made everyone look vaguely cinematic. I arrived early, script in hand, coffee half-drunk, headphones in but no music playing. Just noise-cancelling silence. I needed that kind of focus today.
I checked in with the front desk and walked slowly through the waiting area, aware of every eye. Arden Linâs team was huddled near the corner couch, all sleek hair, black blazers, and controlled whispers. Arden herself was in a sharp ivory trench, skimming through something on her iPad with the kind of poise only someone raised inside a camera flash could fake that effortlessly.
She didnât look up as I walked past. But her agent did.
Margo Hart. Forty, glass cheekbones, and a reputation for knowing exactly where to place a knife between someoneâs shoulder blades.
Andrea caught up to me just as we rounded the hallway corner.
âThey changed the scene,â she said, too fast, too quiet.
I blinked. âWhat?â
âThey switched it out this morning. Sent an email to your agencyâs general inboxâat 2:14 a.m.â
My stomach sank. âDid you get it?â
âI only found it twenty minutes ago when I refreshed obsessively. I asked productionâthey said it went out, so technically itâs fair game.â
âDid Arden get it?â
Andrea gave me a flat look. âShe has her own team of flying monkeys. Of course she got it.â
âWas it her agent?â
âItâs always her agent.â
I closed my eyes, bracing myself against the wave of heat creeping up my spine. Iâd rehearsed the previous scene for a week, carved it out with pauses and shadows and precision. I was ready for that Leila. Not this one.
âWhatâs the scene?â
Andrea handed me the fresh pages. âScene 32. The one where she refused to come to her motherâs funeral.â
The one Iâd only done once. The scene that sat heavier on my chest than any of the others.
Grief and rage and resignationâno flash, no dramatic monologue to dazzle them with. Just rawness. Leila as a mirror. Quiet. Shattered.
âFive minutes,â the assistant called from the hallway.
I didnât flinch. Just took the pages and walked down the corridor toward the rehearsal room.
I wouldnât let them see me rattle.
Reed was already in position, leaning against the prop kitchen counter in a grey T-shirt and dark jeans. He nodded when I entered, a professional kind of familiarityânot warm, but not cold.
Julian Kassner sat in his chair at the back of the room like a king observing a duel. His gaze flicked from the script in his lap to my face, unreadable. The producer beside him whispered something. Julian didnât react.
âAll right,â he said. âLetâs begin. Scene 32.â
I stepped into place.
The room was too quiet. I could feel the shape of every breath I took.
Reed started. âYouâre not even going to the funeral?â
I didnât rush. Leila didnât rush. Not in this scene.
âShe wouldnât have wanted me there,â I said quietly, my voice low, even. I stared past Reedâat something only Leila could see.
Reed sighed, folding his arms. âYou say that like it makes it okay.â
âSheâs dead, Luke,â I said, slowly. âWhat I do now doesnât hurt her anymore.â
The silence cracked for a beat.
âYouâre unbelievable,â he snapped, voice rising.
And I let it happen. Let Reed huff and pace and accuse.
Then I looked up. Not as Y/N. Not even as Leila the actress.
I looked up like I was Leila. Broken. Drenched in shame so deep it had gone quiet. And I delivered the rest of the scene with nothing but stillness.
âI spent the last year wishing sheâd call,â I said. âWishing she'd say she forgave me. That she still saw me as a daughter. But she didnât. Not once.â
My hands shook, just slightly. Not for show.
Reed fell silent.
âShe didnât call. She didnât forgive. And now sheâs gone.â
A pause. Just long enough.
âSo no, Iâm not going to the funeral. Iâm not going to stand in a room full of people pretending we were fine.â
And thenâjust before the cue to exitâI whispered, âIâm done pretending.â
The final beat hit the room like a match dropped in water. No applause. Just presence.
Reed looked over, unsure if the scene had ended.
Julian raised a hand. âThatâs enough.â
I exhaled, only then realizing how tightly Iâd been holding the air in my chest. My palms were slick.
âThank you,â Julian said. âWeâll be in touch.â
I nodded once and stepped out, back into the corridor, into the brisk air of the hallway like Iâd been underwater. Andrea was waiting at the far end. Her phone was already buzzing.
âDonât react,â she whispered, holding it out. A message from Kassnerâs assistant.
Julian would like to meet with Y/N privately. Now.
His office was tucked inside the studioâs upper floor, tucked behind an unmarked door with a keypad and exactly zero effort made to appear inviting.
The assistant opened it for me.
Julian was standing with his back to me when I entered, staring out a window that looked over some part of West Hollywood that still hadnât been gentrified to death.
âYou closed the space between the silences,â he said, without turning. âMost actors canât do that. They fill it with tension. You filled it with regret.â
I stayed still. âThank you.â
He turned, finally.
âI watched your earlier tapes,â he said, stepping to the small round table near the window. âYou had energy. Technique. But this⊠was new. You finally stopped performing the pain.â
I swallowed. âI didnât expect the scene change. IâI didnât get the updated pages until an hour ago.â
He tilted his head. âDid that rattle you?â
âI didnât let it.â
He studied me for a long moment. Then nodded. âGood.â
He gestured for me to sit. I did, spine straight.
âIâm seeing Arden next,â he said, casually. âBut Iâm telling you this now because I donât want the decision to feel like a competition. Itâs not. Itâs about who is Leila. Not who can act her best.â
I nodded once, trying not to grip the arms of the chair.
Julian didnât smile. He wasnât the kind of man who needed to.
âYouâre mine to lose now,â he said simply. âDonât lose it.â
That was it.
He stood. So did I. The meeting was done before I could fully process it.
As I reached for the door, he added, almost as an afterthought:
âOhâand I donât care what the tabloids say. But keep your face out of them for the next month.â
âIâll try.â
He raised an eyebrow. âTry harder.â
I left the room with no clear promise, no contract, no congratulations. But I didnât need them.
Because that was Julian Kassnerâs version of a yes.
The Bahrain sun flared across my television in golden, late-afternoon haze. I was curled into one corner of the sectional, wearing an old college hoodie, fuzzy socks, and the faint remains of concealer from a photoshoot Iâd refused to take off properly. A bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously on my lap.
Chili was dead asleep next to me, limbs splayed in her usual chaotic pattern, her tiny chest rising and falling like none of this race-day chaos could possibly concern her. Josh had already claimed the opposite end of the couch, limbs everywhere, chips in one hand, his phone in the other as he refreshed live timing like his life depended on it.
âTen bucks says Lando gets second,â he said through a mouthful of salt and vinegar crisps. âSolid strategy, but Ferrariâs faster in sectors two and three.â
I scoffed. âJosh. Whereâs the faith?â
âFaith doesnât win races. Pace does.â
âOkay. Harsh. But also, like⊠true.â
He grinned and shoved another chip into his mouth. âCome on, your British crush is about to go wheel-to-wheel with Leclerc in turn four. If he gets past himââ
âShh,â I hissed. âThis is my sacred moment.â
And then came lights out.
Engines howled through the television like a swarm of bees on fire. I sat upright without realizing it, popcorn bowl forgotten as the field launched forward into the first corner. The McLaren shot clean into second behind Max, holding firm through the opening chaos.
The tension in my chest didnât ease for the next hour. Every time the camera cut to Landoâtight jaw, gloved hands precise on the wheel, calm beneath chaosâI felt the hum of something too electric to name. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe something worse. Something real.
I grabbed my phone around Lap 38, my pulse still stuttering.
You:
youâre driving like a man with something to prove
I didnât expect a reply. Of course I didnât. He was doing 200 mph under desert lights. But stillâI sent it. Quietly. Just to put something soft into the air between us.
Josh raised an eyebrow when I exhaled after. âYou good?â
âYeah.â
âYou sure? Youâre blinking like someone just proposed.â
âIâm fine. Shut up.â
And then the final laps hit. Three cars within DRS range. A pit window that opened and slammed shut. A move Lando made on Leclerc that was so smooth, so clean I actually clutched a throw pillow to my chest.
I was up by the last lap. No longer seated. Pacing in front of the TV like a producer watching live dailies. Josh had gone quiet, which never happened unless something serious was brewing.
And thenâout of nowhere, like something divineâhe did it.
Lando Norris crossed the checkered flag first.
He won.
I screamed.
Not a cute, TV sitcom girl scream. A real scream. One that came from the depths of my chest like Iâd been holding it in for years.
âOH MY GOD,â I gasped, jumping three feet in the air.
Chili bolted off the couch, horrified.
Josh shouted, âWHAT THE HELLâHE ACTUALLY WONâHOLY SHIT.â
I collapsed back into the cushions, hands over my face, half-laughing, half-hyperventilating.
âOkay, okay,â Josh said, breathless. âAre you gonna cry? You look like youâre about to cry.â
âI am crying,â I said through a grin. âShut up.â
He laughed. âOh my God, this is disgusting. Youâre in love.â
âShut up!â
On the screen, Lando was already unstrapping himself from the cockpit. The helmet came off. His curls were sweat-damp, his eyes skyward, mouth stretching into the kind of smile that made everything else disappear.
He didnât look for the cameras. He didnât throw his arms up toward the crowd first.
He looked upâlike he always did.
I clutched the pillow to my chest, unable to stop smiling. My whole body was vibrating, like Iâd been plugged into a socket.
Josh threw a chip at my head. âHey. You wanna text your boyfriend or what?â
âHeâs notââ I started, then trailed off.
Because yeah. Maybe not officially. Maybe not in headlines. Maybe not in Instagram posts or red carpets or post-race interviews.
But here, in this room, with my heart beating so loud I could barely hear the broadcastâ
He was mine.
In a way that felt terrifying and new.
I picked up my phone, hands still trembling a little, and opened our chat.
I didnât know what to say yet. But I knew heâd feel it when I did.
My phone buzzed sometime during the cooldown lap. I didnât notice right awayâtoo busy watching him climb from the car and disappear into a blur of mechanics, engineers, camera flashes, and sky. The whole paddock swarmed with orange and champagne and a kind of chaos that made me feel far away and much, much too close at once.
Then it buzzed again.
I glanced down.
Lando
did you scream
be honest
I blinked. Then let out a breath that turned into a laugh. A full-body one.
You:
i think i startled my cat and emotionally traumatized my brother
so yes. i screamed.
A beat.
Lando:
good.
that was kind of for you
and for the team and the sponsors and the years of work etc etc
but also. mostly. yeah. for you.
My fingers froze over the keyboard. Thatâs the thing about texting. You can see the words before you send them. You can stare at them, doubt them, revise them. You can take your time with the truth.
But I didnât want to take my time anymore.
You:
i felt it
every turn
congrats, lando. you were beautiful out there
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Lando:
thanks
means more than you know
also
can you believe you almost didnât reply to my âheyâ
I smiled. Curled deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket around me like I could bottle this moment and keep it forever.
You:
almost doesnât count
and now look at us
you, worldâs fastest man. me, your #1 couch-side fan with a popcorn stain on her shirt
He didnât answer right away. And for once, I didnât need him to.
Because sometimes, when someone sees you from the middle of a crowdâwhen they drive like you matter, when they look up first, when they say it was kind of for youâthe silence they leave behind isnât empty.
Itâs full. Of promise. Of heat. Of everything between the lines.
I woke to a dozen texts and three missed callsâtwo from Andrea, one from my stylist, and one suspiciously unknown number that I knew better than to answer.
But it wasnât until I opened Instagram that I realized what had happened.
Josh.
Heâd posted a story late last night, sometime after weâd devoured the leftover Chinese food and crashed sideways across the couch in a pile of limbs, cat, and race adrenaline.
The clip was shortâjust a few seconds long. A grainy video of the TV in our living room, showing Lando on the Bahrain podium, grinning like the sun had cracked open inside his chest. Arms up. Champagne raining down. That moment.
It couldâve been any fan post.
Except for the sound.
The faint whoop of Joshâs yell, unmistakable and loudââMY BOYYYYYâ echoed obnoxiously from the background.
And layered beneath it, quieter, barely audible but somehow everywhereâ
My voice.
You couldnât hear what I said exactly, but it was me. My cadence. My laugh. The sound I made when I was trying not to cry and cheer at the same time. The part where I said softly, âHe actually did it,â right before Chili meowed in celebration and Josh screamed again.
I stared at it in horror. Then I pressed play again.
Over and over. Nothing definitive. But enough. Enough for the internet to start sharpening its knives.
@celebcircuit:
did anyone else hear a female voice in the background of Josh Y/L/Nâs Bahrain story or am I delusional đ«Łđđ
@fastlaneinsider:
not saying itâs y/n y/l/n watching lando win the bahrain gp from her couch but like⊠itâs definitely y/n y/l/n watching lando win the bahrain gp from her couch
@popculturecrimeunit:
she wasnât at the GP. she hasnât posted. but sheâs always quiet before a storm.
iâm telling youâthose rumors werenât fake.
@sweetandslipstream:
the soft voice in joshâs story is KILLING ME. she sounds so proud of him. what the hell is this slow-burn enemies-to-secret-lovers-to-racewife rollout theyâre doing
I threw my phone onto the couch and flopped back with a groan, burying my face in the sleeve of my hoodie.
âJosh!â I yelled.
His voice came from the kitchen, unapologetic and smug. âWhat?â
âDid you post a video of my TV last night?â
He paused. âMaybe.â
âDid you forget I was talking in it?â
âI thought it was just background noise!â he shouted back.
âJOSH.â
âWhat? It was a good clip!â
I groaned louder. Chili jumped up next to me on the couch, tail wagging like she had no idea her humanâs carefully controlled public narrative was currently unraveling on stan Twitter.
My phone buzzed again. Andrea.
I didnât answer. Not yet.
Because I was still processing what it meantâthis new, irreversible shift in the story. Not because of a statement. Not a red carpet. Not a caption or a quote. But a blurry 7-second video of a boy on a podium, and a voice in the background that had been mine.
My phone buzzed again. This time I didnât throw it.
Andreaâs name blinked on the screen like it knew Iâd been trying to avoid her. I sighed, pulled my knees up onto the couch, and answered.
âBefore you say anything,â I said quickly, âI didnât post a thing. I havenât commented. I havenât liked. I havenât even breathed in public.â
A beat of silence.
Then: âJoshâs Instagram story has three million views.â
I winced. âI know.â
âAnd do you know how many times Iâve watched it with my volume at full blast trying to figure out if that soft gasp of joy was actually your voice?â
âI wasnât gasping joyfully, I was... exhaling.â
âOh my god,â Andrea groaned. âYou exhaled romantically.â
I buried my face in my hoodie again. âIâm sorry.â
âNo, babe. Donât apologize for being happy,â she said, and her voice softened just a little. âJust... do me a favor. Tell me exactly what they could piece together if they tried.â
I breathed in. âI was at home. With Josh. We watched the race. He posted the TV screen. I mightâve said something like âhe actually did itâ in the background. Thatâs it. Thereâs no face. No confirmation.â
âAnd Lando?â
âNo texts this morning.â
Andrea let out a long sigh. âGood. Keep it that wayâfor now. Because youâre this close, Y/N. Kassnerâs already circling. You did everything right in that room, but itâs not signed. Not yet.â
âI know,â I murmured.
âAnd until itâs official, Iâm not letting a blurry soundbite from your brotherâs IG story take Leila away from you.â
I hesitated. âBut he did sayââ
âI know what he said,â she cut in gently. âJulian saying âyouâre the oneâ is huge. But until itâs in writing, we donât breathe easy. We donât blink.â
I nodded slowly, even though she couldnât see me. âRight.â
âCan you do that for me? Just a little longer?â Andrea asked. âDonât give the internet something to twist. Let them speculate. Let the rumor cycle burn itself out.â
A beat passed.
Then I asked, quietly, âWhat if I donât want to hide anymore?â
Andrea was silent for a second.
Then she said, âThen weâll deal with that after your contract is signed. And after youâre on set. And after no oneânot even a fake-coughing publicist with a vendettaâcan take this away from you.â
I smiled faintly. âThatâs a lot of afters.â
âWelcome to Hollywood.â
I exhaled. âThank you, Andrea.â
âFor what?â
âFor always fighting for the version of me I havenât even fully caught up to yet.â
That got me a pause. Then, quietly, âI only fight for what I believe in, babe.â
We hung up a moment later.
I stared out at the windowâChili asleep on the arm of the couch, the race still replaying faintly in my head, Landoâs grin etched behind my eyes.
I didnât hear from him all day.
No message. No meme. No post-race joke about me screaming at my television. Just silence.
By hour four, I told myself he was resting.
By hour seven, Iâd convinced myself he was at some wild celebration where phones didnât survive the first round of tequila.
By hour ten, I was spiraling.
I checked his socialsânot obsessively, just... thoroughly. He hadnât posted a thing. McLarenâs official account had three carousel posts of champagne, confetti, and that wide, giddy grin of his on the podium. I stared at the third slide a little too long.
He looked... incandescent. Like someone who'd just touched a dream and left a fingerprint on the stars.
And yetâNothing. Not even a âStill alive. Slightly drunk. Thinking of you.â
I curled up on the couch, phone on my chest, heart doing the exact opposite of what it was supposed to do after a win.
âMaybe he justââ I started aloud, then stopped. Even Chili looked at me like I was grasping.
I exhaled sharply and unlocked my phone again. Fingers hovering. Typing, deleting, typing again.
Y/N: hey jus wanted to say congrats againâ
Backspace.
Y/N: are you alive lmfao
Backspace.
Y/N: I know youâre probably busy butâ
The doorbell rang.
I froze. Chili lifted her head, ears perked. I blinked once, then stood slowly, heart climbing up into my throat like it knew something I didnât. The intercom screen buzzed to life.
And there he was. Hoodie up. Eyes a little tired, lips tugged into the faintest smile. Him. I stared at the screen like I was hallucinating.
Then I hit the speaker button. ââŠwhat are you doing here?â I asked, voice caught between a laugh and disbelief.
Lando tilted his head, like it shouldâve been obvious. âI was in the neighborhood. Thought Iâd stop by.â
âThe neighborhood is Bahrain.â
He shrugged, unapologetic. âLong neighborhood.â
I buzzed him in.
Heart pounding, I turned and nearly tripped over Chili, who was already heading toward the door like she somehow knew this was the kind of visitor you open your whole heart to. I reached it a second before the knock came. Pulled it open.
And there he was again. In real time. Hoodie, soft eyes, overnight bag slung over one shoulder. Hair tousled. Like he'd raced across a continent just to make sure I wasnât overthinking in silence.
We stared at each other for a beat.
âYou didnât text,â I whispered.
âI didnât trust a text to say what I meant.â
I blinked once. âAnd what did you mean?â
He stepped forward slowly, carefully, gaze not wavering.
âI won,â he said, voice soft now. âAnd the first person I wanted to tell wasnât a reporter. It was you.â
The air left my lungs. I didnât move for a beat. Then I stepped back, just enough to let him in.
He brushed past, warm and real and slightly winded like he hadnât stopped moving since the moment the trophy hit his hands.
And as the door clicked shut behind him, I realizedâ This wasnât just a visit. This was a choice. And maybeâjust maybeâhe was choosing me too.
The kitchen lights glowed lowâjust the under-cabinet ones, casting gold onto the countertops. I hadnât even realized I left them on until Lando leaned against the island, eyes scanning the familiar space like it was some new country heâd just landed in.
He looked tired. Not in a bad way. Just⊠full. The kind of tired that comes after chasing something with your whole heart.
I moved quietly, barefoot on tile, reaching for two mugs from the open shelf. Chili padded in and took her spot near the radiator, eyes half-lidded like sheâd already accepted him as part of her ecosystem.
âTea?â I offered, voice soft.
He nodded once. âPlease.â
The kettle clicked on.
Steam curled into the quiet. My hands moved on autopilotâbags dropped into mugs, a splash of oat milk into mine, the spoon clinking gently. Behind me, I could feel his gaze. Not heavy. Just there.
When I turned, he was watching me like he couldnât quite believe I was real.
âYou flew across the world,â I said, setting the mug in front of him.
He didnât answer immediately. Just wrapped his hands around it, eyes tracing the steam like he needed something to anchor him.
âI didnât want to be a maybe.â
That pulled me still.
He looked up. âI didnât want to be just a message in your inbox or someone you had to guess about. I wanted you to know I meant it. The win, the podium⊠it felt like everything was happening. But it didnât mean anything until I could share it with you.â
I sat down across from him, mug warming my hands.
âYou didnât have to come here for that.â
âYeah,â he said, smile faint. âBut I wanted to.â
Silence settled between us again, comfortable now. Like a blanket, not a wall.
I stared into my tea. âI was about to message you. I wasâthinking the worst. That I said too much, or didnât say enough. That maybe I was making something out of nothing.â
âYou werenât.â
I nodded, blinking once, twice.
âIâve never done this,â I said. âLike this. With someone who didnât want a version of me they could show off or fix.â
âIâm not here to fix you,â he said gently.
I looked at him. âIâm complicated.â
He grinned a little. âI drive at 200 mph for a living. I think I can handle complicated.â
That made me laugh, despite the lump in my throat. âI disappear sometimes.â
âIâll wait,â he said simply.
I looked at him. Really looked.
There was no rush in his face. No expectation. Just... quiet certainty. The kind that doesnât need to be said a hundred ways to be understood.
âYouâre really here,â I murmured.
âIâm really here.â
My hand reached out before I knew what I was doingâfingers grazing his across the island. He turned his palm up. Let mine settle there.
And in that moment, the world shrank to warm tea and shared silence and the feel of his thumb brushing softly against mine.
We didnât kiss right then.
We didnât need to.
Because in that still kitchen, under soft lights, with a sleepy cat at our feet and the ghost of jetlag in his eyes, I realized, sometimes love doesnât arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes itâs a knock at the door, a cup of tea, a voice saying, I came back because I wanted to.
We ended up on the couchâbarefoot, legs tangled, the room lit only by the glow slipping in from the hallway. The city outside had gone quiet, and even Chili had curled into her usual corner, watching us with slow blinks before giving in to sleep. Landoâs tea had gone cold. Mine sat untouched on the table.
But we didnât move.
I didnât want to.
He leaned back, head tipped against the cushion, eyes half-lidded but still on me like I was saying something worth hearingâeven though I hadnât spoken in a while.
âI keep thinking,â I said, voice barely above a whisper, âif someone took a picture of this moment, they wouldnât believe it was me.â
His brow furrowed slightly. âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm not supposed to be this soft,â I said. âIâm supposed to be untouchable. Always moving. Sharp edges and red lips and too many exit plans.â
Lando didnât even blink. âYouâre still that. But youâre also this.â
I looked at him then, and he looked back like I was the only thing in the world he wanted to see.
âThatâs what I like about you,â he said, quieter now. âYouâre not one thing. Youâre everything layered and messy and brilliant. You walk into a room like you own it. But you sit here like you donât need to.â
I felt my throat tighten.
âI think I forgot I could,â I murmured. âSit still, I mean.â
He smiled, warm and unhurried. âThen maybe you just needed the right couch.â
I laughed softlyâsmall and real.
And then he reached up, brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His knuckles grazed my temple, slow and gentle. He didnât ask permission. He didnât have to.
I didnât pull away.
I leaned into him instead. Just slightly. Just enough.
âI was scared,â I said. âTo feel this much. To want someone before I even had the thing Iâve worked so hard for.â
His gaze stayed steady. âIt doesnât have to be one or the other.â
My voice caught on the next breath. And still, I said it.
âI think Iâm already choosing you.â
A beat passed between usâweightless and warm.
Then he reached for my hand. Twined our fingers together.
Pulled me toward him with that same quiet steadiness. No rush. Just... invitation.
I went easily, curling against him. My head on his chest. His hand against my back, the other still tangled in mine. His chin dropped to my hair. I felt his breath there, soft and steady, like a promise.
âThis feels unfairly safe,â I whispered.
He smiled against my hair. âGood. You deserve that.â
I closed my eyes.
And somewhere between wakefulness and whatever came next, in that floaty, too-real haze, I heard myself say, âStay.â
His lips brushed my temple when he answered. âI was never planning to leave.â
And he didnât.
I woke to sunlight slipping across his shoulder. Soft and golden, like the world had no idea what it was about to do. Lando was still asleep beside me, his face relaxed into the kind of peace that only ever existed in the half-dream of morning. One arm was curled beneath his pillow, the other draped across my waist, fingers barely grazing my skin as if still afraid to hold too tight. The sheets tangled between us like evidence of something gentle. Something real.
For one long breath, I let myself pretend. Pretend that the world outside this bed hadnât noticed. That whatever we were becoming had been allowed to bloom quietly. That no one was out there ready to pick it apart.
But thenâthe buzz.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
My phone danced across the nightstand with the urgency of someone trying to wake me from a dream. I slid out of bed quietly, the air cool against my bare skin as I pulled one of his shirts over my head. Chili blinked at me from the windowsill, stretched her paws, then followed like a little guardian. I didnât reach for her.
The notification lit up my phone before I could even unlock it.
Starflash Weekly Exclusive:
From Monaco to Manhattan: Actress Y/N and Lando Norrisâ Secret Love Story Unmasked.
Each photo sharper than the last. Like they had been saving the clearest one for the kill. Like they wanted to make sure no one could deny it anymore.
Then came the captions.
âKnown for her tabloid-fodder romances and headline-chasing lifestyle, the Hollywood starlet seems to have found a new target: F1âs most eligible bachelor.â
âNorris may be looking for stability. But can someone like her give it?â
âWill he be just another name in her collection?â
I dropped the phone. It clattered onto the countertop with a sound that felt final. Chili flinched. So did I.
The room suddenly felt too bright, too sharp. My chest was tight, lungs caught mid-breath. I couldnât feel my feet on the floor.
I reached for the kettle. Tea. I just needed something to do. Something human. Something simple. The water rushed into the pot with a roar. I turned the stove on. Watched the blue flame bloom.
But my body didnât relax. The blood in my veins had turned electric. My mind was already spiraling, latching onto the one thing that mattered more than anything else right now.
Leila.
I could lose Leila. The producers. The investors. Kassner. They would see this and run. Theyâd remember the whispers. The gossip. The reputation I had tried so damn hard to outgrow.
Theyâd think I was distracted. Unreliable. Unprofessional.
And it wouldnât matter how hard Iâd worked. How many callbacks Iâd nailed. How vulnerable Iâd been in that room. It would all be undone.
Because of this.
Because of him.
I heard him stir before I saw him. Feet padding softly across the floor. Lando appeared in the kitchen doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his hair a mess, voice still rough from dreaming.
âHey,â he murmured. âYou okay?â
I didnât answer.
He looked at me, then at the kettle, then at the phone still facedown on the counter. He didnât need to ask. He crossed the room and turned the stove off before the kettle could scream.
âIâm sorry,â I said softly, my voice so small it barely sounded like mine.
Lando didnât say anything right away.
âThey have everything,â I repeated, my throat raw. âEvery single moment. Someone was following us. Watching. I donât even know how long.â
âI know,â he said quietly. âI saw.â
And thatâthat cracked something wide open. Because he sounded calm. He sounded resigned. Like he had accepted this as inevitable. And I couldnât. Not yet. Not now. Not when everything Iâd fought for was on the edge of slipping through my hands.
âDo you know what this means?â I asked, turning slowly to face him. âDo you actually understand?â
Lando met my eyes, steady. âWe always knew this could happen.â
âNo,â I snapped, sharper than I meant. âYou thought it might happen. But you donât understand what it does to me.â
âI get that itâs bad. Iâm not pretending itâs notââ
âNo, Lando. You donât get it.â My voice rose again, shaking. âYouâre not the one with your name dragged across every headline. Youâre not the one they label impulsive, unstable, manipulative.â
âThatâs not who you are,â he said gently.
âBut thatâs what they see!â My breath hitched. âAnd now Kassnerâs team is circling. Watching. They will ask Andrea if things were going to escalate. You think that was random? You think they donât care? I have one shot at this. One.â
He was quiet, watching me come apart. âThey saw what you did in that room. Thatâs what matters.â
âThey donât care about the room!â I cried. âThey care about image. About control. And now Iâm just another fucking tabloid headline.â
He took a cautious step forward. âThen we manage it. Together.â
âI donât have a together right now!â I yelled. âI need to be focused. I need to be clean. And this? This isnât clean.â
He flinched. âYou think I made you dirty?â
âI think,â I said, trembling, âthat youâre making it worse.â
He stepped back like Iâd slapped him. âLast night meant something,â he said, quietly. âAnd youâre letting a few photos erase all of it.â
âIt wasnât supposed to matter,â I said, barely above a whisper.
But it was the wrong thing to say.
Lando stared at me, chest rising and falling once, hard.
âWow,â he said. Just that.
And I watched his face changeâso subtly it mightâve gone unnoticed if I hadnât already memorized the lines of it. The shift was quiet but unmistakable. Like a door slowly closing. His eyes dulled, not with anger, but with disappointment, and something colderârecognition. I felt like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over my chest. The kind of chill that didnât just soak skin, but settled deep into bone. Because I realized then. I hadnât just hurt himâIâd confirmed the very fear heâd been carrying since the beginning. That Iâd never let him stay.
I looked down, guilt rising fast. âI didnât mean it like that.â
âYes, you did.â His voice wasnât angry. Just tired. So deeply tired. âBecause the second it got hard, you turned me into the problem. Into some... liability.â
His words landed with the weight of truth. Not an accusation, but a mirror. One I didnât want to look into.
I opened my mouthâclosed it. The heat in my chest had already curdled into shame. I felt like I was standing outside of myself, watching this wreckage unfold in slow motion, unable to stop it. All of itâthe fear, the pressure, the impossible tightrope Iâd been walkingâspilled out sideways, jagged and misdirected. And he had caught every edge.
âI didnât ask for this,â I whispered.
âNo,â he said. âBut you let it happen. You let me happen. You let us mean somethingâuntil it scared you.â
I bristled, even as my stomach twisted. âIt doesnât scare you?â
âOf course it does,â he said, more sharply now. âBut I donât run from things just because they might hurt.â
I flinched. âYou donât understand what I have to protect.â
âYou think I donât have something to lose?â he shot back. âIâve built everything I have by knowing exactly how far I can be pushed before the world calls me a distraction. But I still chose this. I chose you.â
âI could lose Leila,â I snapped. âDo you get that? This roleâthis chanceâitâs everything. Everything Iâve worked for. And now it might all go to hell because I let myselfââ I broke off, breathing hard. âBecause I let myself want something I canât afford.â
He stared at me. âAnd Iâm the thing you canât afford.â
The words hung there like smoke. I couldnât take them back. Couldnât fix the way his face hardened at the edges. Not with logic. Not with apologies.
âI didnât mean it like that.â
âBut you said it,â he murmured.
I pressed my hand to my mouth, like I could catch all the pieces before they scattered completely. I was unravelingâand he was standing there, watching me, the way someone watches a door they know they wonât be walking back through.
âIâve done everything right,â I whispered, more to myself than him. âIâve played the part. Smiled through the noise. Iâve earned the quiet. The respect. And nowâthis?â My hands shook. âThis is the part where they remind me Iâm still breakable. Still disposable.â
Lando stepped forward slowly, cautiously. âYouâre not disposable to me.â
âBut I could be,â I said, throat tight. âAll it takes is one bad headline. One wrong narrative. And theyâll write me out. Again.â
âIâm not them,â he said.
âBut I live in their world,â I whispered.
He paused. His next words were gentler, but they hit harder. âI told you,â he said. âI didnât want the polished version of you. I wanted the one that rambles. That disappears. That panics. I told you I was here for all of it.â
Tears stung my eyes. But it was too late. Because Iâd already pushed him past the point of asking.
He stepped back. His body still facing me, but his heart already halfway out the door. Thenâhe stopped. Like there was one last thread he hadnât let go of.
âDo you still want me to stay?â His voice broke a little on it. âYou say the word, and Iâll stay.â
The silence that followed swallowed everything. My mouth opened. But nothing came out. Not yes. Not stay. Not even please. I donât know if it was fear. Or pride. Or the part of me still trying to protect what I hadnât even figured out how to hold. But I didnât say a word.
He nodded once. Like that was all the answer he needed.
âI wouldâve waited,â he said, quiet and aching. âFor you to figure it out. For however long it took. But I canât stand here while you burn the whole thing down just to feel safe.â
He looked at me one last time.
âI hope you get Leila,â he said softly.
And then he was gone.
The door closed behind him, not loud, not cruel. Just final. Like the sound of something delicate being set down and walked away from. I didnât chase him. I just stood there in his shirt, in the kitchen weâd shared twelve hours ago in laughter, tea cooling on the counter, the world catching fire outside my windows.
I moved like I was underwaterâsilent, slow, suspended. I reached for the kettle, turned the knob off again even though Lando already had. Then I took the mug of cold tea and poured it down the sink. The sound was muffled, distant, like it came from a different room.
I rinsed the cup. Dried my hands. Folded the towel neatly back onto its hook.
Then I walked to the couch, sat down, and stared straight ahead.
From the outside, I mustâve looked calm. Composed. But insideâit was screaming. Everything in me was pulsing too fast. Thoughts colliding like static. Words I hadnât said. Words I couldnât take back. I could still hear his voice, low and tiredââI told you I was here for all of it.â
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes.
I shouldâve run after him. Shouldâve said anything. But my legs wouldnât move. My mouth wouldnât open. I sat there, paralyzed by the storm heâd just walked out of, and the silence that had replaced him.
It wasnât until I saw the hoodieâhis, half-crumpled at the edge of the armchair from nights agoâthat the first tear slid down.
I didnât sob. I didnât gasp. Just a single tear. Then another. Then a thousand more, like the dam had finally cracked. I gripped the edge of the cushion, curled in on myself as the ache swallowed me whole.
This wasnât just fear. It was helplessness. A quiet, unrelenting kind. The kind that made you feel like even your breath wasnât really yours.
I had wanted everything. The role. The redemption. The chance to prove them all wrong. But nowâNow I was scared Iâd just lost the one thing I didnât even know how to keep.
I stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the sun to shift angles, casting new light across the floor. Long enough for Chili to jump up beside me, curl against my leg, and fall asleep with a sigh.
I didnât touch her. I didnât move.
My body had become a vessel. My chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out from under my ribs. I blinked occasionally. But that was all.
There was no more fight in me. No more panic. Just a strange kind of stillness that felt too heavy to carry but too familiar to set down.
I shouldâve messaged Andrea. I shouldâve answered my phone. I shouldâve blocked the tabloid page, made a plan.
But I didnât. Instead, I just sat there in the quiet aftermath, replaying it all.
The warmth of Landoâs fingers against my skin. His voice when he asked, âYou want me to turn off the kettle?â
The look on his face when I said it wasnât supposed to matter.
âWow.â
That was the moment. The shift. The exact second I saw his expression changeâlike someone had thrown cold water on a fire. Like the light behind his eyes had been doused all at once.
I hadn't meant to say it. But I had. And now he was gone. I didnât even notice someone in the door until I heard the click.
Then came the creak of the hinge. A soft thud. Joshâs voice, tentative. âY/N?â
I didnât answer.
He stepped into the room slowly, careful like he was approaching an animal that might bite. âHey. You didnât answer your texts.â
Still, I said nothing. I felt his presence before I looked at himâfelt the warmth of his concern wrap around the cold shell Iâd built for myself. He stood there for a moment. Then walked further in and sat beside me without a word.
Silence stretched between us. Finally, I whispered, âItâs everywhere.â
Josh didnât ask what. Heâd seen the headline. Everyone had.
âI said something,â I added. âSomething I didnât mean.â
âTo Lando?â
I nodded.
He let out a slow breath, then leaned back, hands folded in his lap. âYou want to talk about it?â
âI donât know how.â
Josh looked at me for a long time. Then said, gently, âIâve seen you disappear before. But this is different.â
I flinched, barely.
âYouâre trying to convince yourself it didnât matter,â he said. âBut I know you. It did.â
That broke something. I turned to face him, finally, and whispered, âI think Iâm losing everything. And itâs my own fault.â
Josh didnât say âno, youâre not.â He didnât argue. He just nodded and said, âThen letâs figure out how to stop the bleeding.â
Josh didnât press for more. He didnât ask what Iâd said or how bad it got. He didnât try to fix anything. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and sat with me while the silence curled around us.
âI made tea,â I murmured, after a while. âDidnât drink it.â
âWant a new one?â
I shook my head. âIt wonât help.â
He nodded like he understood. And he probably did. The TV was off. The windows were closed. Somewhere across the street, a car alarm chirped then stopped. Chili had tucked herself against the small of my back, warm and breathing slowly.
Josh sat like that for a while longer, fingers tapping quietly against the edge of his jeans. Finally, he said, âYou ever think maybe you donât have to lose everything to feel safe?â
I blinked at him. âWhat?â
He shrugged. âYou keep torching things before they can fall apart on their own. But maybe thatâs not protecting yourself. Maybe itâs just hurting yourself first so no one else gets the chance.â
The words lodged somewhere in my throat. I looked down at my hands.
âI justâŠâ I started, voice cracking. âI donât know how to be in something thatâs real without screwing it up.â
Josh tilted his head slightly. âMaybe you donât have to know how yet. Maybe you just have to stop running.â
I didnât answer. Just wiped at the corner of my eye, the motion automatic. Then leaned my shoulder gently against his, like we were kids again. He didnât move.
We sat like that for a minuteâme folded in on myself, him anchoring me in placeâuntil my phone buzzed again.
Andrea.
Josh looked over. âYou want me to stay?â
I nodded once. âYeah.â
I answered.
âY/N,â Andrea said immediately, voice brisk but gentle. âIâve spoken to Kassnerâs team.â
My heart stuttered. I straightened a little.
âTheyâre⊠not pulling anything yet,â she continued. âThe chemistry read was undeniable. Kassnerâs still rooting for you. But the studio execs are getting nervous. The headlines are louder than theyâd like.â
I swallowed hard. âSo what does that mean?â
âIt means the role isnât lost, but itâs not locked either. They want to see how the next few days go. How you respond. Publicly. Professionally. Maybe quietly.â
Josh reached over and held my wrist gently, grounding me.
âI can make a statement,â Andrea offered. âLow-key. Nothing dramatic. Just a firm no-comment. But theyâll be watching your next moves closely. No paparazzi moments. No social flare-ups. Lay low.â
I closed my eyes. Lay low. The very thing that had always kept me safe and stifled me at the same time.
âI understand,â I said softly.
âIâll take care of the media end,â Andrea promised. âYou just focus on keeping your name clean and your head down. This doesnât have to define you. Weâll get through it.â
She paused. Then added, more gently, âAnd for what itâs worth, I saw those photos. They didnât look like scandal. They looked like something real.â
I didnât answer. She let that silence sit a beat longer, then hung up. I sat there for another moment, Andreaâs words echoing around the hollow space inside me.
Then I turned to Josh and whispered, âThey still might take it away from me.â
He looked at me. âThen make sure they donât have a reason to.â
âAnd if they do anyway?â
Joshâs voice was quiet, steady. âThen they never deserved you to begin with.â
The next few days came without mercy. Alarms. Emails. Call times. I moved through it all like someone had wound me up and placed me in the center of a set. Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. Lights. Smile. Tilt your chin a little. Yes, just like that.
I laughed on cue. I held poses I didnât remember learning. I gave quotes to interviewers I couldnât recall meeting. And all the while, something inside me stayed floatingâadrift just above the surface, like my body was here but the rest of me was stuck somewhere in yesterday.
Nobody noticed. Or maybe they did, and no one cared.
Because I still looked like herâthe actress. The woman with the sharp answers and tailored suits and camera-proof skin. No one could see that my chest had caved in. That my heart had slipped out with the truth I didnât say soon enough.
Josh checked in once, mid-shoot. A soft âYou holding up?â over text. I replied with a thumbs up emoji. It was all I had.
When I got home, the sun was already bleeding into the horizon.
Chili met me at the door. No meow this time, just her little body curling around my ankles like she was keeping count of how long Iâd been gone.
I dropped my keys on the counter. Shrugged off the jacket that didnât feel like mine. Kicked off my shoes and let the silence settle.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Andrea:
Hey. This is the draft the studio wants us to consider. I fought for something short, neutral. Let me know your thoughts.
Attached was a single-page statement. Unofficial. Clean. Sanitized. The kind of thing they hoped would quiet the fire.
Recent headlines regarding my private life have stirred speculation and distraction. While I value my privacy, I also understand the nature of this industry. At this time, I ask for respect and space as I remain focused on my upcoming work. I look forward to sharing my work with the world soon.
I stared at the words until they blurred. It wasnât cruel. Wasnât cold. It was the perfect performance of neutrality. But it didnât feel like me. Not the version of me whoâd kissed Lando in the hush between headlines. Not the girl whoâd let herself believe in something good, even if only for a night.
I pressed my phone to my chest and closed my eyes. Somewhere, across the sea or on some late flight, he still didnât know how sorry I was. Or maybe he did.
Maybe that was the tragedy of it allâhe knew, and still walked away.
The kettle whistled again. I hadnât remembered turning it on. Chili blinked at me from the counter. I let the steam rise and curl around us like some fragile promise I hadnât learned how to keep.
I read the studioâs draft twice more before shutting my phone off and tossing it gently onto the couch. The words werenât wrong. They just werenât mine.
I opened my laptop, and stared at the blinking cursor in a blank document. For ten minutes, I didnât type a thing. Just sat there in the soft hum of my apartment, in the quiet that had started to feel too clean.
The silence was deceptive. It looked like control. But it didnât feel like living.
I thought about what Josh said days agoâhow if they didnât choose me, even after everything I gave, then they never deserved me in the first place.
I thought about Lando. The way he stood in my kitchen, heart open and hurting. The way he said,
âI wouldâve waited, for you to figure it out. For however long it took. But I canât stand here while you burn the whole thing down just to feel safe.â
That line echoed like a fault line in my chest. Because Iâd spent so long running. Rewriting. Pre-emptively pulling away before anyone else could do it first. But this timeâthis time, I didnât want to run.
Not from the press.
Not from Leila.
Not from him.
I began to type. Not for the studio. Not for Andrea.
For me.
Iâve spent most of my adult life learning how to protect the parts of myself no one was ever supposed to touch. Itâs not a habit. Itâs survival. And when something, someone, breaks through that⊠itâs terrifying.
I never meant to create noise. But I also wonât apologize for living between the lines of the image built around me. Iâm proud of the work Iâve done. Iâm more than the headlines. And I wonât let fear write my story for me.
I paused. Backspaced the last line. Then retyped it again.
I wonât let fear write my story for me.
My finger hovered over Save. Then I closed the laptop instead. No one had asked for honesty. But maybe that was the point. Maybe it had to come anyway.
I sent it to Andrea just after midnight, no subject line, no follow-up. Just the draft, still warm from the heat of everything I didnât know how to say out loud. She didnât reply right away. I didnât expect her to. I curled up on the sofa with Chili pressed against my side like she finally understood silence the way I did. My tea had gone cold. Again.
The message came through at 12:47 a.m.
Andrea:
This is honest
This is good
This is you
And then, after a pause:
Andrea:
You sure youâre ready to go with this?
I stared at the blinking cursor in the message box. My fingers hovered.
Was I ready?
No.
Yes.
I didnât know.
But I was tired of hiding behind something polished. Tired of disappearing into the version of myself they wanted me to be. The safe kind. The kind who never slipped up and never loved too loud.
I typed slowly.
You:
itâs the only version I wonât regret
Andreaâs typing bubble popped up instantly.
Andrea:
Iâll post it in the morning
Sleep, kid. You did good
A knot loosened in my chest at those last words. I didnât realize how badly Iâd needed to hear them. I whispered a soft thank you into the room, though she couldnât hear it. Chili blinked up at me like she could.
Then I shut my phone, set it face-down, and sat back into the dark. I wasnât sure what tomorrow would bring. But I finally felt like I could meet it standing still.
I woke just after seven to sunlight skimming through the curtains and the faint sound of a delivery truck groaning down the street. For the first time in days, I hadnât woken in a panic.
I stayed in bed for a moment longer, the sheets still heavy with sleep and old emotions, until Chili jumped onto the mattress like she was reclaiming the space as hers. Her head bumped against my arm, soft and insistent.
âAlright,â I murmured, stretching. âIâm up.â
I padded into the kitchen and made tea I might actually drink this time. No buzz. No dread. Just the gentle clink of a spoon, the sound of a city waking up without a storm behind it.
My phone was still on the couch from the night before. I picked it up slowly, heart quiet but expectant. The post had gone up. Andrea had uploaded my wordsâunedited, unpolishedâjust after 6:00 a.m. The image was simple: a black background, white text. My statement. No photo. No performance. Just me.
Comments had already started flooding in.
âThis is the most human thing sheâs ever posted.â
âNever been a fan, but this made me think twice.â
âSheâs always been more than the headlines. Maybe now people will listen.â
âWow.â
Some were cynical. Of course. They always were.
But the tone had shifted. People werenât dragging me apart this time. They were pausing. Reading. Reposting. The narrative was softeningânot by force, but by truth.
And somewhere deeper than all that, I felt a breath of air fill a part of me I hadnât realized had been starving.
I sipped my tea. Still hot. Still steeping. Then I opened the news app, hesitating before checking the race schedule.
It was Sunday.
Saudi.
I found the stream just as they cut to Landoâs car on the grid. His helmet was already on. The McLaren engineers hovered around him like orbiting moons. But even through the screen, I saw the stillness in his bodyâthe kind that wasnât focused. Josh didnât come over like he usually did. He was traveling for work this weekâsome tech summit in Zurich, I thinkâso I watched alone, curled on the couch with Chili and too many thoughts I couldnât outrun.
The commentators didnât mention the headlines. But they didnât need to. The silence between words was heavy enough.
He sat in the cockpit, motionless, until they gave the final call.
And when the lights went out⊠he launched forward like something had snapped loose.
Aggressive. Sharp. Every overtake was tighter than usual. Every braking point just a breath too late.
The kind of driving you do when youâre trying not to think. When you need the chaos to keep from feeling everything else.
And I knew. I knew exactly what that looked like.
I gripped the edge of the counter, phone in hand, tea forgotten. My chest ached. Because it wasnât just that he was driving angry. It was that even behind a helmet, I could see itâhis smile, when it came, didnât reach his eyes.
Just as they cut to the post-race commentary, my phone buzzed with a message. I expected it to be Andrea. But it was Josh.
Josh:
saw the statement
proud of you, idiot
also
he drove like a man possessed
you saw that?
I exhaled, a crooked smile tugging at one side of my mouth.
You:
yeah
i saw
Josh
you okay?
I stared at that last message for a while. My thumb hovered, but I didnât know how to answer it. So I just typed:
You:
getting there
He didnât push. Just reacted with a quiet heart emoji. That was Joshâs way.
Still no message from Lando.
I watched the interview replays until they cut to podium shots. He wasnât on it. P6. Respectable, but not what he wanted. Not what he couldâve had. Even through the screen, I could tell he hadnât shaken the weight.
My phone buzzed againâthis time Andrea.
I answered immediately. âAnything?â
âNo direct statement from Kassner yet,â she said. âBut his assistant liked the post. And get thisâone of the executive producers forwarded it to the studioâs internal comms team. I think⊠I think it landed the way we hoped.â
I pressed a hand to my chest, grounding myself. âSo Iâm not cut?â
âYouâre not cut,â Andrea confirmed gently. âIf anything, I think theyâre seeing you clearer now.â
My lungs let out a long, aching breath.
âDo you want to know how the press is reacting?â she asked carefully.
I hesitated. âNot yet.â
âOkay. Iâll filter the noise for now. But Y/NâŠâ
âYeah?â
âThat postâit wasnât just good. It was real. And that kind of real? It moves people. Even people who swore they knew you already.â
My throat tightened. âThanks.â
We hung up. I stared at my phone. Still no message from him. And somehow, that silence was louder than everything else.
LANDO'S POV
Monaco - Present
The plane touched down with a shudder that felt too familiar.
Tired bones, heavier heart.
I didnât stay for the after-party. Didnât even stay long enough to swap helmets or pose with the trophy. P6 meant nothing tonight. The adrenaline had worn off miles ago, somewhere over the Mediterranean.
I was still wearing my travel hoodie when I stepped into the quiet of my apartment. No lights on, just the ocean lapping in the distance, that faint Monaco hum of expensive silence. I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, stood there for a moment staring at the shadowed outlines of the place I used to think was peaceful.
Now it just felt empty.
I hadnât messaged her. I kept telling myself she needed space. But I was lying. I was scared.
I sat on the couch, elbows on knees, head bowed, when my phone buzzed. Again. This time it was Oscar.
Oscar:
She posted.
I didnât check it right away. I poured a glass of water. Drank half of it in one breath. Sat on the couch. Let the silence stretch until it felt unbearable. Then, finally, I opened her page.
Her statement was the first thing that popped up. No PR gloss. No comments turned off. Just her words.
Iâve spent most of my adult life learning how to protect the parts of myself no one was ever supposed to touch. Itâs not a habit. Itâs survivalâŠ
I read it once. Then again. By the third time, I had to sit forward, elbows on knees, staring at the screen like it was something fragile.
She didnât mention my name. Not once. But I felt it. Every line. Every heartbeat under the surface.
I wonât let fear write my story for me.
I closed my eyes. It was her. Not the version the world thought they knew. Not the headline echo. This was the girl who whispered to me in a dark hallway in Tokyo. The one who had invited me in after hesitating at her own door. The one who told me she wasnât easy, but kissed me like she still hoped someone would stay anyway.
I set the phone down carefully, face-down. Rested my head back against the couch. And breathed.
I hadnât realized how long Iâd been holding it.
Somewhere in the stillness of the room, the tension in my chest loosenedânot gone, but shifted. Like maybe something broken had started to tilt toward repair. I didnât message her. Not yet.
But I knew, finally, what I wanted to say when I did. And it wouldnât come through the screen.
I didnât know what she was doing right now. If she was alone. If sheâd turned off her phone like I had a dozen times this week. But I knew what it took for her to post that. Knew what it cost.
And maybe it wasnât an invitation. Maybe it was just a beginning. A new truth spoken aloud, after weeks of silence and masks and pretending not to care.
I stood up slowly, that familiar ache in my ribs from the cockpit settling somewhere deeper. The city outside sparkled like it always did. But tonight, it felt a little less cold. And when I finally picked up my phone again, I didnât go to messages.
I went to flights.
Because maybe she had already said what mattered. And maybe it was my turn now.
I didnât sleep. I showered, changed into something soft, packed nothing but my wallet and a phone charger. Told my team I needed a few days off-grid.
Then I called the my manager to have my jet ready. There was no grand plan. Just instinct. That low, unrelenting tug in my chest pulling me somewhere I hadnât let myself look directly at for weeks.
Somewhere with her. Somewhere home.
The sky outside the plane windows shifted from velvet night into blue haze. Monaco vanished beneath us before I could second-guess the decision. I closed my eyes, head tilted against the cool pane, and let the hum of altitude wash over the nerves.
I didnât even know where she was. Not exactly. But I knew who to ask.
When we landed, I sent one message.
Me:
Hey. Can I ask you something?
Andrea replied within minutes. Surprisingly fast.
Andrea:
Depends. If youâre asking if sheâs free right nowâyes. She wrapped early. You didnât hear it from me, but sheâs grabbing a bagel. Same deli as always.
There was a pause. Then another message.
Andrea:
Iâll deny this conversation if needed. But for the record⊠donât screw this up, Norris.
I smiled, half-exhaled. Tension I didnât realize I was still holding broke loose in my chest.
A bagel. Of course.
She always came back to the little things. It was something Iâd noticed early. That in all the chaos of cameras and headlines and endless rehearsals, she found shelter in simplicity. Coffee shops. Her brotherâs sarcasm. The same movie she kept rewatching when she couldnât sleep. Her quiet love for daisy stems.
I had the driver stop at the corner florist just before the deli.
Nothing dramatic. Just daisies. Soft, shy yellow.
I didnât ask for a ribbon. Didnât even write a note.
I just carried them with me, hand wrapped lightly around the stems, as I pushed open the old glass door to the tiny corner shop that smelled like toasting sesame and burnt espresso.
She was there.
Back turned, standing at the counter. Her hair a little messy, jacket too big, hands tucked into the sleeves.
I paused. Just for a second. Just to look at her.
Like maybe the past few weeks hadnât happened. Like we were still in disguise. Still playing pretend in jackets and sunglasses, standing side by side at some pastry case trying not to be seen.
Only nowâI wanted to be seen. I wanted her to see me.
The bell above the door clinked closed behind me.
She turned.
And everything elseânoise, regret, doubtâfell away.
Her eyes widened when she saw the flowers. And then they widened again, fuller, softer, like she wasnât sure if I was real.
âI heard you were in the mood for bagels,â I said, voice low. âThought Iâd crash the craving.â
She didnât speak. Just looked at me, stunned. Then finally, slowly, her lips parted.
âIs this really happening?â she asked.
âYeah,â I said, crossing the space between us. âIt is.â
I held out the flowers.
âTheyâre not much,â I added, quieter now. âBut I remember you had daisies at every corner of your place.â
She took them gently. Held them like something delicate, something sacred. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled. Really smiled.
Like the kind that lived between the lines. The kind she only gave when she wasnât guarding herself.
And I thought, this. This is what was worth coming back for.
Y/N'S POV
NYC - Present
âHi.â
And there he was. Lando.
Standing just inside the door, hair tousled from wind or travel or maybe sleep, hoodie slung over his frame like heâd put it on in a hurry. In his hand: a crumpled paper wrap, barely hiding a small bouquet of white daisies. Simple. Crooked. Like heâd picked them up without thinking, or maybe thought about it too long. He looked like someone who had flown halfway across the world and hadnât slept a wink.
And somehow, stillâhe looked like home.
âI heard you were in the mood for bagels,â he said. âThought Iâd crash the craving.â
My breath caught in my throat. For one long second, my chest didnât move. All that space Iâd built up inside myself the past few weeksâwalls, locks, floodgatesâcame undone. âIs this really happening?â I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer. âYeah,â he said softly. âIt is.â
He held out the flowers. They werenât perfect. A little crushed from travel. No ribbon. No note. Just daisies. The kind I kept in vases at the corner of my living room, beside my bed. The kind Iâd told him once reminded me of summers with my grandmother. Of scraped knees and lemon cookies. Of simpler things.
âTheyâre not much,â he added, quieter now. âBut I remember you had daisies at every corner of your place.â
I took them slowly. Felt the petals brush my wrist. And something inside me cracked open. Not all at once. Just a shift. A small, breathless thaw in the place Iâd been frozen.
âMiss?â The deli workerâs voice floated from behind the counter. âYour bagelâs ready.â
The moment blinked. The stillness broke. I let out a soft, almost-laughâhalf surprise, half apology. Lando smiled too, small and crooked, like he wasnât sure if he was allowed to. I glanced back toward the counter, lifting the daisies awkwardly like they might explain my silence.
âOne second,â I murmured, stepping back to grab the paper bag.
The woman behind the counter gave us both a knowing glance but didnât say anything. She just handed it over with a nod, like sheâd seen softer reunions in stranger places. Maybe she had.
Lando opened the door for me, letting the late afternoon spill in. We walked out slowly, shoulder to shoulder, the smell of warm bread trailing behind us, the daisies wrapped gently in my hands. Outside, the street felt brighter. Sharper. Like the world had changed colors and no one else had noticed.
I glanced over at him. âSo,â I said, voice barely steady. âYou tracked me down through bagels?â
He gave a sheepish shrug. âAndrea mightâve helped a little. And I figured⊠youâd need carbs. After the week youâve had.â
I smiled, just a little. It felt unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.
âI didnât think youâd come,â I said again.
He looked at me thenâreally looked. Not the way people do when they want answers, or apologies, or permission. But the way someone does when theyâve already decided to stay, even if it hurts. Even if itâs uncertain.
âI told myself I would,â he said. âAfter I read your statement. I knew it wasnât just words.â
My throat tightened. I looked away, blinking against the sting in my eyes. âI didnât know if youâd even see it. Or care to.â
âI saw it,â he said quietly. âI felt every line. Iâve read it more times than I should probably admit.â
He wasnât teasing. There was no irony in his voiceâonly something tender, careful.
We walked in silence for a few steps, the air warm enough that the bouquet in my hands felt almost alive, like it was breathing with me.
âEverything felt like it was slipping through my fingers,â I admitted. âThe part. My sense of control. You. I thought if I just⊠shut everything out, I could stop the bleeding.â
âAnd did it?â he asked.
I paused. âNo. It just made it quieter. Lonelier.â
He nodded, not saying anything right away. And maybe that was what made my next words spill out.
âIâm scared, Lando.â I wasnât looking for reassurance. I just needed to name it aloud. The fear. The exhaustion. The way Iâd twisted myself up trying to be untouchable.
âI know,â he said. âBut youâre allowed to be. I never needed you to be fearless.â
We stopped at a corner, waiting for the crosswalk. I stared down at the daisies, their stems slightly crushed in my grip. Then I looked up at him, he watched me, something soft flickering behind his eyes. We crossed the street. And I realizedâthis wasnât a fix. It wasnât some cinematic ending wrapped in violin strings and perfect lines. It was two people who had hurt each other, standing in the aftershock, trying to remember how to reach across the rubble.
But maybe that was the kind of love I was learning to believe in.
âI missed you,â I said, my voice trembling.
Lando didnât flinch. He stepped closer instead, his arm brushing mine. âI was always here.â
I looked up at him, unsure of what to say next. And maybe I didnât need to. Maybe the moment didnât ask for declarations, or apologies. Just thisâtwo people carrying everything they hadnât said in the curve of a smile and the weight of daisies exchanged without a script.
Because sometimes love doesnât come in grand confessions. Sometimes, itâs just knowing whoâll meet you at the bagel shop when youâre starving and scared.
And still choosing you.
The apartment was still. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows, casting honeyed stripes across the hardwood floors. As we stepped inside, a small, familiar rustle shot out from the hallway.
âChili,â I murmured, just before she came darting toward us like a comet of fur.
She stopped short of Landoâjust long enough to sniff him like she was verifying he was realâthen leapt up onto the console table and let out a chirpy meow, tail flicking with excitement.
Lando laughed, crouching a little. âGuess I passed the test?â
âYouâre lucky she remembers you,â I said, trying to keep my voice light. But it cracked a little at the end. Too much weight in it. Too much of everything.
I set the deli bag on the kitchen island, fingers brushing the smooth granite, as if touching something solid might keep the moment from slipping away.
Lando stepped up beside meâquiet, slower than usualâand reached for my hand.
âHey,â he said gently. âIâm sorry about all the things I said. I shouldnât have left like that.â
His fingers laced through mine, warm and sure. I looked at him, heart tight in my chest. âNo,â I said, shaking my head. âIâm the one who should be sorry.â
âNo you don'tââ
âI do,â I interrupted softly. âFor saying things I didnât mean. For letting fear turn you into collateral.â
He didnât flinch. Just held my hand tighter. âI knew what I was walking into with you. And I still walked in.â
I blinked, throat thick. âBut you didnât deserve to be hurt.â
âNo,â he said, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his mouth. âBut I didnât come for guarantees. I came because you made me feel like I was part of something honest. Even when it was messy.â
I let out a shaky breath, tears welling but not falling. âYou stayed when I gave you every reason not to.â
âAnd Iâll keep staying,â he said, voice like gravity. âNot because itâs easy. But because I believe in you. In this. Whatever shape it takes.â
My eyes dropped to our joined hands, thumbs brushing over each otherâs knuckles. Something in me exhaledâdeep, fragile, real.
âI donât always know how to hold onto good things,â I whispered. âBut I want to try.â
Lando leaned in, resting his forehead against mine. âThen weâll try,â he murmured. âSlow. Honest. No disappearing acts.â
A beat. His thumb traced a small circle over my hand.
âAnd if you ever need to run,â he added, eyes soft and steady, âjust promise youâll let me run with you.â
I let out a watery laugh, pressing closer. âDeal.â
Lando stared at me for a second. Then he leaned in slowly, like he was still asking permission, like he wasnât sure the space between us had fully healed. But I was already moving. Already reaching.
The kiss was softâquieter than the last, slower than the first. A kiss of returning, of relief. Of apology written in the way his thumb brushed my cheek and the way I pressed into him like Iâd been waiting days to exhale. We broke apart only when Chili meowed, like a slightly impatient chaperone.
Lando chuckled against my forehead. âAlright, alright, Iâll share her.â
Later, we found our way to the couchâan open bag of chips on the coffee table, our bagels half-eaten, two mugs of tea growing cold. A romcom played on the TV, one I used to love as a teen, the volume low enough that it only half-covered the sound of the city softening outside.
Lando, of course, had commentary. âThis man has known her for like a week. Heâs already proposing?â
I swatted his arm. âItâs a metaphor.â
âItâs a lawsuit,â he muttered. âOr a very strong delusion.â
I couldnât stop laughing. And when I did, it surprised meâhow good it felt to laugh again, not politely or on cue, but from somewhere real. We curled into each other after that, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns down my spine. The movie kept playing. We didnât move.
And thenâa buzz from my phone. I reached over, barely shifting, thumbed the screen awake. One new email.
Subject: Leila â Final Confirmation & Contract Signature Date
I blinked, reading it once. Then again. Lando shifted beside me. âGood news?â
I stared at the screen. âItâs happening,â I whispered. âThey sent the contract. They want to move forward. I got Leila.â
He sat up straighter, his eyes wide, almost disbelieving. âWaitâyou got it?â
I nodded, dazed. âYeah. I got it.â
A beat passed. Then he grinned. One of those bright, unstoppable, boyish grins that could light up entire cities. âYou got it.â
And suddenly, I was in his arms again, crushed into his hoodie, laughing and crying at once. In that moment, everythingâevery crack, every bruise, every word left unspokenâfelt like it had led us back here. Home.
The city outside had gone quiet in the way it only did at the softest edge of nightâtraffic slowing to a hush, windows glowing like little heartbeats. Chili had already curled into her usual spot on the blanket, tail flicking lazily, as if she too could sense that something important had settled. Or maybe just begun again. Lando sat beside me, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, fingers brushing my shoulder in slow, absent movements. My head leaned against him, the weight of the day exhaled between us. He smelled like sugar, and something cleanâsomething like relief.
Neither of us spoke for a while. There wasnât much left to say, not in words. The contract was signed. The fallout had quieted. The fear hadnât left completelyâbut it no longer ruled the room.
At some point, he reached for the remote, flicking past half-finished shows and halfhearted recommendations until the screen landed on something we didnât know. A movie, maybe. A documentary. It didnât matter. The kind of background noise that let a silence breathe.
âI donât know what happens next,â I said quietly.
His gaze flicked toward me. âI donât either,â he replied, honest and soft.
I turned my face slightly, enough to look at him fully. âIs that okay?â
He didnât smile, not fully. Just nodded. âYeah. Itâs more than okay.â
I watched him for a long second. His lashes low over tired eyes. His hand still brushing my shoulder like a metronome. Then, gently, I asked, âDo you know what you are to me?â
He blinked, then shook his head, brow knit.
I exhaled. âYouâre the quiet I didnât know I needed. The stillness between everything loud.â
His throat worked once, then again. âAnd you,â he said slowly, voice frayed at the edges, âyouâre the pause in the middle of my rush. The breath I always forget to take.â
A watery laugh slipped out. âGod, youâre such a Mr. Philosophy sometimes.â
The words werenât flowery. They werenât choreographed. But they carried weightâthe kind that settles into your bones. We didnât need to say I love you. We were saying it already. In metaphors. In memory. In the language we built just for us.
And I believed him. Because the truth sat there between usânot neatly wrapped, not declared from a podium, not even whispered into the night. Just there. Steady. Real. Not a perfect ending. Just a place to begin again.
I reached for his hand. He met me halfway. And maybe that was the point of it allânot the certainty, not the clarity. But the reaching. The quiet understanding that some things donât need to be defined to be felt. That love, like the spaces between our most careful words, was never about the statement. It was about the silence that followed. The soft place we still chose to land.
Not everything needed a headline. Some things were meant to live between the lines. And weâwe were learning how to live there too. Together. Still finding our way home.
Sheâs Hollywoodâs favorite heartbreaker. Heâs Formula 1âs golden boy with a heartthrob smile. One offhand comment sparks a secret connection neither of them expected. Between fame, headlines, and disguises, something real begins to bloomâin the steady spaces between the lines.
Pairing: lando norris x actress! reader
Genre: slow burn romance, angst
TW: public shaming, mild swearing, media invasion, verbal argument
PART 1 | PART 2
All I could see were flashing lights which I didnât bother anymore. The kind that burns afterimages into your retinas. The kind you donât flinch from, because flinching is off-brand. You learn to stop blinking around the fifth press tour. Around the seventh, you start recognizing which photographers are behind which lens just by the way they shout your name. Around the tenth, the sound of buzzing camera shutters and journalists shouting one over another in curated chaos becomes something close to white noiseâlike applause, only sharper.
It was the third stop of the weekâhere in San Francisco on my newest movie press tour. The movie had been out there for about two weeks already, and we were finally reaching the end point of never-ending poses to the paparazzis, answering repeated questions from the journalists, and countless reenactments of the said âfavorite sceneâ.Â
The room was perfectly staged, with white leather chairs, floral arrangements positioned just off-center for a sense of effortless charm. And me, in the middle of it allâexactly how they wanted me to. My Co-star, Bradley Hart, was fidgeting very visibly from his seat. His unfocused eyes could barely mask his hangover. I sighed remembering how much chaos he caused this morning. Courtesy to his manager, he had been unreachable since last night, and suddenly barged in the dressing room very lateâreeked of alcohol.Â
I crossed my legs, adjusted the sleeve of my blazer, and gave the room my best version of attentive and effortlessâhoping the attention wouldnât shift to my co-star whose eyes looked bleary red. The press didnât need to know that Iâd been up since five, that the makeup and hair took three hours to look perfect, or that the back zipper on my suit had to be sewn shut by my stylist minutes before we walked out.Â
The questions came fast, voices blending together, some about the story, the character, the director. But even the praise felt like foreplay for the real questionâthe one they were always circling back to. My heart thumpedânot with nerves, but with discomfort. That tight, crawling sensation under your skin when you're being watched too closely. Just when I thought Iâd grown used to it, the feelings returnedâquiet and sharpâreminding me I never really had.Â
Bradley was still blinking like the room was spinning a little too fast, and I was silently praying the cameras would crop him favorably. If anyone asked, Iâd say he had a cold. Allergies. Anything but the truth.
I leaned slightly forward, feigning interest in a question about character developmentâone Iâd already answered for the third time this week in different cities. I answered easily, gracefully. I knew this rhythm, I lived in it. I let the lines fall soft and thoughtful, let my hands move just enough to look natural. They nodded, scribbled on their notes, typed away on their laptop. I gave them everything but the things that were mine.Â
And then it came, slipped into the rotation so seamlessly I almost admired her for it. A voice I recognized. Lila Vanceâa tabloid journalist from StarFlash Weekly known for spinning eye contact into scandal and compliments into traps. They were the first to report my breakupsâbefore I even told my closest friends, well I hadnât even confirmed the split to my manager yet. Iâd expected her to come to at least one of the stops, and here she was. She smiled when I met her eyes, that performative kind of smileâpolite but ravenous.Â
âIn the film, your character jumps headfirst into love, even knowing it might end in ruin,â she said, voice sweet. âDo you relate to that in your real life?â
It cut through the static. Like a thread being pulled tightâsharp, inevitable. I blinked slowly as I tilted my head just enough to look amused, mischievous. A move Iâd mastered years ago.Â
"Letâs just say... I know how to play the part." I let the smile linger. I leaned back, crossed my legs, smiled widerâthe way they liked me. Magnetic, elusive, never too sincere.
âYou know how it is,â I added, letting it purr. âI fall in love for a living. The rest is just rehearsal.â
Lilaâs mouth curled at the edgesâpleased, but not surprised. She got her quote. She always did.
There were more questions after that. I answered them. I posed for another round of photos, accepted another glass of water I didnât drink. Somewhere in the back of the room, my manager was probably exhaling through her nose, already imagining the headlines being typed out before Iâd even left the room.
âHeartbreaker strikes again.ââStill no stable romance for Hollywoodâs most beloved commitment-phobe.ââShe Wonât Be Tied Down: Y/N Responds to Romance Rumors With a Smile and a Sting.â
They didnât always call me that. The headlines used to be kinder. Rising star. Innocent. Americaâs next sweetheart. Back when I still wore nervous smiles on red carpets and spoke too earnestly in interviews. Back before I understood the difference between being adored and being devoured.
The first time they called me a heartbreaker was after Milo Larkin. We dated for six months. He was an indie band vocalist with cheekbones the girls on TikTok created edits about. I liked him. I really did. But I was filming in Croatia, promoting a separate project in London, reading three scripts at once and sleeping maybe four hours a night. One morning, I texted him that I couldnât keep up the pace. He told a friend, the friend told a blog, and suddenly I had âleft him shattered.â
He was crying on a podcast. He told the world how I was too busy, too indifferent. Yet I didnât say a word.Â
Then came Eliah.
The timing was perfectâor so I thought. I was still raw from what had come before, guarded in places I didnât realize had been hurt. But Eliah was persistent in that soft, convincing way. Sweet words. Steady hands. All those earnest little phrases that sound like safety when youâre not sure what that looks like anymore.
âI donât care about your past.ââThey donât know you like I do.ââLet them talkâIâm here.â
And I fell. I really fell. Not because I didnât know betterâbut because I wanted to believe someone might mean it this time.
He broke up with me over brunch. Smiled the whole way through. A month later, he was dating someone more famous. Gave an interview about how âsome people carry too much damage to be loved properly.â And stillâsomehowâI was the villain in that story too.
Then came Matias. Tom. A few more. Some real, some not.
Names that looked good in print. Faces that looked good beside mine.
We shared premieres, dinners, soft launches and soft goodbyes.Â
A couple of them broke up with me over text and still claimed I ruined them. Said I was too distant. Too complicated. One said I didnât know how to be lovedâas if he hadnât spent most of our time together trying to mold me into someone simpler. Another one cheated. But I was the one painted cold for leaving.
By then, I had learned how to survive the fallout. How to keep smiling through a press tour when someone was leaking texts behind your back. How to let the rumors run their course until a new scandal replaced yours. How to let them call you a heartbreaker because it was easier than telling them the truth.
Because the truth was, I didnât break hearts.
I just never stayed long enough to let mine break first.
I threw myself to the sofa in the dressing room, releasing a breath I didnât realize Iâd been holding. The back of my stiletto had been digging into my skin for hours, and the white suit Iâd been wearing felt suffocating. The schedule of the day was done, and theyâd freed me to go home. The sun was still up thereâso today was very rare.Â
The silence stayed. No knock on the door. The room had that odd post-event humâlike the air still remembered voices, even after theyâd all left. My reflection in the mirror looked too polished to feel like this. Like someone who should be going to a dinner, or a rooftop party, or anywhere but here.
It always hit like this, after the buzz wore off. The questions. The cameras. The forced smiles and the knowing glances from handlers who assumed I liked this. I Chose this. Maybe I did, I used to be.
I stared at my phone. No new messages.
Not one person I wanted to talk to. Not one I could.
Because thisâthis hollowed-out version of me after the lightsâwasnât built for small talk or shared dessert menus. She was built for slipping off heels with shaking hands and peeling off characters that felt like second skin.
My mind circled back to that question. âIn the film, your character jumps headfirst into love, even knowing it might end in ruin, do you relate to that in your real life?â Well the truth is I fall fast. But not for the thrill of the fall. For the moment where it feels like someone sees you. Reaches past the glint and the camera-flash version of you and decides to stay. But they never do. Not when they realize the real thingâthe whole thingâis messier. Harder. Too full of late nights and unanswered texts and someone who disappears into characters more than she ever lets herself be seen as one.
Iâd been called cold for walking away. But no one ever asked what it felt like to stay. To pretend. To shrink yourself into something someone could keep. So I stopped trying. Stopped explaining. Let them write what they wanted to write, say what they needed to say.
I let my head fall back against the sofa and closed my eyes. For the first time all day, I let myself feel the stillness. Not fight it. Not fill it. Not perform.
Then came the knockâsoft, familiar.
I didnât even have to open my eyes to know who it was. Only one person knocked like that. Like they were checking the weather inside the room before stepping in. My manager. My best friend. The only one who didnât flinch when the headlines got ugly or when I stopped talking altogether.
She slipped through the door and closed it gently behind her. No clipboard, no phone in her hand. Just herself, in jeans and a tired sweatshirt, the day unwinding at her shoulders like sheâd carried half of it for me. She sat in the vanity chair, spinning it to face me. For a moment, she didnât speak. Just looked at me the way she always did when she knew I was pretending less.
"How do you feel?" she asked gently.
I let out a breath, flat and tired. âAwful.â
Andrea nodded, her mouth softening into that half-smile she used when she wished she could fix things. âIâm sorry.â
I looked up at her, eyes heavy. âDid I ruin the headline?â
The silence came before the answerâher way of protecting me from it, even if just for a second. âProducers are talking,â she said carefully. âBut theyâre not upset. They thought you handled it perfectly. Gave just enough.â
I scoffed quietly, rubbing at the corner of my eye. âRight. Just enough mystery. Just enough charm.â
She gave a small shrug. âYou gave them what they needed. You always do.â
A beat passed between us.
I pressed my palms into my eyes and sighed. âI donât think I have anything left to give them right now.â
âThen donât give anything,â she said softly. âTake something instead.â
I looked at her.
âThereâs a brand event next week,â Andrea continued. âNothing too flashy. Private list. Youâve already RSVPâd yes, remember?â
I squinted because I didnât remember.
âItâs not press,â she added. âJust fashion people. A chance to wear something great, be in a room without expectations. Let someone else carry the questions for once.â
I hesitated. âI donât know if Iâm in the mood to make small talk.â
âThen donât. Just show up.â She stood, smoothing the crease in her jeans. âLet the world spin around you for a night instead of trying to keep it upright.â
Her voice had that soft insistence again. The one she used when she wasnât just being my manager, but my friend. The one who had seen me unravel and zip myself back up more times than I could count.
I leaned back against the dressing room sofa, exhaling. Maybe she was right. Maybe I didnât need a plan. Or a comeback. Just a good outfit and a night off.
The intercom buzzed at exactly 10:12 a.m. I didnât even have to check. Only one person in my life was consistent enough to treat âwatching F1 at my placeâ like a religious obligation. It had been 2 months since the 2025 season started, and my older brother Josh never missed spending a single race weekend in my apartment, aside from last week where I had a back to back press release tour.
âDoorâs open,â I called out, not moving from the couch.Â
A beat later, Josh barged in like he owned the leaseâhoodie half-zipped, arms full of plastic bags, his keys still swinging from one finger. Chili barely raised her head from her blanket perch.
âMy favorite sister,â he said by way of greeting.
âIâm your only sister.â
âStill counts.â
He dumped his offeringsâlarge box of food, a suspiciously large iced coffee, and enough chips to host a childrenâs birthday partyâon the kitchen island before collapsing onto the floor in front of the TV. Like clockwork.
âDo I even want to know what that is?â I asked, eyeing the mystery box.
âSomething I promised I wouldnât tell you until after you ate it.â
âFantastic.â I yawned, pulling my blanket tighter around me. âAnd to think I feed you and let you abuse my air conditioning.â
âYou let me because I bring joy to this bleak, glamorous life of yours,â he grinned, already queuing up the pre-race coverage. âAlso because your TV is the size of a small country.â
I smiled despite myself.
It was like this every race weekendâhim making himself at home, me letting him. Our version of family time. No red carpets. No emails. Just sound design so good it made the walls vibrate and commentary that played like white noise in the background of our siblinghood.
âSo,â he said, mid-chip, âyou still going to that brand thing next week?â
âShe wouldnât survive two days without trauma-dumping in your texts.â
âTrue,â I laughed softly. âAnyway, I think Iâll go. Try to play nice. Smile for the cameras.â
He gave me a lookâsubtle, but knowing. âYou okay?â
It was such a simple question. But from him, it hit different.
I nodded once. âYeah. Just tired. Long week. The press stuff gets old.â
He didnât push. Just reached for the remote, then lowered the volume. âOkay, so... this is actually why I asked.â
He scrolled through his saved clips on his phone and pulled up a recent interviewâslick production, muted colors, Lando Norris front and center. I recognized the F1 logo in the corner. His grin flickered on screen, casual, a little too quick to be rehearsed.
The interviewer asked, âAny movie you watch recently?â
âThat new one with Y/N,â Lando said, sitting forward a little. âThe acting? Really, really good. Sheâsâyeah. Something else.â
I blinked. Josh glanced at me, not trying to hide the smug smile creeping in. âLook at that. Guess youâve got a fan.â
âIâm sorry,â I muttered, trying not to react. âAre we just... casually watching interview montages of men you know Iâll never meet?â
âYouâre gonna meet him next week, actually,â he said casually.
I didnât answer. I was still looking at the screen. Still processing the way heâd said my name. Like it was a fact, not a favor.
Josh smirked. âAlso? You were the one who made me rewind a race once because you saw him on the podium and asked, âWhoâs that orange guy?â Donât pretend youâve forgotten.â
âI did not say it like that.â
âOh, you so did.â
I tossed a throw pillow at him.
Josh ducked and grinned wider. He cracked open a can of something fizzy and flopped fully onto the floor like he was twelve again. The race broadcast flickered to life, the familiar hum of engines swelling through my living room like a second soundtrack. âPoint isâyou might be his favorite actress. Wild, huh?â
I curled deeper into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under me, Chili nestled somewhere behind my knees like a living heat pack.Â
It was last yearâs Australian Grand Prix. Iâd just gotten my sound system upgradedâsomething about needing âimmersive silenceâ for line memorizationâand mightâve accidentally bragged about it to Josh. He showed up that Sunday like it was a housewarming, arms full of snacks and unsolicited commentary. That race, Lando finished third. I wasnât really paying attention; my phone was more interesting than engine sounds, and Josh wouldnât shut up about the Ferrari 1â2 like it was a national event. But then I looked up. Just for a second. Saw him on the screenâbrown curls messily damp from the helmet, his race suit half-unzipped, sweat clinging to his collarbone, his face flushed but lit with this stupid, breathless, elated smile. That was the first time I asked. Just one line. Barely a whisper over my iced coffee. âWhoâs that orange guy?â Josh didnât let me live it down until now.
âYou know,â Josh said between mouthfuls of seaweed chips, âif you do meet him at the event next week, you should at least try not to look like you're in witness protection.â
I snorted. âSays the man who wore a hoodie to brunch last weekend because his ex was two tables over.â
He gave a wounded look. âThat was survival instinct.â
âSure it was.â
We fell into silence as the formation lap began. The commentary picked up pace. I watched the names flash across the screenâVerstappen, Leclerc, Hamilton... Norris.
My gaze lingered a second too long.
Josh caught it. âWow,â he drawled, nudging my foot with his. âYou are thinking about it.â
âIâm literally watching the race.â
âYouâre watching him.â
I didnât answer. Not right away. Because maybe I was. Not just watching, thoughâit was like I was seeing him differently now. Wondering if someone who drove at 200 miles an hour for a living could really be... thoughtful. Curious. Someone who watched movies with intention. Someone who meant things.
âThatâs not the face of someone thinking about tire strategy,â Josh muttered, grinning.
âIâm just surprised,â I said, too casually. âHe couldâve picked any film yet he said mine.â
The lights went out on the screen and the roar of twenty cars taking off swallowed the room. Chili let out a tiny huff, shifting against my legs, unimpressed by the noise.
And then, like flicking a switch, I pushed it down. Back into the box. Back into the quiet. Just me, my brother, a very spoiled cat, and twenty cars speeding toward a finish line.Â
By lap thirty-five, my brain had started to drift. No offense to the sportâthe cars were still zipping around like angry wasps and the commentators were still shouting about DRS zones and tire degradationâbut my attention had begun to unravel somewhere around lap twenty. Josh was fully locked in, fists clenched. I, meanwhile, had sunk deeper into the couch cushions, one hand absently scrolling Instagram while the other scratched behind Chiliâs ear.
A few clicks. A few mindless stories. Sponsored content. Then, muscle memory took over.
Search bar.
Lando Norris.
Tap.
Just a little curiosity. For research.
His page loaded instantlyâblue check, millions of followers, the usual. Fast cars, podium smiles, photos that looked like theyâd been filtered through golden hour and a billion-dollar lens. Some with friends. A few alone. One particularly stupid one of him holding a baguette and wearing sunglasses, which made me roll my eyes and maybe smileâjust a little.
And then, I blinked.
He followed me.Â
I stared at it for a second, trying to decide if Iâd misread. Refreshed the page. Looked again. Still there.
I tilted the phone away from Josh automatically, as if he could somehow see the heat blooming in my face. My thumb hovered over the screen like it was holding a secret.
âHeâs in second,â Josh muttered beside me, totally unaware. âIf he times the undercut right, he mightâwait, whatâre you doing?â
âNothing,â I said quickly, locking my phone. âJustâmy feed. Itâs full of... skincare ads.â
Josh gave me a suspicious side-eye. âUh-huh.â
But I wasnât listening anymore. My heart was still beating a little faster than before, and my head was now full of breadcrumbs.
Heâd followed me. Before the event. Before any brand photo-op or formal introduction. And I didnât know since when.
I swallowed, lips parting without meaning to. Something fizzy and a little nervous bubbled in my chestâit was familiar. That flicker of interest. Real, pointed, unexpectedly inconvenient interest. The kind that didnât start with a smile across a room, but with a clip from an interview and the faintest feeling that maybeâjust maybeâsomeone saw more than just the character I played. And maybe thatâs how the fallout always began. Not with declarations or drama. But with quiet curiosity. A name typed into a search bar. A profile scanned too long. A follow-back that felt heavier than it should.
I stared at the blue Follow back button for a moment.
It shouldnât have felt like anything. People did it all the time. Casual. Forgettable. A blink in the chaos of social media. But still, I hesitated. Thumb hovering. Heart nudging. It wasnât like I hadnât followed people back before. I had. Directors. Co-stars. The guy who played a tree in an off-Broadway production I was once in.
But this felt different. I stared for a second longer than I should have. Heart ticking a little faster, not because of who he wasâbut because of what it meant. Someone out thereâthat someoneâhad watched a film where I bled parts of myself onscreen, and still decided to stay.
I locked my phone without tapping anything. Set it screen-down on the table like it had teeth.
Josh, still oblivious, shouted something about undercuts and tire wear. Chili yawned in my lap, unimpressed. I leaned my head back against the couch, eyes on the screenâbut my thoughts already half somewhere else.
Josh left a little after ten. The apartment was quiet again, the kind of quiet that didnât feel heavy yetâjust soft around the edges. Familiar. I turned off the TV. Chili let out a tired little grunt from the couch and didnât bother moving when I stood up to clean. I did the usual: rinsed mugs, folded the throw blanket, wiped the coffee table even though it didnât really need it. I wasnât tired, not really. But I didnât feel like thinking, either.
I showered. Pulled on an old sleep shirt. Did my skin care half-heartedly. When I got to brushing my teeth, I realized Iâd left my phone on the edge of the sink. Screen still locked. Face-down like it was waiting for me.
I picked it up. Unlocked.
There he was. The last search in my bar. Lando Norris.
Still following.
I stared for a beat. Maybe two.
It wasnât the kind of thing I shouldâve been overthinking. A follow is a follow. Harmless. Fleeting. But something about the timing lingeredâlike heâd already made his mind up about me without expecting anything in return. I didnât want to read into it. Not like I used to. Iâd done that beforeâbuilt whole fantasies out of kindness, turned curiosity into connection where there was none. I wasnât thirteen anymore. Not seventeen. Not twenty-three and wrecked over someone who told me I was âtoo much, too fast.â
I shouldâve let it go. Instead, I tapped Follow back.
The action was instant. Quiet. Not even a sound. But it felt loud in my chest.
Chili meowed softly from the couch, stretching across the blanket like she owned the place. I padded out of the bathroom and curled back up beside her, pulling my knees to my chest. My phone buzzed onceâsomething unrelated, probably. Still, I locked it again.
Just one button. That was all.
No expectations. No dramatics. Just... maybe something. A quiet kind of maybe.
It was very sunny outside when I stepped out of my apartment. The kind of sunlight that felt too loud for what was supposed to be the most important audition of my yearâmaybe my entire career. Andrea had been waiting for me at the curb, leaning against the car with oversized sunglasses and a half-drunk oat milk latte, texting me in all caps.
Andrea: MOVE. FASTER. IF YOU MISS THIS SLOT I WILL UNFRIEND YOU IRL.
Andrea: ALSO you left your lipstick. Again.
I slid into the passenger seat, clutching the sides of my script like it was something sacred. Andrea didnât even greet me, just passed me the lipstick and a breath mint. âYou good?â she asked, starting the car.
I nodded too quickly. âYeah.â
âLiar. Want me to run lines with you?â
I shook my head. âIf I say the words one more time, Iâll forget how to feel them.â
She didnât argue. The drive to the studio passed in a blur of nerves. Andrea did most of the talkingâlast-minute reminders, light gossip about another actress who apparently showed up to her Kassner audition in full character costume, and a gentle reminder that if I booked this, sheâd probably cry for a week. I stared out the window, trying to breathe. It felt like my lungs had shrunk overnight.
This wasnât just any casting. It was Julian Kassner.
A man whose scripts moved like poetry and whose actors left his sets transformed. His last three movies had all been nominated. Two had won. Oscars. Cannes. That kind of pedigree. The kind you donât just audition forâyou beg for. People called him a genius. Othersâusually off recordâcalled him terrifying. He was famously professional. Gracious in interviews. But behind the lens, he didnât suffer chaos. He didnât work with actors who were distracted from the art. No scandals. No drama. No Page Six headlines.
Iâd studied him in film school. Wrote a thesis about how his use of silence in Blue Night, Black Sky was more haunting than any monologue. And now I was trying out for the lead in his next film. The characterâLeilaâwas a paradox. Soft-spoken but searing. She held grief like a weapon. And somehow I had to become her, for five minutes, in a cold room with strangers.
We pulled up to the production studio in Tribecaâwhite-bricked, discreet. Just a small gold plaque with the companyâs name engraved. Andrea parked, turned to me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.
âYouâve got this,â she said. âGo make him regret ever working with anyone else.â
I gave her a tight smile, then stepped out into the warmth. The sunlight hit me square in the faceâbright, unrelenting. The air tasted like metal.
The lobby of the production studio in Tribeca was predictably starkâglass, matte black accents that whispered importance. The kind of place that had seen careers ignite and implode in the same breath. I signed in, smiled tightly at the assistant who barely glanced up, then sat down on one of the low, painfully modern couches that looked more like art than furniture.
I didnât dare pull the script out again. Iâd memorized it backwards. Forwards. Iâd worked with a coach for two weeks, even ran scenes with Andrea late at night over FaceTime, her eyes bleary, her notes sharp. But stillâmy fingers itched for something. Anything to ground me.
I opened my phone. And there, sat a very recentâunread DM from someone unexpected.
@lando: Hi! I really enjoyed your movies!! Looking forward to more of your acting :)
The same Lando who had smiled at the end of that interview clip like he hadnât meant to say my name but did anyway. The same Lando whose profile Iâd stalked the week before, whose curls I still remembered wild from last yearâs Australian GP. The same Lando who shouldnât have made my heart skip when I was about to audition for Julian fucking Kassner.
I stared at the message a beat too long before locking my phone like it had burned me. Not now.
The casting assistant called my name, I stood, legs shaking so slightly I hoped no one noticed. The room I walked into was dimly lit, as if even the light didnât dare intrude. Julian Kassner sat at the far end of a long tableâbutton-down rolled at the sleeves, glasses low on the bridge of his nose. Beside him, the producerâMelissa Greene, I thinkâwas scribbling something quickly onto the sides of a printed script. Another woman, probably casting, gave me a warm nod.
They handed me a mark to stand on. Told me Iâd be reading with a stand-in. Scene three. The moment after Leila learns her mother has died but refuses to cry.
I nodded once. Then something shifted.
I didnât act. I became.
The words rolled out of me like they werenât mine, like theyâd always been there waiting to be used. My voice cracked at the right momentânot because I planned it, but because it had to. I could hear the breath of the woman across from me falter. I didnât look at Julian. I couldnât. I just stared past the reader, into a spot on the wall that wasnât real, letting my chest cave in slowly.
By the end of the scene, my hands were trembling.
Silence.
Then the click of a pen. Julian leaned forward, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadnât expected to like solving. The silence stretched for a second longer than it needed to. Then Kassner blinked and said, simply, âThank you.â
I thought that was it. My cue to leave.
But then Melissa leaned forward, her face soft. âYou seemed perfect for the character,â she said. âThank you for bringing her to life.â
âWeâll be contacting you for the script reading,â Kassner added, his voice even. Measured. But I caught itâthe faintest upward curve at the edge of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but something.
I smiled, bowed my head, and walked out of the room like my bones were made of spun sugar.
Outside, the air was too bright. My pulse was still thrumming. I didnât even know where I was walking, only that I needed to move, to feel the weight of gravity again. I pulled out my phone on instinct.
The message was still there. Just a few words. No pressure. No ask. I stared at it. Thought of everything Iâd just risked. Everything I wanted to hold onto. Kassner didnât do scandal. Didnât like distractions. If he even suspected I was flirting with the edges of another tabloid headline, the offer could vanish. Just like that.
I closed the app. Left it on read. And maybe in another life, on another day, I wouldâve replied and said something charming, casual. But today, I kept walking.
The doorbell wouldnât stop screaming.
At first, I thought it was part of a dream. Some nightmare sequence where I was being hunted down by paparazzi or ex-boyfriends orâGod forbidâboth. But then I cracked one eye open and realized it was real. The sunlight was slashing through the windows, lighting up my entire apartment like a stage I didnât ask to be on.
I groaned, squinting at the intercom. Andreaâs face filled the screen, distorted and dramatic, like a found-footage horror film. She was aggressively mashing the bell like it owed her money.
âStop it, Andrea!!â I yelled through the speaker, voice still thick with sleep.
âFinally!â she beamed, lifting a giant paper bag into the frame like it was a peace offering. âI brought food!â
I shuffled to the door, dragging half my soul behind me. As soon as I cracked it open, she breezed past me with the entitlement of someone who knew where the cereal was kept. Her shoes were already off, tossed somewhere near the welcome mat, and she was yapping at full volume before Iâd even fully opened my eyes.
âAndrea,â I groaned, dragging my feet behind her, âI was unconscious. Dead to the world. Possibly flatlined.â
She ignored me completely, already unpacking the contents of her oversized paper bag like she was restocking a pantry she owned. âYou had your big audition yesterday. You earned carbs. Also, you trended on X for, like, three hours.â
I collapsed onto the couch, face-first, arms sprawled. âWonderful. Was it for my talent?â
Andrea offered no sympathy, just the clatter of croissants and iced oat lattes being lined up like offerings on the coffee table. âActually, it was for the way you said âI fall in love for a livingâ like you were about to eat the reporter alive. Whichâiconic. But also terrifying. Iâd be afraid to date you too.â
âGood,â I mumbled into a cushion.
Andrea settled into the armchair with that manic energy only she could summon before noon. âAnyway. Youâve got two hours to get yourself together before we leave.â
I buried my face deeper into the pillow. âI thought that was tomorrow.â
She launched a croissant crumb at me. âItâs tonight. Sunset. Small, curated, no influencersâjust moody creatives pretending not to know who you are while secretly praying you make eye contact.â
âUgh. I canât be perceived today.â
âWell, youâre going to be.â She scrolled through her phone, already coordinating something with someone important. âYouâve got the coat. Youâve got the attitude. Youâve got just the right amount of post-press day mystery energy. Youâre going to look like the girl they write screenplays about.â
I groaned again, louder this time. âFine. But only because I really like that coat.â
âAnd because you love me,â she smirked, sipping her latte like this was all part of her master plan.
Andrea stood up, hands on her hips like a mom in a sitcom. âNow finish the food and go shower. You look like a ghost.â
I raised a brow mid-bite. âA ghost?â
âA very chic one,â she added, grabbing her phone and snapping a picture of my bedhead. âBut still.â
The elevator dingedâsoft, almost shyâbefore the doors slid open to reveal the rooftop.
Music floated in slow, dreamy waves through the warm air, something French and jazzy, threaded with just enough bass to hum in your chest. The space was minimal by designâconcrete, glass, and tall silver heaters pulsing with warmth against the late afternoon breeze. String lights looped lazily above, casting everything in a kind of soft glow that made even the skyline feel like part of the decor. It was curated melancholy. The kind of place where everyone looked like they were pretending not to wait for someone.
âI dressed for the occasion,â I replied with a wink.
His gaze flicked briefly to the rest of the room. âAnd the occasion dressed for you, as always.â
âI have to say,â I told Lucien, lifting my glass slightly in a quiet toast, âyour collection this season? Almost cruelly good. My stylists were both delighted and terrified.â
Lucienâs smile deepened, pleased in that quiet way artists are when you speak to their work instead of their image. âAh, then Iâve done something right.â
Before he could say more, Andreaâwho had been scrolling through her phone just minutes agoâsuddenly lit up. âLucien, you still owe me lunch in Milan.â
He laughed, pulling her into a brief hug. âI knew youâd find me.â
They slipped into conversation like old conspiratorsâtalking about some stylist they both loved, a villa that changed hands, a dinner party Iâd apparently missed by falling asleep too early. I let them chatter, sipping my champagne and nodding when needed, letting the glass cool against the inside of my wrist.
I wasnât bothered. Not really. It was nice, actuallyâdrifting just out of frame in a room that somehow always made me the subject.
Someone passed by with a silver tray, and I caught another glassânot because I needed it, but because it gave my hands something to do. I tilted my chin, letting the music roll over me as I took in the space againâconversations, silk, cologne, stiletto taps, curated laughter.
Eyes met mine across the room.
A trio by the ivy-covered railing. One whispered something behind her fingers. The others didnât bother hiding their stares.
âSheâs gorgeous, but you know... sheâs never with the same guy twice.â
âI heard she broke Milo Hartâs heart.â
âSheâs probably just here for the photos.â
StillâI smiled. Just enough to look unbothered. Maybe even a little amused.
I was mid-sip, letting the bubbles fizz at the back of my throat, when a tap landed on my shoulder. Not gentle. Not polite. The kind that makes your stomach jolt like a missed step.
For a second, I frozeâtight-chested, startled, like someone had just cracked open the glass between me and the rest of the world. I turned sharply, prepared to armor upâonly to be met with a grin I hadnât seen in years.
âHi!â he beamed. âItâs been too long!â
Charles Hubert. He looked almost exactly the sameâmaybe a bit scruffier, a little more tired in the eyes, but still boyish, still the type of handsome that made people trust him too easily. Weâd gone to school together once upon a lifetime ago, before the fame, before the campaigns. And then he became a photographerâone of the good ones. We'd crossed paths again on a few shoots, made each other laugh, swapped war stories about this industry and all the ways it tried to chew us up.
âCharles,â I gasped, breaking into a real, reflexive smile as he pulled me into a hug I actually welcomed. âGod, you startled me.â
âSorry,â he said, not sounding sorry at all. âI wasnât sure it was you until I saw that donât-fuck-with-me expression. Then I knew.â
I laughed, breath easing in my chest. The kind of laugh that felt like a soft exhale in a night made of pretending.
I smirked. âI wouldnât miss a chance to wear his masterpiece.â
Charles chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. âSo⊠are you still impossible to book coffee with? Or do I finally get a rain check after, like, five years?â
âDepends,â I teased. âAre you still ordering lavender oat lattes and calling them âmasculineâ?â
âAlways,â he grinned. âSome things never change.â
It was only after the laughter faded, after Charles let go and started fumbling with the champagne glass someone had handed him, that I noticed someone standing just behind him.
Brown curls. Sharp features. A mouth curved with quiet amusement. And eyesâgreen, unmistakably greenâfixed on me like heâd been watching the whole thing unfold, quietly entertained. He wasnât trying to interrupt. Just... waiting. Patient, polite. Boyish in a way that felt dangerously charming. My smile flattened, posture re-centering into something cool and practiced. No warmth, no sparkle. Just polite interest and a perfect poker face.
Charles caught the shift, glanced between us, then lit up like heâd just realized he held the match to something potentially explosive.
âOhâhave you two met?â Charles asked, already stepping aside, already sure of the answer. âLando, this isââ
âI know who she is,â Lando said, smiling.
It wasnât smug. Just honest. Like someone stating their favorite song was already playing.
His voice hit lower than I expected. Smooth, a little amused, soft around the edges but grounded in that unmistakable British clip. He wasnât wearing anything loudâjust a dark jacket over a white tee, black trousers, clean sneakers. Effortless. But it wasnât the clothes that stood out. It was the way he stoodâanchored but not heavy, like he wasnât trying to take up space but did anyway.
I turned fully toward him, the glass still poised in my hand like a defense mechanism. âLando Norris,â I said, offering the faintest smile. âOf course.â
âI wasnât sure youâd actually be here,â he said, then corrected himself quickly. âOr want to be seen here.â
I tilted my head, feigning casual curiosity. âWhy wouldnât I?â
He didnât answer right away. Just met my eyes like he was looking for somethingâconfirmation, maybe, or denial. Something under the surface I wasnât sure Iâd let show.
Charles cleared his throat, sensing heâd become background noise. âRight. Iâm gonna⊠grab another drink.â He winked, lifted his glass, and slipped off like smoke.
And then it was just us. The rooftop and the skyline and a few yards of air that felt thinner than it had a minute ago.
âYou clean up well,â I said, because it was the safest thing I could reach for.
He shrugged, boyish and unbothered. âI tried.â
I took another sip of champagne, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel a little dangerous. âSo,â I said lightly, âYou slid into my DMs.â
His eyes flickered, but he didnât flinch. âI did.â
âBallsy.â
âWas it?â he asked, that hint of a grin teasing the corner of his mouth. âIt was a compliment. Not a proposal.â
âTrue. Still. Itâs risky businessâpublicly claiming a favorite actress.â
He didnât miss a beat. âOnly if sheâs the type to take it badly.â
I raised a brow. âAnd if sheâs the type to leave you on read?â
His grin turned rueful, but not bitter. âThen Iâd say she had good reason.â
I paused. Let the words settle, let the wind tug lightly at the ends of my blouse, let the rooftop melt into the sound of music and soft murmurs. Then I stepped forward, just a littleâclose enough for the scent of him to reach me: warm, clean, vaguely expensive.
âI was in the middle of an audition,â I said.
âI figured.â
âFor Julian Kassner.â
His brows lifted, impressed despite himself. âSerious stuff.â
âExactly.â I gave him a wry smile. âHe doesnât exactly love actresses who flirt with controversy.â
His gaze flicked over me. âThat what I am? A controversy?â
âNot yet.â
That earned a low laugh, not loud, but real. âYouâre sharper than they make you out to be.â
âAnd youâre less reckless than I expected.â
âDonât tell anyone,â he said. âItâd ruin my brand.â
Another beat passed. The breeze shifted. The city glimmered behind him like a half-finished thought.
He looked at me againâthis time less entertained, more intent. âI meant what I said, by the way. About your work.â
I didnât answer right away. Just watched him with the caution of someone whoâd been admired for the wrong reasons too many times.
âI saw Crying in Third Person twice,â he added. âOnce alone. Once with a friend who didnât get it.â
âAnd did you?â I asked.
âI think I did,â he said. âYou didnât cry for most of the film. And somehow, that hurt more.â
My throat caught. Just for a second. Then I smiled.
âOkay, Lando Norris,â I said, eyes narrowing just slightly. âYou can stay.â
He laughed softly. âI appreciate the mercy.â
Before I could say more, I heard Andreaâs voice behind meâsharp with curiosity, just a beat too quick to be casual. âY/N.â
I didnât turn right away. I didnât have to. I could feel the shift in her energy, the kind that buzzes when your best friend realizes youâre talking to someone you probably shouldnât be talking to this comfortably.
She stepped up beside me, eyes flicking between me and Lando with the kind of subtle interest only someone whoâd known me for years could master. Then, smooth as ever, she extended a hand toward him. âHi. Andrea. I manage her life when she lets me.â
Lando shook her hand with a polite nod, smile still lingering. âLando Norris. Iâm trying not to cause trouble.â
Andrea gave me a look. A very specific look. The kind that said, Oh, so this is who youâve been standing here with, pretending to be chill.
Lando glanced down at the piece he was wearingâminimalist, tailored, sharp in all the right places. âWouldâve been rude not to. Itâs ridiculously well made,â he said, running a hand across the lapel.Â
Lucien beamed, pleased as if Landoâs compliment had been a review published in Vogue. âWeâll make a model out of you yet.â
Lando laughed, easy and warm. âDonât tempt me.â
âShe wonât,â Andrea chimed in, one brow raised in warning. âNot unless she wants me to change her entire press calendar.â
I gave them both my best diplomatic smile, the kind Iâd perfected for red carpets and exec rooms. But under it, my mind was still circling Lando. The quiet confidence. The way he looked at me like I was a person and not a headline. It was unnerving. It was also⊠unsettlingly nice.
Lando stepped closerânot too close, just enough that our conversation felt suddenly separate from the rest of the party. âYou donât like these things, do you?â he asked, nodding toward the rooftop.
I arched a brow. âWhat gave it away?â
âYou look like youâre trying to levitate out of your own shoes.â
That startled a laugh out of me. âIs it that obvious?â
âOnly if youâre looking closely.â His voice was quiet now, like he didnât want to share the moment with anyone else. âAnd I was.â
I looked away before I could smile too wide, lifting the glass again to hide behind a sip that didnât quite mask the heat rising in my throat.
âThisââ I gestured vaguely at the curated glamour, the filtered lights, the slow jazz and perfect tailoring ââis part of the job. Itâs just not the part Iâm best at.â
He nodded like he understood. And maybe he did. F1 wasnât far from this worldâjust as much gloss, just as many cameras. Different brand of performance. Same pressure to smile through it. âI think youâre doing fine,â he said, voice low, like it was meant only for me.
The air between us shifted againâquieter, thicker, charged with something unspoken. Something that couldnât quite be laughed off.
I held his gaze this time. âYouâre not what I expected,â I murmured.
He tilted his head. âWhat did you expect?â
âI donât know,â I said honestly. âArrogance, maybe. A line or two. A little more... brand.â
âAnd instead you got?â
I considered him. âSomeone who watched my movie twice. And understood it.â
He didnât say anything right away. Just nodded once, as if accepting something neither of us had said out loud.
Before the moment could stretch too long, someone across the terrace called his name. Not impatient, but just enough to remind us this wasnât a world that allowed long silences.
He glanced toward the sound, then back at me. âWill you be here a while?â
âMaybe.â
âThat a real maybe?â
âYeah,â I said.
His smile deepenedâsoft, slow, like heâd been waiting for that.
âIâll come find you,â he said, stepping back. And then he disappeared into the crowd.
Andrea cornered me by the bar five minutes later, all raised brows and crossed arms like a mother catching her teenager sneaking back in past curfew.
âWell,â she began, drawing out the word like it was a sip of something scandalous, âheâs cuter in person.â
I didnât bite. Just took a slow sip of my drink and pretended I hadnât noticed her watching us from across the rooftop like a hawk in vintage Prada.
âAnd charming,â she added, tone light but layered. âPolite. Stared at you like you wrote his favorite song.â
âHe was being nice,â I said, too quickly.
Andreaâs eyes glittered with mischief. âUh-huh. And you were being completely unaffected? Just sipping champagne with your heart rate at a calm seventy?â
I glared. âAndrea.â
She grinned, raising her hands in surrender. âOkay, okay. Iâm just saying. If you do kiss himââ
âYeah,â I cut in, deadpan. âNever gonna happen.â
She blinked once, then smiled like she didnât believe me for a second. âSure, babe. Just make sure it doesnât happen where anyone has a camera.â
I rolled my eyes, but her voice softened before she walked away. âJust be careful, alright? He seems lovely. But so did the last one.â
And with that, she vanished into the crowd, leaving behind a warning dressed like a joke.
I had drifted toward the far end of the rooftop, needing a minute to cool the flush off my cheeksâor maybe off my pride. There was a low cement wall near the edge, draped in ivy and a string of lightbulbs that blinked slow like heartbeats. I leaned there, half-turned toward the skyline, pretending to check a message I wasnât writing.
Thatâs when I heard them. Two women, behind me, voices soft and perfectly poisedâjust loud enough to mean it.
âShe always circles the room like sheâs waiting for someone to chase her.â
âPlease. She doesnât waitâshe calculates. Itâs all part of the performance. The outfit, the hair, the wounded-siren look. Like heartbreakâs her accessory.â
A soft laugh. âAnd now Lando Norris? God, she really doesnât know how to sit still.â
I didnât move. Not even a breath. I just stood there, watching the city flicker while their voices faded back into the ambient music, my pulse like static under my skin.
They didnât know Iâd heard. That was the worst part. It hadnât even been meant for impact. Just... casual cruelty, folded into prose and passed like hors d'oeuvres.
I swallowed, carefully. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And just as I began to turnâ
âHey.â His voiceâlow, unbothered, warmâcut through the noise like a lifeline. Lando. Holding two glasses, easy smile, oblivious to the storm Iâd just walked through.
I blinked once. Then again, slower this time. Letting the shell harden back around me before I turned.
Lando stood there with both drinks in hand, casually backlit by the string lights, looking unfairly at ease. He held one out to me like we hadnât just time-traveled through two different versions of this nightâhis, light and warm; mine, sharp and splintered.
I took the glass.
âThanks,â I said, my voice a little too even.
He didnât seem to noticeâor maybe he did, but decided not to mention it. Instead, he leaned lightly against the ivy-covered ledge beside me, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed mine, but not quite.
âTheyâve got decent taste,â he said, gesturing toward the glass. âItâs elderflower something. Andrea made a face like I ordered a personality quiz, but I kind of like it.â
I gave a small, polite laugh. The kind that didnât quite reach my eyes.
He glanced sideways at me. âYou alright?â
I nodded.
He didnât buy it. Not completely. But he didnât push. Just sipped his drink, quiet for a moment before speaking again. âYou know, I almost didnât come tonight.â
That pulled my gaze. âWhy?â
He shrugged, one shoulder rising. âThese events arenât really my thing. A lot of standing around, pretending you understand fashion, pretending you donât recognize people you definitely recognize.â
âAnd yet here you are.â
His smile returnedâgentle, boyish. âHeard someone I admire might be here. Thought Iâd risk it.â
The words landed softer than they should have. Like they werenât meant to disarm, but to tell the truth quietly. I looked away before he could read too much.
He didnât speak again right away. Just let the silence exist, easy and unthreatening. And maybe thatâs what got me mostâhow nothing about him felt performative. Not his presence, not his compliment, not even his patience.
âI saw your press video,â Lando added after a beat, eyes still on mine. âSomething about âI fall in love for a living and the rest are just rehearsal.ââ A pause, slight smile. âDo you really?â
I hesitated, glass hovering mid-air.
That line had followed me for weeks. Clipped into edits, quoted under headlines, printed in italics over moody stills of my face. At the time, it had felt like armorâsomething honest dressed as irony.
Now, with his eyes on me, it felt like something else entirely.
âSometimes,â I said, voice quieter than I meant it. âSometimes itâs easier to fall in love when thereâs a script.â
He watched me for a long moment. No smirk. No clever comeback. Just⊠stillness. Like he was cataloguing the truth in what I said.
âBut that means the feelings are real, right? Even if the story isnât?â
I blinked, taken off guard. âAre you always this philosophical at parties?â
He smiled like he knew he was being caught doing something he shouldnât. I let the silence stretch a beat, then tilted my head.
âWell,â I said, feigning thoughtfulness, âif weâre trading quotes... wasnât it you who told AutoSport last summer that âemotions get in the way of winningâ?â
That earned a low laugh. âWow,â he murmured. âPulling out the greatest hits.â
I shrugged, eyes steady. âJust wondering which version of you Iâm speaking to. The one who waxes poetic on rooftops, or the one who thinks feelings are a liability.â
He took a step closer, casual but deliberate. The city lights reflected in his eyes like mischief bottled into green glass. âI didnât realize you watch me so closely.â
I lifted my glass, masking the way my pulse jumped. âI donât,â I said lightly.
He chuckled, but it was softer now. Lower. Like he knew we werenât just flirting anymore. Like we both knew weâd just admitted something neither of us had meant to.
But when I stepped back, eyes scanning instinctively for him, I caught itâthe way his gaze flicked over. Like heâd been doing the same.
It was subtle. A glance, a ghost of a smile, the kind of moment that felt too cinematic to be real. And maybe that was the problem. Everything lately felt a little too much like a movie.
We found each other again by the exit.
âLeaving?â he asked.
I nodded. âYeah, the carâs downstairs.â
He made a soft noise of understanding. âOf course.â
The music had dipped into something slower now, almost mournful. A string of French vocals floated past like smoke. We stood like that for a momentâhim with his hands in his pockets, me fiddling with the strap of my bag, both of us half in the glow of the heaters, half out. Like if we leaned just a little closer, weâd fall into something neither of us could take back.
âWell,â I said, exhaling, âgoodnight, Lando.â
âNight,â he said. But his eyes lingeredâjust a second too long.
I turned. Walked. Waited for the elevator.
But something pressed behind my ribs. Something urgent and ridiculous and stupid. Something I thought Iâd trained out of myself a long time ago. I turned to Andrea, who had fallen into step beside me, checking her phone.
âAndrea,â I whispered. âI know youâre going to hate me for this but Iââ
She didnât even look up. Just reached for the elevator button for me. âYou donât want to leave, yet?â she asked, then her eyes found mineâsoft, sincere. âGo ahead, tonight is about you.â
My throat tightened. The doors hadnât opened yet. There was still time. So I turned. I went back.
Back through the soft music and the slow laughter, past champagne flutes and curated faces and the hush of silk. Back toward him.
He was still there, hands in pockets, half-lit by string lights, like he hadnât moved at all. And when our eyes met again, something in him shiftedâslow, like recognition.
I stopped in front of him, breath slightly uneven. âI changed my mind,â I said softly. âAbout saying goodnight.â
We didnât say anything when we slipped out the elevator. Didnât plan it. He just followed, or maybe I slowed down enough for him to catch up. The doorman raised a brow as we exited, but neither of us acknowledged him. The street air was cooler than I expected, brushing soft against my skin. I pulled my coat tighter, heels clicking a little too neatly beside his sneakers.
âMy apartmentâs a few blocks,â I said, not looking at him.
âThen Iâm walking you,â he replied, like it wasnât a question.
âItâs nice,â he said after a while. âNew York at night.â
âYouâre saying that because the horns havenât started again.â
âIâm saying that because Iâm walking next to you.â
I didnât answer. I didnât know how to.
The sidewalk shimmered slightlyâleftover rain or streetlight tricksâand we passed a closed flower shop, its windows fogged with condensation. My heels tapped a little softer now. Like they knew we were easing into something quieter.
âSorry,â he said quickly. âToo much?â
I shook my head, eyes narrowingânot angry, just searching. âNo.. It's just.. you donât even know me.â
His tone gentled. âMaybe. But Iâve seen enough to know you.â
I didnât have a reply for that. Not one that made sense out loud. So I kept walking. And he followed. A moment passed in quiet. The city stretched around us like a stage set winding down.
âYou live in Monaco, right?â I asked suddenly, glancing at him.
He looked a little surprised, but nodded. âYeah. Monacoâs home now.â
âWhatâs it like?â
He considered it. âPeaceful. Small. A bit too polished sometimes, but it grows on you. The sea helps.â
âIâve been once. Years ago. Everything felt like... a postcard.â
He smiled. âThatâs pretty much it. Expensive postcards and old men who drive Ferraris slower than I do on a scooter.â
That pulled a laugh from meâlight, real, slipping out before I could catch it. Then, just as we reached the corner, he addedâcasual, almost like an afterthought, âI could take you around. If you ever come back.â
My breath caught.
It was such a simple offer. Almost careless. But the words hung there between us, quietly shimmering with something more. With possibility. With the smallest echo of a promise. If you ever come back. Not just to Monaco. To him.
I didnât say anything, just nodded. I didnât know how to. Just let the silence bloom, thick with what-ifs and something I wasnât quite ready to name.
We turned onto my street. My building was a soft gold shape in the distance now, a little too close for how far I suddenly wanted this walk to stretch.
âWhy me?â I asked. âOut of all the people you couldâve slid a message to. Why mine?â
He looked straight ahead for a beat, like he was choosing the answer with care.
âI told you. I watched you in that film. Crying in Third Person. You didnât perform it. You let it⊠bleed. Quietly. And honestly. It wrecked me in a way I couldnât explain.â
I blinked. The city blurred a little at the edges.
âAnd then,â he added, âyou said in that interview you fall in love for a living and the rest is just rehearsal. And I just thought⊠maybe someone should ask what it means to fall for real.â
The words settled in the air between usâwarm and dangerous.
I stared blankly at him, yet the small grin escaped. âYou really are mr. Philosophy.â
He grinned. âSorry, happens only when Iâm trying not to flirt.â
I laughed. âTry harder.â
âFine,â he said lightly, âhow about thisâI read somewhere that you once dated someone in a band and made him cry.â
I tilted my head. âI didnât realize you watched me so closely.â
âIâm observant.â
âDangerous quality.â
âOnly if itâs mutual.â
I didnât respond. Just kept walking. But I smiled.
We reached the front of my building too soon. I stopped in front of the revolving door. âThis is me.â
He nodded. Didnât push for more. Just met my eyes and waited. I didnât know what I wanted him to say. Or do. Or maybe I did and just didnât know how to ask for it.
âGoodnight, Lando.â I said, âThanks for.. walking me home.â
âGoodnight,â he said softly. âThank you for letting me.â
He didnât ask for more. Just stood there at the lobby, his hands still in his pockets, like he knew pushing would ruin whatever this was. And somehow, that restraintâthe quiet, easy way he let the moment breatheâfelt more intimate than anything else couldâve. I didnât invite him up. But I also didnât want him to think the walk meant nothing. So I held his gaze a moment longer, memorizing the softness there. The safety. Then I smiled, small but real, and turned toward the door. It clicked shut behind me like the close of a chapter I hadnât known I was writing. I didnât look back. I didnât need to. Letting him walk me home had been enough.
The apartment was quiet when I slipped off my heels, dropping my tote by the door with a thud that felt louder than it shouldâve. Golden hour was long gone. Everything had that dim, bluish hush of early evening, the city already humming under its breath outside. My blazer was half-off before I reached the kitchen, blouse untucked, hair loosened at the crown where the clips had started to pull.
Iâd been in front of cameras all dayâstudio shots, street shots, a warehouse-turned-set in Brooklyn where the stylist insisted on Balenciaga boots in 29°C heat. My feet hated me. My shoulders hated me. But I was finally home. I cracked open the sushi container Iâd grabbed on the way back, inhaling the fresh smell of salmon.
There was something oddly grounding about sitting at the kitchen island in a suit worth more than my first car, eating sushi with plastic utensils. Iâd barely taken the second bite when my phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then a third time, sharp and insistent.
I didnât check it immediately. Just chewed, slow, savoring the brief stillness. But something in the back of my neck prickledâintuition, maybe. Or hope.
When I finally picked it up, there it was. I stared at it. Read the subject line twice, three times, like it might change if I blinked too hard. Then I opened it.
Subject: Callback Script + Reading Times â âLeilaâ
From: [email protected]
Received: 6:42 PM
Congratulations, Y/N. Julian and the team were incredibly moved by your first audition. Please find the callback scene attached. Weâd love to see your interpretation in a scheduled live reading this Friday. Time slots below. Let us know your availability at your earliest convenience.
I didnât scream. Didnât jump. Just sat there, plastic fork still in hand, heart racing in silence. I reread it. Then opened the script attachment like it might vanish if I moved too fast.
It was real.
They wanted me back.
And not just for a second look. For a reading. With the others. Meaning I was in the final circle now. Close enough to touch something Iâd spent years telling myself not to dream too hard about.
I picked up my phone againâthis time without hesitationâand tapped Andreaâs name. The call barely rang twice before she picked up.
âWhat?â she said, half-joking, half-panicked. âAre you dead or just finally taking vitamins?â
I smiled. âI got it.â
A beat. âGot what?â
âThe callback. For Leila.â
There was a pauseâsharp inhale, thenâ
âHoly shit. Holy shit. Are you serious?â
I could hear her pacing through her apartment, footsteps going uneven. âDid they send the sides? When? Whatâs the date?â
âFriday. They want a live reading.â
âYou need to reply. Like, now. Waitâforward me the file too. I want to go over it with you before you fall down one of your psycho research rabbit holes.â
I laughed, warmth bubbling in my chest. âAlready done.â
âNo, I am already done,â she said, giddy and bossy all at once. âNow go reply. Iâll bring notes and sparkling water tomorrow.â
I opened the email again, clicked Reply, and typed fastâhands shaking but steady enough
Dear Julian and team,
Thank you so much for the opportunity. I would love to participate in the callback reading. Iâm available for the 11:00 AM slot on Friday and will be there prepared.
Warmest,
Y/N
I hit send. Then sat back on the stool, letting the aftershock ripple through my chest. A small, private smile tugged at my lips.
I was still sitting thereâbare feet on the tile, half-eaten chicken rice beside meâwhen my phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasnât casting.
It was Instagram.
@lando sent you a message.
The preview read only one word: Hey.
I stared at the notification longer than I meant to.
Not because it was surprisingâheâd followed me weeks ago, and weâd talked, lightly, at the party. Walked home together. Stood in my apartment lobby with that suspended almost-something. But still, seeing his name lit up there, soft and casualâHeyâfelt like a thread being tugged gently. Like something unspooling.
I didnât open it right away.
I just let the screen dim again and set the phone down on the counter beside my empty sauce cup. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, steady and low, while the city blinked outside my window in impatient yellow. I tipped my head back against the kitchen cabinet behind me and closed my eyes for a second. Let it all catch up.
The callback. The reading. My name on that cast listâalmost.
And now thisâLando Norris. In my messages. Like it was nothing. Like he wasnât a name spoken in headlines and half-warnings. Like we hadnât just brushed shoulders in a night stitched together by string lights and the kind of almost-intimacy that clung to you after.
I breathed out slow.
He didnât say much. Just hey. But sometimes one word from the right person felt like a door opening.
StillâI didnât reply. Not yet.
Instead, I stood, cleared the empty container, rinsed my hands under warm water until the smell of food faded, and padded barefoot into the living room. The lights were off, but I didnât switch them on. I just let the room stay hushed, bathed in the soft glow of the city through the windows. My phone buzzed once more from the kitchen islandâjust the screen lighting up this time, no new message.
Iâd reply tomorrow. Maybe.
But tonight, I wanted to remember what it felt like to be still. To hold something good before reaching for more.
Muted light filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows across the wood floors. Iâd woken before my alarmâbarely five hours of sleep behind meâand padded barefoot into the kitchen, where the silence felt heavier than usual.
I made tea. Not because I wanted it, but because it gave my hands something to do. The steam curled upward in slow ribbons as I leaned against the counter, staring out at the fire escape.
Somewhere in another timeline, Iâd have texted someoneâmaybe a friend, maybe more than thatâjust to say I couldnât sleep either. But in this version of my life, I sat quietly, letting the tea go lukewarm and unread messages stay unread.
I still hadnât replied to him.
Not because I didnât want to. But because I did.
By two, Iâd traded the robe for real clothes, half-heartedly organized a corner of my closet, and answered four emails before opening Andreaâs call.
âYou sound weird,â she said the second she heard my voice.
âIâm tired.â
âYou always say that when youâre in your head.â
âIâm always in my head.â
She snorted. âFair point. Okay, shootâwhatâs stuck there now?â
I hesitated. Then, casuallyâtoo casuallyâI said, âLando messaged me.â
Silence.
âStill haven't replied,â I added.
Andrea didnât say anything right away. Then: âAnd why not?â
I busied myself straightening the hem of my sweater. âI donât know. I didnât want to be... obvious.â
âYouâre not obvious,â she said. âYouâre cautious. You think if you wait long enough, the feelings will sort themselves out for you.â
âThatâs not true.â
âOh really?â she said, dry. âHowâs that working out for you so far?â
I exhaled through a soft laugh, reluctantly amused. âOkay, fine. Maybe Iâm a little obvious.â
âLook,â she said, voice gentling. âYouâre allowed to be a little curious. Just donât lose yourself in someone elseâs story. Not again.â
âI wonât,â I said. And for once, I almost believed it.
 I made dinner just to have something warm in the apartment.
The city glittered through the windows, lights catching on glass like stars that had decided to fall sideways. I ate alone, barefoot again, curled up in the corner of the couch with a throw blanket and my bowl balanced in one hand.
My phone sat next to me. Quiet.
I tapped the screen once. Then again.
Still unread. Still unanswered.
By midnight, the air had thinned out into something cool and hushed. I was curled under the duvet, knees tucked up, scrolling mindlessly through photos I didnât remember liking.
Then I found myself back in the message thread and finallyâafter days of ignoring it, I clicked the unread message.
@Lando: hey
@Lando: had fun talking to you the other night
@Lando: let me know if I ever earn a scene in your next film
I stared at it for a long time.
ThenâfinallyâI typed.
@Y/N: youâd have to audition
@Y/N: i hear youâre good at corners, but how are you with subtext?
I hovered over the send button for a beat too long. Then tapped.
The message slid upward. Neat. Deliberate. Done. I put my phone face-down on the nightstand. And let the quiet fill in everything I wasnât ready to feel yet.
The week moved differently nowâslower, somehow, even though nothing had stopped. The city still pressed forward in its usual rhythm, indifferent to the shifts happening inside my chest. After my reply to Landoâs message, there hadnât been a reply right away. I told myself I wasnât waitingânot reallyâyet my phone battery drained faster that night. It wasnât until sometime after midnight, when Iâd already washed my face and curled into the corner of my bed, that it buzzed again.
@Lando: subtextâs easy when the dialogueâs good
@Lando: just donât ask me to play someone iâm not
I read it twice. Then again. Let the grin bloom slowly before I pressed the phone to my chest like I could smother it into silence. I didnât reply right awayâdidnât want to seem too eagerâbut my thoughts tugged at the edge of sleep, nudging toward the possibility of more.
The next morning was rain-soft and unhurried. My apartment felt cocooned, half-lit by gray skies and the dull hum of city traffic. I brewed my coffee slowly, barefoot and wrapped in the same oversized shirt I wore to sleep, my hair still damp from a quick shower. There was an interview scheduled at noon over Zoom, something low-stakes and pre-recorded, and a stylist had dropped off a few potential outfits for the Friday reading. But for the first time in weeks, I wasnât in a rush.
I padded around the kitchen island, sipping from my chipped blue mug, re-reading Landoâs message. I didnât even notice when my smile pulled wide again.
By mid-afternoon, Andrea had arrivedâloud as always, with iced coffee in one hand and a tote bag stuffed with garment bags in the other.
âAlright,â she said, dropping everything by the couch. âIâve come bearing caffeine, couture, and chaos.â
âI already made coffee,â I said, raising my mug.
âGood,â Andrea replied. âYouâll need it.â
We spent the next hour combing through wardrobe optionsâsoft neutrals, sharp navy, a maybe-too-bold tangerine silk blouseâand debating whether the reading would be taped or not. Andrea had already heard whispers. Two other names had surfaced. One of them had just landed a streaming series, the other had starred in a Cannes darling. Both were stunning. Both had connections. Both had agents who knew how to whisper in just the right ears.
âItâs a bloodbath,â Andrea said, chewing on the end of her straw. âBut youâve got Kassnerâs attention. That doesnât go away easily.â
I didnât say anything. Just thumbed the edge of a hanger and nodded.
âAnd,â Andrea added pointedly, like sheâd saved the juiciest headline for dessert, âthey all know you got a callback. Itâs out.â
I raised a brow. âSince when?â
âSince some staff canât keep a secret in the group chat,â Andrea muttered, deadpan. âBut itâs good. Buzz is good. Just donât let it rattle you.â
It wasnât the buzz that rattled me. It was the closeness of it all. The proximity to something I hadnât let myself want fully until now.
I sat on the armrest, phone in hand, absently scrolling through her unread texts. My thumb hovered over Landoâs name.
Andrea noticed. âStill havenât replied to that F1 boy?â
I didnât look up. âI did.â
Andrea narrowed her eyes. âAnd you didnât tell me becauseâŠ?â
I shrugged. âIâm not sure if itâs anything.â
Andrea gave her a long look. âRight. And I drink celery juice because I love the taste.â
I rolled my eyes. But later, once Andrea left with promises to return early Friday with makeup and snacks, I sat on the couch in the fading light, phone cradled between both hands.
I stared at Landoâs last message again. Read it out loud under my breath, then replied.Â
@Y/N: good answer. but just so you know, no stunt doubles
@Y/N: and I donât do rewrites
There. Clever, but neutral. It gave nothing away. I hit send, tossed the phone aside, and buried myseld under a throw blanketâheart somehow both racing and warm.
The reply didnât come immediately. But I didnât need it to. And for the first time in months, the anticipation didnât feel like anxiety. It felt like beginning.
The air in the Kassner's office felt colder than it shouldâve been, like ambition had stripped the place of its warmth. A screen near the lobby looped muted clips from Kassnerâs past films. His name etched discreetly on the wall like it didnât need to announce itself.
I sat with my script folded neatly on my lap, thumb brushing the page edges like I was counting time. I wore the navy blouse me and Andrea had debated. Understated but sharp. Paired with clean black trousers and kitten heels I could actually stand in for more than five minutes. Andrea had done my makeup that morningâbarely-there foundation, a trace of liner, and just enough blush to look awake.
I wasnât nervous exactly. Not in the obvious, sweaty-palmed way. But my breath sat higher in my chest than usual. My mind refused to stop rehearsing the sceneâs final line, even though I'd memorized it days ago.
They called me in third.
The casting director gave me a warm nod. The producer smiled. And Julian Kassner, sitting off to the side in that signature black button-down, gave the smallest raise of his brow. Not approval. Just... observation.
Across from me sat Reed Brody, whoâd already landed two streaming series this year and looked like he walked out of a GQ spread. He smiled when I enteredâfaintly surprised. âHey.â
I nodded back. âHey.â
The assistant clapped the slate. âScene four, Leila, callback round.â
And then everything fell quiet.
I took a breath, low and steady.
The scene began mid-argumentâLeila, standing in a hotel hallway in Rome, soaked from a rainstorm, facing the man she once loved like a secret. The lines were spiky and wounded, but the subtext hummed below: she didnât just want answersâshe wanted to be known. Underneath the fight was history. A thousand untold truths. The memory of a summer that had never really ended.
I didnât act the scene. I lived it.
My voice didnât rise; it cracked in the right places. I delivered a line that shouldâve been accusatory with quiet devastation. When Reed reached for me in the scripted pause, I didnât move awayâbut I didnât lean in either. Just stayed still. Heavy with restraint.
The final line sat on my tongue like a confession. âYou donât get to remember it sweeter than I do.â
Silence followed. Not awkward. Not empty. Just⊠still.
Kassner leaned forward, fingers pressed under his chin. âThank you,â he said finally.
The casting director nodded. âThat was⊠excellent.â
Reed broke character first, giving me a quiet grin. âDamn,â he murmured under his breath. âYou went for the jugular.â
I smiled faintly, pulse still pounding somewhere in my wrists.
Julian stood. âY/N, would you stay a moment?â
The others filtered out slowly. The door clicked shut behind them. He didnât speak immediately. Just stepped closer, arms folded, eyes unreadable. âIâve watched a lot of people try to play that scene,â he said. âMost perform the heartbreak. You understood it.â
I didnât know what to say. So I said the truth, âIâve lived it.â
He studied me for a long second, then nodded. âWeâll be in touch very soon.â
It wasnât a promise. But it felt like the closest thing to one.
Outside, the sun had come out, casting slices of gold across the concrete. I stepped into it like someone coming up for air. I didnât text Andrea. Not yet. I didnât open Instagram eitherâeven though Iâd seen the green light by Landoâs name the night before, and part of me wondered if heâd been waiting too.
Instead, I kept walking. Through the noise. Through the light. Something had shifted. And whether I got the part or notâI had felt it.
The city was humming againâsoft headlights flickering past my windows, the radiator clicking like it had something to say. I had changed into sweats and curled up on the couch, Chili snoring lightly at my feet. The callback was over. The adrenaline had burned itself out. And now came the worst part: the wait.
My phone buzzed. Josh.
I answered on the second ring, pressing the phone between my ear and shoulder while reaching for a glass of water.
âHey,â I said, voice soft from the quiet.
âHey, superstar,â Josh replied, voice full of that signature older-brother mischief. âSo. Did you cry? Did they cry? Was there dramatic music and slow clapping involved?â
I smiled, settling deeper into the cushions. âNo slow clapping. But I didnât bomb.â
âYou never bomb.â
âI have, actually. Remember that commercial audition in Glendale where I blanked and said âemotional tortillasâ?â
Josh laughedâloud, delighted. âA classic. Still not over it.â
âNeither is my dignity.â
He let the chuckles fade before his tone shifted, just slightly. âSeriously though. You think it went well?â
I hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of my glass. âYeah. I think so. Julian looked⊠engaged. In that quiet, terrifying genius way.â
âEngaged is good,â Josh said. âTerrifying genius is basically a compliment in director-speak.â
A beat passed, then he added, casual as anything: âYou free tomorrow?â
I raised a brow. âI mean⊠maybe. Depends. Why?â
âActually, never mind. Andrea already cleared your schedule for a few days.â
I blinked. âShe what?â
âShe saidâand I quoteââSheâll kill me if she doesnât get a breather before the news breaks.â So I made a move.â
âJoshâŠâ
âI got two VIP tickets to the Japan Grand Prix,â he said, quick and smug. âCourtesy of the company. Our marketing teamâs doing activation stuff with McLaren. I already bought the flights. We leave tomorrow morning. You and me. Letâs go on vacation.â
I sat up straighter. âYouâre not serious.â
âIâm dead serious. Business class, baby. I even picked a hotel with a bidet.â
I laughed in disbelief, palm to my forehead. âJosh, Iâ Iâm still waiting on a call. From Kassner. It could come anytime.â
There was a pause. Then softer, âIf it comes, Iâll buy us the first flight home.â
I didnât answer right away. Just let the silence stretch a little, my eyes tracing the glint of the city through my window.
âYouâve been working nonstop for what? Six months? A year? Even when we went to the lake house, you brought two binders and made us rehearse that script.â
âI mean.. I did land those roles,â I muttered.
Josh chuckled. âI know you did. But I want to see you breathe, Y/N. And eat ramen, drink your disgusting matcha. And watch a race with me. You remember races, right? You and me on the couch every Sunday like clockwork?â
I smiled faintly. âOf course I do.â
âThen come with me,â he said gently. âEven if itâs just for a few days. You deserve to be in a place where nobody asks you about red carpet looks or PR rumors. Just⊠sky trains and matcha and F1 engines screaming like war.â
I laughed again, heart tugging softly.
âIâll pack my eye mask,â I said. âAnd my big sunglasses.â
The call ended. And I stared at my reflection in the dark window for a long moment, something small and unnameable tugging behind my ribs. I didnât know what Japan would bring. Or if the call from Kassner would come while I was across the world. But for the first time in weeks, I felt the flicker of something lighterâlike a breath waiting to be taken.
We landed just after five.
The descent into Tokyo was smooth, the kind of quiet that felt earned after twelve hours in the air. Iâd watched the sun slip past the window, staining the clouds in warm, diluted peach before giving way to the cool blue of early evening. Everything outside looked tidy, soft-edged, quietly preciseâso unlike New Yorkâs constant blur.
I stepped off the plane with a scarf knotted loosely at my neck, sunglasses still on despite the dim light. No one here knew who I was. I couldâve been anyoneâjetlagged, underfed, overslept. It felt good.
Josh was already ahead, talking too loudly in the customs line, flashing his work badge like it meant something here. It kind of did. His company had some collaboration with McLarenâmarketing, branding, some flashy cross-platform thing. I didnât ask too many questions. I just let him drag me halfway across the world under the pretense of a âvacation.â
Heâd said it so casually on the phoneâtwo VIP tickets to the Japan Grand Prix, already booked the flights, Andrea cleared your schedule, you need this.
And maybe I did. Even if part of me still felt suspended, waiting for a call that hadnât come yet.
By the time we stepped out into arrivals, the sky was that deep violet gray that never quite goes full black in a city this alive. Neon signs flickered politely. A vending machine hummed softly to itself near the curb. Our driver held up a neat sign with Joshâs name on it, bowing as we approached.
Tokyo felt... hushed. Like the volume of the world had been turned down just enough to let my thoughts breathe.
The drive to the hotel blurred pastâclean streets, train tracks overhead, cherry trees just beginning to blush. Josh talked the whole way. About ramen shops and pit lane passes, about the driver lineup and tire strategies and some meme heâd seen of Lando holding three iced coffees at once.
I let him talk. My forehead pressed to the window, eyes half-lidded, heartbeat finally slowing for the first time in days.
The hotel was a soft-spoken kind of luxuryâmarble floors, warm lighting, staff that made you feel like silence was part of the design. Our room had a view of the skyline and, if you squinted hard enough, a pale silhouette of Mount Fuji ghosting in the distance.
I dropped my bag by the closet and sat on the edge of the bed. Shoes off. Hair down. Shoulders heavy but looser somehow. Like the tension was beginning to leak out, slow and quiet, with every breath.
Josh appeared in the doorway holding two bottles of iced tea.
âFigured this would stop you from face-planting before dinner,â he said, tossing one my way.
I caught it, unscrewed the cap. âThanks.â
He plopped down beside me, shoulders knocking. âStill no call?â
I shook my head.
He didnât push. Just leaned back on his hands and looked out toward the city like it might give us answers. âMaybe itâs good,â he said. âMeans theyâre actually thinking about it. Means itâs serious.â
I nodded faintly, sipping the tea. Floral. Strange. But not unpleasant.
My phone buzzed from somewhere in my tote.
I didnât move right away. Then reached for it.
Not casting. No notification.
Then I absently tapped Instagram, found Lando's profile at the front row of my following's stories. I tapped it open.
@lando â 38m
It was blurryâa quick garage video, someone shouting about tire compounds in the background. Landoâs helmet was half-on, camera panning past the car. He caught himself in the reflectionâjust a flash of a grin, crooked and boyish, before the video cut off.
I smiled without meaning to. Closed the app. Set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Josh glanced over. âWhat are you smiling at?â
I didnât answer, just stood and stretched my arms overhead until my joints cracked.
âCome on,â I said, tugging his sleeve. âLetâs go find your three bowls of ramen.â
He whooped and grabbed his jacket. I didnât tell him that in that momentâsurrounded by soft Tokyo light and distant engines humming in garages halfway across the cityâI felt something close to stillness.
It wasnât peace, not quite. But it was the first time in weeks I hadnât felt like I was running.
The air at Suzuka was differentâbrighter, somehow sharper. Everything hummed. The engines. The crowd. The morning sun pressing down on the asphalt. Even the air smelled like adrenalineâhot rubber, grass, fuel.
Josh was in heaven.
He wore his VIP lanyard like a badge of honor, walking five steps ahead, pointing out pit signage, quoting lap times from memory. I trailed behind, sunglasses on, hair tucked under a soft cap, jacket zipped up halfway. Incognito, but barely. The staff who scanned our passes definitely recognized me, but they said nothing. Japan had that kind of grace.
We followed a McLaren PR rep through the paddockâJoshâs company tie-in got us access to everything but the garage itself. That was fine. I didnât need more.
I needed less.
I kept my head down as we weaved between tech carts and camera crews, past rows of branded umbrellas and people with walkies clipped to their belts. It was barely past ten, but the circuit felt like it had been awake for hours. Fans were already pouring in, their cheers echoing like waves from the grandstands.
Josh nudged me suddenly. âLeft,â he said.
I looked. And there he was.
Lando.
Across the paddock, in that unmistakable orange and black McLaren gear, laughing at something a crew member had said. His curls were tucked under his cap, headset around his neck, fire suit only half-zipped and tied at the waist. He looked relaxedâgrinning, easyâbut focused underneath it. Like heâd already driven three laps in his head.
He didnât see me.
I didnât wave.
Just⊠watched. A blink too long, probably. He turned slightly, still talking, still laughing. The sun caught the edge of his jaw. That same crooked grin Iâd seen in his story. For a second, the rest of the paddock blurred.
I wondered if he knew I was here. If heâd been looking.
I wondered if heâd check his phone during the driver parade and see the photo I almost posted from last nightâa lantern-lit alley, quiet steam rising from a ramen bowl. Iâd typed out a caption. Then deleted it.
Josh bumped my arm gently, pulling me back to earth. âStill just a guy,â he said under his breath, teasing.
I smirked. âSays the man who made me run for merch ten minutes ago.â
âThat bucket hat was limited edition.â
We moved on, the moment folding back into the blur of media, mechanics, and sponsors. I didnât see Lando again before the race started.
But I felt himâsomewhere in the thrum of engines, the silence before the start lights blinked out, the crowdâs held breath as the cars screamed into turn one.
When the race began, I watched from the hospitality terrace, a headset pressed to one ear, Josh glued to the live timing screen beside me. Lando started P3.
I didnât cheer when he overtook.
I didnât gasp when he nearly lost it at Spoon.
But my heart did something strange every time his name lit up on the tower.
By lap 43, he was in P2 and closing in. I told myself it didnât mean anything. That I wasnât here for him.
But when he crossed the finish line second and raised a fist from the cockpit, I smiled.
Not because he won.
Because he looked up at the stands like he knew someone was watching.
The train ride back from Suzuka was a blur. My jacket still smelled faintly like engine smoke and yakitori. Josh fell asleep leaning against the window, mouth open, arms folded like he didnât just scream through half the race like a teenage fanboy. I stared at the lights flickering past the glass, thinking about how the crowd had roared when Lando crossed the finish line second.
Thinking about how he hadnât looked toward the cameras first. Heâd looked up.
We got back to the hotel around eight. Josh crashed hard, muttering something about jetlag and sake and âwake me up next week.â I took a quick shower, braided my hair, and padded barefoot across the plush hotel carpet with Chiliâs photo on my phone and an ache in my chest I couldnât quite name.
I wasnât tired.
Not in the way that sleep fixes.
By ten, I was out againâwrapped in an oversized coat, cap pulled low, earbuds in but music off. Just⊠walking. Tokyo at night had a quiet that felt respectful. Like the city knew how to give you space without demanding anything in return.
I found a tiny convenience store tucked beneath a closed karaoke bar and bought a can of matcha and a rice ball I didnât eat. Wandered another few blocks. Checked my phone twice. No notifications.
I didnât know if I was hoping for something or running from it.
Then I saw him. I thought my eyes had fooled me. But when he lifted his head, staring up to the distance, I'd recognized that profile anywhere.
Leaning against a railing outside a quiet pedestrian bridge, cap low, hoodie pulled up. Just him and the night and the soft hum of vending machines nearby. His phone dangled loosely in his hand. Like heâd been waiting. Or maybe just standing still long enough for the world to tilt toward him.
He looked to the side before I even said anything. His eyes caught mine like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
I stopped a few steps away. His eyes sparkedâwith recognition.
âI figured you'd be at some afterparty,â I said softly.
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. âDidnât feel like it.â
A beat passed. Wind brushed past us, lifting the hem of my coat.
âYou were there,â he said.
It wasnât a question.
I nodded once. âP2 looks good on you.â
He huffed a laugh, then glanced down at his shoes, scuffing one against the pavement. âYou disappeared after the paddock.â
âI do that sometimes,â I said. âDisappearing.â
âMaybe,â he murmured, lifting his gaze again. âBut youâre still here.â
I didnât answer. Just let the moment stretch between usâquiet and electric, like the city had dimmed itself just to give us this space.
âI wasnât sure if Iâd see you,â he added after a beat.
âI wasnât sure if I wanted to be seen.â
He tilted his head, studied me a little. âYou always this cryptic?â
âOnly with people who message me one-word greetings like âhey.ââ
That grin brokeâboyish and tired and stupidly endearing. âWorked, didnât it?â
I smiled, small and involuntary.
He pushed off the railing, took a slow step toward me. âCome walk with me?â
It wasnât pushy. Just a question. A thread gently held out. And for once, I didnât pull away. I nodded.
So we walkedâthrough empty alleys and glowing streetlamps, past vending machines and shuttered cafes, not saying much at all.
Sometimes the beginning doesnât announce itself.
It just⊠walks beside you under Tokyo stars, not asking for anything but the quiet.
We didnât talk much at first.
Just walked. Side by side. Our footsteps echoing soft against the concrete as the streets around us exhaled into their midnight hush.
Tokyo felt like it was holding its breath for us.
He had his hands tucked in his hoodie pockets, hood still up. I had my sleeves pulled over my fingers, one hand around the unopened can of matcha Iâd bought but forgotten about.
âYou always walk like this after a race?â I asked eventually, voice low.
He shook his head. âOnly when I canât sleep.â
I looked over. âCanât or wonât?â
He gave a small shrug, eyes on the sidewalk. âBit of both.â
We turned down a narrow street lit by one flickering streetlamp and the glow of a vending machine humming to itself like it had secrets. The air smelled like rain, even though it hadnât fallen.
âYou get that a lot?â he asked after a beat. âInsomnia?â
I nodded. âItâs not even about sleep anymore. Itâs about what I have to feel first to get there.â
He glanced at me. Said nothing.
I kept going before I lost the nerve. âI used to think if I just kept movingâworking, auditioning, pretendingâthen everything would stay outside of me. But it doesnât. It just waits.â
His expression didnât shift. But something in him stilled.
âI get that,â he said finally, voice quiet.
We crossed a small bridgeâone of those charming, tucked-away pedestrian ones with red paint fading on the rails. The water below was dark, still. I paused in the center without thinking, and he stopped beside me.
There was a long moment where neither of us spoke.
Then he said, softly, âIâm not good at it either.â
âAt what?â
âStillness. Letting people in. Being⊠known.â
I looked over at him. âYou seem good at it.â
âIâm good at noise,â he said. âAt interviews. Banter. Fast answers and faster exits. But real stuff? Thatâs⊠harder.â
I studied his profileâsoft jawline, mouth tight, eyes watching the water like it might blink back.
âWhy?â I asked gently.
His jaw ticked once. âBecause the last time I let someone see all of it, they used it to cut me.â
The words hung there. Bare, unpolished. I didnât push. Just let the silence stretch between us like a net.
âIâm sorry,â I said after a while.
He shook his head. âNo, donât be. Itâs old. Just⊠makes you think twice the next time.â
âOr three times,â I murmured. âOr ten.â
He huffed a soft breath, more exhale than laugh. âYeah.â
I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and leaned against the railing.
âI think thatâs why I didnât reply to you right away,â I admitted. âNot because I wasnât interested. But because I was. And I didnât trust what that meant. Not with... everything.â
He turned to face me now, really looking. The air between us felt stiller than the water below.
âIâm not asking for all of it,â he said. âNot tonight. Not ever, if itâs not yours to give. But Iâm here. If you ever want to share it.â
I blinked once. My throat went tight.
And thenâbecause I didnât trust myself to say something real without ruining itâI said, lightly, âYou sure? I come with a lot of disclaimers.â
âSo do I,â he said, that grin flickering back for half a second. âMineâs just in smaller print.â
He stepped back from the railing first, nudging my shoulder lightly with his. âCome on.â
âWhere are we going?â
âThereâs a place not far,â he said. âLocals only. Youâll love it. Best ramen of your life.â
I narrowed my eyes. âBig claim.â
He gave me a look over his shoulderâsmug, boyish. âJust trust me.â
We walked a few blocks through the quiet back alleys of Tokyo, our footsteps soft against the stone. The city had truly exhaled nowâno honks, no voices, just the hush of neon reflections and the low hum of a vending machine somewhere behind us. The ramen spot was tucked between a 24-hour florist and a hardware shop that looked like it hadnât changed in thirty years. No sign. Just a cracked wooden noren curtain over the door and the faint scent of broth that hit me like a hug.
Lando pushed it open. A small bell rang.
Inside, there were only eight seats. A couple of salarymen hunched over steaming bowls. A woman in scrubs laughed softly into her phone near the back. No tourists. No cameras. Just steam and soy and the warm clatter of real life. We sat at the end of the bar. The ownerâan older man in a faded black apronâgave Lando a small nod of recognition, like theyâd done this before. No fanfare. Just comfort.
âThey serve ceremonial-grade matcha here too,â Lando said, unrolling his sleeves. âYou know. In case youâre judging my taste.â
âI always am.â
His grin curved slow, deliberate. âYeah, but you like me anyway.â
âI tolerate you,â I said, though my mouth was already twitching into a smile.
He ordered for both of us in quiet, easy Japanese. I tucked my hands into my coat sleeves, watching him speak, watching the familiarity settle around him like heâd worn it in.
âYou come here often?â I asked, curious.
He glanced over. âWhen Iâm in Japan, yeah. I found it during my first season. Iâd just had a crap quali, couldnât sleep. Walked around for an hour and ended up here. The guy behind the counter didnât ask who I was. Just gave me tea and told me I looked like I needed carbs.â
âHe was right.â
âHe was wise.â
The matcha came first. Earthy. Smooth. Poured into two tiny cups without ceremony but somehow still reverent. I wrapped my fingers around the warmth and watched the steam curl upward.
Lando sipped his, then tilted his head. âSo whatâs it like?â
âWhat?â
âSurviving between the lines. Keeping the real stuff locked up while everyone else reads the script theyâve written for you.â
I blinked. He didnât ask it like a trap. Just a gentle curiosity. Like heâd lived a version of it too.
âItâs like holding your breath in a room full of people who think youâre already singing,â I said eventually.
Lando leaned his forearms on the counter. âThatâs a hell of an answer.â
I shrugged, quiet. âI guess I just got good at breathing where no one can hear it.â
He watched me for a second, eyes softer now. The corners crinkled a little when he smiled. âWell, for the record⊠I hear it. Even when you donât say anything.â
Before I could reply, the bowls arrivedâperfect, steaming, golden. Fat noodles, soft-boiled eggs, ribbons of pork and spring onions like art. Lando lit up like a kid on Christmas.
âOh my God,â he said, pushing his hair back with both hands like the sight was too good to be real. âTell me that doesnât look life-changing.â
I laughed. Actually laughed. Pulled out my phone instinctively.
âYouâre photographing the ramen?â he asked.
I aimed the lens at him instead. âIâm photographing your dumb happy face. And then the ramen.â
He smirked. âU gonna post that?â
I looked up over the edge of my phone.
âNo way,â I said, more serious than I meant to. âIâm still waiting on the Leila call. Canât risk it. Gotta be careful.â
He paused, chopsticks mid-air. âSo you donât want to get caught eating ramen with me?â
My mouth opened. âOf course notââ I stopped, blinked.
Lando tilted his head, lips twitching.
I narrowed my eyes. âThatâs not what I meant.â
âOh, I know what you meant,â he said, smug. âJust having fun watching you panic.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âYouâre flustered.â
âShut up and eat your noodles.â
But I couldnât help the flush on my cheeks, or the stupid smile tugging at the edge of my mouth. And when he took his first bite and actually closed his eyes in delight, I snapped the photo anyway. Just for me. Just in case the moment ever tried to pretend it wasnât real.
I woke to soft light slipping through the hotel curtains and the distant sound of a tram churning down the street. My phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand, but I didnât reach for it. Not yet.
For a moment, I just lay there. Curled under the blanket, bare feet tangled in the sheets, listening to the hum of Tokyo waking up around me.
Josh was still asleep in the next room, judging by the faint snoring I could hear through the connecting door. I slipped out of bed and padded across the suite, tugging on one of the hotel robes and twisting my hair into a low knot. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked soft around the edgesâsleep-warmed, slightly puffy, like I hadnât worn makeup in two days. Which I hadnât.
I washed my face. Brushed my teeth. Opened the window slightly to let the city in.
Then, finally, I checked my phone. Twelve unread texts. Four missed calls (all Andrea). Andâ
X: 57 new notifications.
I blinked. Tapped. The first post hit like a splash of cold water.
@F1obsessed:
wait was that ACTUALLY Y/N at Suzuka yesterday?? jacket, sunglasses, lowkey af but... that looked like her đ«ą
@filmcrimes:
if Y/N was at the McLaren paddock and I missed it Iâm going to eat drywall
@mclando.jpg:
not saying anything but the timing of her Tokyo trip + Landoâs grin post-race + the fact that sheâs literally her... Iâm watching this space đ
@trendwatchqueen:
Her PR teamâs gonna pretend she was âon vacationâ but she doesnât just show up at the Japan GP.........
I exhaled sharply. Half-laughed.
The photo was blurry, taken from a distanceâme in the paddock, jacket up, lanyard half-tucked into my jacket. Josh was beside me. You could barely see my face. But somehow, they still knew.
The comments were a mixture of awe, curiosity, and cynicism. A few kind ones. A few accusing me of chasing headlines again. Someone had tagged a three-month-old gossip article with a screenshot of Landoâs follow on my profile.
I scrolled once more, searching any evidence we'd got caught together last night. When I couldn't find any, I exhaled in relieve, then locked my phone. Set it down beside my untouched cup of tea.
There were no photos from last night. No one had seen us walking, or talking, or sitting side by side on a bridge. But still, the math was being done: Suzuka + his interview + the Instagram follow. And suddenly, the internet had a theory.
The thing wasâI hadnât done anything. I hadnât posted. Hadnât clung to his arm. Hadnât worn a team cap or smiled for a single camera. Iâd just been there.
And still, the story was writing itself.
I sat at the small table by the window, knees pulled up under the robe, and watched the city below. Tokyo moved forward anyway. Gracefully. Indifferently. No one here cared who I was or who I might be standing next to.
A small knock sounded from the door.
Joshâs voice followed, muffled: âDid you see X?â
âUnfortunately,â I called back.
He cracked the door open, still in pajama pants and a T-shirt with miso soup on it. âAndrea called me. Sheâs spiral-texting.â
âI know. I havenât answered yet.â
âSheâs gonna fly here just to wrestle your phone out of your hand.â
I smiled faintly, gaze still out the window. âLet her try.â
He padded in and leaned against the wall, sipping from a canned coffee. âYou okay?â
âIâm fine.â
âYou sure?â
I looked up at him. âI didnât do anything wrong.â
âNo,â he said simply. âYou didnât.â
I let the quiet settle between us again, then added softly, âBut I donât know what this makes me. Not yet.â
Josh crossed the room, dropped a gentle hand on my shoulder. âYouâre still you. Even if people are trying to turn you into a headline.â
I didnât reply. I just reached for my tea, let it warm my hands, and stared out at Tokyo like it might give me answers I couldnât Google.
I was still holding the teacup when my phone buzzed again. Not X this time. Not Andrea. Lando. His name blinked at the top of my screen like it knew Iâd been waiting. I hesitated, thumb hovering. Then tapped.
@lando: so⊠youâve broken the internet again
I stared at it. Then let the smallest laugh slip out, soft and surprised. I typed a response slowly, still curled in the robe, still tired.
@Y/N: yeah apparently
I smiled. Let the screen dim. Lit it back up again. Another message came in just as I was about to set the phone down.
@lando: for what itâs worth
@lando: Iâm glad you came
My breath caught a little. No joke this time. No emoji. Just⊠that. Simple. Honest. A thread being held gently, offered but not pulled. I stared at the message longer than I meant to. Not because I didnât know what to sayâbut because it felt like the kind of text you donât reply to too fast. Like it deserved space to breathe.
Finally, I typed.
@Y/N: me too
@Y/N: even if I spent half the race trying to hide inside my jacket
@lando: you were very obvious
@lando: but I liked it
@lando: and last night.. you are not the worst company :p
My heart gave a quiet, traitorous thud. And for a moment, I forgot about the tweets. The storylines being stitched together without my consent. Because here, in this threadâhe wasnât a headline. He was just him. And I was just⊠me.
Typing slowly. Letting myself mean it.
@Y/N: ha ha funny
@Y/N: you weren't so bad either
@Y/N: and thanks for not pretending I wasnât there
He replied almost instantly.
@lando: i couldnât. youâre kind of hard to ignore
The screen was still lit with Landoâs message when Andreaâs name lit up underneath. I hesitated for exactly three seconds. Then picked up.
âHi.â
âAre you kidding me?â Andreaâs voice came in sharp, breathless. âYouâre trending in two countries and you didnât even warn me?â
I winced. âGood morning to you too.â
âIâve had three calls, two emails, and one panicked assistant asking if youâre dating a Formula 1 driver. And do you know what I told them?â
I sat down on the edge of the bed. âThat I was following Josh around the paddock?â
âThat you were in Japan, yes. Not walking into the most visible sporting event in Asia in sunglasses like a movie poster.â
I rubbed my temples. âTo be fair, I was trying to blend in.â
âAnd yet,â she said dryly, âthe internet CSIâd your ass in under four hours.â
I took a breath. Quiet. Measured.
âOkay. Look. I need to tell you something,â I said softly. âJust to give you a heads-up. Just in case.â
There was a pause on her end. âGo on.â
âI⊠saw Lando last night.â
Silence.
âI didnât plan it. I was just walking. Couldnât sleep. I ran into him. He saw me. I saw him. That was all.â
She exhaled like she was blowing air through a straw. âY/NâŠâ
âI know. Iâm sorry. I didnâtânothing happened, not like that. We just talked and ate. Thatâs it. Iâm telling you now because I know what it looks like, even if itâs not what it is.â
Andrea sighed, long and tired. âNo oneâs caught that. Yet. But you need to be so careful. This is a pressure cooker. Leila is still in play.â
My heart tightened. âHas Kassnerâs team said anything?â
âYes,â she admitted. âThey emailed this morning. Asking if the current media attention is expected to âescalate.ââ
That pulled me up straighter. âAnd you saidâŠ?â
âI said no. That your trip was personal. Family. Low-profile.â
I swallowed. âAnd if they ask again?â
She was quiet for a beat. Then: âYou tell me first. Always.â
I closed my eyes. âOkay.â
âAnd no posts. No vague captions. Not until we know where this is going.â
âI understand.â
Her tone softened. âIâm not mad.â
âI know.â
âI just want you to get what youâve earned.â
I nodded, voice quiet. âSo do I.â
We ended the call a minute later. I set the phone down beside my tea, which had long since gone cold. The truth was simple. I hadnât done anything. But something had still begun. And this timeâI couldnât pretend not to feel it.
I didnât move for a while after we hung up.
Just sat there in the middle of the unmade hotel bed, robe wrapped around me, phone warm in my palm. Outside, Tokyo glittered under soft daylightâindifferent to whatever storm had started swirling inside my chest.
I was reaching for my cold tea when my phone rang again.
Unknown number.
No hesitation this time. I answered on the second ring.
âHello?â
A pause. Then a warm, professional voice, American. âHiâis this Y/N?â
âYes.â
âHi, this is Sabrina Lee with Kassner Productions. Iâm calling on behalf of Julian and the creative team. Is now a good time?â
My pulse skipped. âYes. Of course.â
âGreat. Iâll keep this briefâI know youâre traveling. First, I just wanted to thank you for your presence at the callback reading. Julian was incredibly moved by your interpretation. Itâs rare, he said, to see someone understand silence the way you do.â
My breath caught. I managed a quiet, âThank you.â
âThereâs been a lot of internal conversation these past few days. A few final meetings still happening, but youâre one of two names in serious consideration for Leila. Julian asked me to personally make sure you know that. Whatever happens next, youâve already shifted the room.â
I didnât speak. Couldnât.
Sabrinaâs voice softened. âThat said, thereâs been some... recent online attention. Nothing disqualifying. Just noise. The kind of thing producers flag.â
I closed my eyes. âI understand.â
âWe donât need a public statement or denial. Julianâs not interested in clickbait. But he is protective of the emotional tone of this film. If you do choose to engage with the public narrative, heâs hoping youâll do it with the same precision and restraint you brought to the script.â
Precision and restraint. I could do that. I already had.
âI understand,â I said again. âAnd thank you. For calling.â
âOf course. Andâoff the record?â she added lightly, like we were suddenly two people again instead of roles on a call. âYou were my pick.â
I smiled before I could stop it. âThank you.â
âWeâll be in touch very soon,â she said. âSafe travels, Y/N.â
The call ended.
I let the silence wrap around me, this time a little warmer. A little steadier. They hadnât said it outright. But I could feel it. I was no longer just auditioning. I was in the room.
All I had to do now⊠was hold it.
New York City was louder than I remembered. Maybe it was just me. Or maybe Tokyo had carved out something softer in my brain, a gentler rhythm that didnât slam the car door or honk before the light changed.
Josh hugged me at the airport before disappearing into the crowd with his backpack, already texting someone about vintage vinyl. I slipped into the backseat of my waiting car, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses onâeven though the sun hadnât fully risen yet.
By the time I reached my apartment, the sky had gone that silvery gray that made everything feel like a memory.
Inside, everything was where I left it. The folded laundry. The dog-eared script still sitting on the kitchen island. A half-empty matcha bottle in the fridge that had somehow survived the week.
I hugged Chiliâwho seemed to tolerate me today and fed her favorite treats. Took a long shower. Put on clean clothes and didnât check my email.
There was nothing new yet. No subject line. No final word. Instead, I unpacked slowly. Ritualistically. As if the act of folding each piece back into its drawer might bring clarity with it.
Around noon, I curled up on the couch with my laptop open and half a bagel balanced on a napkin beside me. The city moved outside my windows like it always didâfast and full of its own stories.
I was reading the callback scene againânot out of necessity, but muscle memoryâwhen my phone buzzed.
@lando sent you a photo.
Just that. No message.
I tapped it open.
It was a blurry shot from an airplane window. Dark sky. A trail of city lights below, twinkling through faint cloud cover. In the corner, the edge of a hoodie sleeve. His knee pulled up, like he was sitting curled into the seat.
A second later, the text came through.
@lando:
somewhere over nowhere
I stared at it. The simplicity of it. I didnât reply right away. Just held the phone in my palm, thumb resting over the screen like it might translate everything I couldnât say out loud.
Then slowly, I typed:
@Y/N:
iâm home
the cityâs loud
youâd hate it.
He replied two minutes later.
@lando:
maybe
unless you were there too
And that⊠was it. No pressure. No push. Just a thread left open. Lightly held. I didnât know what would happen next. Not with Leila. Not with him.
But for the first time in a long time, I wasnât reaching. I wasnât proving. I wasnât performing. I was here. In the in-between.
And somehow, that felt like a beginning too.
It was just after 3 PM when the email came in.
Iâd spent the past hour answering Andreaâs backlog of âhousekeepingâ notesâthank-you replies, brand inquiries, a gentle decline to a talk show offerâand was finally eating something that wasnât toast when my laptop pinged.
The subject line froze me. My heart slipped sideways. I set the bowl down. Wiped my hands on my sweatpants. Clicked.
Subject: Chemistry Read + Director Meeting â âLeilaâ
From: [email protected]
Received: 3:04 PM
Dear Y/N,
Thank you again for your work in last weekâs callback. Julian and the creative team were deeply impressed by your performance and would like to invite you to the next phase of consideration.
This will consist of:
â A chemistry read with Reed Brody, scheduled for next Thursday, 1:30 PM
â A follow-up one-on-one creative meeting with Julian Kassner directly, same day
We will provide sides, location, and prep materials in a follow-up email. Please confirm availability as soon as possible.
Warm regards,
Sabrina Lee
Associate Casting Director
Kassner Productions
I sat back, blinking.
Chemistry read. With Reed Brodyâof all people. He was brilliant. Charismatic. Unpredictable. And, if rumors were to be believed, exhausting on set.
And then a meeting. Just me. And Julian.
No cameras. No audience. Just the two of us and whatever he needed to see in me that hadnât already been said in a line of dialogue.
I clicked Reply before my nerves could start asking questions.
Dear Sabrina,
Thank you for the update. Iâm honored to move forward and confirm full availability for both the chemistry read and the meeting with Julian. I look forward to receiving the materials.
Warmly,
Y/N
I hit send. Closed the laptop.
Let the silence spread out around me. This was it. The last threshold. The space between maybe and yes. Between being one of two⊠and being the name at the top of the call sheet. And for the first time in weeks, the thought didnât terrify me.
I called Andrea the second Iâd finished replying the email. No greetings, no warmup.
âThey scheduled the chemistry read. Thursday. Backlot Studio 4.â
There was a pause on her end, followed by a too-calm, âI know.â
I blinked. âYou knew?â
âI knew,â she repeated, unbothered, like we were discussing weather patterns.
âHow long?â
âLong enough to make sure your calendar stayed open and your outfits donât clash with the walls.â
I sank onto the edge of my bed. âWhy didnât you say anything?â
âBecause I wanted you focused on Kassnerâs meeting. And because I knew youâd freaked out,â she said. âWhich, by the way, youâre doing now.â
I was quiet. My fingers picked at a thread on my sweatpants. âDo you know who else got called?â
There was another pause. This one was less strategic. âYes.â
âAnd?â
Andrea sighed. âArden. Arden Lin.â
My stomach flipped. Of course.
âSheâs talented,â I muttered. âReally good. Especially in Running River.â
âShe is,â Andrea agreed. âAnd her agentâs a total vulture. Sheâll play dirty if she thinks itâll get Arden the part.â
I leaned back, pressing the phone against my cheek like it could anchor me. âSheâs the industryâs golden girl right now. Sweet, innocent, untouched. And Iâm... not that.â
Andrea didnât rush to disagree. She let the words hang before saying gently, âYouâre not the image. Youâre the real thing. Thereâs a difference.â
I swallowed. âSo what now?â
âNow, you prep. You sleep. You donât let this get in your head. You walk in like youâre the one they already wantâand give them a reason to believe it.â
I nodded, even though she couldnât see me. âRight.â
âAnd Y/N?â
âYeah?â
âIâm not worried. Neither should you be. But keep your eyes open.â
âAlways.â
It started with a message.
@lando: heard new yorkâs the best place to lay low. lucky for me iâve got a local expert
@lando: got a few days off before bahrain. planning to spend them the new yorker way
@lando: recommendations welcome.
I stared at it, still in my robe, half-dressed for an impromptu self-tape I hadnât even started filming. I didnât reply immediately. Not because I didnât want toâI did, maybe too muchâbut because my brain was too full. Kassner. Arden. The scene I needed to read for the chemistry test. My skin felt too thin already.
But an hour later, when I sat down with my usual matcha from 7th Ave and my cat curled by my feet, I gave in.
@Y/N: big final audition coming up. canât afford a run-in with the papz right now. but Iâll send you recs
@Y/N: starting with this.
I dropped a link to my favorite noodle bar in the Village. One heâd never find on his own. Then added a Google Maps pin, because I couldnât help myself.
He didnât reply until later that night, but when he did, he sent a photo â the corner of the restaurantâs menu with his watch half-visible in the shot, and a single word: Approved.
The next day, I sent him a bakery.
@Y/N: order the miso-butter croissant. trust me.
He responded with three fire emojis and a grainy zoomed-in pic of it already half-eaten.
@lando: whatâs next, professor? this syllabus slaps
By the third day, I was knee-deep in script notes when he sent another message.
@lando: okay but hear me out
@lando: what if.. and Iâm just saying this hypothetically....
@lando: you came with me next time.
@lando: strict disguise. full anonymity. we do a wardrobe swap. you wear something from my closet, i wear something from yours. no one would ever suspect
I paused, thumbs hovering above my phone, smiling despite myself.
@Y/N: so youâre suggesting we go incognito in full swap mode?
@Lando: exactly. add your cat and weâre unstoppable
@Lando: letâs go be anonymous together
The temptation didnât hit me all at once.
It came in flickersâlittle tugs beneath the surface every time his name lit up on my screen.
Part of me wanted to say no. To stay focused. To stay smart. But then heâd send a picture of a miso croissant heâd half-devoured with the caption '10/10. Flaky like my dating history'.
Or a voice memo from some alley jazz bar heâd stumbled into that he said âsmelled like cigarettes and poetry and your taste in movies.â
And suddenly Iâd forget I was supposed to be cautious.
When he suggested going undercover togetherâthe wardrobe swapâI stared at the message longer than I shouldâve. My first instinct was to shut it down. Politely. Something like âRain check. Canât risk it.â
But the truth was, I didnât want to rain check. Not this time.
After a full day of overthinking it, I closed my laptop, stared at Chili who tilted her head at me like she already knew, and muttered out loud, âFuck it. Letâs do this.â
I sent the message.
@Y/N: i have one condition, big disguise, HUGE
@Y/N: and we leave through the back exit
He replied in less than five seconds.
@lando: you just made my whole week
@lando: Operation Fashion Fugitive commences.
PART 2 here
hii!! i was trying to make this as a oneshot but it exceeds the wordcount limit soo decided to split it into 2 parts ă ă anyways hope you like it <3
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Oscar Piastri was never the loudest part of her world, but he was the quiet she trusted. Through time zones and voice notes, they held each other in the spaces between. Until life pulled faster than love could catch.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader
Genre: Angst
TW: Emotional betrayal
It had been one of those days at Oxford where time slipped through my fingers like sandâlecture halls blurred into seminar rooms, my notes unreadable from speed, and my brain a buzzing, overcaffeinated mess. Between moot court prep and legal writing workshops, I barely have time to eat, let alone breathe. Lunch is often a granola bar between classes, coffee always lukewarm by the time I get to it. My evenings are for the library, hunched over a desk under the dim glow of a study lamp, chasing clarity in case law and constitutional theories.
By the time I emerged from the library, dusk had already settled over the stone courtyards, casting everything in a soft, golden hush. My back ached from hours hunched over case law, and my phone, long forgotten at the bottom of my tote, buzzed faintly against the worn leather. The screen lit up with notifications: unread messages from my study group, two missed calls from my assignment partner, a dozen emails flagged as urgent. But none from Oscar. Oscar Piastriâknown to the world for the way he tamed speed, but to me, simply the boy I called mine.
Iâve known Oscar since long before either of us had titles attached to our names. We met back in boarding schoolâheâd just moved from Australia, all limbs and awkward silences, and if Iâm being honest, I didnât think much of him at first. He was⊠odd. Quiet. Kind of twitchy. And when someone mentioned heâd come here to pursue a racing career, I thought it was the nerdiest thing Iâd ever heard. Who uproots their life for go-karts? Still, there was something about the way he carried that dreamâquietly, almost stubbornlyâthat made me curious.Â
We ended up lab partnersârandom assignment, fate, who knows. Thatâs when things shifted. Not all at once, but slowly. Oscar wasnât the brightest in class, but he was steady. He showed up to every study group, completed every task with a quiet kind of thoughtfulnessâexcept on weekends or the days he was off at the track, unreachable but somehow still present.
The feelings came softly, like turning a page and realizing youâve already read it a hundred times. It was in the way I began noticing things; how he took his coffee, how his laugh cracked when he was overtired, or how his brown eyes catch the sunlight and turn to honey. And then the traveling got busier, from one continent to another for Formula 2. Thatâs when it hit meâjust how much space he took up in my world. How quiet the library became without him beside me, how no one stole my boxed milk at lunch anymore. How no one else knew which hallway Iâd always linger in between classes.
Even when he was away, we never really stopped talking. And slowly, I learned the distance didnât dilute the feelingâit only made it clearer. One midnight, when the world was still and he was thousands of miles away, he told me he felt it too. That everything between us wasnât just in my head. And from that night on, weâve been together.
It hasnât always been easy. There have been argumentsâmost of them fueled by the ache of not being in the same place, of time zones and missed calls. But we made it work. We met each other in the middle. We built something on texts, on late-night FaceTimes every other day, on showing up in the small ways that mattered.
And we held on. Up until now.
Heâd flown back to Melbourne for the Australian Grand Prixâhome race, the first race of this season, heâd said in his last proper text, the one where he promised to call once things settled. âBeen back for a few days now. Kinda surreal. Iâll call you after media day, yeah?â That was three days ago. Since then, just the occasional heart-react, a one-word reply to something she sent late at night. Not cold. Not exactly distant. Just⊠thin. Like trying to hold onto someone through a fog. And now, sitting alone in the far corner of the library, surrounded by the low hum of students packing up, the absence of his name on her screen felt louder than anything else.Â
My phone had been quiet all day. Again.
It sat face down on the edge of my desk, beside a forgotten cup of tea that had long gone coldâmilk skin forming at the surface, like a film of something left too long unattended. Like me.
No missed calls. No new voice notes. Not even one of his blurry selfies from the paddock, all helmet hair and half-smiles captioned "just survived FP2." The last thing I had from him was a text from yesterday at 2:08 a.m where Iâd sent him a cover video of me singing with a guitar. It was mandatory before a race weekend, he used to said.
Oscar: Sounds good. Sleep well
No follow-up. No warmth. Just a sentence that felt more like an automatic response than something meant for me. I reread it anyway. Like maybe if I squinted hard enough, Iâd find more meaning tucked between the words.
I shouldâve been working. There was a stack of notes on my desk, color-coded tabs sticking out like paper wounds. The mock trial was in three days. My team was counting on me. I hadnât even finished outlining my closing argument.
But my mind was elsewhere. Stuck in a holding pattern around someone who felt further away every time I tried to reach him.
Lately, Iâd started doing this thing. Every night, after my last class or study session or library sprintâIâd record a voice note. Not long ones. Just small pieces of my day. Like breadcrumbs. Like a trail back to me. For him.
So that when the chaos quietedâwhen the interviews stopped and the engines fell silentâhe could find his way home through them. He could press play, and there Iâd be. Still here. Still loving him in the in-between.
I told myself that maybe, one day, heâd listen to them all in one go, headphones on, eyes closed, smiling like he used to. And weâd catch up on everything we missedânot in real time, but in heartbeats stored in voice memos.
I opened the app. Hit record. My voice sounded thinner than usual.
"Hey," I said, and waited. The silence after that one word felt heavier than it should. âI know itâs probably past midnight over there. Or⊠early. I keep messing up the time difference.â
A soft laugh escaped me, more breath than sound. I hated how I sounded. Tired. Hopeful. Small.
âI hope youâre sleeping, though. You looked tired in the photos from media day. I saw the clip from the press conference. That question about Lando made you laughâyour real laugh, not the PR one.â
I paused, thumb hovering over the stop button.
âI miss that. I miss you.â
The words hung there.
Too vulnerable. Too much.
I sat with them for a second, staring at the wall across from me like it might offer a better version of myself.
Then I sighed, and started over.
"Hey. Just checking in. Hope youâre resting. Good luck tomorrow. Youâll kill it."
I sent that one. Short. Clean. Non-intrusive. The kind of message someone could reply to with a single emoji. And lately, thatâs all I ever seemed to get.
Once, he wouldâve called the second he heard my voiceâtold me I sounded sleepy and asked if I was still drinking that terrible instant coffee. I'd sent a video of my cat pawing at his headphones he had left home, and he told me he missed hearing me play the piano in the background when I studied.
Once, I was the person he reached for first.
Now, I wasnât sure I even made the list.
Sometimes I wondered if he was drifting from me on purposeâor if he didnât even notice he was pulling away. Maybe it wasnât deliberate. Maybe it was just what happened when your lives started to run parallel instead of intertwined.
I picked up my phone again and scrolled up through our chat.
Oscar: Call me when you wake up x
Oscar: Youâd laugh at what I just said in the driversâ briefing lol
Oscar: Iâll FaceTime you after quali, promise
That one stung. That promise had gone unkept three times in a row now.
I scrolled up further. To voice notes I used to replay when I missed him.
âLove you. Donât forget to eat today.â
âIâll be back before you know it.â
âYouâre the best part of my day, you know that?â
It didnât feel like that now. Not anymore.
I didnât want to admit it, but part of me was starting to wonder what it meant when someone stopped making room for you. Not all at onceâno loud exit, no sharp turn. Just a quiet, slow fading. Like the dimming of a light you didnât notice had grown weak until you were suddenly sitting in the dark.
I wrapped myself tighter in my sweater, let my tea grow colder. Oxfordâs sky outside my window was heavy with clouds, the kind that never gave way to proper rainâjust a dull, oppressive gray. The streetlights had already flickered on. The city was winding down. Except for me.
I was still here. Still waiting.
âHey, Osc.
I know you probably wonât hear this until morningâor maybe after qualifyingâbut I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow. Iâll be watching, even if I have to sneak it between lectures.
Youâre going to be brilliant. You always are.
Also⊠Iâm sorry Iâve been a little quiet. Things here have just been a lot lately. Law school is kind of relentless right now and I didnât want to add noise to your already chaotic week. But thatâs not fair. I shouldâve still shown up..
I miss you⊠Just⊠drive safe. And donât forget to breathe before Turn 1. You always forget to breathe there.
Call me anytime, okay? I hope you feel me cheering for youâloudlyâeven from across the world.â
By morning, the voice note was marked as âplayed.â That was the first thing I saw when I reached for my phoneâhalf-asleep, still tangled in sheets and the warmth of things I wanted to believe were still true. I blinked at the screen, heart ticking a little faster in that silly, soft way it always did before a race day. Waiting for his reply. His voice. Something.
Instead, a single sticker appeared. The one with the cartoon thumbs-up.
That was it.
No âmorning, you,â
No âwish you were here,â
Not even a tired little selfie from the paddock with a half-smile that said nerves are kicking in.
Just⊠a sticker.
I stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen like touching it might coax something more out of him. Something warmer. Something real.
Heâd always called before qualifying. Always. Even when the Wi-Fi was terrible or he only had five minutes between briefings. Even when he was exhausted or cranky or losing his voice. Heâd FaceTime meâcamera low, his hair messy, helmet half-off, and that crooked smile that made everything else feel a little lighter.
But today? Nothing.
I told myself maybe it was different this time. Maybe his whole family was there for the home race. Maybe his mum was fussing over his breakfast and Hattie had stolen his phone to post something embarrassing. Maybe being surrounded by people who had known him since he was small was comfort enoughâand I wasnât needed this time in the same way.
That was okay, wasnât it?
Still, something in me sagged. A quiet fold of something unspoken.
I set the phone down, facedown this time. Tried to get on with my day.
But even as I packed my books for the library and tied my hair back for another endless shift at the study desk, that tiny sticker reply followed me like a shadow. Harmless. Casual. Forgettable to anyone else.
But not to me. To me, it felt like being answered with silence in a language I used to be fluent in.
Iâd tried FaceTiming himâafter class, after reworking the ending to my mock trial argument, even right before I fell asleep. Every time, it rang out unanswered. No reply. No emojis. Just the quiet echo of a line that used to feel like home. So today, I recorded a voice note, again.Â
HeyâŠ
I saw quali. P2. Thatâsâwow. Thatâs amazing, Oscar.
You were brilliant yesterday. Good luck for today, O. I hope you drive safe and smart and maybe send me a little smile later, yeah?
I miss you..
By the time I woke up, the race was just starting.
The group chat from my study group had already started buzzingâlast-minute case outlines, a panicked voice note about courtroom posture, and two frantic messages about the mock trial dress code. I scrolled through it all mechanically, thumb swiping while my mind waited for something else. For one name. One notification.
There was nothing from him. Again.
No reply to last nightâs voice note.
No FaceTime call.
No âwish me luckâ the way he always used to say itâcasual, like it didnât matter, but always with that boyish smile that said it actually meant everything.
I stared at my phone a little longer than I shouldâve, letting the silence settle in my chest like fog.
Last year, for the Australian Grand Prix, heâd FaceTimed me at 5 a.m. my time. Iâd picked up groggily, barely awake, and heâd grinned through his screen in full race gear.
âTold myself I needed to see your face or Iâd mess up Turn 1,â heâd joked.
âYouâre ridiculous,â Iâd said.
âMaybe. But Iâm lucky,â he answered.
Even when time zones tangled us, he made space. Two minutes here. A quick call while walking to the garage. Once, just to hear my voice before lights out.
But this time? Nothing.
I told myself not to overthink it. Maybe his family was with himâmaybe the paddock was crowded, or the nerves were louder this year. Maybe he needed to stay focused. Maybe he thought Iâd understand.
And part of me did. I knew the pressure. Iâd watched it from up close. But the other partâthe one that used to be hisâfelt like it was slowly being replaced by silence. Sticker replies. Missed calls. Half-hearted heart reactions on things he used to comment on.
It wasnât just distance. It felt like absence.
I set my phone down, face-up this time. Just in case. Just in case he called.
But deep down, I already knew. Today wasnât going to be like last year.
My day was already packedâmock trial prep with my teammates, case brief revisions, printing final documents, ironing out cross-examinations over bad coffee. It was one of those days where the air felt too thin and the hours too fast. My phone stayed buried at the bottom of my tote, buzzing occasionally with study group updates and debate edits.
I didnât even watch the raceânot properly. Just caught glimpses when someone opened F1 Twitter or whispered a result under their breath. At some point, someone mentioned Oscar had finished P2.
I smiled faintly and kept flipping through my notecards, repeating a closing argument under my breath. There was no time to overthink.
But during one of our breaksâwhen I finally let myself sit down with my teaâI opened Twitter.
And there she was.
A blurry screen cap from the broadcast. HattieâOscar's sister standing in the garage. Beside herâa girl I didnât recognize. Beautiful blonde hair. Big sunglasses. Wearing those big team headphones. Laughing, her hand brushing Hattieâs arm like they were familiar. Like theyâd known each other for years.
My heart stuttered, but I brushed it off quickly. Maybe a cousin. A family friend. Someone from Melbourne they grew up with. That made sense. Hattie had a wide circle. So did Oscar. I told myself not to spiral. Not to read too much into things.
But then I kept scrolling. The algorithm knew before I did.
Clips began popping up on TikTok. Snippets of that girl againâthis time, in the garage. In Oscarâs garage. A video taken from afar. Yet they stood too close. Laughing too loud. Someone had recorded them from the stands. The comments were crowded and loud.
âWho is Oscarâs girlfriend? This isnât the usual one weâve seen.â
âSoft launch???â
âWhereâs the other girl??â
The other girl. Me.
My stomach dropped. I locked my phone. Put it screen-down. Tried to breathe through it. Tried to focus.
I told myself the internet makes everything seem louder than it is. That people donât know anything. That maybe it was just badly framed, edited out of context. I told myself I had a mock trial in less than 24 hours and now wasnât the time to fall apart.
So I pushed it down. I pushed it all down.
Focused on the courtroom. On my voice. On the facts. On the law.
And when it was finally overâwhen Iâd delivered my statement and shaken the judgesâ hands and smiled through the exhaustionâI found myself outside the building, in the gray Oxford light, dialing Oscarâs number with trembling fingers.
It rang.
And rang.
No answer.
So I texted the only thing I could.
You: are we okay?
And then, when the silence stretched too long and I couldnât stand the not-knowing anymore, I did something I hadnât done in months.
I messaged Hattie.
You: Hey. Is Oscar okay? Is he healthy? Sorry, itâs just been really quiet on his end and Iâm not sure if⊠I donât know. Just worried, I guess.
She replied ten minutes later.
Hattie: Hey Y/N! Heâs out right now! He went to dinner with Maddie and some friends.Â
You: Glad to know heâs okay. Whoâs Maddie?
Hattie: Oh! Itâs Oscarâs close friend, the one who came to the race with us yesterday. Heâs been spending time with her and some friends after the race. Thought you were with him too this week??
I stared at her message until the words lost meaning.Â
Maddie. The name settled like dust in my chestâfamiliar in the way old things sometimes are. I remembered it now, suddenly, vividly. One night years ago, back in the dorms, we were curled up on the floor eating instant noodles and teasing each other about exes. Iâd asked if heâd ever been in love before, half-joking, and heâd shrugged, grinned a little, and said, âThere was a Maddie. Long time ago. I was in junior high.â I hadnât thought about it since. Until now. Until Hattie said her name like I was supposed to know her place.
Dinner. Maddie. Came to the race with us. Thought I knew.
I didnât.
And suddenly, I wasnât even sure what I did know anymore.
It wasnât cheating. That was the first thing I told myself. Over and over, like a line from a textbook I was trying to memorize.
It wasnât cheating. He hadnât touched her. He hadnât kissed her. He hadnât said anything cruel or final.
And yet, it felt like something sacred had been undone.
Because what he gave herâhis time, his nearness, the small pieces of his dayâthat used to be mine. Used to be ours. He used to FaceTime me even when his eyes were half-closing from exhaustion. Used to send voice notes from the back of the garage, laugh whispering into the phone like it was a secret just for me. He used to say âTwo minutes is enough if itâs with you.â
And now, all I had were those words from Hattie.
Maddie. Dinner. Thought you knew. Thought you were with him.
I didnât.
I didnât know a thing.
The mock trial had ended yesterday, but I didnât feel anything. No relief. No pride. Just silence ringing in my ears as my teammates celebrated with group pictures and takeaway food, their voices echoing around me like I was underwater.
It hit slowly, like a tide coming in.
I came home that night and everything was still. The kind of still that feels staged. Like the room was pretending to be normal so I wouldnât notice what had changed.
I took off my blazer, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the floor for a long time.
And then I saw them. The biscuits.
Still sealed. Shoved into the back of my pantry, right where Iâd left them weeks agoâhis favorite kind, the ones with the buttery centers. Iâd bought them on impulse when I thought he might be visiting in April. I remember checking the expiry date. Making sure theyâd still be good.
They were still good.
I wasnât.
I left them there and moved into the bathroom, needing to do something, anything. Thatâs when I saw his toothbrushâsoft-bristled, pale blue, still standing in the glass beside mine like it belonged here.
I stared at it too long.
Too long to pretend I was okay.
I sank to the floor, photo still in my hand, and let the weight of it all finally crack me open. The grief wasnât sharpâit was slow, aching, familiar. Mourning someone who hadnât died, just slowly faded from the version of them you once loved.
I wasnât crying because he cheated.
I was crying because I didnât know weâd already ended.
Because heâd left me behind gently, silently, like putting down a book you donât plan to finish, but canât quite bring yourself to close.
Because he stopped letting me in quietly, and I hadnât even noticed the door closing.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person he shared his days with.Â
I didnât plan on calling him. Not really.
Iâd rehearsed the words in my head a dozen times, tucked them into half-written texts, whispered them in the dark like a secret I wasnât sure I was ready to say out loud. But that night, when the quiet became too loud and the weight of everything I hadnât said pressed against my ribs, I found myself holding the phone again.
One ring.
Then two.
Then three.
He answered on the fourth.
âHey,â he said. His voice was soft. Uncertain. Like he wasnât sure which version of me he was about to get.
And I almost hung up.
But instead, I breathed in, and let the truth unravel.
âIâm not calling to fight,â I started. âIâm not even angry, Oscar. I just⊠I need you to know that I know.â
There was a pause. He didnât ask what I knew. He didnât have to.
âI saw her,â I said. âMaddie. I saw all of it. And itâs not that I think you cheatedâI donât. But you gave her parts of you I didnât even know youâd stopped giving me.â
Silence again. A weighted breath on his end. But he still said nothing.
âI tried. God, I tried. I recorded voice notes when you stopped calling. I sent messages that barely got answers. I watched you win, and I cheered for you even when it felt like I didnât exist in your world anymore.â
My voice cracked then, just once.
âAnd I missed you. Every day, I missed you. But I canât keep giving when you donât even notice Iâm gone.â
Still, he didnât interrupt.
âIâm not saying this to make you feel bad. I just⊠I need space. I need to remember who I am when Iâm not waiting on a message that never comes.â
A long beat.
And then, softly, he said, âI didnât know it had gotten this bad.â
I closed my eyes. Let the silence ruled. He didnât fight. Didnât beg me to stay. And maybe that hurt the most.
Maybe he thought, like always, Iâd come back when the air cleared. When the tension softened. When time stitched things back together like it always did.
But I didnât.
That was the last time I called.
Oscarâs POV
I didnât mean for it to happen like this.
Not the silence. Not the distance. Not the feeling of waking up and realizing the only person who ever made all this feel real had stopped waiting for me.
It wasnât a decision. It wasnât one moment. It was a thousand tiny ones.
I told myself I was tired. That the schedule was brutal. That time zones were messy and Iâd call her when things calmed down. After media day. After the car felt better. After I figured out how to explain the exhaustion without sounding ungrateful.
And then Maddie showed up.
It wasnât supposed to be anything. Just familiarity. She was around againâsomeone from home, someone who didnât need explaining. Someone who already knew the version of me that existed before the pressure, before the travel, before the grid turned me into something slightly less human every weekend.
When I got back to Melbourne, everything moved too fast. Media, family, press runs, fans. I barely had time to sleep, let alone think. Maddie showed up one afternoon, casual as ever, laughing like the years hadnât passed. She came with Hattie, actually. It was just supposed to be dinner.
And maybe I shouldâve told Y/N that. Maybe that was the momentâwhere I shouldâve sent a text, called, said something. But I didnât.
Not because I didnât care. Because I didnât want to hold it up to the light and realize how far Iâd already drifted.
It wasnât romantic, at first. It wasnât intentional. But the truth is, I let someone else fill in the silence she used to keep warm for me. I leaned on someone close because the person I loved was far. Because she felt like the part of my life I couldnât carry in the suitcase anymore.
I didnât realize how far Iâd let things slip until Hattie texted me.
âDid you talk to her yet?â
âY/N messaged me asking if you were okay. She didnât know you were out with Maddie.â
But instead of fixing it, I froze.
I stopped callingânot because I didnât want to hear her voice, but because I didnât know what to say when I did. The guilt made me quiet. The fear kept me there. I kept telling myself Iâd reach out after this weekend, after the chaos, after the race. Â But there was always another race.
And deep down, I thought sheâd wait. That sheâd still be there. That sheâd understand like she always did. That I could fumble and fall short and sheâd still be the one to reach back. So I let the days pass. I let her messages sit unopened. I told myself it was temporary. That once the chaos settled, Iâd explain. Iâd FaceTime her and sheâd smile, tired and soft, and say, âYouâre an idiot, but I missed you too.â
Then the phone rang. I picked up.
Her voiceâtired but even, cracked but carefulâtold me everything I hadnât been brave enough to admit. She didnât yell. She didnât accuse. She didnât demand anything from me.
âI canât keep giving when you donât even notice Iâm gone.â
That line hit me like a crash I didnât see coming.
Because I hadnât noticed.
Not until she said it.
Not until it was already too late.
And I didnât fight. I didnât stop her. Because what right did I have?
All Iâd given her was silence. And now, that silence is all I have left of her.
The results were good. Better than good. Pole positions. Podiums. A win that lit up the paddock and had half the world calling it the best drive of my career.
On paper, I was thriving.
But something was off. And those closest to meâengineers, trainers, even Landoâthey could feel it, even if they didnât know what it was. Maybe it was the way I started pushing the car harder than necessary, taking risks I didnât usually take, burning through sectors like I had something to prove. Or lose.
âYouâre pushing when you donât need to,â they said.
They werenât wrong.
Because when youâre distracted, when your chest is full of static and your headâs somewhere else entirely, pushing becomes easier than feeling.
Iâd sit on the podium, smile for the cameras, hold the trophy like it meant somethingâbut the smile never quite made it to my eyes. I knew it. I could feel it. Iâd look out into the crowd and think, She should be here.
But she wasnât. And I was the reason why.
At night, in hotel rooms that all blurred together, Iâd find myself opening our old messages. Just to look at them. Like a museum of the person I used to be. Like maybe if I scrolled long enough, Iâd find a version of us I hadnât ruined yet.
I nearly texted her. So many times.
Typed things like âI miss you.â or âIâm sorry.â
But I never hit send. Because I didnât know if I had the right anymore. Because I kept thinkingâmaybe she just needs time, sheâll call when sheâs ready.
But she didnât. She didnât call. She didnât text. She didnât even watch the races anymore, at least not that I could tell.
And thatâs when it hit me.
She wasnât waiting for me to notice. She wasnât hoping Iâd chase her. She was already gone.
I thought sheâd always be there. I really did. But now that sheâs not, I realize just how much of my world she actually was.
The team won again last weekend.
I crossed the line first. Champagne, cheers, confetti.
Another podium. Another perfect result.
I didnât stay for the photos.
I walked straight past the camera crews, peeled off my helmet like it was choking me, and locked myself in the back of the motorhome until everyone stopped knocking. I stared at my gloves on the table like they belonged to someone else.
Everything around me was winning. Except me.
People kept saying I was driving better than everâbut I wasnât. I was driving harder. Recklessly.Â
My engineerâs voice cracked through the radio mid-race, âOscar, calm down. Youâre five seconds clear, you donât need to pushââ
But I did.
Because every time I eased off, the silence came back. Her voice, that last call, the way she didnât yell, didnât cryâshe just told me the truth. That sheâd given everything. And I didnât even notice she was slipping away.
So I pushed.
And pushed.
And nearly lost it in Turn 8.
I caught the slide by instinct alone. For a second, the rear snapped so violently I saw the barriers rushing toward me like jaws opening. I didnât even blink. I didnât even flinch.
A part of me wanted to let go. Just for a second. Just to see what it would feel like to surrender to something.
Because grief isnât always loud. Sometimes, itâs this low hum behind your ribs, so constant you forget what quiet really sounds like. I carry it in my chest nowâin the way I walk back to the hotel, in the way I eat alone, in the fact that I donât even check my phone after a win.
There are no messages from her anymore.
No âProud of you, even from across the world.â
No voice notes.
Not even a question.
And now Iâm stuck in this loop of podiums I canât feel, nights I canât sleep through, and a version of myself I donât recognize anymore.
The truth isâI donât want to die.
I just donât know how to live without her.
Now, I fill my days with things that are mineâbrief-writing marathons in the library, mock trial rehearsals that stretch into midnight, group lunches that turn into debates about case law and coffee orders. I laugh more. I sleep less. I am busy in a way that finally feels like building, not waiting.
I miss him. Of course I do. Some mornings, it hits me like a breath I canât quite catchâwhen I wake up and reach instinctively for a voice note thatâs not there. When something funny happens and I think, heâd love this, and then remember thereâs no one to send it to.
I still watch him race. Quietly. From afar.
Sometimes, in the middle of a study break, Iâll stream races with the volume low, just to see how heâs doing. Heâs winning. The world is cheering for him, and he deserves it. But thereâs something about the way he carries himself now that feels⊠off. Like the lightâs there, but it doesnât touch his eyes anymore.
Last race, he almost lost it. The car snapped. Just for a second. But my heart dropped like a stone. My hand was already halfway to my phone before I caught myself.
I didnât call. I couldnât.
Because I knewâif I dialed his number, Iâd be right back where I started. Iâd be the girl who waited, who compromised, who made herself smaller just to stay in someone elseâs story.
And Iâm not that girl anymore.
I loved him. I still do, in some shape or shadow of that love. But I wonât shrink for it again. I wonât forget everything it took for me to choose myself.
So I let the silence stay. I sat with the ache. And I knew, even as my heart tugged in a thousand directions, that I made the right choice.
It was the kind of rain Oxford is known forâmore mist than downpour, the kind that settled into your skin like memory.
Iâd left my umbrella somewhere, maybe in a lecture hall, maybe under a library chair. My shoulders ached from hours bent over legal drafts, and my eyes burned from sleep I hadnât caught. All I wanted was the quiet of my room and the sound of nothing.
And then I heard itâmy name.
Soft. Familiar. Almost shy.
I turned.
There he was. Oscar.
Soaked through the sleeves of his shirt, his hair curling damp at the ends, standing like he didnât know whether to come closer or disappear. He looked the same, mostly. A little older around the eyes. A little more undone.
He didnât speak at first. Just stepped toward me and held his umbrella out, tilting it gently over my head like it still made sense to protect me from the rain.
I didnât move.
Didnât lean in. Didnât lean away.
We just stood there, in the thin hush of drizzle and unsaid things, and I waited to see what kind of man heâd become in the silence.
Then he said it, âIâm sorry.â
Not rushed. Not panicked. Just... honest. Unadorned.
âI thought I had more time. I thought youâd always be there. But I get it now. I lost something I didnât know how to hold.â
I felt the weight of it land in my chestânot because it was perfect, but because it wasnât. Because it was flawed and fragile and real.
And still, I didnât say anything.
The rain was soft against my cheeks, or maybe it was something else. I couldnât tell.
A part of me wanted to fall into himâlet the moment wrap around us like it used to. Pretend the hurt hadnât taken root, that missing him hadnât changed me. That I wasnât still holding all the pieces I had to gather when he left me behind.
But Iâd grown around the ache. Iâd learned to carry silence like a second skin. Iâd built a life that didnât have him in itâand somehow, that life still stood.
So I just looked at him.
Not with anger. Not with forgiveness.
Just with the quiet of someone still deciding.
Because maybe forgiveness doesnât come in grand declarations or sweeping gestures.
Maybe it comes in moments like thisâsoft, unsure, standing in the rain where everything could be rewritten, or nothing at all.
He didnât ask for anything more.
And I didnât give it.
Not yet.
But I let him stay there beside me, holding up the umbrella.
And maybe, just maybeâthat was enough for now.
She wasnât supposed to fall for a Formula 1 driver--not when her life as a cardiothoracic surgery resident was already stretched thin between saving lives and curating her online world as a fashion/lifestyle influencer. But when a chance encounter with Lando Norris turns into something slow, magnetic, and impossible to define, Y/N finds herself caught between two lives she thought couldnât coexist. As she faced spiraling headlines, pressure of performing at her best in both of her careers, and the distance that threatened to unravel what never had a label to begin with, she must ask herself: in a world that demands so much, can quiet love still survive the noise? (18k+ words)
Pairing: Lando Norris x doctor-influencer!reader
Genre: Fluff, slow burn, fans to lover (kind of), bit of angst
TW: Media pressure, public scrutiny, grief (death of a patient)
It seemed like the rain wouldnât stop any time soon, when I hurriedly stepped outside my apartment lobby. I looked down to my feet, and saw that my canvas shoes were already splashed with brown puddles. Great, I thought to myself, what a great way to start an already late day. The streets were already busy with people, some running, probably catching the earliest MRT that could take them to their destination on time. Some were walking while casually sipping a cup of brown liquid with hot steam visible in the cold air. And there were people like me, who just arrived home late from a prolonged shift handoff and had their whole schedule of the day delayed.
It was my day off, and I had planned ahead of what I could do to make the most of one of the rarest days in a year. Juggling life as a cardiothoracic surgery resident and a fashion/lifestyle influencer sounded impossible even to my own ears. Yet here I was, just got back from a 48 hour shift at the hospital with heavy, dark eyebags, dull skin and chipped nails. Iâd prefer to drown myself with pillows and blankets and sleep until tomorrowâespecially after this long shift if it was not for the sake of making myself presentable for tonightâs dinner with a brand Iâm collaborating with. I booked a 10 AM mani-pedicure appointment, a facial treatment at 12 (finally got to use my 500 USD worth of treatment subscription after abandoning it for more than 6 months), and also made an appointment with my sales associate at bottega. I have 15 minutes to get to the nail salon, which is a 25 minute walking distance. Iâm so doomed.
By the time the clock hits 3 in the afternoon, I finished my facial treatment. My eyebags were still there yet barely noticeable. My face was glowing, and I was pretty satisfied with how instant the result was. I did have a good nap too so I wasnât complaining. My feet then led me to bottega where I picked up a small purse that was finally in stock. It was an Andiamo clutch in this beautiful burgundy color that Iâd been eyeing since forever. My favorite sales associate kindly texted me last night and I just had to grab it today.
The trip there was cut short when my phone rang. My high school best friend, Tiara, who's also my manager since my instagram and tiktok account took off and I personally couldnât handle all the brands dealing alone said through the phone, âHi! Where are you?â
I finalized the payment with my sales associate, and waited for him to pack my little baby when I answered, âIâm at Bottega, why?â
âNo, just wanted to remind you about tonightâs dinner event,â she said. âLook, there will be a lot of people with connections attending tonightââ
âOkay, I just need to play nice and mingle. I got it handled, Tiara.âÂ
I hated attending these kinds of events. My job as a doctor was already demanding a lot of socializing, and I was not happy that doing social mediaâwhich used to be my escape, turned out to be as draining. Not that I hated my job, in fact I loved it. I really loved my job as a doctor, the satisfaction when I got to see my patients that came into the ER in the state of near death were finally discharged and thanked me personally for saving their lives. I also loved my job doing social media, where my videos could help thousands of people finally be able to live their lives confidently. Itâs truly rewarding. But I just hate the socializing. Â
âOkay.. if you say so. Iâll come with you tonight, so donât worry too much.â Tiara said. âAnd you might need to go home now, the glam team are on their way with our clothes.â
âOkay, okay see ya.â
Tiara ended the call just right in time when my bag was packed. âHere you go, Ms.Y/L/N.â
âThank you so much.âÂ
âHey, hun!â Tiara hugged me as soon as I entered the living room. âIâve been waiting for the glam team to get here!.â
I dropped my shopping bag on the sofa, made a beeline for the kitchen to grab some water. âT, remind me again which brandâs dinner tonight? I totally blanked.â
âItâs Tumi, I told you last night!â
âWell, Iâm sorry I didnât read your text. I was on call, remember?â
âMy bad.â Tiara replied sheepishly.
I was sipping a cup of cold water when she suddenly jumped from the sofa and ran to me with her phone. âDude!â
I nearly choked at the sudden movement, âWhat?â
She tapped the screen. It was a video posted on Instagramâsomeone walking through our local airport. I didnât recognize the person, but the location was unmistakable. âItâs Lando Norrisâ PR managerâs account, sheâs in town!â
âSo?â
âItâs the Tumi dinner, Y/N. And Landoâs their brand ambassador. Connect the dots.â
I tried to play it cool. âOkay⊠but thereâs no guarantee heâs actually here. Maybe his PR manager is just visiting a family orââ
I stared at her, trying to keep my expression neutral. On the inside? Chaos. An emotional arrhythmia.
âActually.. whatever,â she said. "You donât even like McLaren."
She pretended to dismiss it, but I knew from that teasing glimmer in her eyes, she was testing me for a reaction.
âI donât,â I said too quickly. âIâm a Mercedes girl through and through.â
Tiara raised a brow. âMmhmm. So all that scrolling through Landoâs tagged photos last week was what? Research?â
I glared at her over the rim of my water bottle. âI was just scrolling.â
My heart skipped a beat. Lando Norris. In my city. Possibly at the same event I was going to tonight? No. Way.
I got into Formula 1 totally by accident. Second year of med school, drowning in anatomy flashcards, and just needed some background noise to help me went through a 12 hours study session. Turns out, 20 cars flying around a circuit at 300 km/h is terrible for concentration, but amazing for falling headfirst into a new obsession. I was a Mercedes girl from day one, how could I not be? The dominance, the strategy, Lewis Hamilton basically operating like a brain surgeon at 200 mph (still upset Lewis is not in mercedes anymore). It all felt like the F1 version of a perfectly run OR.
But then there was Lando. Ugh, Lando Norris. With that stupid charming smile, the chaotic overtakes, and somehow always looking like he was having the time of his life even when everything was falling apart. I told everyone he wasnât my favoriteâbecause technically, he wasnât. But the way my phone just magically ended up on his Instagram? The way my chest did this tiny, traitorous flutter every time he popped up on screen? Yeah. I might be a Mercedes girl⊠but Lando Norris was my favorite guilty pleasure. Not that Iâd ever admit that out loud.
The doorbell rang just as I took my last sip of water.
âTheyâre here!â Tiara called, already sprinting toward the door like sheâd been waiting all day for this. To be fair, she probably had.
The glam teamâtwo makeup artists, a hairstylist, and a stylist with a rack of options âwalked in like a well-oiled machine. I stepped aside, already familiar with their routine as Iâd worked with some of them for campaigns before. Still, there was something surreal about shifting gears from hospital scrubs to high fashion in a single afternoon.
âY/N, youâre up first,â Layla, my go-to MUA, called. âWeâve got exactly ninety minutes before you need to be out the door.â
I took one last look at my phoneâno new messages, no calls from the hospitalâthen headed to the vanity they had set up in our spare room. Ring lights were already glowing, mirrors prepped, and my tailored ivory suit was hanging on the back of the door like a promise.
Layla started with skin prep. âSo⊠are we going full âVogue spreadâ or soft glam tonight?â
I grinned. âLetâs do a little of both. I need to look like I didnât just survive two back-to-back 12-hour shifts.â
âYou mean you did survive two back-to-back shifts,â she corrected. âAnd still look like this? Girl, youâre not human.â
As she worked, I opened my notes app, checking off content tasks for the night. BTS video with glam team, a flatlay with Tumi bag, perfume, invite, and some dinner clips.
âClose your eyes,â Layla said, holding my face like she was sculpting a masterpiece. âAnd stop fidgeting, youâre gonna ruin my liner.â
âIâm not fidgeting,â I muttered, then immediately bounced my knee again.
Tiara, lounging nearby in a silk robe, snorted. âYouâve been twitchy ever since I showed you that video. Just admit itâyouâre hoping Lando shows up tonight.â
âI am not,â I said, very convincingly for someone clutching their phone like it might spontaneously generate a guest list.
âUh-huh.â Tiara replied, very, very unconvinced.
Layla stepped back to admire her work. âSo whoâs this Lando guy? Boyfriend?â
I choked on absolutely nothing. âGod, no. Heâs just⊠a F1 driver. For McLaren.â
âThe guy with the curls?â she asked, already picking up a highlighter. âYouâre blushing.â
âNo Iâm not!â
âYou are,â Tiara grinned. âAnd heâs not even here yet.â
I flopped back in the chair with a dramatic sigh. âOkay, look. Iâm a Mercedes fan.â
âBut,â Tiara added, holding back a smirk, âevery time Lando Norris so much as breathes near a camera, you suddenly forget all that.â
âBecause heâs annoyingly charming, okay?â I grumbled. âLike, smile-too-big-for-his-face, funny, chaos. Heâs not even my type, and yetâŠâ
âAnd yet you practically rewinded that one post-race interview five times last weekend.â
âIt was four times,â I corrected, deadpan. âAnd for research.â
Layla was laughing now. âI love this.â
I groaned and reached for my water. âIf he is at this dinner, Iâm acting normal. Cool. Unbothered.â
Tiara raised a brow. âSo youâre saying I shouldnât mention that you once did a soft-glam look inspired by his helmet colors?â
âThatâs not what that was and you know it,â I muttered, cheeks warming again.
An hour later, my face was done, hair in soft brushed waves, lashes fluttering like they had their own agenda. I slipped into my suit, a tailored ivory double-breasted blazer, cinched subtly at the waist paired with high-waisted straight-leg trousers, and clasped my minimalist gold jewelry in front of the mirror. A camera was already rolling on my phone stand, where I filmed a quick GRWM.
Tiara peeked in, already in a burgundy satin number that matched her lipstick. âGirl. You look like a sponsorâs dream.â
âYou mean like I didnât fall asleep updating patient charts at 3 a.m.?â I teased.
âExactly. No one needs to know you scrubbed in for an aortic dissection case just 20 hours ago. Tonight, youâre a fashion girl. An it-girl.â
I grabbed my bagâTumi, of courseâand exhaled slowly.
Tonight wasnât about fan moments or nerves. It was a brand dinner. A networking opportunity. A chance to show I could walk the line between saving lives and owning the room. But still⊠I mentally added one last note to my checklist. Do not fangirl over Lando Norris. (Not even if he smiles first).
The venue was pure understated luxuryâlow lighting, tall glass walls, a carefully curated crowd of editors, influencers, stylists, and just enough corporate energy to remind you this was a brand event. Soft ambient music played beneath the buzz of champagne flutes and soft laughter, and the Tumi logo gleamed on every backdrop and branded cocktail napkin.
Tiara and I stepped out of the car like we belonged thereâbecause we did. Dressed to impress, camera-ready, brand-aligned. We'd done this a hundred times before, but tonight had a different edge to it. A buzz beneath my skin that had nothing to do with the event.
Inside, I slid into autopilot. I greeted a senior fashion editor Iâd worked with on a shoot last fall, exchanged hugs with a couple of other creators I only ever saw at events like this, and smiled graciously as I answered the same questions I always got: âHow do you manage being a doctor and an influencer?â and âDo you even sleep?â
âNot really,â I said with a laugh that was half-true. âBut I schedule naps like I schedule rounds.â
The brand rep gave a toast, thanking us all for coming, and Tiara raised her glass in my direction with a wink. âYouâre killing it tonight,â she whispered. âYouâve barely looked around for him.â
âBecause Iâm focused,â I said, sipping my drink. âAnd Iâm sure heâs not even here.â
Which, of course, was when the energy in the room shifted.
You know that moment at events when someone important walks in? The air changes. Heads turn subtly but unmistakably. I followed a few glances out of pure curiosity, and there he wasâLando Norris, walking in like he didnât just cause a ripple through the entire guest list.
He wasnât doing anything remarkable. Just smiling politely, standing next to someone from the brand team, wearing a crisp black suit and his usual easy charm like it wasnât completely illegal. I looked away immediately. I had to. If I kept looking, Iâd get caught. And if I got caught, Iâd blush. And if I blushed, Tiara would never let me live it down.
Instead, I buried myself in networking. More smiles, more polite conversations. I posed for a few photos in front of the Tumi wall, dropped my IG handle in a PR managerâs phone, and made a mental note to post a story later. But even as the night carried on and the music got louder, I couldnât shake that feeling. That he was here. In the same room. Breathing the same air. Probably not even knowing I existed.
After a while, the room started to feel a little too warm, the mingling a little too rehearsed. My heels were still fineâthankfullyâbut my social battery? Not so much.
âIâm stepping out for air,â I murmured to Tiara, who gave me a thumbs-up without missing a beat in her conversation.
I found a side door that led to a quieter courtyard terrace, where the sounds of the party dulled into the background. The night air was cool against my skin, and I inhaled deeply, letting my shoulders drop. Out here, I could finally breathe.
I leaned against the railing, phone in hand, debating whether to scroll or just enjoy the moment. Then I heard footsteps behind me. I didnât turn around at firstâplenty of people needed a break from the party. It wasnât unusual.
But then a voice spoke, low and British, too familiar and real, I nearly dropped my phone.
âDidnât expect anyone else out here,â he said. Casual. Kind of amused. âBit loud in there, huh?â
I turned slowly, carefully schooling my expression.
There he was. In the dim courtyard light. Just him and me.
Lando Norris.
âOhâyeah,â I said, praying my voice didnât crack. âNeeded to escape the networking gauntlet.â
He smiled. âYou too, huh? Iâve shaken so many hands Iâm pretty sure Iâve lost circulation.â
I laughedâbecause what else was I supposed to do? âOccupational hazard.â
He stepped closer, just enough to close the awkward distance but not enough to make it weird. âIâm Lando, by the way,â he said, extending a hand.
âI know,â I replied before I could stop myself.
His smile widened just a little, amused. âRight. Guess I walked into that one.â
I shook his hand, keeping my face neutral. âY/N.â
His brow lifted a little, like he was trying to place me. âNice to meet you. Are you with the brand?â
âSort of. Iâm a part time fashion and lifestyle content creator,â I said, pausing just long enough before adding, âAnd also a part time cardiothoracic surgery resident.â
His eyes widened slightly. âSeriously? Thatâs intense.â
âTell me about it,â I smirked. âBetween 12-hour shifts and flatlays, I barely have time to breathe.â
He laughed, and it was genuine. Warm.
âI donât think Iâve met a doctor-influencer before.â
âIâm a niche market.â
We stood in a moment of comfortable quiet, and I felt the strangest thingâcalm. Maybe because there was no audience out here. No flashes, no glances. Just two people who had unknowingly been orbiting each other from entirely different worlds.
âYou know,â he said, breaking the silence, âitâs kind of refreshing meeting someone who didnât immediately want a selfie.â
I smiled, folding my arms. âI mean, the nightâs still young.â
He laughed again, eyes glinting. âFair enough.â
The quiet hum of the city wrapped around us as the noise from inside faded further into the background. Lando leaned lightly against the stone railing, arms relaxed, suit jacket open like he wasnât just the reason half the event was losing their minds.
âYouâre really a cardiology resident?â he asked after a pause, like he still couldnât believe it.
âCardiothoracic surgery, we uh, basically do surgery on peopleâs hearts.â I corrected him. âItâs my third year. Itâs intense, but I love it.â
âThatâs mad,â he said, eyes wide with genuine awe. âI canât imagine having peopleâs actual hearts in your hands. Literally.â
âWell, not literally every day,â I said with a laugh.
âAnd you do content on top of that?â
âI never really planned to,â I admitted. âIt started with me posting outfit pics during call nights to stay sane. Somehow, it blew up.â
He leaned back against the railing beside me, just close enough that I could feel his presence without it overwhelming the moment. âMust be intense.â
âIt is,â I said softly. âBut I like it that way.â
There was something curious in his expression. Not flirty. Not flashy. Just⊠intrigued. We stood in silence again, the kind that doesnât need explaining. The kind that feels a little too comfortable for strangers.
âYou into F1?â he asked after a while, almost cautiously.
I gave him a slow, measured look. âOh, I follow.â
âYeah?â
âLetâs just say I know the difference between understeer and tire deg.â
His brows lifted, impressed. âWell, alright, doctor.â
âIâve been watching for a few years,â I added.
âLet me guess,â he said, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. âFerrari fan?â
âIâm a Mercedes fan.â
That made him laugh again, louder this time. âOuch.â
Another beat of quiet passed, and this one lingered. I could feel it settling in the space between usâthe unspoken curiosity. He didnât know who I wasânot the girl who posted race-day looks, not the one who debated tire strategy in the close friendâs story, not the one who pretended not to notice him every time he appeared on her screen. And yet, standing here with him, I felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with recognition.
âIt's weird,â I said quietly, âhow the sport changes on you.â
Lando looked over, his profile soft in the terrace light. âWhat do you mean?â
I ran a finger along the edge of my glass, tracing nothing. âI started rooting for Mercedes because of Lewis Hamilton. Not because they were winningâwell, maybe at first. But more because of him. The way he carried himself. Composed. Relentless. Loud in the ways that mattered and quiet in the ways that didnât. He made the whole thing feel like art.â
Lando didnât speak. He listened, eyes steady.
âI think I needed someone like that back then,â I continued. âDuring med school, when everything felt like it was falling apart, there was this guy out there, making every race look like poetry and still showing up for more than just himself. He was⊠I donât know. Constant.â
âYou said was,â Lando said softly.
I nodded. âYeah.â
A silence stretched again, thicker this time.
âWhen he announced he was leaving for FerrariâŠâ I paused, exhaling slowly. âI felt like the ground shifted.â
Landoâs expression didnât change, but there was something thoughtful in it. âEveryoneâs still adjusting.â
âSure. But for me, it wasnât just a driver changing teams. It was like the foundation cracked.â I looked up at him. âYou spend so long tying yourself to one thingâone team, one identityâand then suddenly it changes. And youâre just⊠left figuring out who you are without it.â
He was quiet for a moment. âThatâs heavy.â
I gave a small, sheepish smile. âSorry. That was a little too existential for a brand dinner.â
âNo,â he said quickly, gently. âI get it.â
âDo you?â I asked, unsure if I was pushing.
He shrugged, gaze slipping back out toward the skyline. âYou think being a driver means you get to choose who you are in all this. But sometimes⊠youâre just trying to keep up with who everyone thinks you should be. Sometimes you don't even know who you're racing for anymore. Yourself? The team? The headlines?â
That surprised meâhow quietly he said it. How real it sounded.
âI guess weâre all just trying to hang on to what makes us feel like ourselves,â I said.
He looked at me again. âAnd whatâs that for you?â
I hesitated. The question was too sharp and too soft at once.
âHonestly?â I said finally. âRight now⊠maybe standing out here, talking to someone who sees the chaos from the other side.â
His lips curved into a faint smile. âYou donât seem like someone who likes chaos.â
âI donât,â I said.
He looked at meânot like someone just trying to place me, but like someone trying to understand the shape of me.
âYou ever think of switching teams?â he asked, his voice lighter now, teasing.
I laughed softly. âLando Norris trying to recruit me to McLaren?â
He smirked. âNo harm in asking.â
âLetâs just say⊠Iâm open to change.â
And this time, the silence that followed didnât need to be filled at all.
I took another sip of my drink, letting the quiet wrap around us again. Lando glanced at his phoneânot in a rude way, more like heâd just remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be. The smile that had rested so easily on his lips began to slip back into something more practiced.
âI should probably head back in,â he said, quietly.
I nodded. âOf course. Youâve got a room full of people to... charm.â
He smiled at that, but it didnât reach his eyes the same way it had before. He took a slow step back, then paused. Like he wanted to say something else but wasnât sure if he should.
Instead, he simply said, âIt was really good meeting you, Y/N.â
My name sounded different coming from him. Softer. Like heâd memorized the shape of it just in case.
âYou too,â I said, more gently than I meant to. âThanks for the⊠quiet.â
He hesitated, just for a breath, then gave me one final look. A glance that felt like a question left unanswered. And then he turned and walked back into the golden light of the terrace doors, swallowed by the noise, the cameras, the curated chaos. I stayed out there a little longer, letting the night press gently against my skin, the city stretching quiet around me. There was no music now. Just memory.
No glowing terrace lights, no shared silence, no subtle look across the railing like weâd both seen something in each other we werenât ready to name. Just the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights. A surgical mask pressed to my face. And the weight of clipped, focused voices calling out vital stats over the beep of monitors. If last night hadnât been etched into my mind like a strange, golden dream, Iâd almost believe it didnât happen.
The thing about being a CT resident is, it doesnât care about who you talked to the night before. It doesnât wait for you to process anything. You scrub in, focus up, and hold a human heart in your hands like itâs the only thing that matters. Because it is.
Rounds were brutal that morning. Two back-to-back valve replacements, one trauma case that rolled in unexpectedly at 4 a.m., and an attending who seemed personally offended by anyone whoâd gotten more than three hours of sleep. I moved on autopilot. Efficient. Precise. Calm.
But every now and then, during a lullâwhen I checked a vitals screen or scrubbing my hands for the next caseâmy mind drifted.
"It was really good meeting you, Y/N."
"You too. Thanks for the⊠quiet."
I hadnât followed him. Not after that night. Not even when Iâd seen tagged photos pop up from the event, his name trending again that weekend. It felt too fragile to touch. Like acknowledging it publicly would make the memory evaporate.
Exactly two months later, I was in Rome.
Iâd flown in for an international cardiothoracic seminar I never imagined Iâd get selected for, let alone present at. It had taken weeks of prepping slides, coordinating surgical footage, polishing up every word of my case report until it sang.
And somehow, it worked. My name was called. My report was named the best presentation of the entire conference. Applause rang out in that massive, echoing hall. My mentor squeezed my shoulder. My hands, usually so steady in an OR, trembled slightly as I accepted the plaque.
Later, in the hotel room, I propped my phone against a lamp and snapped a photoâthe plaque tucked in my lap, still in my formal outfit, dark circles under my eyes, but glowing. Proud. Real. I posted it to Instagram along with a snippet of video my fellow resident took of me while i was presenting my case report on stage with a caption that didnât overthink it.
Today was loud in all the right ways. Grateful to be doing what I love, even when I forget to sleep.đ«đźđčâš #CTSurgery #WomenInMedicine
I closed the app without refreshing it and drifted to my sleep.
And then I saw it, that faint heart icon from someone I hadnât seen on my feed, maybe intentionally avoided, in weeks.
@lando liked your post.
I stared at it for a second longer than necessary.
Then I swiped up. Heâd followed me. Not just liked the photo. Followed.
I froze, thumb hovering over the screen. The room suddenly felt too small. I stared at the screen like it had betrayed me. His profile picture, the blue checkmark. That name. There was no message. No comment. Just a like. A quiet digital fingerprint on a life he wasnât supposed to remember.
And yet⊠He did.
Or maybe heâd just stumbled across the post by accident. Explore pages were unpredictable. But deep down, I knew better. Something about the timing, the quiet of it, the way it feltânot loud or performative. Just a quiet nod, like heâd looked and thought, there she is.
My heart thudded once, low and solid. And I did the only thing that made sense. I followed him back.
I'd just arrived from Rome last night and the reality of residency had kicked in. The show must go on. The early follow-ups, lab-ordering, rounds with the attendings, and back-to-back heart surgeries. This morning started the way most mornings didâtoo early, too cold, and with Tiara poking her head into my bedroom like an overly caffeinated storm cloud.
"Did you see it?â she asked.
I groaned, face still buried in my pillow. âIf this is about my missed laundry pickup, I already hate myself.â
âNo,â she said, sliding onto the edge of my bed, phone in hand. âLando.â
That woke me up. I lifted my head just enough to see the screen. A clip from a race weekend interviewâone of those soft, casual paddock setups, with the usual ârapid fireâ questions that drivers either deflect or accidentally get too real with.
The interviewer asked, âAnyone outside of F1 whoâs impressed you lately?â
And there he was. Looking thoughtful. A little tired, like theyâd caught him between commitments. Lando smiled, soft, crooked, barely there.
âMet someone recently,â he said. âNot from this world. Completely different, actually. But smart. Focused. You can tell when someoneâs used to pressure. She⊠surprised me.â
Tiara turned to me slowly, mouth already open. âSmart, someone used to pressure. Y/N, heâs clearly talking about you.â
I blinked, sitting up. âYou donât know that.â
âGirl, you are the only CT resident heâs had a moonlight chat with on a brand dinner terrace. Just admit it. You are his mysterious ânot from this worldâ girl.â
I didnât respond. Mostly because part of me wanted it to be true. And the other part was terrified it was.
Hours later, I was back in my actual worldâunder too bright hospital lights, halfway through rounds, no makeup, hair in a half-frizzed ponytail, scrubs wrinkled from walking around the hospital for too many consults this early morning.
He smiled, that same half-smile he wore in the interview clip. âFlight delayed. So I had time to kill and someone on the team recommended this brand. Googled it, and found the nearest one from my hotel. Saw the reviews, said the coffee saves lives.â
âIt saves mine,â I said, trying to keep it light.
Then his eyes flicked down to my ID badge. My name. The hospital crest. My scrub topâcreased, definitely unglamorous, still faintly coffee-stained from pre-rounds.
âYou look different,â he said.
I winced. âBad different?â
âNo.â He shook his head, like the thought hadnât even occurred to him. âJust⊠real. Like this is your grid.â
I laughed, cheeks warm. âYou mean exhausted and slightly overwhelmed?â
âYeah,â he said, grinning. âBut also confident. Focused.â
My coffee came up. I reached for it, trying not to let my hand shake.
âI didnât think Iâd see you again,â I admitted, voice lower now.
âSame,â he said. We stood there for a moment in that weird, suspended quietâthe kind of quiet that happens when somethingâs shifting and neither of you wants to be the first to name it.
Finally, he reached for his coffee, then nodded toward the door. âYou have time to sit?â
I glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes until my next consult. Not long. Not nearly enough. But I nodded. âYeah. A few.â
He smiled, âThen letâs sit in your world for a bit.â
We slipped into a corner table near the window, tiny, wobbly, barely enough space for two coffees and the weight of whatever this was between us. I set my drink down, unwrapped the corner of a protein bar, and leaned back in my chair, trying to play it cool despite the fact that I was sitting across from Lando Norris in scrubs and no lipstick.
He didnât seem to mind. In fact, he kept looking at me like this was the version of me heâd been trying to find since that night on the terrace.
âMore or less. Surgery, caffeine, maybe a protein bar if I remember Iâm a human with needs.â
He smirked. âAnd yet somehow you still look like you belong in a magazine.â
I gave him a look. âThis?â I motioned to myself. âThis is the opposite of Vogue.â
He shook his head, smiling behind his cup. âStill. Thereâs something about the way you carry all of it. Like⊠you know exactly where youâre going. Even when youâre sleep-deprived.â
I took a sip of my coffee, avoiding his eyes, those green eyes, for a beat. It was flattering. But also disarming.
âSo,â I said finally, setting my cup down. âThat interview.â
He didnât flinch, but I could tell by the way his thumb tapped the side of his drink that he knew exactly what I meant.
âTiara, my best friend and manager, woke me up at 5 am showing me the clip ,â I added. âShe was convinced you were talking about me.â
He met my eyes then. âWas she wrong?â
I held his gaze, let the silence stretch.
âI donât know,â I said quietly. âI think if it wasnât me, youâre either dating a pilot or having deep talks with your Uber drivers.â
Lando laughed. That warm, unguarded kind of laugh that made his eyes squint. âFair.â
There was a beat. Then he said, more seriously, âIt was you.â
He leaned back slightly, shoulders relaxed, tone softer. âBecause when we talked that night, it stuck with me. You werenât trying to impress anyone. You werenât performing. You just⊠were.â
I raised an eyebrow. âAnd that impressed you?â
He nodded. âYeah. A lot more than people pretending to have it all figured out.â
There was something deeply sincere about the way he said it. Like it wasnât part of a game. Like he didnât want anything from me except the truth.
âSo,â he added after a moment, âwhat did you think? About what I said.â
I considered that for a long second.
âI think⊠Iâve spent so much of my life trying to prove I belong in this field. In the OR, on the rotation list, on conference stages. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that itâs okay to let people see me outside of that, in all the mess and exhaustion andâŠâ I gestured to my coffee, my tired eyes, my stained scrubs. âThis.â
He smiled again, more tender this time. âI donât think itâs mess. I think itâs real. Thatâs rare.â
âEspecially in your world,â I said.
He nodded. âThatâs why yours stood out.â
I looked down at the sleeve of my coffee cup. The moment felt full â not rushed, not loud, but weighted. And honest.
He glanced out the window, then back at me. âAnd you?â
âWhat about me?â
âDid I make it into any interviews?â
I gave a soft laugh. âNot yet. Iâve been a little busy doing heart surgery and accidentally going viral.â
His grin returned. âRight. The case report win.â
I paused. âOh, you saw that?â
âOf course,â he said, sipping his coffee like it was obvious. âIt popped up on my explore page, and then suddenly your name was everywhere. Reposts, medical blogs, even a âHot Doctors of Instagramâ list, whichâby the wayâterrible photo crop.â
I flushed. âYou did a deep dive?â
He grinned. âA shallow scroll. But yeah, I saw it. That was impressive.â
I softened. âThanks. That case meant a lot to me. The kid we operated on was thirteen. Rare congenital defect. Sheâs doing well.â
Lando didnât joke or deflect. Just gave a small nod, like he was processing more than he let on. âThatâs a lot to hold.â
âIt is,â I said quietly, almost to myself. âBut itâs the weight I signed up for.â
He leaned back slightly, swirling the coffee in his cup. âKind of wild, isn't it?â
âWhat is?â
âThat people trust you with all that,â he said, glancing at me over the rim of his cup, casual on the surface but something else flickering underneath. âLike...you just show up and do it.â
I tilted my head. âI could say the same about you.â
âEh,â he smirked. âI get help from a fast car and a very good team.â
âAnd I get help from caffeine and very good fellow residents and very experienced attendings.â
He laughedâlow, easy. âYou know, I wasnât sure what Iâd find when I saw you again. But scrubs? Kind of iconic.â
âIconic?â I raised a brow.
âYeah,â he said, half-shrugging. âHonestly? You might pull them off better than I do my race suit.â
I gave him a look. âThatâs a bold statement.â
He leaned in just slightly, grinning. âTerrifying for my ego, really.â
I laughed, shaking my head. The kind of laugh that slipped out before I could catch it. Then, quieter, I added, âI didnât think Iâd see you again, either.â
He didnât answer right away. Just met my eyes, something unreadable there. Then he said, lightly, âYeah. Thought youâd disappear back into the OR and never look back.â
âAlmost did.â
His smile was crooked now. âGuess I got lucky.â
The silence between us stretched, calm and unhurried. It felt like we were both aware of something hanging just out of reachâbut neither of us wanted to pull it down too fast.
Then the sharp buzz of my pager inside my tote bag cut through it. I glanced down. âConsult in fifteen.â
He stood with me, brushing his hand through his hair. âBack to real life, huh?â
I nodded, slipping my phone into my coat pocket. âAlways.â
As I reached for the door, he followed a few steps behind, then spoke, easy, offhand, like he wasnât sure if he meant it as an invitation or just a thought said aloud.
âIf you ever feel like stepping out of this world for a bitâŠâ A pause. âI know one with slightly worse coffee. And way more noise.â
I turned, a smile already forming. âThat your way of offering a paddock pass?â
He shrugged, all mock innocence. âCould be. Could also just be coffee. Somewhere quieter. No pagers allowed.â
I looked at him for a moment, really looked. The way he wore calm like armor. The way his grin never quite gave away everything he was thinking.
âIâll think about it,â I said.
âFair enough.â
I stepped out into the hallway, coffee in one hand and my pager buzzing in the other, still half-processing what had just happened. I hadnât expected to see Lando againâespecially not here, in the middle of my chaotic, unfiltered reality. But there he was, showing up in a space that wasnât curated or polished, and somehow that made it mean more. I felt an unexpected sense of relief. Heâd seen me exactly as I wasâtired, wrinkled scrubs, zero glamourâand he hadnât flinched. No cameras, no performance, just a quiet kind of presence that lingered even after he was gone. And in that moment, it felt more intimate than anything that came with spotlights.
The DMs started sporadically. A reaction here. A comment there. A joke about terrible coffee or the chaos of hospital vending machines. Nothing serious. Nothing obvious.
But it became a rhythm.
When I posted a photo of the CT team post-surgery, hair tied back, mask line still faint on my cheeks, Lando replied to my DM.
@lando : canât tell if this is a flex or a cry for help.
@you: itâs both. we survived three surgeries and one cafeteria meatloaf.
@lando: thatâs championship-level endurance.
When Lando posted a mid-week race prep selfie, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes serious, I replied:
@you: that face says âIâm pretending to listen to strategy notes.â
@lando: youâd be correct.
@you: you need flashcards.
@lando: you offering to tutor?
The pace was easy. Undemanding. And somehow, it became routine.
Iâd find myself checking my phone after long cases, smiling at his messages without thinking. Heâd send voice notes at odd hours. One while waiting on a delayed flight, another from the driverâs room after a rainy quali. Sometimes I responded with text, sometimes a photo of me half-asleep with a post-it on my forehead that said "Charting. Mentally gone."
Still, neither of us named whatever this was.
Until one night, two months after our coffee. I posted a selfie on my Storyâlegs kicked up on couch, pizza in hand, hair loose for once, and the caption âFirst day of annual leave: achieved.â
Less than a minute later, his name popped up.
@lando: Wait, youâre finally off? Like, not going to crack open a sternum tomorrow?
@you: Wild, I know. Two weeks. Already forgetting how to hold a scalpel.
@lando: So youâre saying thereâs a window where youâre not tied to a hospital?
@you: Technically yes. Why? Need heart surgery?
@lando: Not today. But... thereâs a race next weekend. Silverstone. Home turf.
@you: I know. I watch F1 even when I'm in my on-call room.
@lando: Then maybeâŠ
@lando: Come watch it from this side of the fence?
I blinked at the screen. Read it twice. Then once more.
@you: You inviting me?
@lando: I mean⊠yeah.
@lando: Iâd like you there.
@lando: No fireproof or scrubs required.
@lando: I figured youâd say that.
@lando: So I already told my team you might say yes.
I rolled my eyes.
@you: Arrogant.
@lando: Confident.
And just beneath that message, a second one popped up:
@lando: Would be good to see you again, Y/N.
@lando: Off the grid, but maybe not so off-limits this time.
The inside of the McLaren hospitality suite felt like walking into a universe that ran on its own frequency. Sleek, fast-moving, humming with quiet intensity. Engineers moved between rooms, screens blinked with data I didnât pretend to understand, and everyone wore the same focused expression she recognized from pre-op mornings.
âThis is insane,â I whispered, watching someone walk by with three radios clipped to their belt and an iPad tucked under one arm.
Lando glanced at me. âYouâre literally training to become a heart surgeon and this is what impresses you?â
âYes,â I said without hesitation. âMy OR doesnât have telemetry data and tire warmers. Youâve basically built a spaceship garage.â
He grinned, slowing his pace so I could take it in. âWant the grand tour?â
âYou mean the one that ends with me somehow accidentally breaking a wing mirror and owing McLaren several million?â
âIâll keep you away from the carbon fiber,â he promised.
They weaved through corridors, and he showed me where the team debriefs happened, the simulator space, the briefing room I wasnât technically allowed inâbut he still opened the door with a wink.
At some point, a few mechanics passed by and nodded at me with curious smiles. Just as I was admiring a display of past liveries, a familiar voice sounded from behind them. âSo youâre the doctor.â
I turned, pulse quick. Oscar Piastri strolled over, wearing his race suit half unzipped and a look that was either neutral or mildly amused, I couldnât quite tell.
âThis is Y/N,â Lando said. âA surgeon. Came to make sure I donât pass out mid-turn eight.â
I gave Oscar a half-nod, trying to summon cool professionalism but ending up somewhere between a smile and a please donât notice Iâm internally combusting expression. âCardiothoracic resident,â I clarified. âNot a full surgeon yet.â
âOh, I know who you are.â
I blinked. âYou⊠do?â
He shrugged, totally unfazed. âInstagram algorithm loves you. My girlfriend showed me a video of your fit checks in the hospital, she said you have energy of a vampire, being a surgeon yet still doing contents. And Lando mentioned you a while back â said you beat five guys in tuxedos at a case report seminar.â
Lando groaned. âOkay, I told that story once.â
âYou told it twice,â Oscar replied. Then, to me: âNice to finally meet the doctor who apparently has better lap time under pressure than Lando on mediums.â
I laughed, maybe a little too hard. âI donât know about that. I just talk fast when Iâm nervous.â
Oscar gave a small, approving nod, then glanced at Lando. âGood luck today.â
And then he was gone.
I turned to Lando. âYou told people about me?â
He gave me a lopsided grin. âI mightâve mentioned you in passing.â
âIn passing?â
âVery quick passing. Like, turn-two kind of quick.â
I narrowed my eyes. âUh-huh.â
I was still recovering from that moment when we stepped outside toward the other motorhomes, just as a familiar figure passed byâflanked by cameras and handlers, sleek in a red polo and sunglasses.
Lewis.
Lewis Hamilton.
I barely had time to register the Ferrari logo on his chest before he caught my eye with the briefest flicker of recognitionâprobably because I was staring like he was the second coming.
âLewis!â Lando called out to him from the entrance of the hospitality while Iâm internally trying hard not to freak out. Lewis walked our way, and Lando gave him a quick nod. âLewis. This is Y/N, she's a big fan.â
Lewis smiled and held out his hand. âNice to meet you.â
I shook it, praying my palm wasnât sweating like a med student on their first day in the OR.
âYouâre the surgeon, right?â Lewis asked, casual as anything.
I blinked. âIâuh, yeah. How do youâŠ?â
âYour seminar clip popped up on my feed,â he said. âThat case with the congenital defect? Nicely handled. Takes a lot of clarity under pressure.â
I think I blacked out for a second. I didnât expect that instagram post of mine was this.. viral.
âThanks,â I managed, heart thudding. âThat⊠means a lot. You were the reason I started watching Formula 1, actually.â
Lewis smiledâwide and warm and humble. âThatâs good to hear. Maybe next time we'll chat more. So nice to meet you. Sorryâgotta run. Team debrief.â He gestured vaguely toward the scarlet motorhome behind him.
âNo worries,â I said, heart thudding in my chest like an over-caffeinated metronome. âBig fan. Of everything.â
He gave a small laugh, already turning away. âStay out of the heat.â
And then he was gone.
Once Lewis walked off and the initial shock wore off just enough for me to start breathing like a normal human being, I turned to Lando, completely dazed.
âI just shook hands with Lewis Hamilton,â I whispered.
âYou did,â he said, smug.
âAnd he complimented my case report,â I added.
âHe did.â
"He looked pretty good in red,"
Lando sneered at me, "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
âIâm going to sit down before I faint.â
He laughed softly and nudged his head toward a quieter spot behind the hospitality suiteâa small bench overlooking the back part of the paddock, away from the main media flow. âCome on. Take a pit stop.â
We sat in a kind of bubbleâclose enough to hear the background hum of crew radios and tire warmers, but just far enough that no one was really paying attention to us. For a minute, neither of us said anything.
I sipped a cup of coffee someone had pressed into my hand without me noticing. My palms were still a little clammy. âI still canât believe you invited me,â I said finally, voice low.
He glanced over, one arm slung across the back of the bench. âWhy not?â
I shrugged, eyes still fixed ahead. âYou didnât have to.â
âExactly why I did.â
I turned to look at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone.
âYou looked like you needed air that night,â he added, more lightly. âAnd now here you are, inhaling brake dust and I've warned you, our coffee here isn't the best.â
I laughed under my breath. âItâs a weird kind of paradise.â
âYou get used to it,â he said. âBut I figured if you were going to take a break from your world, it should be somewhere that doesnât ask anything from you.â
My throat caught, just a little. It wasnât a big gesture. Not loud. Not grand. But in a life where everything had been so rigidly scheduled, measured, timed to the minuteâthis, whatever it was, felt like a pause I hadnât realized I needed.
The sky hung low and heavy, a deep silver stretched across the horizon. The kind of rain only Silverstone knows how to summon. The air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and electricity, every heartbeat around me syncing to the growl of engines waiting to be unleashed. I stood just beyond the garage, headset idle in my hand, watching the grid form beneath the mist. Max at the front. Oscar beside him. And Lando, third, just as he said he would be. His home race, and he was right in the thick of it.
The downpour came like a curtain, sudden and unrelenting. Rain turned the track into a mirror, reflecting the blinking start lights above like tiny stars trembling in water. Everything blurred, the outlines of helmets, the streaks of color, the boundary between nerves and awe. I gripped the headset tighter, though I had no role to play. I was just there to feel it. And God, I felt everything.
The lights went out, and the cars surged forward like unleashed storms. Max took the early lead, but Oscar moved like a blade through water, slipping ahead with calculated grace. And then Lando, steady, patiently found his moment. A sharp breath caught in my throat as he swept into second, fluid and fearless. My chest swelled with something too big for words.
The storm thickened. The safety car was called. Pit crews danced in the chaos, tires changed with choreography that defied the rain. Lando held his ground. Oscar widened his lead, until a penalty rewrote the script, and suddenly, Lando was first.
The final laps blurred into something dreamlike. Raindrops hit the tarmac like applause. Every corner felt like it could tilt the world. I didnât know I was holding my breath until I saw the flag, that checkered promise slicing through the storm.
Lando had won. He won the British Grand Prix, his home race.
The crowd roared, but I could barely hear it over the wild beat of my own heart. McLaren spilled into the pit lane, arms raised, faces soaked in rain and joy. Confetti tangled with droplets in the air, a strange kind of magic. I leaned back against the cold wall, still trembling from it allâthe tension, the beauty, the impossible victory that felt so utterly right.
This wasnât just the race I had always dreamed of attending. It was his moment. And somehow, impossibly, I had been there to see it from the inside.
Rain still misted down like it hadnât gotten the memo that the race was over, and yet no one cared. Crew members were yelling, hugging, crying, soaked through and grinning like fools. Cameras surged toward the cars and the winning driver, Lando, helmet off, hair damp and curling at the edges, absolutely radiant with disbelief.
I hovered near the back of the McLaren crowd, not wanting to intrude. My heart was still racing, as if Iâd driven the last fifteen laps myself. Iâd screamed into the headset so hard during the final overtakes I was surprised I hadnât broken it.
He climbed out of the car slowly, like it took a moment for his brain to catch up to what had just happened. He tore off his gloves, tossed them aside, and let the cheers wash over him.
And thenâhe turned. Not to the cameras. Not to the reporters. But to someone just outside the barrier. His mother.
I recognized her immediately. Heâd posted about her onceâon Motherâs Day, I thinkâand the resemblance was undeniable. Her expression was nothing short of overwhelming joy, pride etched in every line of her face as she leaned over the barrier to wrap her arms around him.
He melted into her hug like a kid again, helmet pressed against her shoulder. I couldnât hear what they were saying, not with all the chaos around us, but I saw him nod, saw his hand squeeze hers, saw her brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead before pulling back with a teary smile.
He laughed, and then turned back into the swirl of the crowd.And thatâs when his eyes found me.
I was still half-hidden behind a line of engineers, hands shoved in my coat pockets, trying not to look like Iâd just lived through a spiritual experience. But when our eyes met, the noise seemed to dim. He didnât hesitate. Just started walking toward me, like everything else could wait. And as he got closer, I noticed itâthe glint in his eyes that wasnât just adrenaline or victory. It was something softer. Calmer.
âHi,â he said, just above the noise, still slightly breathless.
âHi,â I replied, blinking rain out of my lashes. âNice little drive.â
He huffed a laugh, cheeks flushed from effort and cold. âCouldâve been worse.â
âYou made Verstappen look slow.â
âIâll pretend I didnât hear that,â he teased, but his smile faltered a littleâturned thoughtful. âI kept wondering⊠if youâd stayed through the whole thing.â
I tilted my head. âI wasnât going to miss your first home win.â
His mouth twitched. âWasnât sure if itâd ever happen, to be honest.â
âWell,â I said, stepping a little closer, âyou made history. In the rain. At Silverstone.â
The moment heldânot loud, not dramatic. Just full.
And when he finally pulled me into a damp, exhausted, elated hug, I realized I didnât care about the cameras or the cold or how wild this all was. Because I was here. And so was he.
The crowd roared as Lando stepped onto the top step of the podium, rain still falling in that classic Silverstone drizzleâlight but ever-present, like the British weather was weeping with pride.
I stood off to the side with the team, tucked under a sea of orange jackets and champagne-soaked flags. The cheers were deafening, but my smile felt louder. He looked up as the anthem played, face tilted toward the sky, big smile etched to his face. His name echoed through the speakers, through the grandstands, through my chest.
âFirst time?â a voice said beside me, light and amused.
I turnedâand froze.
His mother.
She had the same warmth in her eyes as her son, the same wry half-smile, like she already knew something you didnât. She was dressed casually but elegant, rain mist clinging to her curls, and she was watching the podium like her heart was right up there with him.
âIâuh, yes,â I said, suddenly self-conscious. âTo the Grand Prix. Not⊠not life.â
She chuckled. âYouâre Y/N, right?â
My brain short-circuited. âHe⊠mentioned me?â
She gave me a knowing look. âHe doesnât shut up, actually.â
That made me laughâgenuinely. The tension in my shoulders slipped just a little.
âIâmâsorry,â I said, holding out a damp hand. âI shouldâve introduced myself earlier. I didnât want toâwell, itâs his moment.â
âIt still is,â she said kindly, shaking my hand. âAnd youâre part of it, arenât you?â
I didnât know what to say to that. But I smiled, and I hoped it said enough. We stood there together, watching him raise the trophy over his head like it weighed nothing, the crowd roaring his name. And for the first time since arriving, I didnât feel like I was intruding. I felt like I belonged.
I woke up to over two hundred unread notifications, a slightly damp McLaren hoodie draped over the armchair, and the distinct post-race high that hadnât quite worn off. The silence in the room felt unnatural after the roar of Silverstone the day before, like my body was still waiting for another engine to rev, another crowd to scream. My phone buzzed again. Probably the seventh time since I opened my eyes.
And then it rang.
Tiara. FaceTime.
Of course.
I answered without thinking, still rubbing sleep from my eyes.
Her face filled the screen immediatelyâwide-eyed, fully dressed, holding a smoothie she clearly wasnât drinking.
âDonât even try to pretend nothing happened,â she snapped. âYouâyouâare in a full-on F1 fanfic and didnât tell me?!â
âI literally texted you âI survivedâ at midnight.â
âYou survived a victory hug from Lando Norris thatâs now a trending GIF on Twitter,â she deadpanned. âYou think Iâm talking about your survival?â
I groaned, rolling onto my back. âIt wasnât a hug-hug. It was just⊠we were both soaked. Emotional. You had to be there.â
âAnd donât think I missed the Race Day Fit Check post either. You looked fire, babe. Leather jacket, tailored trousers, white trainers â very off-duty surgeon meets paddock princess. The timelineâs obsessed.â
I sat up finally, switching app to my instagram. She wasnât lying.
My Instagram post from yesterday was just a simple mirror pic captioned âOn leave. Let the engines do the stitching today đđ«â had blown up.
Fashion accounts were reposting it under #OffDutyGridMuse, and I had DMs from people asking for the links to my outfit. Apparently, my second slideâa short video clip of me walking along the McLaren hospitality line, lanyard swaying, hair slicked back, sunnies onâhad also hit explore.
But that wasnât even the main event.
Everywhere I looked, people were posting clips of Landoâs hug. The way his eyes had found me. The fact that, soaked and trembling with adrenaline, heâd walked straight past the cameras to me.
There were side-by-side comparison edits already. Me in my scrubs. Me in McLaren orange. Headlines like:
âWho is Y/N? The CT surgeon-turned-style icon quietly taking over Silverstone.â
âFrom ORs to Overtakes: Dr. Y/N and Landoâs Rainy Moment Sparks Internet Buzzâ
âLando Norris Celebrates Home Win With Emotional Hug: Not With Teammates, But a Certain Doctor?â
I blinked, still processing.
âOkay,â I mumbled, âthis is insane.â
âNo, youâre insane for not warning me this was even on the table,â Tiara said. âAlso, side note, your smile in that video? That wasnât your 'friend' smile. That was your âI have a pulse because he makes it raceâ smile.â
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Lando Norris liked your post.
I just stared at the screen, my own OOTD post sitting thereâstill getting comments, likes ticking upward faster than I could read themâwhen the notification came through. For a moment, it felt like the online world and my real one had crashed into each other.
And thenâa DM came through.
@lando: So... race-day fit rating 10/10
@lando: Surgeon x paddock runway walk? Untouchable.
@lando: Also
@lando: If youâre not on a plane yet⊠breakfast?
I smiled. Not the camera kind. The kind that starts behind your ribs and works its way up. Tiara narrowed her eyes at me through the screen. âThatâs his name popping up, isnât it?â
âI have to go,â I said, biting back a grin.
âOh my god, youâre going.â
âIâm just getting food.â
âWith Lando. Norris.â
I didnât deny it. I just stood up, grabbed my towel before beelining for the bathroom. âWish me luck.â
Tiara was grinning like sheâd manifested this entire storyline herself. âYou donât need luck, babe. Youâve already got pole position.â
Lando was already there when I arrived. Hoodie pulled over damp curls, cap low, eyes on the window like he was still processing the race in slow motion. But when I stepped inside, he looked up and smiledâthe kind of smile that wasnât just reflex.
âYou came,â he said.
âI thought about ghosting you,â I teased, pulling off my coat.
âBut?â
âBut you look like someone who forgets to eat post-victory, so I figured I had to be here.â
âNot wrong,â he muttered, eyes flicking down to the coffee in front of him. âYou want something?â
I nodded, and he flagged the server down. When I slid into the seat across from him, he gave me a once-over. âYou look different.â
âBetter or worse?â
He smiled. âJust⊠not the grid version of you. Itâs nice.â
âSame,â I said, nodding to his hoodie. âNo helmet. No microphones. Youâre kind of quiet without the noise.â
He laughed into his cup. âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
âItâs not,â I said. âI like quiet.â
His gaze lingered on me, serious for a beat longer than I expected. Then he reached for the sugar packet and shrugged like he needed to lighten the air.
âI almost missed my press call last night,â he said.
âWhy?â
âKept wondering if I shouldâve kissed you.â
I choked on my coffee.
He grinned. âRelax, I didnât.â
âObviously.â
âBut I thought about it.â
I stared at him, trying not to smile. âWhy?â
He leaned back. âHonestly? I donât know. You were just there. And Iâd been in the car for almost two hours and all I could think about was the tumi dinner where I first met you, and the hospital cafe, and how you make a race feel quieter. Like, less... frantic.â
My chest tightened at that â because I knew exactly what he meant. That thing we hadnât said out loud yet.
âSo,â I said softly, âwhy didnât you?â
He shrugged again, slower this time. âDidnât want to make it a moment youâd regret.â
I looked down, tracing the edge of my spoon. âAnd now?â
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. âNow Iâm having breakfast with a girl who slices open hearts for a living and still showed up to Silverstone looking like a Vogue spread.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I think I should let her finish her coffee before I consider kissing her again.â
My mouth curved without meaning to. âSo considerate.â
He raised a brow. âIâm patient. Also mildly terrified of you.â
âGood.â I gave him a simple smile, despite the butterflies. We sat there, quiet again. But this time, it wasnât full of tension or nerves. It was steady. Grounded. Like we had time to figure this out.
âI cannot believe I left it,â I muttered for the third time that morning, thumbing uselessly through my camera roll, where I had taken a photo of the last chapter of a book I read like it might magically reappear.
Lando glanced over from the driverâs seat, amused. âStill talking about that book?â
âYes,â I groaned. âI was two chapters from the end. Two. And it was just getting brutal in the best way.â
He didnât laugh, but the corner of his mouth pulled. âYou sound like you just left your kid at an airport.â
âClose. Except my kid is fictional and probably about to die in the snow.â
He chuckled then, soft and teasing. âWell, we canât have that.â
I assumed heâd let the conversation drop, but ten minutes later, when we took an exit off the motorway, I realized we werenât headed back to my hotel.
âWhere are weâ?â
âYouâll see.â
It wasnât until he parallel-parked (impressively well, to my surprise), that I looked up and saw it. An old brick storefront tucked between a florist and a bakery. Wooden windows. Worn navy awning. The kind of place youâd miss if you blinked.
Wren Books.
Since 1968.
I turned to him slowly. âDid you just bring me to a bookstore?â
He slid his sunglasses onto his cap. âYou said you were in pain.â
I blinked. âThat was a dramatic exaggeration.â
âDidnât sound like it.â
The tiny bell above the door jingled as we stepped inside. The air smelled like dust, lavender, and ink. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Narrow aisles. A rolling ladder I was absolutely going to climb.
âYou come here often?â I whispered, like we were in a church.
He nodded. âSometimes. Itâs quiet. No one ever really recognizes me in here. And the old man who runs it thinks F1 is a fancy vacuum brand.â
I laughed under my breath and let my fingertips trail across the spines. Hardcover. Softcover. Gold-foiled titles. A bookshop that made time feel soft and slow. Lando trailed behind me, hands in his pockets, content to let me browse.
It felt strange, in the best way, to be seen like this. Not scrubbed in. Not wearing a pass around my neck. Just⊠a girl chasing the last two chapters of her story, and a boy who made sure she didnât have to do it alone.
âFound it,â I breathed, yanking a familiar cover off the shelf like a lifeline. Same edition. Same dog-eared chapter.
Lando appeared behind me, peering over my shoulder. âYou gonna finish it right here?â
âTempting.â
He smiled. âWant a coffee with that?â
âAre you bribing me into reading next to you?â
âObviously.â
I smirked, holding the book close to my chest. âYou really donât mind doing something this⊠slow?â
He looked at me, really looked at me, and shrugged. âWith you? It doesnât feel slow.â
The back of the bookstore opened into a little indoor garden, with barely more than three mismatched tables. An elderly barista with faded tattoos slid two mugs across the counter without asking for namesâjust smiled like sheâd already decided we were harmless.
âDidnât even order,â I whispered, amused.
âThey know,â Lando said, taking the seat across from me. âIâm a creature of habit.â
âLet me guess. Black coffee, no sugar?â
âFlat white. Two sugars. Donât stereotype me.â
I laughed as I settled into the seat beside the window, tucking my knees up and cracking open my book. It felt almost surreal, like Iâd stepped out of a sprint and into a still frame. Outside the window, the sky was silver with low clouds. Inside, it was just warm light, soft pages, and the gentle clink of mugs against worn wood.
Lando didnât pull out his phone. He didnât even pretend to be checking the time.
Instead, he watched me read for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, like he was content just being there. With me.
âOkay,â he said eventually, voice low. âTell me what happens.â
âI canât,â I murmured. âYou have to read it yourself.â
âI hate not knowing.â
âWelcome to my life.â
I turned a page, then added, âBesides, you strike me as the kind of person who skips ahead to see who dies.â
He looked mildly offended. âI do not. I skim.â
âSame thing.â
He reached for his coffee, clearly not planning to argue. âIf you ever publish something, thoughâlike, I donât know, a book of medical essays or a memoirâyouâd better tell me what happens.â
I raised a brow over the top of my book. âYou think Iâm going to write a memoir?â
âIâd read it. Especially if thereâs a chapter about the time you made a race car driver wait while you finished a novel.â
I smiled without meaning to, eyes scanning the pageâbut the words were starting to blur. Because the truth was, I wasnât really reading anymore. Not in the usual way.
I was memorizing this moment. The way he stirred his drink without thinking. The way his leg bounced lightly under the table. The way he looked at me like I wasnât some story he had to figure out, but one he wanted to keep unfolding.
âThis is nice,â I murmured, half to myself.
He didnât respond right away. Then, âYeah. Youâre kind of⊠dangerous like this.â
I glanced up. âWhat do you mean?â
âCalm. Soft-spoken. Reading in an old bookstore. Thatâs how people fall in love in movies.â
My breath caught, not because it was a grand declaration, but because it wasnât. It was a tease, barely a flicker of a grin, but there was something behind it. Like a door left cracked open.
âAnd you?â I asked, a little too steady. âYou fall in love at bookstores?â
He looked at me, the faintest trace of heat behind his lashes. âNo. But I think Iâd come back for this.â
When we stepped outside, the world had softened. A fine mist had settled over the street, the kind that clung to your skin instead of falling like proper rain. Lando pulled up his hood; I didnât bother. My cheeks were already warm.
âWhere to now?â I asked.
He shrugged, hands in his pockets. âYouâve got your book. Iâve got time.â
We walked, without direction, even when we saw Landoâs car parked outside the bookstore, we still walked without talking, just the quiet rhythm of our steps echoing off the pavement. The street curved gently past ivy-covered flats and flickering old lanterns that hadnât been updated to LED yet. It felt like walking through a city that had forgotten what century it belonged to.
âI like it here,â I said, finally. âItâs⊠still.â
âI thought you might.â His voice was soft, and he glanced sideways at me. âYou talk fast when youâre nervous. But when itâs quiet? You donât fill the space.â
I gave a small smile. âNeither do you.â
âNot with you.â
That sentence hung there, fog-wrapped and feather-lightâand yet somehow heavier than anything either of us had said all day.
We turned a corner, and our shoulders brushedânot on purpose, but not entirely by accident either. I didnât move away.
âI was trying not to like you, you know,â I said, eyes still ahead.
âI know,â he replied. âYou did a terrible job.â
I laughed, and he smiled. That slow, lopsided one that made me want to pause in the middle of the street and forget every reason Iâd ever built a wall in the first place.
âCan I tell you something?â he said after a few more steps.
My chest tightened. Not because it was grand or poetic, but because it was true.
âAnd now?â
He looked at me then, like he wasnât quite sure whether to say what came next â but also knew he couldnât not.
âNow I think about you in places where you donât belong. Like the paddock. The grid. On a Sunday morning when Iâm supposed to be mentally prepping, and instead Iâm wondering if youâre making coffee in your kitchen reading a latest journal in your iPad in a messy bun.â
I swallowed, heart in my throat. The mist curled between us like breath. Cold on my skin. Warm in my chest.
âSo what happens now?â I asked, barely above a whisper.
He looked down at me, still walking, close enough that I could see the glints in his green eyes, close enough to see the white mist that came out of his mouth each time he exhaled, the way his voice stayed low like this was something just for me.
âNow we keep walking,â he said. âUnless you want to stop.â
I did. I stopped.
And he did too, immediately. His eyes searched mine, not startled, but like he knew. Like maybe heâd hoped Iâd be the one to stop first.
The space between us tightened. Breathless. I didnât say anything. I just looked at him, really looked, like I was memorizing the moment before it unraveled. And then he smiled. Small. Crooked. Not the smile for fans or cameras. The one that meant, you donât scare me, you undo me.
âSo?â he asked, voice barely a thread. âWhyâd you stop?â
My pulse tripped over itself.
âBecause Iâm tired of pretending this doesnât feel different,â I whispered.
And before I could second-guess it, I took a step closer. He didnât move, didnât flinch or breathe too loud. But his gaze softened. Like he already knew what I was about to do and was letting me have the moment.
So I reached up, slowly, fingers grazing the edge of his jacket. Not pulling, just anchoring. Just saying Iâm still here. And then, without another word, I leaned in.
Our nose brushed first. Barely. My lips lingered, like I was testing gravity. And then I kissed him.
Gently.
No rush. No tilt of urgency. Just a slow, steady press, like punctuation at the end of a sentence Iâd been writing for months without realizing.
His hand came up to cradle the side of my neck, warm even in the chill, and he kissed me back with the same stillness. Not cautious. Not unsure. His thumb brushed just under my jaw, and I let my eyes close. The rain didnât matter. The street didnât matter. Time, for once, didnât matter.
It wasnât the kind of kiss that demanded a future. It was the kind that honored everything that had already happenedâthe almosts, the timing, the pages in between.
And when we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine. âFinally,â he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, like the word had been waiting at the back of his throat for weeks.
I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were soft, crinkled at the corners. That boyish grin was there too, not smug, not teasing. Just real.
âWas starting to think I imagined all of it,â he added, brushing a raindrop from my cheek with his thumb.
âYou didnât,â I whispered.
He smiled a little wider. âGood. Because if you had chosen to walk again, I mightâve let you⊠but I wouldnât have liked it.â
That made me laugh, quietly, into the space between us.
âI wasnât going anywhere,â I said.
And I meant it.
People always ask how it started. Like theyâre expecting a moment, a grand ask, a rose-tinted âWill you be my girlfriend?â over dinner or after a race or under fairy lights. But thatâs not how it happened.
Lando never really asked me out.
Not in the way people expect.
There was no question, no label. Just⊠a beginning. A slow, steady unfolding that felt more like a choice we made quietly, over time. Like people who had lived enough lives separately to know that love doesnât always need a declaration. Just presence.
He kept showing up. In texts. In coffee shop corners. In flights he didnât tell his team about until after he booked them. And I kept letting him in. Carefully, but willingly.
We didnât rush to name it. We were busy, his world spun at 300 kilometers an hour, mine cracked chests open and stitched them back together. But between grid calls and ORs, airports and after-round coffees, we built something that was ours.
We didnât try to hide it, exactly. We just didnât parade it around.
It was easier that way. Simpler to keep the world out. Tiara called it âthe perfect soft-launch relationship.â I called it safe.
And then... the jacket incident happened.
It was Monza, where I was free from the on-call schedule all weekend and decided coming to his race was better than spending the weekend in my bed hibernating. It was wet, windy, and I was miserable. I had no idea the cameras were rolling, F1âs content team was filming behind-the-scenes moments, team footage, crew interactions. Lando had lent me his McLaren jacket cause the rain decided to soak me from top to bottom. My hair was losing its curls. My sneakers were ruined. I looked like someoneâs exhausted sister, not a romantic interest.
I didnât even realize Iâd made it into the background of the final cutâjust a quick frame of me laughing with a race engineer, my face a bit blurry, half-draped in Landoâs soaked orange jacket. Nothing glamorous. Just⊠human.
But the internet noticed.
The next day, my phone exploded.
Someone posted a still on twitter, âWhoâs that girl?? Wearing Landoâs jacket??â
That wouldâve been enough. But two hours later, a TikTok fan edit surfaced: a slowed-down frame of me in the jacket, followed by a split-screen comparisonâthe same smile, same posture, as the viral hug video from silverstone.
Comments went wild:
âDid they just hard-launch in 0.2 seconds??â
âSo silverstone wasn't a friendly hug??â
âWhy is this the softest reveal Iâve ever seen??â
"Isn't that the doctor from silverstone??"
âNot Lando dating a literal surgeon goddess, Iâm sobbing.â
âFinally WAG with a real job.â
It was over. We were officially found.
Lando texted me a screenshot of a tweet with 40k likes. Just the words, âheâs soft-launching a surgeon. i canât breathe.â
You: you gave me the jacket. thatâs on you.
Lando: bold of you to assume i wasnât planning it.
I couldâve panicked, yet I didnât.
Because by then, we already knew what we were.
No posts. No statement. No âInstagram official.â Just the quiet knowledge that somehow, without either of us needing to say it out loud, we had chosen each other.
The media storm had burned through most of the morning. I hadnât opened Twitter. Lando hadâfor research, he claimedâand immediately regretted it. Tiara had sent seventeen screenshots, all with the caption: âYOU HAVE 8 SECONDS TO EXPLAIN.â
Now, I was sitting beside Lando on a low couch in McLarenâs motorhome. Across from us sat Julia, his PR manager, expression somewhere between mildly impressed and professionally panicked.
Julia set her tablet down, folded her hands. âSo. Letâs talk about⊠whatever this is.â
I didnât flinch. âThat wasnât a rollout plan, if thatâs what youâre asking.â
Julia offered a tight smile. âI figured. But the algorithm doesnât care about your rollout strategy, unfortunately.â
Lando leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the couch. âIs it bad?â
Julia raised an eyebrow. âDefine âbad.ââ
He winced. âOkay.â
I glanced at him, then back to Julia. âWe werenât trying to hide it. We were just⊠keeping it ours.â
Julia nodded. âAnd honestly? It shows. The response is overwhelmingly positive. Curious. Intrigued. But positive.â
She flipped the tablet around to show them a few headlines.
 âF1âs Quietest Power Couple?â
 âSurgeon, Influencer, McLaren Soft-Launch Queen?â
 âLandoâs Jacket Might Be the Real Main Character of the Italian GP.â
Lando snorted. âTheyâre not wrong.â
Julia gave me a more pointed look. âYouâre already media-trained by default, your hospital interviews, your fashion work, your seminars. Youâre polished. That helps.â
I tilted my head. âBut?â
âThereâs always a but.â Julia paused. âThere will be questions. Requests. Invitations. Maybe even some articles about your past. People will want to define you by your proximity to him.â
I didnât look away. âTheyâll learn quickly I donât orbit anyone.â
Julia smiled at that. âGood. Then we have two options.â
She held up two fingers. âOne: you both say nothing. Keep it quiet. Let the moment fade. Risk speculation-maybe some âare they or arenât theyâ articles every time youâre in the same city.â
âAnd two?â Lando asked.
âTwo: A soft confirmation. One photo. One line. Maybe on your termsânot the mediaâs.â
Lando turned to me, and for a moment the buzz of the day, the headlines, the chaosâit all fell away. âItâs your call,â he said. âIf youâre not ready, Iâm not pushing it.â
âMy call?â I asked. âYou donât care?â
His expression didnât shift yet his hand reached mine and holded it. âOf course I care. But itâs your world, too. Your life. Your name.â
There was something so unflinching in that, not indifference, but respect.
Still, I tilted my head. âOkay, but what would you want, if it were just you?â
He gave a small laugh under his breath, eyes flicking away like he hadnât expected the question to come back at him. âThen Iâd want to say it,â he said quietly. âNot because I owe anyone anything. Just because I donât want to pretend.â
The pen stilled in his hand. âBut I also donât want this to make your life hell. Youâve got an actual careerâyour patients, your followers, and a thousand people who already think you canât be both things at once.â
Julia looked between us, silent. I took a breath. The truth was⊠he wasnât wrong. Iâd spent so long trying to keep the two sides of my life separateâinfluencer and resident, fashion and medicine, and now here was this third thing: a person who straddled two worlds too. A person who, somehow, felt like belonging in both.
I looked back at the screen. The freeze-frame showed me in the jacket, rain in my hair, laughing like I didnât know a single lens was turned my way. I didnât look like a brand. I looked like myself.
âI think,â I said slowly, âif weâre already here⊠we donât deny it. We donât parade it either. No red carpet hard launch. No âjoint statement.â Just⊠let them figure it out.â
Julia tapped her screen. âUnderstood. Soft confirm, no formal announcement. Just authenticity.â
âJust us,â Lando echoed, still watching me.
The buzz of Monza had faded fast as I was back navigating my life as a resident. I kept replaying the way Lando held my hand, his kisses, soft whispers, the loud garage and roar of the car, which felt so contrasting with the loudness of the hospital that somehow felt lonelier than ever. I fell back into a routine I knew too well, scrubs, rounds, charting, back to scrubs. The comments online hadnât stopped either. Whispers about my intentions, how I was just like another influencer, that this relationship wouldn't last that they'd give it only two months.
I didnât respondânot to the noise, and not to the ache of missing him. Because even when Lando texted, FaceTimed, sent photos from his hotel breakfasts or during pre-race training, there was still a distance. Not just in kilometers, but in everything else too. I told myself to focus. I told myself to hold it together. Until I couldnât anymore.
Some nights donât end, they just bleed. This one started like that. The hallway outside the NICU smelled like antiseptic and tired decisions. I rubbed sanitizer into my hands until they burnedâmy fourth coat in under an hourâand blinked back the sting in my eyes from too much air conditioning and not enough sleep.
It was close to midnight when the alarms started. Not the shrill, chaotic kind, but the cold onesâthe ones that tell you something has already gone wrong. When the babyâs heart rate began to dip, it was like a warning bell sounding in my chest.
Sheâd been ours for nearly three months.
Born with a rare congenital heart defect, one Iâd written case notes about in med school but never seen up close. I knew her chart like my own reflection. She had survived two surgeries, and had the fiercest will Iâd ever seen in a NICU incubator. She had hair like peach fuzz and a grip stronger than her weight in grams should allow. Her parents called her âour little fighter,â and for a long time, she lived up to the name.
Until tonight.
We tried everything. I led the codeâcompressions with two fingers, switching off with the paeds resident on-duty every two minutes, while our attending called out meds and timers like an orchestra conductor keeping chaos from slipping off rhythm.
I didnât think. I reacted. Muscle memory. Protocols. Calm voice even when the room stopped breathing. Thatâs what they teach you. That composure equals clarity.
Fourty-five minutes.
Thatâs how long we tried to bring her back. To reach ROSC. A heartbeat. We pushed epi. We begged with our hands. I donât even remember when the attending finally said it, âTime of death: 3:37 a.m.â
The silence that followed wasnât peace.
It was ruin.
I took off my gloves in the corridor like they weighed double. One of the nurses handed me water I couldnât drink. Another touched my elbow. I think she meant it kindly.
Then came the worst part.
The family room was dimly lit, too warm. Her parents were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the vinyl couch, eyes puffy, coffee untouched. The mother stood when I entered. The father didnât.
I told them gently. Clearly. Like Iâd practiced. Like the words were surgical tools. Sharp, clean, necessary.
And just like that, their world ended.
They didnât cry right away. Grief didnât look like it did in movies. Her mother covered her mouth and sank back down. Her father stared at the wall. Then the voices roseânot at each other, but at me. It wasnât screaming. It wasnât unkind. It was anguish disguised as blame.
âYou said she was stable.â
 âYou said she had a chance.â
 âYou were supposed to help her.â
They didnât say it to hurt me. But it did.
Because I had said those things. Because I had believed them. Because I had meant every single word.
I didnât cry. Not when I debriefed with my attending. Not during sign-out. Not even when one of the nurses hugged me a little too long after shift change.
But my hands shook when I changed out of my blood-specked scrubs. And my chest ached when I walked past her empty isolette on the way out.
Outside, the sky was trying to be morning.
I crossed the lobby and thought maybe Iâd make it to the parking lot before everything caught up to me. That maybe if I just kept walking, it would stay inside.
Then I saw him.
Lando. In flesh.
Leaning against the far wall near the revolving doors, holding two coffees and wearing that dumb black hoodie that barely covered his curls. He looked up just as I spotted him.
I stopped. My body did before my mind could.
His face shifted when he saw mine.
And then I broke.
No warning. Just shattered.
I stumbled forward like my body gave up on pretending, and I was crying before I reached himâraw, shaking, inconsolable in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain.
He put the coffee on the chair, no, he basically dropped the coffees on instinct. Didnât hesitate.
His arms came around me in a heartbeat. One around my back, one cradling my head, his chin resting just above my temple like heâd rehearsed this. Like he knew I needed it more than I needed air.
âIâve got you,â he murmured, over and over. âIâve got you, love.â
I couldnât speak. Couldnât breathe. Just sobbed into his chest in the middle of the hospital lobby, as the early shift staff filtered in with badge swipes and takeaway cups, quietly pretending not to notice the resident collapsing into someoneâs arms.
But they did notice.
I felt the stares. Heard the silence swell and shift.
Lando mustâve felt it too.
He dipped his head, speaking quietly, almost to himself. âLetâs get you out of here, yeah?â
I nodded. Couldnât do more.
He guided me gently, one arm firm around my shoulders, steering me toward the car parked near the side entrance. My feet moved because his did. My bones didnât know how to hold me anymore, but he did.
He opened the passenger door and helped me inside like I was glass. Closed it with a soft click. Then slipped into the driverâs seat beside me without starting the engine.
He didnât talk. Didnât press.
Just reached for my hand.
And thatâs when I cried all over againâquiet now, exhausted, with nothing left to prove. Letting the weight of a tiny heartbeat lost in the night settle into my bones.
And this time, I didnât carry it alone.
By the time we got to my apartment, the sky had given way to a dull grey lightâthat post-night shift haze where everything feels a little too loud and too quiet at the same time.
Lando didnât say much during the drive, and I was grateful for that. I didnât have the energy to fill the space, and he didnât seem to need me to. He just kept one hand on the wheel and the other loosely over mine in the center console, thumb grazing my knuckles like he knew I needed the contact to stay tethered.
When we reached my place, he parked, turned the engine off, and didnât ask if I wanted him to come up. He just got out, grabbed my bag from the backseat, and waited for me to lead the way.
I unlocked the door with shaky fingers. The apartment smelled faintly like jasmine and stale coffee. My cat blinked at me from the couch, tail flicking once in sleepy judgment before curling back up.
I stood there for a beat too long, keys still in my hand.
Then Lando gently touched the small of my back. âShoes off,â he said softly, a nudge toward normal. âAnd drink some water. Doctorâs orders.â
I let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Did as I was told. He followed me in, quiet and careful, setting my bag down and looking at the space like he was trying not to disturb it. Like he knew everything here had been holding something fragile.
I collapsed onto the edge of the couch and curled my legs under me. My body felt like it had been hollowed out.
He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. Set it on the table in front of me. Then sat on the floor, cross-legged, like getting too close would make it worse.
âYou donât have to talk,â he said, voice low. âNot if you donât want to.â
I stared down at my hands. My nails were chipped. There was a tiny streak of dried blood near my wrist from where my glove had torn during the code.
âI keep seeing her face,â I whispered.
He didnât move.
âShe had these tiny lashes. Like air.â I swallowed hard. âAnd after we called time, one of our nurses brushed them with her thumb. Like she was tucking her in.â
The quiet between us wasnât awkward. It was sacred. Heavy and gentle at once.
âIâve lost patients before,â I said. âAdults. Older kids. Iâve told families it was over. Iâve even walked out of an OR and thrown up in the stairwell. But this oneâŠâ My voice cracked. âI really thought sheâd make it.â
Landoâs brows pinched slightly. But he didnât say sorry. He didnât try to soften it.
âShe was fighting,â I continued, âand we kept asking her to fight harder. And she did. She did everything we asked.â
âYou did everything you could.â
I nodded, but it didnât land. âThatâs what everyone says. That we 'did everything'. But thereâs always a part of me that thinks if I had done one thing differentlyâif Iâd caught it sooner, if I'd pushed for another testâmaybe she'd still be here.â
His eyes didnât leave mine. âYouâre not God, Y/N.â
âI know that.â
âDo you?â
I looked away.
Lando leaned forward just a little, arms resting on his knees. âYouâre allowed to grieve. Youâre allowed to be human.â
âIâm supposed to be able to hold it together.â
âSays who?â
âEveryone.â
He shook his head. âThatâs crap.â
A pause. Then his voice dropped even lower, quieter. âYou held that babyâs heart in your hands. You gave her more time than she wouldâve had. Her parents may never see that, but I do. And I know what itâs like to carry the weight of someone elseâs expectations. The pressure to be perfect, even when everythingâs breaking.â
I blinked at him, something tight uncoiling in my chest.
âDonât do that alone,â he said.
I didnât answer. But I didnât look away, either.
A moment passed. Then I slid down from the couch, curling into him on the rug like it was instinct. His arms came around me immediately, solid and steady, and for the first time since the code, I let myself feel the full weight of it allâwhat we lost, what I gave, what I couldnât fix.
We sat like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just being. Just him. Just me. And the quiet understanding between two people from different worlds, learning how to hold space in the middle of the mess.
Yesterday passed like a blink. Or maybe a fog. I couldnât tell. We didnât talk about what happened, not really. We didnât do much of anything. I remembered he basically had to shoved food down to my throat because I refused to get up from the couch. I donât remember falling asleep, but I woke up with his hoodie around me and the weight of his arm still resting across my waist. My chest ached like Iâd run through a war zone. My eyes felt swollen, though I didnât think Iâd cried again.
Grief doesnât come with an alarm, but duty does, and mine buzzed to life just after 5:00 AM. Iâd only gotten a couple hours of restless sleep, the kind where your body rests but your mind keeps reaching for what it lost.
I didnât want to move.
But Lando stirred beside me. He hadnât left. Heâd curled into the edge of the couch with me the night before, one arm around my waist, our breathing syncing without meaning to. At some point I mustâve shifted, drifted, finally let go, because when I opened my eyes, he was already awake, brushing his thumb lightly across the back of my hand.
âYouâve got to go in,â he said, voice low and soft, like he didnât want to disturb the quiet that had settled around us.
âI know.â My voice was scratchy, and everything ached.
âIâll drive.â
âYou really donât have toââ
âI know,â he said again, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. âBut I want to.â
The drive was quiet. The kind of silence that didnât need fillingânot uncomfortable, just familiar now. I watched the city wake up through the windshield, street lights blinking off one by one, and wondered how everything could look so normal when something felt permanently altered inside me.
He reached into the center console at a red light and pulled out a small container.
âI made you something,â he said, almost bashful. âWell. I assembled it. I wouldnât call it cooking.â
I opened the lid and blinked. A sandwich. Peanut butter and banana. Cut diagonally. No frills.
âYou remembered I forgot to pack anything.â
âYou always forget.â
I smiled, small but real. âThis is⊠actually really sweet.â
âItâs my signature dish,â he deadpanned. âA Norris family classic. Carefully constructed with love and no culinary training.â
I laughed softlyâand that laugh, that ache-softening laugh, carried me all the way to the hospital parking lot.
When I stepped through the automatic doors, the lobby looked exactly the same as it did twenty-four hours ago.
But I wasnât.
My badge clipped to the collar of my clean scrubs. My stethoscope looped around my neck. My expression fixed, practiced. Functional.
Lando didnât come in with me. He knew better. He just rested a hand on my back before I stepped out of the car, and said, âText me if you need anything. Or nothing. Or air.â
âI will,â I said. âThank you.â
âFor the sandwich?â he teased.
âFor everything.â
Inside, the shift was already moving. Rounds underway. Notes being scribbled. Coffee half-sipped and charts half-read. But the energy shifted when I walked in. Not dramatically. No gasps. No outright questions. But there were glances. Murmured conversations that paused when I passed. The kind of silence that isnât meanâjust too careful.
People knew.
They knew what had happened. Word travels fast in a hospital, especially when someone codes for almost an hour. Especially when itâs a baby. Especially when the resident who led the code collapsed into the arms of a mysterious man in the lobby before sunrise.
I caught one of the interns whispering to a nurse.
âSheâs the one who lost the kid last night.â
âYeah. I saw her crying in the lobby, I feel sad for her too.â
âThat was Lando Norris with her, right? The F1 guy?â
The words hovered in the air like static. But they didnât sting. No one said anything to me directly. Not about the baby. Not about Lando. And oddly, I was grateful for that. There was mercy in the hush. In the way people lowered their voices and let me slip back into routine without demanding I relive it all.
I moved from one room to the next, listening to heartbeats, checking drains, adjusting meds. I could feel the grief humming beneath my skin, but the motions helped. One foot in front of the other. One chart after the next.
Eventually, during rounds, my attending approached me in the hallway. He was older, seasoned, with a gaze that could cut you open or stitch you together in a sentence.
âYou did everything you could last night,â he said, no preamble.
I opened my mouth, unsure whether to argue or thank him, but he held up a hand.
âIâve been there,â he continued. âAnd I know the guilt doesnât leave just because your shift ends. But let me be clear. It wasnât your fault. The outcome hurts, but the care you gave? That baby passed away wrapped in it.â
My throat tightened. I didnât speak.
He nodded once. âTake what you need from that. Then keep going.â
It wasnât a lecture. It wasnât pity. It was grace. And I held onto it the rest of the day.
Hours later, I found a text waiting for me during a rare ten-minute break.
Lando: You okay? Need me to sneak in and refill your sandwich?
Me: That was the best sandwich Iâve ever had. I might cry again.
Lando: Happy to deliver emotional sandwiches any time. Youâre doing great. I mean it.
I smiled, leaning back against the wall of the call room. Exhausted. Hollow. But not entirely alone in it anymore. And maybe that was the difference today. The baby was still gone. The pain hadnât vanished. But the silence around me wasnât so isolating. And the person waiting outside my world wasnât walking away.
We hadnât been seen together in months. Not at a race. Not in the paddock. Not in the background of a story someone could zoom into. We never made a big announcement. No "soft launch," no black-and-white dinner photo, no inside joke caption for fans to dissect. Just⊠one slow, unfolding connection that was real and complicated and tucked quietly into the corners of our lives. One that fits between cases and circuits, call rooms and podiums, coffee at 5 a.m. and FaceTime kisses at midnight.
But after a while, the silence started to echo louder.
It had been nearly three months since Iâd been to a race.
Three months of unmatched schedulesâsurgeries stacked on top of each other, international conferences I couldnât turn down, consults bleeding into weekends, and Landoâs back-to-back race calendar pushing him from continent to continent. Even when we carved out timeâstolen moments between hospital shifts and red-eye flightsâwe were always chasing the clock.
He still came to me after some races, slipped in quietly, stayed a day or two, and left before dawn with a kiss to my forehead. And I still waited up for his calls when he crossed the finish line, heart stuttering when I saw his name light up my screen.
But the public? They didnât see any of it.
And so the whispers started again.
âLooks like that doctor situation didnât last.â
 âMaybe it was just PR?â
 âTold you â people like her donât date people like him for long.â
 âShe hasnât been at a race in months. Theyâre probably done.â
I didnât take it personally.
At least not at first.
But some days, after a long shift, Iâd open my phone and see a headline questioning my existenceâlike Iâd been a footnote in someone elseâs chapterâand something in my chest would twist.
I wasnât angry. Just⊠tired of hiding something that had never been a secret to begin with.
Lando never pressured me to post anything, never asked for more than I could give. But I saw it in his eyes sometimesâwhen fans shoved phones in his face asking about âthe mystery girl,â when he was tagged in edits that erased me entirelyâthe faint twitch of frustration in his jaw.
Still, neither of us spoke it aloud.
Until one quiet night in late-October, when I collapsed into his hoodie on the couch and whispered, âYou know I miss it, right? Being there. Seeing you race.â
He turned toward me, brow creasing. âI know. I miss you being there.â
âIâve got the weekend off,â I said, voice soft. âNext one. Abu Dhabi.â
He didnât say anything for a moment. Just stared at me. Then he said, âCome with me.â
The paddock buzzed in a way that only a season finale could bringâhumid, electric, the kind of energy that vibrated off the asphalt. Flashing cameras. Champagne chilled before the race even began. Team radios crackling like nerves.
And this time, I wasnât watching it through a screen.
I stood at Landoâs side, fingers laced with his, sunglasses perched on my nose, paddock pass lanyard grazing the hem of my tailored vest. Confident. Grounded. Ready.
I didnât hang back this time. I didnât trail five steps behind or duck away from photographers. I didnât hide behind a McLaren team hoodie or worry about the timing of a headline.
This time, I walked with him. Through the paddock. Onto the grid. Past the cameras that spun toward us like moths drawn to something newly undeniable.
Lando didnât say anything dramatic. He didnât look at the cameras. He just squeezed my hand a little tighter, like a quiet âIâve got youâ that traveled through skin and bone.
And I squeezed back.
This was no soft launch. This was a weâre here, weâre real, we donât need your permission kind of moment.
Later, in the paddock hospitality suite, Tiara sent me a voice note that practically shattered my eardrums.
âOH MY GOD. Y/N. THE PHOTOS. You two look like an Italian Vogue feature. That outfit?? That hand-hold??? You BROKE the internet.â
I opened Instagram and saw it immediately.
The official F1 account had already posted a paddock arrival shot: Lando in his fire suit, sunglasses on, hand in mine, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. And meâsteady, chin high, vest cinched at the waist like armor.
The comments were a mix of pure chaos and disbelief:
âWAIT WHATâ
 âSheâs real???????â
"THEYRE STILL GOING STRONG!!"
 âHard launching on last race weekend of the season is so WILDâ
 âShe looks like she performs heart surgery for breakfast and heâs into itâ
 âProtect this energy at all costsâ
And in the middle of it allâLando had reposted the image with a caption that simply said:
âAbout time.â
It wasnât a declaration.
It was a confirmation.
Of everything weâd already lived behind closed doors. Of nights he held me through grief and mornings I made him laugh on flights home. Of every late FaceTime, every cold brew drop-off, every race watched from a hospital on-call room.
We didnât need to say it. We just showed up.
Together.
And this time, we didnât walk quietly. We walked hand in hand, with the world finally seeing what we already knew. This wasnât fleeting. This wasnât a phase. This was us.
The race was chaos.
The kind that lives in your bones long after the engines go quietâtires screeching, radio static, strategy calls that felt like gambles. But he did it. Lando did it.
World Champion.
And when the final flag waved, when the fireworks burst overhead and the grandstands shook with thunderous cheers, I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until the screen lit up with his name.
P1. Lando Norris.
My knees nearly gave out.
The McLaren garage eruptedâmechanics yelling, hugging, sobbing. I stood back in the crowd, a blur of hands and champagne already misting the air, heart pounding against my ribs.
And still, my eyes were only looking for one person.
He parked the car, sounded breathless over the radio, laughter choked with tears. And then he climbed out, helmet still on, arms raised toward the sky as if reaching for something that had always felt a little out of reach.
I wasnât sure when the tears started. Only that I couldnât stop them.
He hugged every mechanic. Patted every shoulder. Fell into his engineerâs arms. And thenâHis mother.
She was the first person he found.
They hugged hard, forehead to forehead. She said something into his ear that he didnât repeatâonly nodded, fiercely, like it meant everything.
Then, He turned.
The helmet was still on. But I knew. Even across the chaos, even across the barrier, even when fans were screaming and cameras were flashing and the whole world was watching.
He was looking for me.
And when he saw meâfinally, finallyâthe tension in his body changed.
He just stopped in front of me, eyes wide, chest still rising like he couldnât catch up to the moment.
Then, without breaking eye contactâ
He took off his helmet.
One slow, deliberate motion. Pulled it free. Dropped it carelessly to the side. Ran a hand through his sweat-damp curls.
And kissed me.
Hard. Unapologetically. Like a confession that had been burning in his throat for months.
The crowd went feral. The paddock flashed white with a hundred camera shutters. The media burst into chaos. Some people cheered. Others just gasped.
But I didnât hear it. Because I was kissing him back.
And in the middle of that kiss, just as he pulled back far enough to catch his breath, still holding my face like he didnât care about a single person watching, he whispered, âI love you.â
My breath caught.
He said it like it had lived inside him too long. Like it finally found its way out.
âI love you,â he said again, louder this time. âI didnât know how much until you werenât there every weekend. Until I kept winning, and it didnât mean anything unless I could find your face at the end of it.â
Tears blurred everything again.
âIâm here,â I managed.
âYou always are.â His thumb brushed my cheek. âEven when youâre not in the paddock, youâre with me. In every turn. Every lap. Every quiet.â
I couldnât say it back fast enough. âI love you too.â
And just like that, in a sea of orange and noise, with champagne in the air and a championship behind him, he kissed me again.
The paddock had emptied. The fireworks were done, the interviews wrapped. The celebratory noise still buzzed somewhere in the distanceâteam members laughing over drinks, music bleeding from the hospitality suiteâbut we had slipped away, unnoticed.
Not far. Just far enough.
Lando had taken my hand sometime between the last question and the last photo, and neither of us had let go.
Now, we sat beneath the stars on a low rooftop terrace just above the motorhome. Shoes kicked off. Racing suit had changed to a clean team merch. My hand tucked into his, thumb running small circles along his knuckles. I hadnât said much since the podiumânot after the kiss, not after the sudden onslaught of attention. But I didnât feel like I need to.
He looked at me now, his curls messy from the wind, his green eyes soft in the moonlight, and smiled like the chaos below belonged to someone else.
âI should feel different,â he murmured, voice low.
I glanced over him. âYou donât?â
âI mean⊠yeah. Itâs everything Iâve ever worked for. But thisââ he nodded toward my hand in his ââfeels bigger.â
I laughed quietly, the sound more breath than voice. My heart felt like sommer-saulting. âThatâs insane.â
âI know,â he said, then looked at me again. âBut when I saw you in the crowd, I knew it was all I could ever ask for.â
The silence that followed wasnât heavy. It was fullâof shared knowing, of ache and wonder and everything we'd survived to get here.
After a while, I spoke. âYou remember when you said I didnât fill the silence?â
He nodded.
âI think thatâs how I knew you are the one. Because the quiet with you never felt empty.â
Lando leaned in then, not for a kiss this timeâbut to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
âI love you,â he whispered again.
âI know,â I said, smiling. âI love you too.â
The world spun on. The season had ended. The championship was his. But here, in this small, borrowed sliver of stillness, there was no noise to outrun.
Just two people.
Just their shared quiet.
And the rest of their forever, beginning softly.