some things stay between pit walls

You've learned to compartmentalize. It's a skill that's served you well—on set when actors are having meltdowns, when studio executives are demanding impossible revisions, and especially now, standing in the elevator of Lando's Monaco apartment building with two energetic three-year-olds who've just consumed their body weight in airplane snacks.

"Mummy, I need to wee," Mila announces, tugging on your sleeve with the urgency only toddlers can muster.

"We're almost there, baby," you say, adjusting your grip on the car seat you're carrying while simultaneously preventing your son from pressing every button on the elevator panel. "Thiago, hands to yourself."

"But Mummy, buttons!" Thiago argues, his green-blue eyes—so much like his father's—sparkling with mischief.

God, your heart aches.

The elevator dings on the penthouse level, and you usher both children out, their little suitcases rolling behind them. You'd packed them yourself this morning in your London flat before the flight to Nice—five days' worth of clothes, their favorite stuffed animals, Mila's collection of hair clips that she insists on wearing all at once, and Thiago's toy cars that he lines up in precise rows just like the ones he sees on his father's YouTube videos.

You knock on the apartment door, already hearing the chaos of tiny feet running toward it from inside.

"DADDY!" both children shriek in unison before the door even opens.

When it does, Lando's there in joggers and a Loewe hoodie—looking off-duty, relaxed, his hair messy in that way that used to make you want to run your fingers through it. Now you just notice it objectively, the way you'd note good cinematography in someone else's film.

"There they are!" He crouches down immediately, and both kids barrel into him with the force of small cannonballs. "I missed you guys so much. Was the flight okay?"

"Thiago kicked the seat in front of him for an hour," you say, stepping inside and setting down the car seat. "And Mila charmed the flight attendant into giving her three cookie packets."

"That's my girl," Lando says, scooping Mila up and blowing a raspberry on her cheek. She squeals with delight.

You're pulling their suitcases inside when you notice a makeup bag on the console table by the door. Not yours, you'd recognize your own things. This one is Louis Vuitton, with a small charm dangling from the zipper. Your eyes track almost involuntarily around the open-plan space. There's a women's cardigan draped over the back of the sofa.

Something in your chest tightens, and you refuse to open that Pandora box right now.

"Mummy, I still need to wee!" Mila insists, and you snap back to attention.

"Right, sorry, baby. Lando, can I—"

"Yeah, of course, you know where it is," he says, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's noticed you noticing.

You take Mila to the bathroom, helping her with her leggings while she chatters about the clouds she saw from the plane and how Thiago stole her crisps. You're on autopilot, making the appropriate listening noises while your brain is doing something you really wish it wouldn't.

He's seeing someone. Of course he's fucking seeing someone. You've been divorced for eighteen months, you've both moved on, you're both co-parenting successfully, splitting time between London and Monaco, managing schedules around race weekends and film shoots. You're adults about this.

You're fine.

Mila finishes and insists on washing her hands herself, which means water ends up everywhere, and by the time you emerge back into the living room, Lando has Thiago on his shoulders and they're doing a lap of the apartment while your son shouts, "Faster, Daddy! Like a race car!"

"Careful," you say automatically, because Thiago has already had one trip to A&E this year from climbing where he shouldn't, and you're not keen on a repeat.

"I've got him," Lando says, and he does—his hands are secure on Thiago's legs, and he's being cautious despite the running. "So, I'll bring them back Wednesday afternoon? That still works?"

"Wednesday's perfect. I've got a production meeting Thursday morning, so that's—yeah, that's good." You're pulling out the folder from your bag—the one where you keep their schedules, dietary requirements, emergency contacts. It's color-coded because you're that kind of person. "Mila's been having nightmares about sharks, so she's been wanting her nightlight on extra bright. And Thiago needs to practice his letters, he keeps writing his 'S' backwards."

"Like his dad," Lando says with a grin, taking the folder. "I still do that sometimes."

"I know," you say, and there's too much familiarity in those two words, too much history. You clear your throat. "Right. So. I should—"

"Mummy, don't go!" Mila appears at your side, attaching herself to your leg like a barnacle.

"Baby, you're going to have so much fun with Daddy," you say, crouching down to her level. She's got your dark hair but his eyes, and the combination is devastating. "And I'll see you in five days. That's not so long."

"But what if I miss you?" Her bottom lip wobbles.

"Then Daddy will video call me, and we can talk," you say, smoothing her hair back. "And you can tell me all about what you've been doing. Okay?"

She nods, but she's not happy about it. Thiago, meanwhile, has discovered his suitcase and is trying to open it, clearly having forgotten something crucial.

"Go on," Lando says softly. "I've got them. You'll miss your meeting."

You don't have a meeting. You finished your current project last month, and you're between films right now, taking a rare break. But he doesn't need to know that, doesn't need to know that you're going back to your London flat to sit in your editing suite and work on your passion project, the script you've been writing for two years that no one's seen yet.

You kiss both children goodbye—Mila clings, Thiago is already distracted by the toys he can see in his bedroom—and you're almost at the door when you glance back.

Lando's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The afternoon light is streaming through the windows, catching in his hair, and for just a second you remember what it felt like to be married to him, to share this space, to be a family.

Then Mila tugs on his hand, demanding his attention, and the moment breaks.

"Text me when they're settled," you say.

"Always do," he replies.

You let yourself out, and you're in the elevator before you let your shoulders drop, before you let yourself feel the weight of that makeup bag, the evidence of someone else in the space that used to be partly yours.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from your agent about a Netflix show you're set to direct.

Work. You can focus on work. You're good at that. You've built a career on being able to compartmentalize, to separate the professional from the personal, to direct complex narratives while keeping your own feelings locked away behind the camera.

The elevator reaches the ground floor, and you step out into the Monaco sunshine, your sunglasses already in place.

You're fine. You're absolutely fucking fine.

Three hours later, you're supposed to be reviewing notes from your last production, but instead you're staring at your phone, at the text thread with Lando.

You open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You stare at the photo for longer than you should. At your daughter in your ex-husband's apartment, in a room you helped decorate before everything fell apart. The walls are still the soft blue you'd chosen together, and you can see the corner of the elephant painting you'd bought from a gallery in London when you were seven months pregnant and nesting hard.

You miss the life you had—the one where you'd come home from set and he'd come home from the racing, and you'd have dinner together as a family. You miss the mundane intimacy of it, the way he'd do the washing up while you gave the kids their bath, the way you'd collapse on the sofa together after they were asleep and he'd put his head in your lap while you both scrolled through your phones in comfortable silence.

You miss your family being whole.

You set your phone face-down on your desk and press your palms against your eyes. This is what you don't tell anyone—not your therapist, not your best friend, not your sister who keeps trying to set you up with eligible men in the film industry. You can't bring yourself to date. You've tried, once, a nice producer who took you to dinner at Sketch and was perfectly charming and utterly wrong because his eyes weren't green-blue and he didn't make terrible jokes and your children don't have his features carved into their faces.

Mila asks for Lando constantly. "Where's Daddy?" at least five times a day, even when she knows the answer. Thiago has started making this little sound in the back of his throat when he's playing with his cars—a sound that's unmistakably mimicking an engine, one he learned from watching his father's videos. They look so much like him it physically hurts sometimes.

The divorce nearly destroyed you. Not just emotionally, though that was bad enough, those first few months when the babies were so small and needy and you were trying to navigate separating your life from someone you'd built everything with. But publicly, it was a nightmare.

You're not just successful; you're award-winning, Academy-nominated at twenty-seven, with a career that includes box office hits and critically acclaimed independent films. The press had a field day. You'd left a premiere for your latest film and been swarmed by paparazzi outside your London home, all of them shouting questions about Lando, about the split, about whether you'd cheated (you hadn't), whether he'd cheated (he hadn't), why you were throwing away your perfect family.

Someone had gotten a photo of you crying in your car after dropping the twins at Lando's place, and it had been on the cover of three tabloids with increasingly invasive headlines. You'd had to hire additional security. You'd stopped going out unless absolutely necessary.

The UK doesn't have the same paparazzi laws as France or Monaco, and they'd taken full advantage.

Your phone buzzes again.

You go to the bathroom and fix your face—wash away the evidence of the tears you didn't realize you'd been crying, put on a bit of concealer, force a smile. When you FaceTime, both kids need to see Mummy being happy, being fine.

The call comes through, and suddenly your screen is filled with Thiago's face, so close to the camera that all you can see is his nose.

"Mummy!" he shrieks.

"Hi, baby! Back up a bit so I can see you properly."

Lando's voice in the background, "Thiago, mate, you have to hold it further away."

The camera pulls back, and then you can see both of them—Thiago in Lando's lap, Mila tucked against his side, all three of them squeezed together on what you recognize as the sofa in the living room. Your sofa, the one you'd picked out together.

"Mummy, Daddy made pasta but it was yucky," Mila announces.

"Oi, it was not yucky," Lando protests. "You ate three bowls."

"It was a little yucky," Thiago confirms, and you can't help but laugh.

"Traitors," Lando mutters, but he's smiling. "I'm getting better at cooking, for the record."

"I'm sure you are," you say, and your voice is softer than you intend.

You talk to the kids for fifteen minutes—about their day, about the books Lando bought, about the cars Thiago wants to show you in elaborate detail. Mila tells you she misses you but she's being a big girl about it. Thiago says he loves you approximately seven times.

And through it all, Lando is there, keeping them in frame, redirecting their attention when they get distracted, and occasionally catching your eye with this look that makes your chest tight.

When you hang up, your flat feels too quiet. Too empty and you want to rip your heart out so the aching stops.

Wednesday arrives faster than you expect and slower than you want—time doing that strange thing it does when you're both dreading something and desperate for it. You've been in your Monaco home since Monday, the one you bought six months after the divorce when it became clear that splitting time between London and Monaco wasn't just a temporary arrangement.

It's in Fontvieille, deliberately on the opposite side of Monaco from Lando's place, with a view of the port and enough space for the kids to have their own rooms. You'd decorated it yourself, making sure everything was perfect, soft colors, lots of natural light, a media room where you can work, a garden where the kids can play.

It's beautiful. It's also lonely as hell.

You're in your editing suite reviewing footage when your phone buzzes.

You spend the next hour trying not to spiral about what he might want to discuss. Is he moving? Is he getting serious with whoever owns that makeup bag? Is he going to ask to change the custody arrangement?

At 2:03, you hear the car pull up, and then the sound of the gate opening. You're at the door before they can ring, and suddenly both kids are there, launching themselves at you with the force of tiny missiles.

"Mummy!" Mila shrieks, and you're crouching down, pulling them both into your arms, breathing in the scent of their hair, feeling the weight of them solid and real against you.

"I missed you so much," you murmur into Mila's hair. "Did you have fun with Daddy?"

"We went to the marina and saw big boats," Thiago announces. "And Daddy let me have ice cream twice!"

"Did he now?" You glance up at Lando, who has the decency to look sheepish.

"It was a good week," he says with a shrug, and god, he looks good. He's in jeans and a navy blue polo, and he's got a tan from being outside with the kids, and you hate that you notice, hate that it still affects you.

"Go on inside," you tell the kids. "Your toys are exactly where you left them."

They don't need to be told twice, racing past you into the house, already arguing about who gets to play with what first. You stand, and suddenly it's just you and Lando on your doorstep, and the silence stretches awkward and heavy between you.

"You wanted to talk?" you prompt.

"Yeah, um—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Can I come in? Or we can talk out here, whatever you're comfortable with."

"Come in," you say, stepping aside.

He follows you through to the living room, and you can't help but notice the way he moves through your space carefully, like he's not sure he's allowed to be here, which is ridiculous because he's been here dozens of times for pickups and drop-offs. You can hear the kids playing in Thiago's room, their voices carrying through the open door.

"Coffee?" you offer, because you need something to do with your hands.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

You move to the kitchen, and he follows, settling onto one of the bar stools while you work the espresso machine—the nice one you'd splurged on because if you're going to be awake at 4am working, you're going to have good coffee.

"So," you say, your back to him while the machine hums. "What's up?"

"The Monaco Grand Prix is in two weeks," he says, and you can hear him shifting behind you. "And I wanted to ask if you'd bring the kids. To the race."

You freeze, your hand pausing over the cups.

"Thiago's obsessed with cars," Lando continues. "And Mila keeps asking to see Daddy's work. And I just—I think they'd love it. The garage, the cars, all of it. But I wanted to check with you first."

You turn around, leaning against the counter. "Lando—"

"I know it's a lot," he says quickly. "I know Monaco is crazy during race weekend, and there's media everywhere, and it's not exactly kid-friendly. But I'd make sure they're taken care of. They'd have ear protection, someone with them at all times, access to the motorhome if they need a break. And—and I'd really like them to see what I do. Properly."

You study him. There's something in his expression, something almost vulnerable. "This is about Thiago, isn't it? You want him to fall in love with it."

"Is that so wrong?" He's defensive now. "He's my son. This is my life. I want to share it with him."

"He's three, Lando."

"I was three when I started karting."

"I know," you say quietly, and you do. You know his whole history, how his dad recognized the talent early, how racing isn't just what Lando does but who he is at his core. "I just—"

"It's one race," he says. "Just—try it. If they hate it, if it's too much, we'll leave. But I think they'd love it."

"I'll think about it," you say finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You turn back to the espresso machine, pouring the shots. "Let me check my schedule. Make sure I don't have anything that weekend."

You both know you don't have anything that weekend, but he doesn't call you on it, just accepts the cup of coffee you hand him with a quiet "Thanks."

He takes a sip, and his eyebrows rise. "This is really good."

"I've had time to practice," you say, and you mean it to sound light, but it comes out sad instead.

The silence that follows is heavy with all the things neither of you are saying. You're both nursing your coffee, not quite looking at each other, and you're acutely aware that this is the longest you've been alone together since the divorce papers were signed.

"How's filming going?" he asks finally. "Claire mentioned you're developing something new."

"You talk to Claire?" You can't keep the surprise out of your voice.

"She calls sometimes," he says with a shrug. "Checks in. Makes sure I'm not—I don't know, falling apart or whatever she says."

Your agent calls your ex-husband to check on him. That's, you don't know what to do with that information.

"It's going well," you say. "It's a limited series for Netflix. Still in early development, but I'm excited about it."

"That's great," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "You're brilliant at what you do. They're lucky to have you."

The compliment sits warm in your chest, and you hate how much you've missed this—missed him being proud of you, being in your corner.

"How's the season going?" you ask, because fair is fair.

"Good. Car's quick. We're P1 in the championship, which is—yeah. It's good." He's downplaying it. You've been following the season despite yourself, watching race highlights on YouTube at 2am when you can't sleep, and you know McLaren is having their best season in years. "Lots of pressure, but good pressure."

"You always did work well under pressure," you murmur.

His eyes meet yours, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch. "Yeah. Well. Some kinds of pressure are easier than others."

You don't ask what he means. You're not sure you want to know.

From down the hall, you hear a crash, followed by Mila's voice, "It wasn't me!"

"I should—" You both say it at the same time, both moving toward the sound.

But it's just Thiago's car tower falling over, both kids already rebuilding it, and they barely glance up when you appear in the doorway. You and Lando stand there, watching them play, and the domesticity of it hurts.

This is what you gave up. These moments. This family.

"I should go," Lando says quietly. "Let you get them settled."

"Right. Yeah."

You walk him to the door, and he crouches down to say goodbye to the kids, both of them clinging to him, making him promise to FaceTime tomorrow. When he stands, he's closer than you expected, close enough that you can smell his cologne—the same one he's always worn, the one you used to steal his hoodies for because they smelled like him.

"Think about the race?" he says.

"I will."

"Okay." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but then thinks better of it. "I'll text you the details. Just in case."

"Okay."

He leaves, and you close the door behind him, leaning against it for a long moment. From Thiago's room, you hear Mila call out, "Mummy! Come play with us!"

"Coming, baby," you call back.

But you stand there for another moment, your hand on the door handle, thinking about makeup bag and the way Lando had looked at you in your kitchen, and wondering when exactly your life became so complicated.

You're standing outside the Circuit de Monaco at 8:47am on race day Sunday, and you're having what might generously be called a crisis.

"We can still leave," your sister Margot says from the driver's seat of your Range Rover. She's flown in from London specifically for this—moral support and twin-wrangling—and she's looking at you with that expression that says she thinks this is a terrible idea but she loves you too much to say it out loud.

"Mummy, why aren't we going?" Mila asks from her car seat, already wearing her little papaya dress that matches her brother's McLaren shirt.

"We're going, baby," you say, taking a breath. "Just—just give Mummy one second."

The problem is this: you've kept the twins out of the public eye since birth. Completely, deliberately, ruthlessly private. No photos, no social media, no confirmation beyond a simple statement when they were born. The press knows you have children with Lando—the pregnancy had been impossible to hide—but they've never seen them. You'd both agreed on that, one of the few things you'd managed to agree on toward the end of your marriage.

And now you're about to walk through those gates with two three-year-olds who look exactly like their Formula 1 driver father, and the entire world is going to lose its collective mind.

"You don't have to do this," Margot says quietly. "Lando would understand if you changed your mind."

But you'd promised. You'd promised Thiago, who's been talking about nothing but race cars for a week. You'd promised Mila, who wants to see where Daddy works. You'd promised Lando, who'd looked at you with those eyes and asked if you'd come.

"No, we're doing this," you say, and you sound more certain than you feel. "We're just—we're going in."

Your phone buzzes and it's Lando.

You look at yourself in the visor mirror one more time. The white linen dress with navy embroidered flowers—elegant, understated, appropriate for Monaco in May. Your hair is down in loose waves, you have your favorite pair of Celine sunnies, and you look like someone who has her life together.

You look like a fucking lie.

"Right," you say, mostly to yourself. "Let's do this."

Margot drives to the VIP entrance, and even that is chaos—security, credentials being checked, people everywhere. You can see cameras already tracking your car, photographers recognizing your license plate. By the time you've parked and gotten the kids out of their car seats, there's a small crowd forming.

"Mummy, why are people taking pictures?" Thiago asks, and there's uncertainty in his voice.

"Because Mummy makes movies, remember?" you say, crouching down to his level. "And some people like to take pictures. But you just hold my hand and stay close, okay?"

"Okay," he says, but he's pressed against your leg now, suddenly shy.

Mila is less concerned, more interested in her dress and whether it's twirling properly. Margot has her hand, and you've got Thiago, and together you start walking toward the entrance.

The photographers notice immediately.

"Is that—"

"Oh my god, are those her kids?"

"She brought the children!"

"That's definitely Lando's son, look at him—"

The cameras explode into action. Clicking, shouting, people calling your name, asking you to look, asking about the kids, asking if you and Lando are back together. It's overwhelming and invasive and exactly what you'd been afraid of.

Thiago makes a small noise and buries his face against your leg. You bend down immediately, scooping him up even though he's getting too big for it, and he wraps his arms around your neck.

"It's okay, baby," you murmur into his hair. "We're almost inside. You're safe."

Margot has Mila, who's less scared and more confused about why everyone's so excited. Security is moving people back, creating a path, and you can see Lando now, he's appeared at the entrance in his race suit, his face shifting from casual to concerned the moment he sees the crowd.

He moves fast, closing the distance between you, and suddenly he's there, his hand on your back, his body between you and the photographers.

"Alright, that's enough," he says, and his voice has that edge it gets when he's not messing around. "Come on, let them through."

He guides you inside, one hand still on your back, and the moment you're past security, the noise dims. You set Thiago down carefully, and Lando immediately crouches in front of him.

"You okay, mate?" he asks gently. "That was a bit mad, wasn't it?"

Thiago nods, his face still pressed against your leg.

"They just wanted to take pictures of your mum because she's brilliant," Lando says. "But we're safe now. No more cameras, I promise."

"No more?" Thiago asks, his voice small.

"Not where we're going," Lando confirms. "The garage is a no-photo zone for them. It's just going to be the team, and they're all really nice, and they've been so excited to meet you."

He looks up at you then, and there's something in his expression, his brow furrows and he opens his mouth briefly before closing it again.

After a brief pause, he says quietly. "I'm sorry, I should have arranged better security."

"It's fine," you say, even though your heart is still racing. "We're fine."

Margot appears with Mila, who's now asking approximately twelve questions about why people wanted pictures and whether she's famous now.

"Margot," Lando says, standing. "Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it."

"Someone has to keep this disaster show running," Margot says, but she's smiling. She'd always liked Lando, even after the divorce. "Now, are you going to show us this fancy garage or what?"

The walk through the paddock is different with Lando beside you. People still look, still take photos, but they keep a respectful distance. Thiago relaxes enough to walk on his own, holding Lando's hand, and Mila is fascinated by everything—the colors, the people, the energy of it all.

You pass the Ferrari hospitality, and a woman calls out, "Good luck today, Lando!" You recognize her, one of the other drivers' girlfriends, you think. Then her eyes land on you and the children, and her expression shifts to delighted surprise. "Oh my god, you brought them! They're gorgeous!"

More people notice. More drivers, team personnel, WAGs. Everyone's respectful but curious, and you can feel the attention like a physical weight. The twins are absorbing it all with the adaptability of children, but you're hyperaware of every look, every whispered conversation.

The McLaren garage is a relief, it's climate controlled, organized, and as promised, no media allowed inside. The team is there, and they light up when they see the kids.

Oscar Piastri is the first to approach, crouching down to the twins' level. "Hey there," he says with that easy Australian charm. "I'm Oscar. I drive the other papaya car. You must be Thiago and Mila."

"How do you know our names?" Mila asks suspiciously.

"Your dad talks about you constantly," Oscar says, grinning up at Lando. "Like, all the time. We know everything about you."

"Oscar," Lando says, a warning in his voice, but he's smiling.

The team comes over to introduce themselves—engineers, mechanics, strategists. Everyone is kind and patient, and Thiago's shyness starts to fade when one of the mechanics shows him the steering wheel, explaining all the buttons in terms a three-year-old can understand.

Mila is more interested in the screens, asking what all the numbers mean. Andrea, Lando's trainer, fields her questions with impressive patience.

You stand back with Margot, watching it all unfold. Watching Lando with the kids, introducing them to his world, the pride evident in every gesture. Watching the team embrace them, understanding how much this means to their driver.

"He's good with them," Margot observes quietly.

"He always was," you say, and there's too much emotion in your voice.

Lando glances over, catching your eye, and something passes between you. Then Zak Brown appears, impeccably dressed as always, and he makes a beeline for you.

"You made it," he says, pulling you into a brief hug. "I have to say, when Lando mentioned you might come, I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't delusional."

"Zak," Lando protests from across the garage.

"But I'm glad you're here," Zak continues, ignoring him. "The kids too. This—" he gestures around, "—this is important. Family's important."

The word sits heavy between you. Family. Like you still are one, like you haven't spent eighteen months learning how to be separate people.

The morning passes in a blur. The twins are fascinated by everything, asking endless questions that the team fields with patience and enthusiasm. Thiago is obsessed with the car, running his small hands over the carbon fiber with reverent care. Mila has decided she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, a declaration that makes Lando's face do something complicated.

Around 11:30, Lando has to start his pre-race routine. He crouches down to the twins, explaining that he needs to get ready but they'll be able to watch everything.

"Will you be scared in the car?" Mila asks, touching his face with her small hand.

"Maybe a little bit," Lando admits. "But being a little bit scared means you're doing something brave, right? That's what Mummy always says."

He glances up at you when he says it, and you're hit with the memory of telling him that, years ago, when you were still together and he was nervous about a particular race. You'd been lying in bed, his head on your chest, and you'd run your fingers through his hair and told him that fear was just proof that what he was doing mattered.

"You'll be the bravest," Thiago declares with absolute certainty.

"Thanks, bub," Lando says, pulling both kids into a hug. "You two be good for Mummy and Auntie Margot, yeah? And I'll see you after."

He stands, and his eyes meet yours again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing them. For being here. It—yeah. Thank you."

"Win for them," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended.

Something flashes in his expression, and you realize it's a deep desire, a want to do well for his kids. "Yeah," he says. "I will."

Then he's being pulled away for final preparations, and you're being guided to where you'll watch the race, a prime spot in the garage with a clear view of the monitors and the pit lane. Margot has the kids, keeping them entertained, while you try to calm your racing heart.

The cars line up on the grid—Lando's in P4, having had a strong qualifying—and suddenly it's real. You're about to watch your ex-husband race through the streets of Monaco, one of the most dangerous circuits in the world, while your children watch.

"Mummy, I can't see," Thiago complains, and you lift him up, settling him on your hip despite the fact that he's getting too big for it.

The start is chaos. Cars flooding through Sainte Dévote, inches apart, the sound overwhelming even with the ear protection. Your heart is in your throat, your hand gripping Margot's arm, and you're watching Lando's car, tracking every movement.

He makes a brilliant move on the first lap, overtaking into P3. The garage erupts, and Thiago is bouncing in your arms, shouting, "Go Daddy go!"

The race unfolds with the particular tension of Monaco—every corner mattering, no room for error. Lando is driving aggressively but smart, defending his position, looking for opportunities. On lap 23, he makes another move, diving up the inside into Portier, and suddenly he's P2.

"Is Daddy winning?" Mila asks, tugging on your dress.

"Almost, baby," you manage, your voice tight. "He's in second place."

With fifteen laps to go, the leader makes a mistake—just a small one, running slightly wide at Rascasse—and Lando is there. He's through, taking the lead, and the garage explodes into celebration. You're not breathing properly. You're watching every corner, every braking zone, willing him to be safe, to be fast, to make it to the end.

Ten laps. Five laps. Three laps.

"Come on," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're praying or pleading. "Come on, Lando."

Final lap. He's through Sainte Dévote, through Massenet, through Casino, and he's going to win. He's going to win Monaco.

He crosses the line, and the garage detonates.

People are screaming, hugging each other, jumping up and down. Thiago is shrieking, "DADDY WON! DADDY WON!" and Mila is clapping and laughing, and you—

You're crying. Properly crying, tears streaming down your face, and you don't even care that people can see, that there are cameras in the garage catching this. Lando just won Monaco, and your children are here to see it, and everything you've been holding back for eighteen months is suddenly right there on the surface.

Margot takes Thiago from you, understanding without words that you need a moment. You press your hands to your face, trying to get yourself under control, but it's impossible.

Because you remember. You remember every late night conversation about this race, how it was the one he wanted more than any other, how winning Monaco would mean everything. You remember being his partner through the disappointments, through the near-misses, through every year he didn't quite get there.

And now he has, and you're not his partner anymore, and it hurts in a way you can't articulate.

The team is moving toward parc fermé, and someone's guiding you and Margot and the kids down, toward where Lando will be after he gets out of the car. The twins are vibrating with excitement, both of them talking over each other about how fast Daddy was, how he won, how he's the best.

You can see him now—climbing out of the car, standing on top of it, arms raised in victory. The crowd is roaring, and he's taking it all in, this moment he's worked his entire life for.

Then he takes off his helmet, and he's looking around, scanning the crowd, and—

His eyes find yours.

Everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the celebration. It's just him looking at you, and the expression on his face is so raw, so open, that you can't breathe.

He's off the car, moving through the crowd, and people are trying to stop him—media, team members, officials—but he's single-minded. He's walking straight toward you, and your heart is hammering, and the twins are shouting for him, and—

He reaches you. His race suit is soaked with sweat, his hair is matted from his helmet, and he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

He looks at you for one more second, and then he's scooping up both kids, one under each arm, spinning them around while they scream with delight. When he sets them down, he's grinning so wide it must hurt.

"Did you see Daddy's race?" he asks them.

"You were SO FAST," Thiago shouts.

"You won!" Mila adds, like he might have forgotten.

"I did," he says, and his eyes drift back to you. "I really did."

Someone's calling him—he needs to go to the cooldown room, then the podium, then media. But he hesitates, looking at you like he's afraid if he leaves, you'll disappear.

"Go," you say softly. "We'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He nods, pressing quick kisses to both kids' heads, and then he's being pulled away into the chaos of post-race procedures. You watch him go, your heart doing complicated things, and Margot's hand finds yours.

"You okay?" she asks quietly.

"No," you admit. "Not even a little bit."

Because you just remembered what it felt like to be his, to share his victories, to be the person he looked for in the crowd, and you're not sure you can forget again.

The podium ceremony is a blur of champagne and national anthems and Lando standing on the top step looking like every dream he's ever had just came true. The twins are mesmerized, Mila by the champagne spray ("Mummy, why are they spraying it?"), Thiago by the trophy that's nearly as big as he is.

You're standing with Margot and the McLaren team, and you can't stop watching him. The way he holds the trophy, the way he sprays champagne with Oscar who's finished P3, the way he keeps looking down at where you are with the kids like he needs to confirm you're still there.

When he finally makes it back down, he's drenched and grinning and has to do approximately seventeen million media obligations. You take the twins back to the hospitality suite, where they're given McLaren merchandise and more snacks than they need, and you try very hard not to fall apart.

"That was mental," Margot says, watching as Mila explains the race to her stuffed elephant in elaborate detail. "The cameras, the attention, all of it. You okay?"

"Fine," you lie.

"You're a terrible liar," she says. "You always have been."

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the message for a long moment. You'd planned to drive back separately, to give him space to celebrate with his team, to maintain that careful distance you've both been keeping.

But he's asking. He's asking for more time.

It's another forty-five minutes before he's finally free, showered, changed into McLaren team wear, looking exhausted and elated in equal measure. The twins have hit that overtired phase where everything is either hilarious or devastating, and you're running on fumes.

"Ready to go home?" Lando asks, and there's something in the way he says 'home' that makes your chest tight.

"Please," you say. "Before they have complete meltdowns."

The car is waiting outside, a massive black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and enough space for all of you plus Margot. Lando's security team has already loaded his things, and there's a car seat situation happening that involves one of the team members and a lot of frustrated muttering about British versus European safety standards.

You're gathering the kids' things when you realize the crowd outside has grown. Significantly.

"There's a lot of people out there," you say to Lando, keeping your voice low so the twins don't hear.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. "It's been building all day. They know about—" He gestures vaguely between you. "About you being here. The kids."

"Right." Your stomach drops. "We'll just be quick, then."

"Security's going to create a path," he says. "Just stay close to me, okay? I'll have Mila, you've got Thiago, Margot's got the bags."

It's a military operation, basically. You scoop up Thiago, who's starting to get whiny, and Lando gets Mila, and Margot has approximately seventeen bags of kids' things and McLaren merchandise. Security opens the door, and the wall of sound hits you immediately.

There have to be at least two hundred people outside the barriers. fans with phones out, photographers, people shouting questions and congratulations. The security team creates a corridor, but it's narrow, and the noise is overwhelming.

"LANDO! Lando, over here!"

"Congratulations on the win!"

"Is that your son? Oh my god, he looks just like you!"

"Are you back together? Are you and—"

Thiago buries his face in your neck, his small body tense against yours. You hold him tighter, one hand on his back, trying to shield him from the cameras while moving as quickly as you can toward the Escalade.

"Lando, can you confirm you're back together?"

"When did you reconcile?"

"How long have you been seeing each other again?"

You can see the car now, just ten more feet. Lando's ahead of you, his body angled to protect Mila from the worst of the crowd. The security team is doing their best, but phones are being thrust over the barriers, cameras flashing, voices overlapping into incomprehensible noise.

"Are those your children? Can we get a photo?"

"Just one picture! Please!"

"Mummy," Thiago whimpers against your neck. "Too loud."

"I know, baby," you murmur. "Almost there."

Lando reaches the car first, carefully depositing Mila inside before turning back. He's at your side immediately, his hand on your lower back, creating a barrier between you and the crowd with his body.

"I've got you," he says quietly, and then you're at the car, and he's helping you get Thiago in while Margot throws bags into the boot.

Someone shouts, "Does this mean you're back together? For the kids?"

Another voice, "Are you giving your marriage another shot?"

You're climbing into the back seat, and Lando's right behind you, pulling the door shut, and suddenly it's quiet. Or quieter, at least, the voices are muffled now, the tinted windows providing a barrier.

"Jesus," Margot says from the front passenger seat. "That was intense."

"Sorry," Lando says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. "I should have arranged for you to leave earlier, before it got that bad."

"It's fine," you say, but your hands are shaking slightly as you buckle Thiago into his car seat. Mila's already strapped in on the other side, looking tired but okay.

The driver pulls away from the circuit, and you can still see camera flashes through the windows, phones tracking the car as you leave. It takes a full five minutes before the crowd thins, before you're out of the immediate chaos and onto the streets of Monaco.

The car is quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the air conditioning. Lando's sitting next to you in the back, there's a row of seats in the middle where Margot is, and then the back row where you and Lando have ended up, the twins in their car seats between you.

Thiago's eyes are already drooping, the combination of excitement and exhaustion catching up with him. Mila's fighting it, but you can see her losing the battle.

"That was a big day," you say softly, stroking Thiago's hair.

"Daddy won," he mumbles, his eyes closing.

"He did," you confirm. "Daddy won."

Within ten minutes, both kids are out cold, their heads lolling in their car seats in that boneless way children sleep. You carefully adjust Thiago's head so he's not at a weird angle, and when you look up, you catch Lando doing the same for Mila.

Your eyes meet for a brief second before you both look away.

The silence stretches. Margot's got her AirPods in up front, deliberately giving you space. The driver has the privacy screen up slightly. It's just you and Lando and two sleeping children and everything you're not saying.

You watch Monaco slide by through the tinted windows, the harbor with its absurd yachts, the narrow streets, the buildings stacked impossibly up the hillside. It's beautiful and familiar and feels nothing like home.

You're thinking about what happens now. Whether you go straight to your place in Fontvieille or to his place in Larvotto. Whether you say goodbye in the car or walk the kids up. Whether this is the end of today or the beginning of something you're not ready to name.

You're thinking about the crowd outside the circuit, the questions they were shouting, the assumption that you're back together. The photos that are probably already online—you and Lando and the twins, looking for all the world like a family.

You're thinking about—

His hand finds your knee.

Not in a deliberate way, not like he's making a move. It's almost unconscious, the way his hand just settles there on your bare knee, his palm warm through the thin linen of your dress. Like his body has forgotten you're not his anymore, like muscle memory has overridden conscious thought.

You freeze. You should move away, should say something, should maintain that boundary you've both been so careful about.

But you don't.

You sit there, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and you don't move.

Lando's looking out the window, his face turned away from you, and you can't tell if he's realized what he's done. His thumb isn't moving, isn't stroking or caressing, it's just there, this point of contact that feels monumental and terrifying and like the most natural thing in the world.

The car turns onto the coast road, the Mediterranean spreading blue and endless to your right. The late afternoon sun is turning everything golden, and you're acutely aware of every point where your body exists, the seat beneath you, the air conditioning on your skin, and especially, overwhelmingly, his hand on your knee.

Your heart is doing something complicated. Your brain is screaming at you to move, to break this moment before it becomes something you can't take back. But your body has other ideas, staying perfectly still, afraid that any movement will make him realize and pull away.

You can see his reflection in the window, the line of his jaw, the way he's frowning slightly at something only he can see. His race suit is unzipped at the top, and you can see the edge of his team shirt, papaya orange against his tan skin. He looks tired, the adrenaline of the race finally wearing off, and there's something vulnerable about seeing him like this, in the liminal space between public victory and private reality.

The car slows for a turn, and his hand shifts slightly on your knee, his fingers spreading fractionally wider, and it feels like every nerve ending in your body has relocated to that one point of contact.

This is dangerous. This is the opposite of the careful distance you've maintained. This is—

"Which home, Mr. Norris?" the driver asks, and the moment shatters.

Lando's hand disappears from your knee like he's been burned. He sits forward, putting space between you, and you can see the back of his neck has gone slightly red.

"Um," you say, and your voice comes out rough. You clear your throat. "Mine, please. Fontvieille."

"Actually," Lando says, and he's still not looking at you. "Could you drop me first? Larvotto. Then take them on to Fontvieille."

"Of course," the driver says.

The rest of the drive passes in painful silence. Lando's looking out his window, you're looking out yours, and there's about three feet of space between you that might as well be three miles. Margot's still deliberately oblivious in the front, and the twins are still sleeping, unaware of the tension radiating through the car.

When you pull up to Lando's building, he's out of the car almost before it stops moving.

"I'll—I'll text you about next week," he says, leaning back in to grab his bag. "About the schedule."

"Okay," you manage.

He looks at the twins, both still asleep, and something crosses his face—longing, regret, something you can't name. "Thanks for today. For bringing them. For being there."

"Yeah," you say. "Of course."

He straightens up, closes the door, and then he's gone, disappearing into his building without looking back.

The car pulls away, and you feel the absence of his hand like a physical thing—the place on your knee where it had been suddenly cold.

The rest of the drive to your place is quiet. Margot takes out her AirPods as you pull up to your building.

"You okay?" she asks, turning to look at you. "You've been really quiet."

"Just tired," you say, which isn't a lie but isn't the whole truth either.

She gives you a look that says she doesn't quite believe you but isn't going to push. "It was a huge day."

"Yeah," you agree. "It was."

You carry Thiago inside—he barely stirs—and Margot gets Mila, and you get them both into their beds without fully waking them. You stand in the doorway of Mila's room for a long moment, watching her sleep in her papaya dress with champagne still stuck in her hair, and you think about Lando's hand on your knee, and you think about the way he couldn't look at you when he left, and you think about how you're supposed to go back to normal after today.

You tell yourself a lot of things that you don't believe. Margot finds you an hour later, still sitting on the floor outside Mila's room, your phone in your hand.

"Come on," she says gently, pulling you up. "Let's get you some wine and a terrible reality show. You look like you need it."

"I can't do this," you say quietly as she guides you to the living room. "I can't—Margot, I can't keep doing this."

"What happened?" she asks, settling you on the sofa and heading to your wine fridge. "In the car, something happened. You both got all weird."

You're quiet for a long moment, accepting the glass of wine she pours. "He put his hand on my knee," you finally say. "For like fifteen minutes. And it just fucking sat there. And we both pretended it wasn't happening."

"Oh, babe," Margot says, sitting next to you.

"And the worst part is, I didn't want him to move it," you continue, and your voice cracks. "I wanted him to keep it there. I wanted—god, Margot, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," she says firmly. "You're in love with your ex-husband. That's not wrong, it's just complicated."

"We're divorced," you say. "We're divorced for a reason. We couldn't make it work."

"I know," she says. "But that doesn't mean you stopped loving him."

You take a long drink of wine, and you don't say anything, because what is there to say? She's right, and you both know it, and acknowledging it out loud feels like opening a door you've been desperately trying to keep closed.

The apartment is too quiet.

You've been sitting in your living room for the past two hours, working on script revisions for the Netflix series, but you've read the same page seventeen times and haven't absorbed a single word. Your laptop screen has gone dark three times from inactivity.

The twins left this morning. Your parents had picked them up at 6am for their annual trip to Greece, two weeks on Crete in the villa your dad rents every summer. Mila had been vibrating with excitement, chattering about the beach and the boat and whether she'd see dolphins. Thiago had clutched his stuffed car and asked approximately forty times if you were sure Mummy would be okay without them.

"I'll be fine, baby," you'd told him, crouching down to his level in the pre-dawn darkness. "Mummy has lots of work to do. You're going to have so much fun with Grandma and Grandpa."

He'd hugged you so tight your ribs hurt, and you'd breathed in the scent of his hair—still that little-kid smell of apple shampoo and something indefinably him—and you'd wanted to call the whole thing off, to keep them here, to not spend two weeks alone in this too-big apartment.

But your parents had been planning this for months, and the kids needed time with them, and you needed—

You don't know what you need.

You abandon the laptop and walk to the window. Your apartment in Fontvieille has a view of the port, and you can see yachts glittering in the late June sun. It's beautiful and expensive and exactly what you'd wanted when you bought it.

It's also profoundly lonely.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You check it reflexively, hoping for—you're not sure what. A text from your parents saying the kids arrived safely, maybe, even though they won't land for another hour.

Lando's been doing well. Really well. Three wins so far this season—Monaco, Barcelona, and Silverstone. The championship battle is tight, and McLaren is genuinely in the fight, and every interview he does, he's glowing with this focused energy that you remember from the early days of your relationship, when everything felt possible.

You've been texting about the kids, of course. Quick, functional messages about schedules and dietary requirements and Thiago's newest obsession with dinosaurs. Nothing personal. Nothing that acknowledges what happened in the car after Monaco, his hand on your knee, the way you both pretended it meant nothing.

You haven't seen him in person since then. The twins have been doing their time with him in between his race weekends, but you've arranged for your assistant to do the drop-offs and pick-ups. Clean, professional, maintaining boundaries.

You've been fine.

Except you're not fine. You're the opposite of fine. You're sitting in your apartment on a Friday evening in June with nothing to do and no one to do it with, and you're twenty-seven years old, and you're successful and wealthy and have everything you ever wanted professionally, and you're so fucking lonely you could scream.

You take in a deep breath and take a good look around your apartment. The kids' toys are still scattered in Thiago's room. Mila's hair clips are on the bathroom counter. There's a drawing of a race car stuck to your fridge with a magnet, Thiago's careful three-year-old scrawl spelling out "DADDY" in orange crayon.

You need to get out of here.

You'd bought the Porsche three weeks ago, right after Monaco. A 911 GT3 RS in white with a black interior, absurdly fast and completely impractical for Monaco's narrow streets. Your financial advisor had sent you a very polite email questioning the purchase. Your therapist would probably have questions about the timing and what you were trying to compensate for.

But god, it's beautiful.

It's sitting in your garage, and you grab the keys without thinking, without planning, just needing to move, to drive, to do something other than sit in your apartment thinking about everything you're trying not to think about.

The car roars to life, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. You pull out onto the street, and Monaco spreads out around you—the evening golden hour making everything look like a postcard. You don't have a destination in mind. You're just driving, following the coast road, letting the car eat up the curves.

You pass the casino, the hotel where you'd stayed when you first started dating Lando, back when everything was new and exciting and uncomplicated. You pass the harbor where you'd had your rehearsal dinner, back when you thought marriage was going to be forever. You pass the turnoff for the hospital where the twins were born, where Lando had cried holding Mila for the first time, his hands shaking with the weight of her.

You're not crying. You're just driving.

Except you're not just driving anymore. You're taking turns you know by heart, following a route you've driven hundreds of times, and you don't realize where you're going until you're pulling into the garage of a building in Larvotto, until you're putting the car in park and staring at the familiar concrete walls.

Lando's building.

Lando's garage.

What the fuck are you doing?

You should leave. You should reverse out of here and drive home and pour yourself a large glass of wine and go to bed and pretend this never happened.

But you're already out of the car. You're already walking to the lift. You're already pressing the button and watching the numbers climb.

You're standing in front of the keypad next to his door, and your hand is hovering over it, and this is insane. This is the opposite of maintaining boundaries. This is—

You punch in the code. Your birthday. The code he'd set when you moved in together, before the wedding, before the twins, before everything fell apart. The code he's never changed, apparently, because the lock actually clicks open.

The apartment is warmly lit, not dark like you'd expected. You can hear music playing softly from somewhere inside, something you don't recognize. Your heart is hammering as you step inside, and you're about to call out, to announce yourself, when you freeze.

Lando's in the kitchen.

Shirtless.

He's got his back to you, wearing only grey joggers that sit low on his hips, and he's doing something at the counter, chopping vegetables, you think, though your brain has mostly short-circuited. His shoulders move as he works, muscles shifting under tan skin, and you can see the curve of his spine, the lines of his back that you used to trace with your fingers.

You must make a sound—a sharp intake of breath, or maybe your keys jingle, or maybe he just senses someone's there—because he turns around.

His eyes go wide when he sees you. The knife in his hand freezes mid-air.

"What—" he starts, and his face cycles through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. Shock, confusion, something that might be hope, and then—

Fear. He looks so utterly fucking scared.

"I—" you begin, but your voice dies in your throat.

Because you hear it. The sound of a woman's voice from down the hall, from where the bedrooms are. Light, slightly accented, calling out, "Babe, did you open the wine yet? I can't find the—"

"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec," Lando calls back, not taking his eyes off you.

But his voice has changed. It's gone tight, careful, and the fear in his expression intensifies when he sees your face, when he watches you process what you've just heard.

Babe.

You take a step backward. Your hand fumbles behind you for the doorframe, for something solid to hold onto.

"Wait," Lando says, and he's moving toward you now, the knife forgotten on the counter. "Just—wait, please—"

But you're already taking another step back. And another. Your vision is doing something strange, tunneling, and you can't seem to get enough air into your lungs.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, and he's still approaching, hands slightly raised like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were coming, I would have—"

Another step back and your spine hits the wall of the entryway.

"Please," he says, and his voice cracks. "Please just let me explain. It's not—it's not what you think. It's not serious, we've only been—"

"Stop," you manage, and the word comes out strangled. "Just stop."

He freezes a few feet away from you, and you can see it all on his face, the panic, the guilt, the desperate need to fix this. He looks like he's watching something precious shatter in slow motion and he's powerless to stop it.

"How did you get in?" he asks, and it's such a stupid question that you almost laugh.

"The code," you say and your voice sounds almost robotic. "It's still my birthday."

Something crosses his fac, "Yeah, I never changed it."

"I noticed."

The silence stretches and you can still hear the music still playing from the kitchen, soft and jazzy and it feels so fucking obscene given the circumstances. You can also hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"I'm sorry," Lando says again, and this time his voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't want, I never wanted you to find out like this."

"Find out what?" you ask, even though you know, even though it's obvious. "That you're seeing someone? That you've moved on?"

"It's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "It's nothing. It doesn't mean anything."

"Then why is she here?" The question comes out sharper than you intended. "Why is she in your apartment calling you babe and —" You can't finish the sentence. Can't say out loud because it'll make it true, it'll make it real.

"Because I'm trying," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I'm trying to move on, to be, to be bloody normal. To date people and not—"

He stops abruptly, like he's said too much.

"Not what?" you press, even though you're not sure you want to hear the answer.

"Not spend every fucking day missing you," he says, and the words come out rough, almost angry. "Not look for you in every room I walk into. Not check my phone hoping you've texted about something other than the kids' schedules. Not—" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I'm trying not to be in love with my ex-wife, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

The air leaves your lungs.

"Lando—"

"No, you know what? No." He's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, like he can't contain the energy suddenly coursing through him. "You don't get to show up here unannounced and look at me like that. You don't get to—" He stops, turning to face you. "We're divorced. You divorced me."

"We divorced each other," you correct, but your voice is weak.

"And I respected that," he continues, like he hasn't heard you. "I gave you space. I kept my distance. I did the whole fucking co-parenting thing exactly how you wanted. I didn't push, didn't ask for more and yeah, I started seeing someone, because I'm trying to—to figure out how to be a person who isn't completely fucking in love with someone I can't have."

Your back is still pressed against the wall, and you're staring at him, and every word he's saying is landing like a physical blow.

"I'm sorry I came," you say quietly. "I shouldn't have. I didn't—I wasn't thinking."

"Why did you?" he asks, and he's closer now, just a few feet away. "Why did you come here?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I don't have a better one," you say, and your voice cracks. "The kids are gone and my apartment was too quiet and I was driving and I just, I ended up here. I'm sorry."

He's looking at you like he's trying to read something in your face, like he's searching for an answer you're not giving him.

"You can't do this," he says finally, and his voice has gone quiet again. "You can't just show up here and look at me like, like you're hurt that I'm trying to move on. That's not fair."

"I know," you whisper. "I know it's not fair. You're allowed to see people. You're allowed to have someone here. I have no right to be upset about it."

"But you are," he says. "You are upset."

You don't answer, because what's the point? He can see it written all over your face.

"She's nice," he says after a moment, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. "She's really sweet. She doesn't have, there's no history, no baggage. It's just easy."

"That's good," you manage. "You deserve easy."

From down the hall, you hear movement. A door opening. You have a feeling she's going to come looking for him, and you cannot be here when she does. You push off from the wall, moving toward the door.

"I have to go," you say.

"Don't," he says immediately. "Please, just, can we talk about this? Properly?"

"There's nothing to talk about," you say, and you're fumbling with the door handle now, desperate to leave before she appears, before this gets any worse. "You're seeing someone. That's, that's really fucking good. That's what we're supposed to be doing. Moving on, being normal."

"Are you?" he asks. "Moving on?"

You finally get the door open.

"I'm trying," you say, which is the truth and also a complete lie.

"That's not what I asked."

You can't look at him anymore. If you look at him, you're going to fall apart completely, and you can't do that here, not now, not with someone waiting for him in the other room.

"I'm sorry I came," you say again. "I won't, it won't happen again. I'll change my number from the emergency contacts, use my assistant for drop-offs. I'll stay out of your way."

"That's not what I want," he says, and his voice is strained.

"What do you want, Lando?" you ask, finally meeting his eyes. "Because I can't figure out what you want from me."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. For a long moment, he just stares at you, and you can see him wrestling with something, trying to decide what to say.

"I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't fucking know anymore."

The honesty of it hurts more than any lie could.

"Okay," you say softly. "Okay."

You step into the hallway, and this time he doesn't try to stop you. You can feel him watching as you walk to the lift, as you press the button with shaking hands. The doors open immediately—a small mercy—and you step inside.

Just before the doors close, you glance back.

He's still standing in his doorway, shirtless and barefoot and looking completely devastated. And you realize that this—this moment right here—this is the actual end. Not the divorce papers, not the separation of your belongings, not the carefully negotiated custody schedule.

This. The moment when you both finally accept that you're not going to find your way back to each other.

The lift doors close, and you slide down to the floor, your legs giving out.

You sit there as the lift descends, hugging your knees to your chest, and you let yourself cry in a way you haven't let yourself cry since the divorce was finalized. Raw, gasping sobs that echo in the small metal box.

The wall is mocking you. It absolutely, 100, gazillion percent is.

You're standing in what will eventually be a playroom in your house in France, staring at the half-painted pale blue surface like it's personally offended you. Which, at this point, it basically fucking has. You've been at this for two hours, and somehow there are still patches you've missed, drip marks you need to fix, and that one corner near the ceiling that you can't quite reach even with the ladder.

The house is chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Your parents arrived yesterday with the twins, who've spent the morning "helping" by getting into everything they possibly could. There are birthday decorations scattered across the dining room table—papaya orange and white, because Thiago had very specific opinions about the color scheme. Mila had insisted on butterflies, so there are approximately seven hundred butterfly stickers that will need to be strategically placed tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The twins' fourth birthday party.

Which means Lando will be here. Today.

Your stomach flips in the way it's been doing for three months now, ever since that night in his apartment. Ever since you walked in on him with someone else and realized that the divorce might be final on paper, but emotionally you're still completely wrecked.

You haven't seen him since. Not in person. Your assistant Claudia has been handling all the drop-offs and pick-ups, and you've perfected the art of being "unavoidably detained" on set whenever he texts about wanting to talk. The twins FaceTime him regularly, and you make yourself scarce during those calls, letting your parents or Claudia supervise.

Professional. Cordial. Completely fucking falling apart.

Your phone buzzes on the drop cloth. You already know what it is before you look.

You stare at the message, then glance at your watch. 2:37pm. You have less than half an hour to finish this wall, shower off the paint you've somehow gotten in your hair, and transform into a version of yourself that can handle being in the same room as your ex-husband without falling apart.

It's not a no, but it's not a yes. It's the same answer you've been giving for three months.

You set the phone down and attack the wall with renewed vigor, like if you just paint fast enough, hard enough, you can somehow paint over the image that's been burned into your brain, Lando shirtless in his kitchen, a woman's voice calling him 'babe,' the look on his face when he said he was trying his hardest to not fuckingbe in love with you.

You're so focused on the wall that you don't hear the commotion downstairs at first. Then Thiago's voice cuts through, shrieking at a pitch that could shatter glass: "DADDY!"

Your hand slips. You leave a long paint streak across the wall that you'll have to fix.

You can hear the thunder of small feet on stairs, excited voices overlapping, and then Lando's voice, warm and bright and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache.

"There they are! Did you get taller? You definitely got taller."

"We're four !" Mila announces, like this is breaking news.

"Almost four," Lando corrects. "Still got one more day of being three. Are you ready for your party?"

"Mummy's painting the playroom!" Thiago says. "It's blue like the sky!"

"Is she? Can I see?"

"NO!" Both twins say it simultaneously, and you can hear the grin in Lando's voice when he responds.

"No? Why not?"

"Because," Mila says with four-year-old logic, "it not finished. You have to wait."

"Okay. Very professional gig you have going on here."

You hear your mother's voice then, greeting Lando warmly. Your parents never stopped liking him after the divorce, which is both comforting and terrible. Your dad appears in the doorway of the playroom a moment later.

"Lando's here," he says, like you couldn't hear the commotion. "Kids are giving him the full tour. We've got maybe five minutes before they drag him up here despite their promise about the reveal."

"Great," you mutter, trying to fix the paint streak you made.

"You know," your dad says carefully, "you can't avoid him all weekend. It's a small house."

"I'm not avoiding him. I'm painting."

"Right and you just happened to schedule painting for the exact time he was arriving."

You don't dignify that with a response.

Your dad sighs. "Sweetheart, I don't know what happened between you two, but—"

"Dad. Please. Not now."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay. But you should know, the kids have been talking about how Daddy needs to stay here, not at a hotel. They've got a whole campaign planned."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

"Apparently Thiago has decided that families should be together for birthdays, and Mila has prepared arguments. I'm just warning you."

He disappears back downstairs, and you're left standing there with a paint roller in your hand, trying to process this new information.

The kids want Lando to stay here. In your house. For three days.

You can't. You absolutely cannot have him staying under the same roof, sleeping down the hall, being domestic and present and—

"Mummy!" Thiago bursts into the room, Lando right behind him. "Daddy's here and he brought presents but we can't open them until tomorrow but he said they're really good and—"

You turn around on your ladder, paint roller still in hand, and there he is. Lando. In your house in France. Wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that fits him unfairly well, his hair slightly longer than the last time you saw him, and he's looking up at you with an expression you can't quite read, refuse to read.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you manage, acutely aware that you're covered in paint, wearing your oldest clothes, and probably have blue streaks in your hair.

"The wall looks good," he offers.

"It's not finished."

"Right. Yeah. I can see that."

The silence stretches awkward and terrible between you. Thiago is oblivious, chattering about something, but Mila is watching both of you with those too-perceptive three-year old eyes that somehow miss nothing.

"We'll let you finish," Lando says finally. "I just wanted to, yeah. I'm here. If you need anything."

"I'm fine," you say, turning back to the wall.

You hear them leave, Thiago's voice fading as they go back downstairs, and you attack the wall with renewed intensity.

Dinner is a special kind of torture.

Your mother has made her famous coq au vin, and everyone's gathered around the long table in your dining room, your parents, Lando's parents, Cisca and Flo who flew in this morning, the twins, Lando, and you at the opposite end of the table because you're apparently twelve years old and can't handle sitting next to your ex-husband.

The twins are in high spirits, positioned between their Norris grandparents, talking over each other about their party tomorrow, about the games you've planned, about the cake that's being delivered in the morning.

You're pushing food around your plate, hyperaware of Lando's presence three seats down, of the way he laughs at something your dad says, of how natural he looks here, surrounded by both families like this is normal, like you all do this regularly instead of it being the first time since the divorce that everyone's been in the same room.

Cisca keeps catching your eye with this look that's too knowing, too hopeful. You focus very intently on your wine.

"This is delicious," Adam says to your mother, and she beams at him. Lando's dad has always been easy with compliments, warm in a way that made you feel immediately welcomed into their family all those years ago.

"I'm so glad we could all be here," Cisca says, looking around the table. "Together, and as a family."

The emphasis on 'family' is not subtle. You resist the urge to drain your wine glass.

"It's important," your mother agrees. "The children need to see everyone together, especially for important occasions."

"Exactly," Cisca says, and she's definitely looking at you and Lando now. "Family is everything."

Flo catches your eye and mouths 'sorry' with an eyeroll. At least someone at this table understands that this is excruciating.

"Daddy," Mila says suddenly, in that tone that means she's been planning this. "Where are you sleeping?"

Here it comes.

The entire table goes quiet. Even your mother stops mid-bite.

"At a hotel, baby girl," Lando says carefully. "Not far from here. Maybe fifteen minutes."

"But why?" Thiago asks, his face crumpling. "Why can't you stay here?"

"Because—" Lando glances at you, and you keep your eyes on your plate. "Because Mummy's house is for you and Mummy, and Daddy has his own place."

"But it's our birthday," Mila says, and her bottom lip is starting to wobble in that way that means tears are imminent. "And families should be together for birthdays."

You can feel multiple sets of eyes on you. Cisca's particularly intense.

"Bug, we'll be together," Lando says gently. "I'll be here all day tomorrow. The whole party, and I'm not going anywhere."

"But you'll leave at night," Thiago says, and now he's tearing up too. "You always leave at night."

Your dad was right, they've prepared arguments. Probably with help from their Norris grandmother, judging by the expression on Cisca's face.

"This house has so many rooms," Mila continues, gaining confidence. "Grandma and Grandad are in the blue room, and Nana and Papa are in the yellow room, and Aunt Flo is in the pink room, and we're in our room, and there's still the guest room that nobody's using, and—"

"Mila," you say quietly. "Daddy's already booked a hotel."

"But he could unbwook it!" she insists, turning those devastating eyes on you. The eyes she got from Lando, which is really unfair because you can't say no to those eyes. "Please, Mummy? Please can Daddy stay here? Just for our birthday?"

Thiago is fully crying now, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. "I want Daddy to stay," he says, his voice small and breaking. "I want us to be together."

You feel like you're being ambushed. By your four-year-olds. In front of both sets of parents and Lando's sister.

Lando looks physically pained. "Mate, don't cry. It's okay—"

"It's not okay!" Thiago says, louder now, working himself up into a proper tantrum. "You always leave! You always go away! And I want—I want—"

He can't finish because he's sobbing now, and Mila is crying too, and you feel like the worst person in the world. Across the table, Cisca is watching you with an expression that's part sympathy, part gentle pressure.

Your eyes meet Lando's. He looks as wrecked as you feel, and there's a question in his expression, it's your house, your call, but if you say no, he'll be the one who has to comfort two heartbroken children.

You can feel everyone waiting. Your parents, his parents, Flo. All of them carefully not saying anything, but the silence is loaded.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Okay. He can stay."

Both twins stop crying immediately, their tears shutting off like taps.

"Really?" Mila asks, her face transforming.

"Really," you confirm, even though every self-preservation instinct you have is screaming at you. "But Daddy has to be okay with it too."

Six pairs of adult eyes and two pairs of children's eyes turn to Lando. He's very carefully not looking at anyone except you.

"Yeah," he says finally, his voice quiet. "Yeah, if Mummy says it's okay, then I'll stay."

The twins erupt into cheers, and just like that, the crisis is averted. They're back to being excited, chattering about how Daddy can read bedtime stories and be there when they wake up on their birthday.

Under the table, you feel your mother squeeze your hand. When you glance at her, she gives you a soft smile that says 'you're doing the right thing,' but you're not sure she's right.

Cisca looks like Christmas came early. Adam is wisely staying out of it, focused on his food. Flo mouths 'you okay?' and you give her the smallest shake of your head.

Three days. Lando is going to be staying in your house for three days.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Fucking splendid actually.

"Can we play a game after dinner?" Thiago asks, tears completely forgotten. "All of us? Together?"

"That sounds lovely," Cisca says, before you can come up with an excuse. "What game were you thinking?"

And somehow you end up agreeing to a family game night, because apparently you've completely lost control of your life.

After dinner, you escape back to the playroom while the grandparents settle the twins in for the game they insisted on. You need to finish this wall, need something to focus on that isn't the fact that Lando is going to be sleeping down the hall for the next three nights, that you can hear his laughter drifting up from downstairs mixed with the children's giggles.

You're up on the ladder, trying to reach that impossible corner, when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Need help?"

You don't turn around. "I've got it."

"That corner's been driving you crazy for hours," Lando says, and you can hear him moving closer. "I've been watching you try to reach it."

"You've been watching me?"

"The twins pointed it out earlier," he says. "Said you kept saying bad words under your breath."

Despite yourself, you almost smile. "I didn't say bad words."

"Thiago said you said 'bloody hell' seventeen times."

"That's not a bad word."

"It is when you're three and you repeat it at dinner," he says, and now he's right below your ladder. "Come on. Let me help."

For a few minutes, you ignore him, continuing to stretch for that corner, your arm aching from the angle. You can feel him standing there, waiting, and the silence stretches heavy between you.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About earlier. The whole hotel thing. I tried to tell Mum not to—"

"It's fine," you cut him off, still not looking at him.

"It's not fine. You shouldn't have been put in that position."

"Lando—"

"And I know this is weird, me staying here, but I promise I'll stay out of your way. You won't even know I'm—"

"Can you just hold the paint bucket?" you ask, your voice sharp with agitation. "Please. So I can reach this goddamn spot."

He's quiet for a second, then you hear him move. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

He climbs up a few rungs on the other side of the ladder, taking the paint bucket from your hand, holding it steady so you can dip the roller properly. You stretch again, and finally—finally—you can reach the corner.

"Little to the left," you mutter, leaning further.

"You've got it," he says, and his voice is encouraging in that way that makes your chest ache with familiarity.

You're stretching, focusing on getting the paint smooth, when your foot shifts slightly on the rung. Just a little. Just enough.

"Careful—" Lando starts.

But it's too late. Your foot slips, your weight shifts wrong, and suddenly you're falling, paint roller in hand, and—

Lando tries to catch you while also holding the paint bucket, which is a disaster waiting to happen. What actually occurs is you crash into him with the full force of gravity, the paint bucket goes flying, and you both go down hard, hitting the drop cloth with a thud that knocks the air from your lungs.

Paint goes everywhere. All over you, all over him, all over the drop cloth. The bucket rolls away, leaving a trail of pale blue across the floor.

For a second, you just lie there on top of him, winded and disoriented. Then you register the position you're in—straddling his hips, your hands pressed against his chest, his hands on your waist where they'd tried to catch you.

You're both covered in paint. It's in your hair, on your face, soaking through your clothes. Lando's black t-shirt is now streaked with blue, and there's a paint smear across his jaw, and—

You look down at him, and he's looking up at you, and those fucking eyes, green and blue and so familiar it hurts, are wide and startled and too close.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Are you?"

"Yeah."

Neither of you move. His hands are still on your waist, your hands are still on his chest, and you can feel his heart hammering under your palm, matching the frantic pace of your own.

The playroom door is open. You can hear voices downstairs—the twins laughing, someone's phone ringing, the normal sounds of family. Anyone could walk up here and see you like this.

You should move. You should get up, put distance between you, go back to the careful boundaries you've been maintaining.

But you don't.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For, for everything. For that night, for not telling you I was seeing someone, for—"

"Don't," you say, and your voice comes out shakey. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I hurt you."

"You're allowed to move on, Lando. We're divorced. You're allowed to—"

"I'm not with her anymore," he interrupts. "I ended it. That same night, after you left."

The breath leaves your lungs. "What?"

"I couldn't do it," he says, and there's something raw in his voice. "I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't be with someone when all I could think about was you showing up at my apartment, the look on your face when you heard her voice. Couldn't—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "I tried. I really tried to move on. But I can't. I don't know how."

You're staring at him, paint-covered and beautiful and saying things that are rearranging your entire understanding of the last three months.

"Lando—"

"I'm still in love with you," he says, and it comes out almost desperate. "I know I shouldn't be. I know we're divorced for a reason, that we couldn't make it work, that wanting it isn't enough. But I can't stop. I've tried, and I can't."

Your hands are shaking against his chest. Downstairs, you hear Flo call out something about finding the twins' favorite game.

"You can't say things like that," you whisper.

"Why not? It's true."

"Because—" Your voice breaks. "Because we already failed once. Because we have kids to think about. Because if we try again and it doesn't work—"

"What if it does work?" he asks, and one of his hands comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a streak of paint on your cheek. "What if we're different now? What if we learned from our mistakes?"

"What if we make new ones?"

"Then we make new ones," he says. "Together."

You can hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone's coming. You're looking at those eyes, at the paint in his hair, at the way he's looking at you like you're everything, and something in you just, breaks.

So, fuck it, you think.

You kiss him.

The kiss detonates between you like something long-buried finally clawing its way out. Paint smears wet against your skin as his mouth opens under yours, a low sound rumbling in his chest, hands sliding up your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

You feel his breath hitch when your hips sink down against him, nothing explicit yet, nothing obscene, just the kind of contact that sets every nerve in your body humming like an electrical wire about to snap.

He murmurs your name into your mouth, almost a plea, almost a warning, fingers threading into your hair, paint-slick and trembling. The footsteps on the stairs fade again—whoever it was turned back—and the silence that follows feels thick, charged, obscene in its own way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathes, voice uneven, forehead pressed to yours.

Your heartbeat hammers against him. “Lando…”

His hands slide down your back, slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of white paint across your shirt. He studies you like you’re a storm he wants to step directly into, one palm flattening against the small of your back and pulling you flush to him, bodies fitting together with a familiarity that shouldn’t still exist but does, violently.

“I’m not letting you run from me this time,” he whispers, low enough that only your pulse can hear it. “Not after this.”

Your fingers curl into the front of his ruined shirt, dragging him up into another kiss that’s messy, needy, paint-tasting and breath-stealing. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, not touching anything he shouldn’t, but close, close enough that your breath stutters in your throat and your whole body leans into him like gravity’s been rewritten.

The air between you vibrates with what you want to do. What he’s clearly seconds from doing. What you’ve both been starving for.

His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he’s relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your pulse.

You don’t. You can’t.

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he’s anchoring himself. Like you’re the thing that keeps him steady.

“Then don’t say it,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop me.”

A door downstairs clicks, someone moving through the hallway, and you both freeze, not pulling apart, just breathing each other in, pressed tight, hearts slamming in sync.

The kiss churns through you like molten metal, blistering, clinging, reshaping the very structure of your bones as Lando drags your mouth open beneath his with the kind of hunger only a man who’s spent eighteen months pretending he didn’t need you could ever possess. His hands grip your waist hard enough that your breath shatters against his tongue, paint slick beneath your fingers as you clutch at his shoulders, bodies sliding together in a mess of color, need, and three months of biting back everything that’s burning through you now.

The floor is cold beneath him but his body is fire, every inch of him tense, straining up into you like he’s seconds from snapping. Your thighs bracket his hips, paint dripping from your knees onto the wood floor in slow pale rivers while his fingers dig into you like he can feel your heartbeat in the tips of them.

“Lando—” It comes out wrecked, scraped raw, not a protest in sight.

He kisses you harder, a low desperate growl vibrating up through his chest, rumbling against your ribs as his thumb strokes the underside of your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts everything else about the way he’s holding you. You feel the faintest tremor in his grip, and it does something catastrophic to your breath, because Lando Norris never shakes, never falters, never cracks.

Except under you.

“You have no idea,” he mutters against your lips, every word a ragged exhale, “how many nights I’ve wanted you like this how fucking impossible it’s been.”

Your hips move without thought, a slow involuntary grind down against him, your bodies aligning with obscene, devastating precision. The noise he makes is guttural, punched out of him as his head falls back against the floor with a muted thud, throat exposed, pulse hammering visibly.

A soft choked sound slips from his throat, and his grip on your hips tightens, fingers sliding under your shirt to the bare skin of your waist, paint smearing across you in pale streaks as his thumbs glide upward. Your breath seizes, spine arching instinctively when he skims just beneath your ribs, his fingertips tracing reverent slow lines that make your body bow toward him like he’s a magnet and you’re made of iron filings desperate to cling.

He breathes, your name unraveling in his mouth. Your nails rake through the paint in his hair, streaking more white into the messy curls as his hands finally—finally—slide fully beneath your shirt, palms scorching against your waist, your stomach, your ribs. His touch is almost worshipful, slow enough to be sensual, hungry enough to be maddening.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, but this time his voice betrays him—he doesn’t want you to. Not even a little.

You lean down, lips brushing his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“No.”

His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he's relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against your pulse.

You don't. You can't.

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he's anchoring himself. Like you're the thing that keeps him steady.

"Then don't say it," he murmurs. "Don't stop me."

Your fingers find the hem of his paint-soaked shirt, tugging upward. He helps, sitting up just enough to pull it over his head before his mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, less careful. His hands slide under your shirt, your painting clothes, ratty and old and now ruined with blue streaks—and his palms are warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

You arch into the touch, a broken sound catching in your throat, and he swallows it with another kiss.

"We can't—" you try, even as your hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under your touch. "Lando, everyone's downstairs—"

"I know," he says against your mouth, and his hand slides higher, cupping you through your bra. "I know, but I—"

He doesn't finish. He just kisses you again, rolling you both so you're beneath him on the paint-splattered drop cloth, his weight pressing you down in a way that makes you feel safe and desperate and like you might fly apart if he stops touching you.

Your shirt comes off. Then your bra, his fingers surprisingly steady on the clasp despite the urgency in every other movement. He pulls back just enough to look at you, sprawled beneath him, paint-streaked and breathing hard, and something in his expression shifts.

"You're so beautiful," he says, quiet and wrecked. "You're so—"

You pull him back down, unable to hear it, unable to let him say things that will make this more than what it is—physical, necessary, the release of three months of tension. But he's kissing you softer now, more intentional, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the hollow of your throat, and lower.

His tongue traces your collarbone, teeth grazing gently, and your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly when he finds that spot that makes your back arch off the floor.

"Still sensitive here," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Shut up," you manage, but it comes out breathy, unconvincing.

He's taking his time now, despite the awareness that you're both on borrowed minutes, that someone could come looking for you. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to the button of your paint-covered jeans.

"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing.

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."

The jeans come off, awkward on the drop cloth, and you'd laugh at the ridiculousness of it—stripping on the floor of an unfinished playroom, covered in paint, your entire family downstairs—but then his hand is between your thighs, and laughter is the furthest thing from your mind.

"Oh," you gasp, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.

"Still so responsive," he murmurs, and his fingers move in a way that suggests muscle memory, that suggests he knows exactly what you need. "Still so perfect."

You want to tell him to stop talking, stop saying things that make this complicated, but then he's shifting lower, pressing kisses down your stomach, and your brain empties of everything except the sensation of his mouth, his hands, the way he's touching you like you're something precious even as the urgency builds between you.

When he finally—finally—presses his mouth where you need him most, you have to bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. Your hand flies to your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair, and he's working you with the kind of focused attention that makes your thighs shake, makes heat coil tight and tighter in your core.

"Lando—" you gasp against your palm. "I'm going to—"

"I know," he says against you. "Let go. I've got you, baby."

And you do, falling apart with his name caught behind your teeth, your whole body tensing and releasing as he works you through it, gentle now, almost tender.

When you can breathe again, think again, he's kissing his way back up your body, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you.

"Your turn," you manage, your hand already moving to the button of his jeans.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you interrupt, and you push at his shoulder until he's on his back, until you're straddling him again, working his jeans and boxer briefs down his hips.

He's hard and perfect and familiar, and when you wrap your hand around him, his head falls back against the drop cloth with a muttered curse.

"Missed this," he groans as you stroke him slowly. "Missed you. Missed—fuck—"

You kiss him to stop the words, to keep this physical, uncomplicated. Your hand moves faster, and his hips are rocking up into your grip, and you can feel how close he is in the tension of his muscles, the raggedness of his breathing.

"Wait," he gasps, his hand catching your wrist. "Wait, I want—can we—"

He doesn't have to finish. You know what he's asking.

"Do you have—"

"Wallet," he manages. "Back pocket."

You find it, find the condom tucked inside, and he takes it from you with shaking hands, rolling it on while you watch, and then you're guiding him to your entrance, sinking down slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation.

"Oh god," you breathe, your hands braced on his chest. "Oh—"

"I know," he says, and his hands grip your hips, helping you move. "I know."

It's familiar and new all at once. The rhythm you find is instinctive, your bodies remembering even as everything else has changed. His hands guide you, pulling you down as he thrusts up, and the angle makes you see stars.

"Look at me," he says, and you do. Those eyes—green and blue and devastated—are fixed on your face, watching every reaction, every small change in expression. "Don't look away."

You couldn't if you tried. You're riding him on the floor of your playroom, both still streaked with paint, and you're looking into the eyes of the man you've loved for years, the man you've tried and failed to stop loving, and it's too much and not enough all at once.

"I love you," he says, and you should stop him, should tell him not to say it, but you're too close, too far gone. "I never stopped loving you."

"Lando—" It comes out broken.

"You don't have to say it back," he says, and one hand comes up to cup your face. "Just—let me say it. Let me—"

You kiss him, hard and desperate, and you're moving faster now, chasing that release, feeling it build at the base of your spine. His hand slides between you, finding where you need him, and that's all it takes.

You come apart again, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound, and he follows seconds later, your name a whispered prayer against your hair.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You're collapsed on his chest, both breathing hard, sticky with paint and sweat. His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

"We should—" you start.

"I know," he says quietly.

But neither of you move. Not yet. You just lie there in the wreckage of your self-control, in the paint and the late afternoon light, and you let yourself have this moment before reality comes crashing back.

Before you have to face your family downstairs, before you have to explain why you took so long, before you have to figure out what the hell this means.

For now, you just breathe, and you try not to think about how right it feels to be in his arms again.

You separate slowly, reluctantly, the cool air of the playroom a shock after the heat of his body. Neither of you speak as you pull on your paint-ruined clothes, there's no saving them, but you need something to wear to get to the bathroom.

Lando stands, running a hand through his hair and leaving new blue streaks. "I'll use the guest bathroom," he says quietly. "You take the main one."

"Okay," you manage, your voice still rough.

He looks like he wants to say something else—something about what just happened, about what it means, but footsteps sound on the stairs. You both freeze.

"Just me!" Flo calls out before appearing in the doorway. She takes one look at you both—disheveled, paint-covered, definitely not looking like two people who just cleaned up a painting accident—and her eyebrows raise. "Right. So. Everyone's wondering what's taking so long."

"We spilled paint everywhere," you say, too quickly. "It was, there was a lot of paint."

"I can see that," Flo says, fighting a smile. "Mum's getting impatient about the game. You might want to shower quickly."

"We're going," Lando says, and you can hear the embarrassment in his voice.

Flo steps aside to let you both pass, and as you walk by, she whispers, "Your lips are swollen."

Your hand flies to your mouth, and she just grins.

The shower is both too long and not long enough. You stand under the hot water, washing blue paint from your hair, your skin, and you try not to think about what just happened. Try not to think about the way he said 'I love you' or the way your body responded to him like no time had passed at all.

Try not to think about the fact that you just had sex with your ex-husband on the floor of your playroom while both your families were downstairs.

When you finally emerge, dressed in clean clothes, soft lounge pants and an oversized jumper, you can hear the game in full swing downstairs. Laughter, the twins' excited voices, someone groaning about losing.

You take a breath and head down.

Everyone's gathered in the living room, your parents, Lando's parents, Flo, and the twins who are bouncing with energy despite it being nearly bedtime. Lando's there too, showered and changed into fresh clothes, his hair still damp. He glances up when you enter, and something passes between you before you both look away.

"Finally!" Mila shouts. "Mummy, you took forever!"

"Sorry, baby," you say, settling onto the floor next to where she's set up what appears to be a very complicated game involving cards and toy cars. "There was a lot of paint to wash off."

"You should be more careful," Thiago says seriously, and Adam laughs.

"Yes, you should," Cisca agrees, but she's looking between you and Lando with that expression again, the one that says she knows something's different and she's pleased about it.

The game is chaotic and makes absolutely no sense, but the twins are delighted, and you try to focus on that instead of the fact that you're hyperaware of Lando across the room, of every time his eyes drift to you, of the way Flo keeps smirking.

By the time bedtime rolls around, both twins are overtired and fighting it. They want a story, then another story, then water, then Mila can't find her specific stuffed elephant, and Thiago needs to line up his cars just right next to his bed.

"I'll do it," Lando offers when you're on the third story request. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine," you start, but he's already settling between both beds, and the twins are delighted to have Daddy reading to them in Mummy's house.

You retreat to the hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to his voice drift out—doing different character voices, making the twins giggle even as their responses get slower, drowsier. Your mother passes by, pausing to kiss your cheek.

"It's good to see you both here," she says quietly. "Together, finally. Even if it's complicated."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just nod.

By the time Lando emerges, closing the door softly behind him, both twins are finally asleep. He looks tired, softer around the edges, and when his eyes meet yours in the dim hallway, you see the question there.

"We should talk," you say quietly.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We should."

You lead him downstairs to the kitchen, away from where your parents and his are still chatting in the living room. The room is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of conversation.

"So," you start, then stop. What are you supposed to say? 'Thanks for the orgasm, let's pretend it didn't happen and go back to co-parenting'?

"I meant what I said," Lando says, leaning against the counter. "Earlier. I'm still in love with you. That wasn't, it wasn't just something I said in the moment."

Your heart does something complicated. "Lando—"

"I know you're scared," he continues. "I'm scared too. We fucked it up once already, and doing it again with the kids involved—I know the stakes are higher. But I can't—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I can't keep pretending I'm okay with how things are. I can't keep dropping the kids off and leaving. I can't keep seeing you and not being able to touch you, talk to you properly. It's killing me."

You're gripping the counter behind you. "What are you asking?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I just know I want more than this. More than scheduled drop-offs and texts about the kids. I want—" He stops, looking at you with those devastating eyes. "I want to try again. If you do."

The words hang in the air between you. This is the moment. You could say no, could protect yourself, could keep the boundaries you've so carefully maintained.

Or you could jump.

"I'm terrified," you whisper.

"Me too."

"What if we fail again?"

"What if we don't?"

It's the same question from earlier, but this time you're not covered in paint, not lost in the heat of the moment. This time you have to decide with a clear head.

"I don't know how to do this," you admit. "How to be with you again. How to trust that it won't fall apart."

"We figure it out," he says, and he takes a step closer. "Together. We take it slow. We talk about the shit we didn't talk about last time. We do therapy if we need to. We—we try, actually fucking try."

You look at him—at this man you've loved for so long, the father of your children, the person who still knows you better than anyone—and you think about the alternative. More years of this ache, of pretending you're fine, of being alone.

"Okay," you hear yourself say.

His eyes widen. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, and your voice is steadier now. "But slow. Really slow. And we don't tell the kids until we're sure. I won't, I can't have them hoping for something that might not work out."

"Agreed," he says immediately. "Whatever you need. Whatever makes you feel safe."

The relief on his face is palpable, and before you can second-guess yourself, he's crossing the space between you, pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. You wrap your arms around his waist and let yourself have this—his warmth, his solidity, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"We should probably go to bed," you murmur against his chest. "Long day tomorrow."

"Yeah," he agrees, but neither of you move for a long moment.

When you finally separate and head upstairs, you pause outside the guest room where he'll be sleeping.

"Goodnight," he says softly.

"Goodnight."

You're in your own room for approximately twenty minutes before you accept that you're not going to sleep. You're just lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him down the hall. Thinking about how your bed feels too big, too empty.

Thinking about how you don't want to be alone tonight.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're padding down the hallway in bare feet, your heart hammering. You knock softly on his door.

It opens almost immediately, like he wasn't sleeping either. He's in joggers and a t-shirt, his hair messy, and when he sees you, confusion and hope war on his face.

"Can I—" you start, then stop. This is ridiculous. You're twenty-seven years old. "Can I sleep here? With you? I just, I don't want to be alone."

His expression softens into something that makes your chest ache. "Yeah," he says, stepping aside. "Yeah, of course."

The guest room is smaller than yours, the bed a double instead of a queen, but when you slip under the covers and he slides in beside you, it doesn't feel cramped. It feels right.

He doesn't try anything, just opens his arms in invitation, and you curl into his side like you've done a thousand times before. His arm comes around you, holding you close, and you can feel the tension drain from your body.

"This okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," you whisper. "This is perfect."

His lips press against your hair, not a kiss, exactly, just a gesture of affection, and his thumb traces slow circles on your shoulder.

"I missed this," he murmurs. "Just sleeping next to you. Waking up and you're there."

"Me too," you admit.

You lie there in the dark, listening to his breathing even out, feeling more settled than you have in eighteen months. Tomorrow you'll have to navigate the twins' birthday, both families watching you with knowing eyes, the complexity of whatever this new thing between you is.

But tonight, you just let yourself be held and for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep feeling like maybe—just maybe—everything might actually be okay.

back, an arm draped over your waist, breath soft against your neck. For a disoriented moment, you forget where you are, when you are—and then it all comes rushing back.

Lando's guest room. His bed. You asking to sleep here.

The early morning light is filtering through the curtains, pale and gentle, and you can tell by the quality of it that it's early, probably not even seven yet. The house is silent. No sounds of the twins stirring, no footsteps from your parents' room.

Just you and Lando, tangled together like you used to be.

His arm tightens slightly around your waist, and you realize he's awake. You can feel it in the way his breathing has changed, no longer the deep rhythm of sleep.

"Hi," he murmurs against your neck, his voice rough and low.

"Hi," you whisper back.

Neither of you move for a long moment. You're acutely aware of every point of contact—his chest against your back, his legs tucked behind yours, his hand splayed across your stomach. It's intimate and familiar and terrifying all at once.

"What time is it?" you ask quietly.

"Early," he says. "Sun's barely up."

You shift slightly, turning in his arms so you're facing him. His hair is messy from sleep, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and his eyes are soft and unguarded in the early morning light. He looks younger like this, vulnerable, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, his hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Better than I have in months," you admit.

Something in his expression shifts, relief and tenderness and something deeper. "Me too."

The silence stretches between you, but it's not awkward. It's heavy with all the things you're both feeling, all the things you said last night and all the things you didn't say. His thumb traces your cheekbone, a feather-light touch that makes you shiver.

"We should probably talk more," you say. "About what this means. About how we do this."

"We should," he agrees, but his eyes are on your lips now, and you can feel the energy between you shifting, warming.

"Lando—"

"I know," he says softly. "We should talk. We should make a plan. We should be sensible and careful and—"

You kiss him.

It's different from yesterday in the playroom. Less desperate, less urgent. This is slow and deliberate, a choice you're making with a clear head in the soft morning light. His hand cups your face as he kisses you back, gentle and reverent, like he's savoring it.

"We really should talk," you murmur against his lips, even as you press closer.

"Later," he says, and his hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. "We can talk later."

"Someone could come looking for us—"

"The twins won't be up for at least another hour," he says, and now he's kissing down your jaw, your neck, finding that spot that makes your breath catch. "Your parents sleep late. Mine too."

"Very optimistic of you," you manage, but your fingers are already threading through his hair, your leg hooking over his hip.

"I'm an optimist," he says against your collarbone, and you can feel him smiling.

His hand slides under your sleep shirt and his palm is warm against your ribs. You arch into the touch, a quiet sound escaping you, and he swallows it with another kiss.

"We have to be quiet," you whisper.

"I know."

"Really quiet."

"I know," he repeats, and his hand moves higher, cupping your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks. "I'll be good. Promise."

Your shirt comes off slowly, carefully, and then his follows. The covers pool around your waist as he rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is familiar and perfect and everything you didn't know you needed.

"Hi," he says again, looking down at you with eyes that are dark and soft and full of love.

"Hi," you breathe, and you pull him down for another kiss.

He's taking his time, relearning you in the gentle morning light, pressing kisses to places he used to know by heart. Your shoulder, the curve of your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and making you gasp. The soft skin of your stomach, your hip bone. Every touch is deliberate, worshipful, like he's trying to memorize you all over again.

When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep pants, he pauses, looking up at you in question.

"Yes," you whisper.

They slide down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then he's kissing his way back up, your ankle, your calf, the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep from making noise.

His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, and he groans softly. "Missed this," he murmurs. "Missed tasting you."

His tongue parts you slowly, a long, deliberate stroke that makes your hips jerk off the bed. His hands hold you steady as he works you with his mouth—slow circles around your clit, then lower, his tongue pressing inside you while his nose brushes that sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Lando," you gasp against your palm, and he hums against you, the vibration making you shake.

He's in no rush, alternating between his tongue and his fingers, sliding two inside you while his mouth focuses on your clit. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and you have to bite down on your knuckle to stay quiet.

"So perfect," he whispers against you. "So fucking perfect for me."

The praise combined with the pressure of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, it's too much. You're climbing higher, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and when he adds a third finger, stretching you, you come apart with his name caught silently behind your teeth.

He works you through it gently, then kisses his way back up your body, giving you time to catch your breath. When he reaches your mouth, you kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips, on his tongue.

"Your turn," you say, but when you reach for his joggers, he catches your hand.

"I need—" his voice is rough, strained. "I need to be inside you. Please."

"Yeah," you breathe, and you help him push his joggers and boxer briefs down.

He's hard and flushed, a bead of moisture at the tip, and when he settles between your thighs, you can feel him hot and heavy against you.

"Wait," you say, and he freezes immediately, pulling back to look at you with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just—" You meet his eyes. "We don't have anything. A condom."

Understanding dawns on his face.

"I'm still on the pill," you say quietly. "And I haven't—there hasn't been anyone since—"

"Me neither," he says quickly. "No one. Just, just that one time, and we used protection, and I got tested after, and—" He's rambling, nervous. "But only if you want to. We can stop, we can—"

"I want to," you interrupt. "I want to feel you. All of you."

His eyes darken, and he dips his head to kiss you again, deep and consuming. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you whisper against his mouth. "Please."

He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance, and you both inhale sharply at the first contact, skin on skin, nothing between you. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch is perfect, the fullness overwhelming.

"Oh god," you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Oh—"

"I know," he gasps, and he's trembling with the effort of going slow. "I know, baby. You feel, fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated inside you, he stops, both of you adjusting to the sensation. His forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Okay?" he asks.

"So okay," you manage. "Move. Please move."

He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and the drag of him against your walls makes you both moan quietly. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, just as deliberate, and it's perfect and devastating and too much and not enough all at once.

"Look at me," he says softly, and you do.

Those eyes—green and blue and devastating—are locked on yours, and there's so much emotion in them that it makes your chest tight. Love and want and hope and fear all mixed together.

"I love you," he says, his hips rolling in a steady, deep rhythm. "I never stopped. Even when I tried, even when I thought I should, I couldn't."

Your eyes are burning, tears threatening at the corners. He's moving inside you, steady and deep, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch with every thrust, and it's too much—the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way he's looking at you like you're everything.

"I love you too," you whisper, and saying it out loud feels like jumping off a cliff. "I'm terrified, but I love you."

His hands tighten on your face, pulling you into a kiss that's somehow both tender and desperate. He's moving faster now, deeper, and you wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him impossibly deeper.

"God, you're so tight," he groans against your mouth. "So perfect. Made for me."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building at the base of your spine, spreading through your limbs.

"I'm close," you gasp. "Lando, I'm—"

"I know, I can feel you," he says, and his rhythm is getting erratic, losing the steady pace. "Come for me. Want to feel you come on my cock."

The words combined with the pressure on your clit, the stretch and fullness of him inside you, it pushes you over the edge. You come with your hand pressed over your mouth, your whole body tensing and releasing, clenching around him in waves.

"Fuck," he gasps, and his hips stutter. "Where—where do you want—"

"Inside," you manage through the aftershocks. "Come inside me."

He makes a broken sound and buries himself deep, his whole body going rigid as he comes. You can feel him pulsing inside you, the warmth of him, and something about it feels monumental—this intimacy you haven't shared in so long, this vulnerability, this trust.

He collapses onto you carefully, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. His face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his lips pressing soft kisses to your pulse point.

"That was—" he starts, then just laughs softly. "Yeah."

"Yeah," you agree, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is so tender it makes your heart ache. "I meant it," he says quietly. "About trying again. About doing this right."

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

"I'm scared," he admits.

"Me too."

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear you didn't realize had fallen. "But we're going to try anyway?"

"Yeah," you say, tilting your head up to kiss him softly. "We're going to try anyway."

He kisses you back, sweet and gentle, and you can feel him softening inside you. He pulls out slowly, and you both wince slightly at the sensitivity. He reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning you up with tender care before dealing with himself.

Then he's pulling you back into his arms, tucking you against his chest, and you settle there with your ear over his heart, listening to it beat steady and strong.

"We should probably get up soon," you murmur. "Before the twins wake up."

"Five more minutes," he says, his arms tightening around you.

"Lando—"

"Please. Just five more minutes."

You smile against his skin. "Okay. Five more minutes."

You both know you'll stay longer than that. You'll stay here wrapped up in each other until you hear the first sounds of the house waking, until reality creeps back in and you have to face what comes next.

But right now, in this quiet moment, it's just the two of you. And for the first time in eighteen months, you let yourself believe that maybe this time will be different.

Not "Lan" with the heart emoji anymore. You changed that after the third call. Clinical and distant, as if he’s just another within the vast sea of clients. Like he hadn't once known the taste of your skin, the sound of your laugh at three in the morning when you were both too young and too reckless to know that forever was a lie people told themselves.

You changed it after the third call, but you didn't block the number.

You should have blocked the number.

Your finger hovers over the screen. For seven months, you've practiced discipline. For seven months, you've built something that looks like a life—Leo with his patient smile and his family's hedge fund (though you don’t need it)—and his marriage timeline that includes you in every five-year plan. The calls came like clockwork at first, every few weeks, always when Lando was drunk enough to forget why you stopped answering.

Call one: The night after Bahrain. He'd gotten P2, his voice electric with champagne and adrenaline. "I wish you'd been there," he'd slurred. "It's not the same when you're not—" You'd hung up before he could finish.

Call two: Monaco. Always Monaco. The place where you'd spent a summer learning that loving someone who belonged to the world meant you'd always come second. He'd been crying. You'd listened to him cry for forty-five seconds before your thumb found the red button.

Calls three, four, and five: Increasingly incoherent. Increasingly painful. Each one a reminder that you weren't strong enough to block him, but you were strong enough not to answer. It was a thin kind of strength, the kind that felt like glass—practical until it shattered. 

Call six: Two weeks after he’d gone public with his girlfriend, Magui, a beautiful blonde with an infectious smile. You still felt like the air had been ripped out of your chest. And then you answered. Immediately, regret wrapped around you, because his voice came in like fire and trembling: “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—I miss you so much, baby. You, just you.” 

Then silence.

Seven entire months of silence.

You'd told yourself he'd moved on. You'd seen the photos—Magui, with her beautiful smile, Lando's hand on her back as they entered the paddock, protective and public and permanent. Then, the announcement came through Instagram like everything else in his life. No warning. Just her hand with a ring, his caption simple: "Forever starts now."

You'd liked the post. Leo had been beside you on the yacht off Santorini when you did it, and he'd kissed your temple like you'd done something brave instead of something that hollowed you out from the inside.

"Good for him," you'd said.

"Good for us," Leo had replied, and you'd let him believe it was the same thing.

The phone stops vibrating. The screen goes dark. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

Then it starts again.

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. Muscle memory. The kind of stupid, self-destructive instinct that successful people are supposed to have evolved past. You've made seven figures this quarter by trusting your gut, but your gut has always been compromised when it comes to Lando Norris.

So, you do the sane thing. You answer.

"Hello?"

Silence on the other end. Not empty silence—occupied silence. The sound of breathing, of a connection established, of a bridge you'd burned being rebuilt in real-time with nothing but air and want and the kind of history that doesn't fit in the past tense.

"You answered." His voice is wrecked. Alcohol-soaked and raw, like he's been screaming or crying or both. "You actually—fuck, you answered."

You should hang up. You should wake Leo and let him wrap his reliable arms around you and remind you of all the reasons you chose this life, this man, this version of yourself that doesn't break at 2:47 AM over a voice you used to hear every day.

Instead, you walk to the window. Press your forehead against the cold glass. Watch your breath fog the skyline into something abstract. The ache in your chest growing with each breath, tearing an opening right at the cavity. 

"Lando," you say, and his name tastes like blood in your mouth. Like something vital you've been trying not to need. "It's almost three in the morning."

"I know what time it is." He laughs, but it's not a laugh. It's the sound of something breaking in slow motion. "I always know what time it is when I call you. When I called you. When you stopped—" He cuts himself off. "I’m engaged."

"I know. I saw. Congratulations."

The word sits between you like a third person on the call. Polite. Appropriate. Utterly meaningless. Why the fuck did you have to answer?

"Don't do that." His voice sharpens, cuts through the alcohol haze. "Don't be fucking polite with me. You were never polite with me."

He's right. You were never polite with him. You were raw and real and so catastrophically yourself that sometimes you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. That was the problem. That was always the fucking problem.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." He sounds lost. Lando Norris, who navigates chicanes at 200 miles per hour, who calculates the apexes in split seconds, sounds completely, utterly lost. "I don't know. I just—I'm drunk, and I'm engaged, and for the first time in seven months, I called you and you answered, and now I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to say."

You close your eyes. Behind you, the laptop chirps softly—another notification, another win, another number climbing in an account that's supposed to mean you've made it. You want to throw it out of the window. 

"Why did you call?"

"Why did you answer?"

The question hangs there, unanswerable. Or too answerable. The kind of question that has only dangerous truths behind it. In the reflection of the window, you can see yourself—silk pajamas, hair twisted up in a clip, the faint shadow under your eyes that no amount of success has managed to erase.

You look like someone who has everything. Yet, you feel like someone who's bleeding from a wound no one else can see.

"I should go," you whisper.

"Yeah." He breathes out slowly. "Yeah, you should."

Neither of you hangs up.

In the distance, Singapore pulses with life. In the bedroom, Leo sleeps the sleep of the certain. On the other end of the line, Lando Norris—engaged, drunk, and far too late—breathes in rhythm with you like your hearts remember a synchronization your minds have tried to forget.

"I miss you," he says finally. Quietly. Like he's confessing to murder. "I miss you, and I shouldn't, and I'm getting married, and I still fucking miss you."

The hole in your chest—the one you've been ignoring, filling with work and Leo and vacations and the lie that you're happy—tears open a little wider.

"I know," you say, because what else is there?

"Do you—" He stops. Starts again. "Do you miss me?"

You should lie. You should protect him, protect yourself, protect the people you've both promised your futures to. You should be the bigger person, the mature one, the woman who's moved on.

"Goodnight, Lando."

You hang up before you can tell him the truth: that you never stopped.

Three weeks later, Monaco smells exactly the way you remember. Like salt and old memories and sunlight that exists nowhere else—golden and exquisite, like it costs extra to touch your skin here. You'd forgotten how much you hate this place. How much you love it. How the two feelings exist in the same breath, the same heartbeat, the same key turning in a lock you haven't touched since February.

The apartment was an investment. That's what you tell people. Prime real estate in Fontvieille, appreciation rates that made your financial advisor actually smile. You don't tell people that you bought it the same month Lando moved here. You don't tell people that you used to keep a toothbrush at his place before you had your own address, that you learned to make coffee the way he likes it in a kitchen three streets over, that every corner of this principality is haunted by a version of yourself that believed in forevers.

The elevator is broken. So you take the stairs with your luggage, each step a small violence against your Louboutins. Leo is in London for meetings. You told him you needed to check on the apartment, handle some documents in person. He'd kissed you goodbye at the Singapore airport with his usual tenderness, his usual faith that you are exactly who you present yourself to be.

You didn't tell him about the phone call. You haven't told him about any of the phone calls.

The third-floor hallway is exactly as you remember—cream walls, tasteful sconces, the kind of quiet that only money can buy. Your apartment is 3C. You're fishing for your keys when you hear it.

A door opening. 3B. You freeze.

You know this building. You know exactly two units on this floor are owned, the rest still tied up in some investment group's portfolio. You're 3C. And 3B—

3B was empty when you bought your place. You'd checked. You'd needed it to be empty because the thought of neighbors, of small talk, of anyone witnessing your comings and goings in this city that knew too much about you already, was unbearable.

The door swings open fully and Lando steps into the hallway.

For a moment—a suspended, airless moment—you think you're hallucinating. That you've finally crossed some line between want and reality, that your brain has started conjuring him out of nothing but memory and pain.

Then his eyes meet yours.

The coffee cup in his hand—Costa, always goddamn Costa, even here where the espresso is objectively better—stops halfway to his mouth. His hair is a mess, sleep-ruffled in a way that means he stayed over. He's wearing joggers and a McLaren team shirt, and there's a mark on his neck that you can see from here, small and purple and precisely where you used to—

"Fuck." The word drops from his mouth like something physical. The coffee cup wavers. "Fuck, what are you—"

You can't speak. Your throat has closed around everything you might say, every casual greeting or surprised laugh or normal human reaction. Your keys are still half-in your purse. Your suitcase is heavy in your other hand. You're wearing yesterday's clothes from the flight, and you probably look exhausted, and he's here.

He's fucking here. In the hallway outside 3B.

3B.

The realization hits you with the subtlety of a crash barrier. You have a sinking feeling of who must live in 3B. 

His fiancée lives next door to you. 

"You live here?" His voice cracks on the last word. "In this building?"

"I bought it two years ago." Your voice comes out steady. You've learned to make your voice steady even when your pulse is trying to break through your skin. "Investment property."

"An investment." He laughs, and it's the saddest sound you've ever heard. "Right. Of course. An investment."

He knows. You can see him doing the math, remembering when you bought it, what was happening between you then. The laugh becomes something else, something that might be a sob if he were alone, if you couldn't see him fighting it back.

A voice calls from inside 3B. Female. Sleepy. Portuguese accent wrapping around his name like ownership.

"Lan? Who are you talking to?"

You watch him close his eyes. Watch him take a breath that makes his shoulders rise and fall like he's preparing for impact.

"Just a neighbor," he calls back. His eyes open. Find yours. "Give me a minute, yeah?"

The door behind him stays open. You can see a slice of the apartment—white walls, modern furniture, a pair of women's shoes by the entrance. Evidence of a life. His life. The one that doesn't include you.

"You haven't been here." It's not a question. He's stepped closer, and you can smell his cologne, the specific laundry detergent he's used since you met him, the coffee on his breath. Every sense memory you've spent two years trying to delete. "The landlord said the owner never stays here."

"I've been busy."

"In Singapore?"

"Among other places."

"With Leo?”

Your name in his mouth is a sermon. The way he says "Leo" is a curse.

"Yes," you say. "With Leo."

"And are you happy?"

The question is so direct, so raw, that you actually step back. Your shoulders hit your door. The handle presses into your spine.

"Lando, that's not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." He's closer now. Close enough that you could reach out and touch him, could press your palm to his chest and feel whether his heart is racing like yours. "You live next door. You've lived next door to Magui this whole time, and you never—" He stops. Regroups. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"How would I have known?"

"Because—" His hand comes up, runs through his hair in that gesture you know better than your own face. Frustration and helplessness. "Because we were—we are—"

"You're engaged, Lando."

The words sit between you like a physical barrier.

"I know." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I know I am. But you answered. Three weeks ago, you answered the phone, and I thought—"

"What did you think?"

You need to hear him say it. You need him to put words to the thing you've both been avoiding, the truth that's been living in the space between his calls and your silence.

"I thought maybe—" He stops. His jaw works. Behind him, you hear movement in the apartment. Water running. The domestic sounds of someone making breakfast, starting their day, existing in the life he's building with someone else. "I don't know what I thought."

"You should go." Your hand finds your keys. Your fingers shake as you try to fit metal into lock. "She's waiting."

"I don't want to go."

"Lando—"

"I don't want to go, and you don't want me to go, and we're both going to pretend otherwise because that's what we do now, apparently. We pretend."

The key slides in. Turns. The door opens to your apartment—dark, unlived, full of furniture that's never been broken in. You should step inside. Close the door. Start unpacking. Call Leo. Do any of the thousand things a person who's moved on would do.

Instead, you turn back to look at him.

It's a mistake. He's looking at you the way he used to look at you before races—like you're something he's about to lose, something he's trying to memorize before it's gone. His hand is braced against the doorframe of 3B, and his coffee has gone cold, and there's devastation written across every line of his face.

"I'm getting married in four months," he says.

"I know."

"I call you when I'm drunk because I'm a coward when I'm sober."

"I know."

"If I asked you—" His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "If I asked you to tell me that you don't—that you've moved on, that Leo is everything, that you're happy—could you say it? Could you look at me and say it?"

Your hand tightens on your suitcase handle. The metal digs into your palm, sharp and grounding.

Behind him, Magui appears in the doorway. She's beautiful in that effortless way some people are, wearing his shirt, her hair perfect even fresh from sleep. She looks at you with polite curiosity, no recognition, no threat assessment. Why would there be? She's the one who woke up in his bed. She's the one wearing his ring.

"Babe, your coffee's getting cold." Her hand touches his shoulder, casual ownership, then she actually sees your face. Sees his. The air between you that's thick enough to choke on. Her smile falters. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," Lando says, but he's still looking at you. "Just saying hi to a neighbor."

You watch him make the choice. Watch him step back into his apartment, into his life, into the future he's promised to someone who isn't you. His eyes hold yours until the last possible second, and in that second, you see everything—all the words he'll never say, all the calls he'll keep making when he's drunk enough to forget why he shouldn't, all the love that didn't die just because it became inconvenient.

The door closes and you stand in the hallway, your key still in the lock, your suitcase heavy in your hand. Then you hear it, bleeding through the walls. Their voices, muffled but unmistakable.

"Who was that?"

A pause. Long enough that you know he's deciding what truth he can afford.

"No one important."

You step into your apartment. Close the door. Slide down against it until you're sitting on the floor in your expensive shoes with your expensive luggage, in your expensive apartment next door to the man you still fucking love and the life he's building without you.

Your phone buzzes. Leo, checking that you landed safely.

You stare at the message. At the heart emoji. At the "miss you already" and the photo he's attached of the two of you in Singapore, your smile bright and convincing, his arm around you like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. Through the wall, you hear laughter. Hers, bright and uncomplicated. His, following after, and you've heard Lando Norris laugh a thousand times but never quite like this—like he's trying to convince himself of something.

You text Leo back: Landed safe. Miss you too.

Then you sit in the silence of your investment property, in the city where you learned how to love someone who belonged to the world, and you let yourself feel the hole in your chest that's shaped exactly like the man on the other side of the wall.

Three weeks ago, you answered his call, and you're already wondering how long until the next one.

The wine bottle is half-empty when you hear the first knock.

It’s not a polite knock, not just another neighbor-checking-if-everything's-okay knock. A desperate knock. The kind that says I know you're in there and I'm not leaving and please all at once.

It's 3 AM. You're on your third glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that cost too much and still somehow tastes like ass. The TV is playing something—that show everyone watches, the one with the kids and the monsters and the one oddly hot villan—but you stopped paying attention an hour ago. You're just grateful for the noise, for the voices that aren't yours, for the distraction from the fact that you've been in Monaco for two days and you still haven't left the apartment.

Haven't left because leaving means potentially seeing him.

Haven't left because staying means potentially hearing him through the wall.

You told Leo you needed a break. Not a break-up, just a break. Space to think. Though you know it’s a lie,  and yet, he'd taken it well because Leo takes everything well, with his reasonable questions and his patient acceptance and his "I'll be here when you're ready."

You'd wanted him to fight for you. To make you feel just an ounce of something, but he didn’t. He accepted the truth for what it was, and with his warm smile kissed you goodbye. 

"I know you're awake." Lando's voice comes through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "I can see the light under the door. Please let me in.."

You should ignore him. You've gotten good at ignoring him—seven months of practice, six unanswered calls, a lifetime of learning that some people are meant to be loved from a distance. Instead, you're standing. Your legs work without permission from your brain. The wine has made everything soft around the edges, including your self-preservation instincts.

"Go home, Lando." Your voice is steadier than you feel. You're still on your side of the door, your hand flat against the wood like you can feel him through it. You want to see him. 

"She's in Brazil."

It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. The geography of where his fiancée is none of your concern. Not. Your. Fucking. Problem. 

"That's not my problem."

"I can't stop thinking about you." His voice drops, and you have to press your ear to the door to hear him. "It's been a month. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days since I saw you in the hallway, and I've thought about you every single one of them. Every hour. I'm losing my bloody mind."

"You're drunk."

"So are you. I can hear it in your voice." A pause. "Let me in."

"No."

"Please."

"Lando—"

"I love you."

The words hit you like a physical blow, you actually stagger back from the door, your wine glass tilting dangerously in your hand. It’s been so long since you’ve heard it and in person it’s a hundred times more devastating. 

"Don't say that."

"I love you," he says again, louder. "I've loved you the entire time. Through Singapore and the silence and every fucking day I've pretended I didn't. Let me in. Please. I just—I need to see you."

Your hand finds the lock. Some treasonous part of you that's tired of being good, of being reasonable, of protecting everyone's feelings except your own.

"This is a bad idea," you whisper.

"I know."

"You're engaged."

"I know."

"I told Leo I needed a break."

Silence on the other side of the door. Then: "Did you tell him why?"

You unlock the door andLando falls into your apartment like he's been leaning his full weight against the door. He catches himself on the wall, and you see him fully for the first time—worn jeans, a black hoodie, hair a disaster, eyes red-rimmed and wild. He looks like he hasn't slept. He looks like he's been crying. He looks like every bad decision you've ever wanted to make. He looks like a sin you’re ready to commit. 

"You told Leo." It's not a question. He's reading your face like he used to, like no time has passed, like he still has the right. "You told him about me?"

"I told him I needed space." You close the door behind him. Locking it like that will keep the consequences out. "I didn't tell him why."

"Why do you need space?"

You gesture around the apartment—the wine, the TV still playing to an empty couch, the evidence of you hiding from your own life. "Look at me, Lando. I'm in Monaco drinking alone at 3 AM because I can't be in the same city as you without falling apart. You think Leo doesn't notice that something's wrong?"

He steps closer. You step back. It becomes a dance—him advancing, you retreating, until your back hits the kitchen counter and there's nowhere left to go.

"Tell me you don't feel this." His hand comes up, hovers near your face but doesn't touch. Waiting for permission. Always fucking waiting. "Tell me I'm alone in this and I'll leave right now. I'll marry her and I'll never call you again and you can go back to Leo and we can both pretend this was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing." The words taste like blood. Like truth. "It was everything. That's the problem."

"Then why—" His voice breaks. "Why did you leave?"

"You know why."

"Say it."

You close your eyes. The wine has made you brave and stupid in equal measure. "Because loving you meant coming second. To the racing, to the travel, to the world that owns you. I couldn't—" Your breath catches. "I couldn't keep giving you everything while getting whatever was left over."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" Your eyes open. "Be honest, Lando. Really honest. When we were together, when was I ever the priority?"

You watch him try to answer. Watch him search for examples, for proof that you were wrong. The silence stretches and you have your answer. 

"That's what I thought," you whisper.

"I was young." His hand finally makes contact, fingers ghosting along your jaw. "I was stupid. I didn't know what I had until you were gone, and by then you'd already—" He stops then starts again. "You'd already built this whole life without me. Success and Leo and you seemed so happy, and I thought, this is what she deserves, someone who can give her everything."

"So you got engaged to someone else?"

He sighs. "So I tried to move on." His forehead drops to yours. "It didn't work. It's not working. She's—Magui is beautiful and kind and she loves me, but she's not—"

"Don't." You put your hand on his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm. "Don't do that to her. Don't compare us."

"I love you." He says it again, and this time it sounds like a confession. Like something being ripped out of him. "I'm three months away from marrying someone else and I'm standing in your apartment at 3 AM telling you I love you, and I know it's selfish and it's wrong and it's too late, but I can't—I can't keep pretending."

Your hand fists in his hoodie. You should push him away. Should tell him to leave, to go home, to marry his beautiful fiancée and stop trying to drag you back into the chaos of loving him.

Instead, you pull him closer.

"This doesn't fix anything," you say against his mouth.

"I know."

"We'll hate ourselves in the morning."

"I don't care."

"Lando—"

He kisses you, and it's like falling. Like the seven months dissolve into nothing, like every call you didn't answer was just holding your breath until this moment. His hands are in your hair, your wine glass is falling, shattering against the tile, and neither of you stop. You kiss him back like you're drowning. Like he's air. Like you haven't spent two years teaching yourself how to breathe without him.

You’re going to regret this in the morning, you know you will. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop. 

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips as if he’d read your mind, your jaw, the curve of your neck. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

But you can't. The words won't come. Instead, your hands find the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up, needing skin, needing proof that this is real and not another wine-drunk fantasy.

"We shouldn't—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, this one deeper, more desperate.

"I know."

"Leo—"

"Is far away." His hands span your waist, lifting you onto the counter. "And Magui is in Brazil. And right now, right here, it's just us."

It's the worst logic you've ever heard. It's also all you need to hear. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hands slide under your shirt—his shirt, actually, one you stole years ago and never gave back. He recognizes it the moment his fingers touch the fabric, and the sound he makes is broken and possessive and entirely undone.

"You kept it."

"I kept everything." It's too honest. Too revealing, but you're past the point of self-protection. "I kept all of it. Every t-shirt, every hoodie, every—"

The air in your apartment hums like a live wire. His breath mingles with yours, all whiskey and want, his palms hot and insistent against your ribs, pushing your shirt higher until it’s tangled around your shoulders. His hoodie falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten, like the rest of your reasons. You tilt your head back as his mouth traces up your throat, teeth grazing skin, a sound tearing from you that you don’t recognize—something between a sigh and a plea. His name breaks from you in fragments, syllables dragged raw, and he answers with a low growl, the kind that vibrates down your spine and pools heat in your belly.

The window across the room glows faintly with the city’s reflection—amber light, slick glass, rain streaking down like melted gold. You catch a glimpse of yourselves there—your body pressed to his, half-dressed, half-mad—and it only drives you further. His hands drag down, over the curve of your hips, gripping hard enough to leave memory. He presses closer, between your legs, the counter biting at the backs of your thighs, cold and smooth, grounding you in the storm of it.

“Do you still want me to stop?” His voice is rough, wrecked. You shake your head, wordless, your nails raking the back of his neck as if to keep him there, tethered. He kisses you again, messy, bruising, until you’re gasping into his mouth. His tongue traces yours with desperate familiarity, all the old rhythms coming back too easily, too painfully.

When Lando pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glassy, fevered, like he’s been starving and you’re the first taste in months. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say you still—”

You crush your mouth against his before he can finish, tasting the confession, swallowing it down. The movement knocks something off the counter—glass shattering against the tile—but neither of you care. He lifts you, his hips slotting between yours as you wrap tighter around him, your back pressed to the window now, the cool pane shocking against your heated skin. The rain outside runs in rivulets just beyond your shoulder, city lights bending and refracting around you, and you think for a moment that the whole world could drown right now and you’d let it.

“Lando,” you gasp when his mouth finds your collarbone, tongue tracing the edge of the old tattoo he once kissed for luck before every race. “This is—”

“Real,” he mutters, breath catching, his forehead pressed against your shoulder. “Tell me it’s not.”

But you can’t. Not when his hands slide lower, gripping your ass, pulling you closer against the hardness of his cock straining between you. Not when his lips find that spot just below your ear that always unravels you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling at the fabric, moaning  and needing to feel the shape of him beneath it. The thickness. His hoodie, your shirt, everything comes away in impatient tugs, a scatter of cotton and heat. Skin to skin at last, slick with sweat, every inch of you mapped against the other’s like a language only you two ever spoke.

The couch is a blur of motion and breath. He half-carries, half-stumbles you there, lips never leaving yours, and when you fall back, the cushions give with a soft thud. He hovers above you, eyes searching, but you grab his face, drag him down again, because thinking hurts more than this ever could. Your legs part to welcome him, the weight of him pressing down, his breath ragged against your cheek. Every kiss feels like an apology that comes too late and still matters too much.

His hands roam, relearning you. The slope of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the soft catch of your breath when he grazes a nipple. You arch into his touch, a low sound escaping you, and he answers it with a sigh that trembles. His lips trail lower, over the hollow of your throat, the edge of your ribs, down your belly where goosebumps rise under his tongue. You twist your fingers into his hair, a silent command, and he obeys, mouth worshipping, marking, until you’re trembling and gasping and half-laughing through it, the tension snapping and re-forming like lightning.

Outside, thunder rolls distant but steady. The city feels far away now. There’s only the pulse of the rain, the creak of the couch, the rough drag of breath against skin. He lifts his head for a moment, strands of hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. “You’ll make me think—”

“Don’t think,” you cut in, tugging him back down. “Just feel.”

He moves like someone who has tried for months to forget what this felt like and failed. Every inch of his body says mine even when he’s the one who left. The kiss turns reckless again, his hands gripping hard at your hips as if he could fuse you together by pressure alone. The couch dips under you both, the rhythm of motion turning frantic, unmeasured. You grab at him—his shoulders, his hair, his jaw—trying to hold him still, but he doesn’t stop; he can’t.

He breaks from your mouth to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning. “I missed you,” he says against your lips, voice shaking. “Every night, even with her. Every goddamn time I closed my eyes.” You pull him closer until your words dissolve in the space between your teeth.

The world narrows to warmth, weight, heartbeat. He gathers your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head; the look in his eyes is almost defiant, as if daring you to make him stop. You don’t. The power in the room shifts—he isn’t taking, he’s begging through dominance, trying to prove something he doesn’t know how to say aloud. You let him, not because you surrender, but because you understand exactly what’s breaking inside him.

When he releases your wrists you move first, flipping the balance, forcing him back against the cushions. For a breath he just stares up at you, chest rising fast, a small, stunned smile ghosting across his face before it’s swallowed by want. You trace the line of his throat with your fingers, your voice a whisper that vibrates through both of you. “You don’t get to be the only one who misses things.”

He sits up fast, hands sliding to your back, pulling you until your chests meet. The shift sends both of you tumbling to the floor; you land against the cold wall, laughter catching on your breath, and then silence again—just breathing and rain and the sharp scent of skin.

There, pressed between plaster and heartbeat, everything that’s been unsaid leaks out. He touches your face with his fingertips, gentle now. “She doesn’t make me feel like this,” he confesses. “He doesn’t make you feel like this either, does he?”

You close your eyes, not to lie but because the truth hurts too much to look at. “No.”

That single word cracks open whatever restraint was left. He leans in, and when you kiss him this time it’s slow, deep, deliberate—the kind of kiss that remembers everything. Your hands slide around his neck, his slide under your thighs, lifting you again, pressing you to the wall. You can feel the tremor in his muscles, not from exertion but from how close he is to losing every piece of control he’s rebuilt since you broke.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs into your hair.

“You already are.”

He exhales hard, half a laugh, half surrender, and lets his forehead rest against yours. The wall behind you is cool, grounding; his body is all heat, motion, contradiction. You hold there, breathing together, until the moment steadies enough for words.

“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rough, “we’ll pretend again. You’ll go back to him. I’ll go back to her.”

“And tonight?” you ask.

He looks at you like a man memorizing something he knows he’ll lose again. “Tonight doesn’t have rules.”

You can feel the pulse in his neck hammering under your fingertips, a frantic percussion against the quiet hum of rain outside. He’s looking at you like he’s afraid to blink, because blinking would break the spell, and there’s a tremor in his jaw when he finally moves—slow, deliberate, testing.

His mouth catches yours again, softer now, the drag of his lower lip deliberate against yours before his tongue slides past, tasting, coaxing, remembering. The kiss deepens until it stops being a kiss at all—until it becomes something rawer, wetter, his breath spilling into yours, his hands sliding up your thighs.. You can feel his hard cock against you already, the press of his cock on you, pulsing heat and friction that makes your breath hitch, makes your thighs tighten around his waist.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—a rough, low sound that vibrates in your chest. “Fuck,” he whispers, teeth grazing your bottom lip, “I’ve dreamed about this every night.”

“Show me,” you whisper back.

He does.

He drags his hands down, over the curve of your ass, pulling you closer until your hips align, grinding once, twice, until there’s no room for air, just heat and friction and the sound of rain sliding down the glass. You reach between you, fumbling at his belt, your fingers shaking—not from hesitation but from need so sharp it borders on pain. The metallic clink of the buckle cuts through the silence; then he’s shoving his jeans down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed, the head slick already from how badly he wants you.

You can’t help the small, involuntary sound that escapes your throat—half gasp, half moan. “Ahh—”

Lando grins against your neck, teeth brushing your skin, the sound of it going straight to his cock. “Yeah?” he murmurs, dragging the head against your pussy through the thin barrier of your underwear, just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. “You missed this, didn’t you, babby?”

“Mh—yes.” The word cracks apart on your tongue. You tilt your hips, desperate, chasing friction, feeling the heat of him through the damp fabric that’s doing nothing to hide how wet you already are.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and pulls, slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The air hits you cold, your skin hypersensitive to every draft, every breath. He slides his hand down, his fingers tracing the slick seam between your thighs, a soft, wet sound escaping when he pushes one finger inside, shallow at first, then deeper, curling up until your hips lift off the wall.

“God baby, fuck,” you breathe.

Lando smirks, sliding another finger in beside the first, moving them in slow circles until your muscles tighten around him. “Not God,” he murmurs, his mouth close to your ear, voice hoarse. “Just me, baby, just me.”

Your laugh comes out broken, cut off by a moan when he curls his fingers again, hitting the spot that makes your eyes roll back. He keeps it up until you’re panting, clinging to his shoulders, and then he pulls his fingers out, slick with you, dragging them over the head of his cock before lining himself up.

He looks at you once more, silent question in his eyes, but you’ve already got your hand on his neck, pulling him closer, whispering, “Do it.”

Lando pushes in, slow but relentless, the stretch making you cry out, nails digging into his skin. “Ah—fuck, yes—” It’s half sound, half plea. He grits his teeth, muscles tensing as he sinks all the way in, every inch of him sheathed in heat, your body gripping him so tight it’s almost too much.

For a second, he doesn’t move—just breathes against your neck, trembling, like he’s trying to memorize this moment by feel alone. Then he starts to thrust, slow, deep strokes that make the wall thud behind you in rhythm. The sound of skin on skin, wet and sharp, mixes with the rain outside.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your jaw, his voice rough.

You do, breathless, over and over, until it becomes a chant, a rhythm all its own.

He groans, thrusts harder, each movement pressing you higher against the wall until your head knocks gently against the plaster, your legs locked around his waist, your heels digging into his back. The friction builds—wet, hot, consuming—and the air is full of it, the sound of you both unraveling.

You clutch at his shoulders, whispering things that make no sense, just fragments of want and apology and ache. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—”

“Not yet,” Lando growls, biting at your neck, his thrusts turning ragged. “Not until you—fuck—”

And you do—your whole body tightening around him, the release hitting like a wave that tears through every nerve ending, dragging a cry from your throat so loud it startles you. “Ahh, Lando—fuck—yes—yes—”

He’s right behind you, the sound he makes low and guttural, his hips stuttering as he comes, pulsing deep inside you, breath shaking, forehead pressed against yours. The world narrows to the beat of his heart against your chest, the smell of sweat and rain, the quiet sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then he leans back, still inside you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Tomorrow,” he whispers again, voice raw.

You nod, the word barely leaving your throat. “Tomorrow.”

But for now, it’s still tonight—and tonight, as he kisses you again, slower, gentler, you both know there’s no pretending left to do.

You wake to sunlight knifing through the curtains and his arm heavy across your waist. For one perfect, terrible second, you let yourself stay. Let yourself feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder blade, the way his fingers curl possessively even in sleep.

Then reality crashes in like cold water.

What have you done?

His phone is on the nightstand, screen dark but present. A reminder. Evidence that in a few hours—maybe less—Magui will call him. She'll be bright and affectionate, fresh from Brazilian sun, asking about his day, his training, whether he missed her.

And he'll have to lie. All because of you. Your phone is in the living room. You extract yourself from his arms with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb—slowly, barely breathing, praying he doesn't wake. He shifts, murmurs something that might be your name, then settles back into sleep.

What have you done? What the fuck have you done? Fuck, fuck. Fuck. 

You don't let yourself look at him. If you look at him—soft with sleep, vulnerable, beautiful in the morning light—you won't be able to leave. The apartment looks like a crime scene. Your wine glass in pieces on the kitchen floor. His hoodie abandoned by the couch. The TV finally dark, hours of content played to an empty room. Evidence of everything you've done, everything you can't take back.

Your phone screen is a graveyard of notifications. Leo called three times. Texted five. Each message a progression of concern: Hope you're sleeping well to Getting worried, call me when you can to Please just let me know you're okay.

You're not okay.

You've never been less okay. Your hands shake as you open your suitcase, start throwing things in. You don't fold. Don't organize. Just need to move, to run, to get out before he wakes up and looks at you with those eyes and makes you believe in tomorrows that don't exist.

"What are you doing?"

You freeze. Turn slowly and Lando is there in the bedroom doorway, shirtless, wearing last night's jeans unbuttoned at the waist. His hair is a disaster. There's a mark on his collarbone—your mouth, your teeth, your temporary insanity made visible.

He looks at your suitcase. At you and the understanding of the situation dawns slowly onto him, then all at once. His face contorts with pain and he moves. 

"No." He crosses the room in three strides. "No, you're not—we said tomorrow. We said we'd figure it out tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow." Your voice comes out steady. A miracle. "And I am figuring it out."

"By running?"

"By leaving before this gets worse." You shove a dress into your suitcase. "Before we do more damage than we already have."

"Damage." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what last night was to you? Fucking damage?"

"What else would you call it?" You finally look at him directly. Let him see that you're not cruel, just realistic, that all you’re trying to do is  just survive this. Survive him. "You're engaged, Lando. You're getting married in three months. And I just—we just—"

"I know what we did." He runs both hands through his hair. "I was there. I was extremely fucking there."

"Then you know why I have to leave."

"What if I don't want you to?"

The question hangs between you like something living and dangerous. You’ve played these games before, and the ending is always the same. You refuse to surrender to the same consequences. 

"It doesn't matter what you want."

"Doesn't it?" He's closer now. You can smell his cologne, see the exhaustion around his eyes that matches your own, the marks on his neck, the heat radiating off his skin, and it takes everything in you to not leap into his arms. "You left Leo. You told him you needed a break. That has to mean something."

"It means I'm confused." You zip your suitcase with violent finality. You have no idea what you’re doing, where you’re going to go, how you’ll face Leo after all of this. "It means I made a mistake coming here. It means last night was—"

"Don't." His voice cuts like glass. "Don't you dare diminish what happened. Don't pretend it was just—"

"What else can it be?" You're shouting now, upset at yourself for missing him, for caving. "What future do we have, Lando? You go home and tell Magui you cheated? Call off the wedding? Blow up both of our lives for—for what? For this?" You gesture between the both of you. "For something that didn't work the first time?"

He’s shouting now too. "It didn't work because I was an idiot who didn't know what he had."

"And now you're an idiot who's promised yourself to someone else."

The words land like a slap. You watch him flinch, watch the truth of it settle into his bones.

"I love you," he says quietly. Desperately, and you feel sorry for him. 

"I know." And you do. You believe him and that's what makes this entire situation unbearable. "But you love her too. Or you did. Or you will. And I can't—" Your voice breaks. "I can't be the reason you ruin your life. I won't do that to you. Or to her."

"So you're just leaving me?"

Leaving him? The statement ripples through you like venom, tearing your insides apart.  You swallow the lump in your throat, and sigh. "Yes."

"And we'll just—what? Pretend this didn't happen?"

"We'll have to."

He stares at you for a long moment. You watch something die in his eyes, some hope he'd been carrying that you didn't even know was there.

"When will you be back?" His voice is empty now. Defeated.

"I don't know. Maybe not for a while."

"The lease on this place—"

"I'll deal with it remotely." You grab your suitcase, your purse. Move toward the door like a soldier on a mission. "I should go. My flight—"

"You don't have a flight." He's not trying to stop you anymore. Just observing and cataloging the end. "You just decided this ten minutes ago."

"No, but I do have a private jet."

Your hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.

"I meant it. Every time I said it. I love you."

You close your eyes. Let yourself feel it one last time—the weight of those words, the impossible hope of them. "I know," you whisper. "That's why I have to leave."

You don't look back. If you look back, you'll stay. And staying means destroying everything—his future, your future, whatever fragments of dignity you both have left. The hallway is empty. The elevator is still broken. You take the stairs with your suitcase banging against your legs, and you don't let yourself cry until you're in the car, Monaco shrinking behind you, the principality that holds too many memories and one too many mistakes.

Your phone starts ringing before you reach the airport.

Lando Norris.

You decline the call.

It rings again. And again. By the time you're through security, you have fifteen missed calls. Twenty texts that you don't read. Your phone vibrates constantly, persistently, a heartbeat of want that you refuse to answer.

On the jet, you finally block him. Not because you don't want to hear from him. Because you know if you don't, you'll answer. You'll cave. You'll let him convince you that love is enough when you know—you've always known—that it isn't. Leo calls as you're landing in London. You do answer this time.

"I'm sorry," you say before he can speak. "I'm so sorry. For all of it."

"Are you okay? What  happened?" His voice is careful, filled with concern. Everything Lando's was, but without the desperation.

"No," you admit. "But I will be,” you pause, “I need to tell you something."

You meet him at his flat. You tell him the truth—not all of it, not the details that would destroy him unnecessarily, but enough. Monaco. Lando. The history you've never fully explained. The reason you needed space.

He listens. Doesn't interrupt. Doesn't rage or cry or demand explanations you can't give. When you're done, he takes a breath. "Do you love him?"

The question you've been avoiding.

"I did," you say carefully. "I do. But it doesn't matter. now"

"Why not?"

"I don’t know,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Because love isn't enough. Because he's engaged? Because you deserve better than someone who's in love with someone else."

"And what do you deserve?"

You don't have an answer for that. Leo is kind about the breakup. Of course he fucking is, he's kind about everything. He tells you to take your time, that he'll be here if you change your mind, that he hopes you find whatever it is you're looking for. You move back to Singapore. Throw yourself into work with manic intensity. The numbers make sense. The markets are predictable. You can control this, even if you can't control anything else.

You don't unblock Lando's number.

But late at night, when the trading floors are closed and the city is as quiet as Singapore ever gets, you wonder if he's still calling. If he's still texting. If he married Magui or if he—

You don't let yourself finish that thought.

Three months pass like a lifetime. You're in your office when the envelope arrives. Thick cardstock, your name written in calligraphy, and it’s devastatingly beautiful because you already know what it is before you open it.

Magui Corceiro & Lando NorrisRequest the honor of your presence at their wedding

The date is two weeks away. Lake Como. Black tie. A destination wedding for their closest friends and family.

There's a note tucked inside, separate from the formal invitation. His handwriting.

I know you won't come. I'm sending this anyway because I need you to know that I called it off twice. Changed the date once. Tried every excuse I could think of. But I can't keep waiting for something that's never going to happen.

I'm getting married. I'm moving on.

I hope you can too.

— L

You read it seventeen times. Then you put the invitation in your desk drawer, under files and contracts and all the paperwork of a life that looks successful from the outside.

Your assistant finds you an hour later, staring at your computer screen without seeing it.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Fine," you lie. "Just tired."

That night, you open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The same kind you were drinking that night in Monaco. You sit on your balcony overlooking the Singapore skyline and you let yourself feel everything you've been avoiding.

The love that didn't die. The choice you made. The wedding invitation that reads like an ending to your greatest love story.  Your phone sits dark and silent on the table. No calls. No texts. No drunk confessions at 3 AM.

Just silence. And somehow, that's worse than all the calls you never answered.

Two weeks, you think. In two weeks, Lando Norris will marry someone else, and whatever you had—whatever you could have had—will be truly, finally over.

You drink your wine, refusing to cry.  You don't unblock his number. Yet, you keep the invitation.

And you hate yourself a little bit for that.

You're not here for the wedding.

At least, that's what you tell yourself on the private jet, flying over the Alps at sunrise with your phone clutched in your hand and Lando's number freshly unblocked. The screen shows months of missed calls. Texts that stop after week three. The digital evidence of someone giving up.

You're not here for the wedding. You're here because... because? You don't have a reason. Not one that makes any actual fucking  sense. Not one that justifies the lilac dress you bought yesterday, the exact shade he once said made your eyes look like they held storms. Not one that explains why you've spent five hours in the air rehearsing what you'll say, how you'll explain, what possible words could make him understand that it took you this long to realize—

Realize what? That you're selfish? That you're cruel? That you've finally hit the limit of your own self-preservation and discovered it wasn't noble at all, just cowardice dressed up in “good intentions”?

The villa appears below like something from a dream. Lake Como spreads out in impossible blues, the Italian sun making everything look like a painting. You can see white tents on the lawn. Flowers everywhere. People already arriving in their elegant clothes, their happy faces, ready to witness a love story that isn't yours.

Five hours. The wedding starts in five hours.

Your personal driver from the airport winds through streets too beautiful for what you're about to do. He tries to make conversation—asks if you're excited for the wedding, if you’re doing okay. You make noncommittal sounds and watch the villa get closer with the inevitability of a crash.

Because what the fuck are you doing? The question loops in your head as you pay your driver, let him know you’ll call  later, as you smooth down your dress, as you walk toward the entrance where staff in crisp uniforms are directing early arrivals. You don't have an invitation. You left it in Singapore, in your desk drawer, next to all your other evidence of cowardice.

But you did bring the envelope.

The villa is chaos in the beautiful way only weddings can be. Florists making last adjustments, while caterers set up glassware. Somewhere on the grass, there's a string quartet practicing somewhere, notes floating through open windows. You slip past the main entrance, around the side, trying to look like you belong while your heart attempts escape through your throat.

A bridesmaid rushes past—you don't recognize her, thank god—carrying a bouquet and speaking rapid Portuguese into her phone. Max Fewtrell, Lando’s best man, someone  you once knew well, stands by the garden entrance, laughing with someone. You duck behind a column, feeling ridiculous, feeling desperate, feeling every single emotion you've spent three months trying to bury.

This is insane. This is the most selfish thing you've ever done.

You do it anyway.

"Excuse me." You catch a woman in a staff uniform, her arms full of programs. "I need to find the groom. The bride—" The lie tastes like ash. "The bride forgot to give him something. A letter and she mentioned it's important."

The woman's eyes soften like she’s in some movie with star-crossed lovers. Last-minute romance. She probably thinks you're helping with some grand gesture, not being the grand gesture, not ruining one.

"He's in the east wing. Third door on the left. But you should hurry—the photos start soon."

You take the stairs two at a time, your heels clicking against marble and the east wing is quieter. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like they're celebrating, like they don't know you're about to detonate someone's life.

Third door on the left.

Your hand hovers over the wood. Behind this door is Lando Norris, getting ready to marry someone else. Someone who didn't run. Someone who didn't make him wait. Someone who said yes when he asked instead of disappearing for three months and blocking his number. You should leave. Call your driver who you should’ve never never dismissed, fly back to Singapore, let him have this. Let him be happy. Let him marry the woman who showed up, who stayed, who didn't keep choosing fear over love.

Instead, you knock.

"Come in."

His voice. God, his voice. Three months since you've heard it not filtered through memory, not conjured up at 3 AM when you can't sleep, but real and present and about to see you.

You turn the handle. Step inside and lose the door behind you and turn the lock with shaking fingers hoping that God will just strike you dead before you can successfully make an ass of yourself.  He's standing by the window, silhouetted against Lake Como's impossible blue. He's in his suit—navy, perfectly tailored, no tie yet. His hair is styled but not too styled, still soft enough to run your fingers through. He hasn't turned around yet, a part of you hopes he never does.

"Just leave whatever it is on the table," he says. "I'll look at it after—"

Then he turns, and the world tilts on its axis, slows to a fragile, trembling stop. Every sound dulls; every breath lingers in the air between you. You watch him see you. His face flickers—confusion, recognition, shock—before it hardens into careful nothing. Maybe, for a heartbeat, there’s hope, but it shutters behind his eyes like a door slammed too quickly. His hand clenches the windowsill behind him, knuckles white,  like he needs it for the balance.

"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, you're not—you can't be here."

"I know." Your voice sounds like you've been screaming, even though you've barely spoken all day. "I know I can't. I know I shouldn't. I know—"

"Then why?" He doesn't move from the window. Refuses to come closer, like the proximity might break whatever control he's barely maintaining. "Why now? Why today of all fucking days?"

"Because I'm a coward." The words tumble out, too fast, too desperate. "Because I've spent months lying to myself, telling myself I did the right thing, that leaving was noble, that you'd be better off without me. And I believed it. I really believed it. Until I got your invitation and I—"

"I told you I called it off twice." His voice is hard now. Sharp edges designed to cut. "I tried. I gave you time. I gave you months and you blocked my goddamn number."

"I know."

"I called you 247 times." The number is so specific it hurts. "I texted you until my hands cramped. I waited. And you gave me nothing, not even a word. Not a sign. Fucking nothing."

"I know." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face, ruining whatever makeup you bothered with. "I know I don't deserve—I know I have no right to be here. But I couldn't let you do this without telling you—"

"Telling me what?" He laughs, and it's the cruelest sound you've ever heard. "That you've changed your mind? That you want me now? Now that I've finally figured out how to move on?"

"Have you?" The question rips out of you. "Have you really moved on? Because if you have, if you're actually happy, if you love her and this is real, then I'll leave. Right now. I'll walk out that door and you'll never see me again. But if there's any part of you that's only here because you gave up on me—"

"Don't." He pushes off from the window, and the movement is violent in its restraint. "Don't you dare put this on me. Don't make me the villain for trying to build a life after you destroyed me."

"I'm not trying to—" You step forward. He steps back. The dance from Monaco reversed, and it breaks something in your chest. "Lando, please. Please just listen—"

"I'm done listening." But he doesn't move toward the door. He doesn't tell you to leave. "I spent months listening to nothing. To silence. Do you know what that does to a person? Calling someone you love and hearing nothing back? I thought—" His voice cracks. "I thought maybe you'd died. I thought maybe something happened and that's why you weren't answering. I almost called your office. Your emergency contacts. That's how fucking pathetic I was."

"I'm sorry." You're sobbing now, ugly crying, past the point of any dignity. "I'm so sorry. I was scared. I was terrified that if I answered, if I let myself love you again, it would be like before. That I'd lose myself. That I'd always be second to the racing and the world and everything that owns you. So I ran. I've been running our entire relationship, and I'm tired. I'm so tired of being scared."

"So you show up on my wedding day." He's crying too now, tears tracking down his face, and you want to cross the room and wipe them away but you don't have that right anymore. "You show up in lilac—you wore lilac—and you expect what? That I'll just call it off? Again? That I'll keep waiting for you to be ready?"

"No." You shake your head. "No, I don't expect anything. I know it's too late. I know you've moved on. I just needed you to know that I choose you. I should have chosen you months ago, three years ago, every single time I had the chance. But I'm choosing you now. Even if it's too late. Even if you hate me. I'm here, and I'm choosing you, and I love you. I love you so much.”

The words hang in the air between you like something holy and terrible.

"You love me," he repeats flatly.

"Yes."

"And you thought—what? That would be enough? That showing up here, today, with my fiancée getting ready down the hall, with 900 people about to watch me get married—that would be enough?"

"I don't know what I thought." You're backing up now, toward the door, finally understanding how cruel this is. "I wasn't thinking. I just—I got on a plane and I came here and I didn't have a plan. I just needed you to know. Before you did this. Before it was permanent. I needed you to know that someone chose you. That I choose you. Even if it doesn't change anything."

"It doesn't change anything." He says it too quickly. Trying to convince himself. "It can't. I'm getting married in—" He checks his watch. "In four and a half hours. The guests are arriving. My parents are here. Her family is here. I can't just—"

"I know." You reach for the door lock. "I know. I'll go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I hope—" Your voice breaks. "I hope you're happy. I hope she makes you happy. I hope you have everything you deserve."

Your hand is on the lock when he speaks again.

"Do you remember what you said to me? In Monaco? You said loving me meant coming second."

You freeze.

"You were right." His voice is hollow. "You would have. The racing, the travel, the career—it all comes first. It has to. That's the life. That's what I signed up for. And Magui understands that. She's okay with it. She doesn't need me the way—" He stops. "She doesn't need more than I can give."

"And that's enough for you?" You turn to face him. "Settling for someone who doesn't need you? Building a life around what you can't give instead of what you can?"

"It's realistic."

"It's sad, Lando."

"It's what I have." He crosses his arms, defensive. "You left. You chose to leave and I respect that choice. But you don't get to come back now and tell me I'm settling. You don't get to make me the bad guy for moving on."

"You're not the bad guy." You're crying harder now, everything you've held in for months pouring out. "You're not. You're the love of my life and I ruined it because I was scared and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm here now. I flew across the world. I'm standing in front of you in your favorite color begging you to—"

"To what?" He's across the room suddenly, close enough to touch, his face wrecked with everything he's feeling. "To call off my wedding? To humiliate Magui? To blow up my life on the possibility that this time will be different? How do I know you won't run again the first time it gets hard? The first time I have a bad race or I'm gone for three weeks or I'm too tired to be who you need me to be?"

"You don't." It's the only honest answer you have. "You don't know. I can't promise I won't be scared sometimes. I can't promise it'll be perfect. But I promise I'll stay. I promise I won't run. I promise that if you choose me, I'll spend every day proving I was worth the risk."

He's so close now you can see gold flecks in his eyes, see the exact moment he almost gives in. His hand comes up, almost touches your face, then drops.

"I can't," he whispers. "I want to. God, I want to. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep breaking myself on the possibility of you."

"Lando—"

"You need to leave." His jaw sets. "Please. If you ever loved me, leave before I do something we'll both regret."

"I do love you. That's why I'm here."

"And I love her." He says it like he's trying to convince himself. "I love Magui. Maybe not the way I love you, but I love her, and she deserves better than this. Better than me standing here wishing you'd come back sooner. She deserves someone who's all in."

"Are you?" You have to ask. Have to know. "Are you all in?"

The pause is too long.

"I will be," he says finally. "After today. After I marry her. I'll make myself be."

"That's not how love works."

​​"Then I guess I'll learn." He steps back, putting distance between you again. Choosing distance. Choosing her. "You should go. Please. Before someone sees you. Before this becomes even more complicated."

You want to fight. Want to scream that he's making a mistake, that he'll regret this, that you're supposed to be together. But you can see it in his face—he's already made his choice. Made it when you didn't answer his calls. Made it when you blocked his number. Made it in all the silence you gave him when he needed words.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay. I'll go."

You unlock the door. Step into the hallway. Turn back one last time. He's standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking more lost than you've ever seen him. Like he's about to walk down an aisle toward a life he doesn't want but has convinced himself he deserves.

"I hope you'll be happy," you say. "I really do."

"Yeah," he says. "You too."

You close the door. You make it down the stairs, through the villa, past the flowers and the musicians and the happy guests. You make it to the road before you collapse against a wall, sobbing so hard you can't breathe.

Your phone rings. For one wild second, you think it's him. That he's changed his mind. That he's coming after you.

It's not his number.

You don't answer. You call your driver and get back to the airport. You pay him triple the amount you should have, hoping that the small amount of  his happiness would ignite any feeling in you. It does not. So, you board your jet with your lilac dress wrinkled and your face destroyed and your heart in pieces on a villa floor in Lake Como.

You flew across the world to choose him and he chose to let you go. The flight back is seventeen hours of wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your life—showing up, or leaving.

You'll never know which.

The wedding photos are everywhere.

Vogue runs them first—a twelve-page spread that you see in an airport in Tokyo, flipping through magazines while waiting for a delayed flight to Singapore. The headline reads "Racing Hearts: Lando Norris and Magui Corceiro's Lake Como Dream Wedding."

She looks like a princess. He looks happy. You buy the magazine and hate yourself for it. But you buy it anyway, and on the plane, with a glass of champagne you don't taste, you study every photo like there might be some hidden truth in them. Some sign that he's pretending. That this isn't real.

There isn't one. Not a single goddamn one. Instead, he’s's smiling in every shot—that full, genuine smile that crinkles his eyes. His hand on her waist. Their first dance. The kiss at the altar. You memorize each image like you're cataloging evidence for a crime, and maybe you are. Maybe you're the crime.

People magazine runs a feature two weeks later. Tatler does an exclusive interview. Instagram explodes with professional photos and guest candids and hashtags that trend for days. #LandoAndMagui. #NorrisWedding. #ForeverStartsNow.

You see every single one. Seven months pass like this—you, building an empire that would make anyone else satisfied. Your portfolio has tripled. You've closed deals that make financial news. Money pours in with the inevitability of tide, and you convert it into things that are supposed to matter: properties, art, cars with price tags that require NDA signatures.

Wes says you're running.

"Iceland was fucking cold," he tells you over FaceTime, his face windburned and happy. "But at least I knew I was running then. You're just calling it success, babe."

Wes Kensington—your best friend since university, the only person who knows the full story, who held you while you sobbed for three days after Lake Como. He's in Reykjavik for five months working on his latest collection, avant-garde pieces that fashion magazines call "revolutionary" and you call "Wes being Wes."

"I'm not running," you tell him. "I'm thriving."

"Uh-huh. You're buying things, darling. That's not the same as living."

But you don't know how to explain that buying things is the only language you understand anymore. That work is the only place your mind quiets. That if you stop moving, stop acquiring, stop building this monument to your own success, you might have to feel the hole in your chest that's shaped like a choice you made too late.

So you buy a villa in Nice. Wes comes with you to see it—fresh off the plane from Iceland, his skin pale and his design sketches still smelling like volcanic ash and wool. The villa is obscene in its beauty: nine bedrooms, infinity pool, vineyards that roll down to the Mediterranean like something from a dream.

"It's perfect," Wes says, walking through rooms with ceilings painted by artists whose names you can't pronounce. "It's also completely excessive for one person."

"I'm thinking of it as an investment."

"You're building yourself a cage." He touches a marble column that probably predates Napoleon. "A very beautiful cage, but still."

You don't argue because he's not wrong. The Monaco apartment needs to be dealt with first. You've been avoiding it for months—paying the utilities remotely, ignoring the real estate agent's increasingly pointed emails about the market being hot, about buyers interested in the building.

But you can't keep it. Not when he's three meters away through the wall. Not when staying there means existing in the same space he shares with his wife.

His wife. The word still sits wrong in your mouth.

Wes offers to come with you to pack, but you tell him you need to do it alone. He's in Monaco anyway, meeting with a fabric supplier in Monte Carlo, staying at the Hôtel de Paris and complaining about the thread count like it's a personal insult.

"Text me if you need an extraction," he says, kissing both your cheeks. "I can be there in ten minutes with wine and terrible decisions."

"I'll be fine," you lie.

The building looks the same because buildings don't care about heartbreak. The elevator is still broken—some things never change. You take the stairs with your Hermès bag and your Cartier watch and your armor of things that don't protect you from anything that matters.

Third floor. The hallway that's haunted by every version of yourself that's walked it—hopeful, destroyed, desperate, leaving.

You're fishing for your keys when the door to 3B opens and Magui steps out.

Time doesn't stop. That's the thing about these moments—they keep moving, forcing you to exist in them second by excruciating second.

She's beautiful. More beautiful than the magazines, than Instagram, than your jealous memory has allowed. She's wearing casual clothes—linen pants, a silk top, effortless in the way people are when they're happy. Her hair is pulled back. There's a glow to her that speaks of good sleep and good sex and a life being lived without the weight of regret and you realize this is the first time you’ve seen here in person. 

She sees you.

You watch recognition dawn slowly, then all at once. Her smile—polite, neighborly—freezes. Her eyes widen slightly. You’re unsure if she recognizes you because of work, or something entirely else. 

"Hi." Your voice comes out steady. Another miracle. You've gotten good at those. "I'm—I was just—"

"I know who you are." Her accent wraps around the words, soft and careful. Not unkind. Just aware of her neighbors. "You own 3C."

Not "Lando's ex." Not "the woman from Lake Como." Just the owner of 3C, like you're nothing more than a name on a deed and maybe that's all you are now.

"Yes." You clutch your keys like they’ll save you from  this moment. "I'm actually selling it. Just here to wrap up some final things before the realtor takes over."

"Oh." She shifts her weight. There's something in her eyes—not hostility, but not warmth either. A careful distance. "We'll miss having a quiet neighbor."

We. The word is a knife between your ribs.

"Congratulations," you blurt out. "On the wedding. I saw the photos in Vogue. You looked beautiful."

Why did you say that? Why did you mention the wedding? Why can't you just unlock your door and disappear like a normal person instead of standing here making small talk with the woman who married the man you—

"Thank you." Her smile is genuine. "It was a beautiful day."

A British voice calls from inside 3B. "Babe? Have you seen my—"

Magui's expression shifts—something like panic, like protection. "I should go," she says quickly. "It was nice to finally meet you."

She disappears back inside before you can respond, the door closing with a soft click that sounds like finality.

You stand frozen in the hallway. He's in there. Right now. Three meters away through walls and lives. Maybe he's in the kitchen making coffee. Maybe he's getting ready for training. Maybe he's happy in a way he never was with you.

Your throat feels sick. Actually sick like you might vomit right here on the marble floors that have witnessed every iteration of your heartbreak.

Your hands shake as you unlock your door. 3C looks exactly as you left it—furniture you never broke in, art you bought but never really looked at, a kitchen you used maybe ten times. It's a museum to a life you never actually lived. A investment property that cost you everything.

Your phone buzzes. The realtor, confirming she'll be here in an hour to do the final walkthrough.

One hour. You have one hour to exist in this space before you never see it again.You walk through the rooms mechanically. The bedroom where Lando slept once, where you woke up to sunlight and regret. The living room where you drank wine and watched Stranger Things and tried to convince yourself you were fine. The kitchen where broken glass from that night still left a tiny scratch on the tile that no amount of cleaning has erased.

You're leaving everything. The furniture, the dishes, the ghost of who you were when you thought proximity to him was the same as having him. The realtor has buyers lined up who want it furnished—some millionaire who won't know or care about the history embedded in these walls.

You're only taking what matters: the cars in the garage downstairs (a Porsche and a vintage Ferrari you bought at auction), the art (three original pieces that will look perfect in Nice), and the jewelry.

Nothing sentimental because you've learned that sentimentality is a luxury you can't afford.  The villa in Nice is waiting. Seven bedrooms overlooking the Baie des Anges. Infinity pool that bleeds into the Mediterranean. There’s vineyards and olive groves and enough space that you'll never have to see your neighbors, never have to make small talk with someone's wife, never have to hear British voices through walls.

You've convinced yourself the sea will make you feel something. The sea, and the distance, and the clean slate of a place that doesn't know your history.

You're standing at the window—the same window where you watched the skyline while Lando called, where you've stood a hundred times trying to make sense of your choices—when you hear it.

Through the wall. Muffled but unmistakable. Laughter. His laughter, specifically—that bright, unguarded sound that used to be yours. Followed by hers, lighter, feminine, domestic.

The sound of a marriage. The sound of him keeping his promise to move on.

Your phone buzzes again. Wes: How's the funeral for your old life going? Need that extraction yet?

You text back: All good. Almost done. :)

You're not good. You're not almost done. You're standing in an empty apartment listening to your ex-boyfriend's happiness bleed through the walls, and you're about to sell this place and move to Nice and pretend that geography can fix what's broken.

But you're good at pretending now.

You've had seven months of practice. The realtor arrives exactly on time—a crisp woman in Chanel who doesn't ask why you're selling, just catalogs the space with professionalism. You sign papers. Transfer keys. Accept the fact that someone else will live here now, will make memories in these rooms, will have no idea that this apartment was witness to the death of the only love that ever mattered.

"The art and jewelry are already in transport," you tell her. "The cars will be picked up tomorrow. Everything else stays."

"Understood." She doesn't ask why you're leaving thousands of euros worth of furniture. Maybe she's used to rich people and their incomprehensible decisions. "The buyers are thrilled. They close next week!"

Next week. In seven days, this won't be yours anymore.

The relief should feel bigger.  You leave the keys on the counter. Walk out of 3C for the last time. The hallway is empty—no awkward encounters, no last glimpses, just you and your bag and your heart that's learned to beat around the hole.

The stairs feel longer going down. Your phone rings as you reach the ground floor. Wes again.

"I'm coming to Nice with you," he announces. "No arguments. You're not spending your first night in that absurd villa alone."

"Wes—"

"I've already packed. Well, I've already decided what I'll pack. Same thing and we're going to be drinking expensive wine and skinny dipping in your excessive pool and you're going to tell me why you looked at property listings for six weeks before choosing the one that's exactly 47 kilometers from Monaco."

"I didn't measure the distance."

"Darling, you absolutely did."

He's right. You did. You measured it precisely—far enough that you won't accidentally run into them, close enough that you're still orbiting the same sun.

Still running, but in circles now. A grand ol’ difference. 

"Fine," you concede. "Bring wine."

"I'm bringing champagne. Wine is for people who are dealing with their emotions in healthy ways."

You almost smile. Almost. Outside, Monaco gleams in afternoon sun. Yachts in the harbor. Expensive cars on expensive streets. Beautiful people living beautiful lives. You slip on your sunglasses, Celine, and head toward your car.

You don't look back at the building. You've gotten good at not looking back.Nice is waiting. The villa, the sea, the next chapter of running that you'll call healing. Wes will come and make inappropriate jokes and force you to acknowledge that buying things isn't the same as being happy.

But not yet.

For now, you drive. Windows down, Mediterranean air whipping through your hair, trying to outrun the sound of laughter through walls and the memory of a wedding in Vogue and the fact that you chose too late and now you get to live with that.

The sea better make you feel something.

You've bought it specifically for that purpose. And if it doesn't—well. There's always another property. Another city. Another distance to measure in kilometers from the epicenter of everything you've lost.

Your phone buzzes one more time.

Not Wes. Not the realtor. A notification from Instagram. Someone you don't follow, but whose profile you've looked at more times than you'll ever admit, so Instagram recognizes your a certified stalker, wonderful. 

@magui.corceiro shared a new post

You don't open it because you've gotten good at that, too.

Eighteen months after Lake Como, you barely recognize yourself in mirrors.

The hair is different first—honey blonde instead of your natural color, cut shorter with highlights that your stylist in Nice applies every six weeks like clockwork. Your body is different too—toned from daily sessions with a trainer, muscles defined in ways they never were.

You look good. At least, everyone says so. Wes says so. The men you occasionally let into your bed say so before you kick them out and don't return their calls. Magazine profiles say so—you've been featured in Forbes twice now, Financial Times once, always photographed in your Nice villa with the sea behind you like you've found some sort of zen.

You look like someone who has their life together.

You feel like a beautifully decorated corpse.

The company expanded to Europe exactly like you planned. Offices in London, Paris, Frankfurt. Your name on buildings. Your signature on deals that move markets. You're richer than you ever imagined possible—the kind of rich where you stop checking prices, where your accountant sends quarterly reports you barely read because the numbers have stopped meaning anything.

Money was supposed to fix things. Yet, it hasn't.

"You need a break," Wes tells you over FaceTime, his face pixelated from whatever corner of South America he's currently occupying. "You look exhausted."

"I look great. You literally just said I look great."

"You look like a very attractive robot who's forgotten how to feel things." He adjusts his phone, and you catch a glimpse of ocean behind him. "Come to Uruguay. I’ll be at the house for three weeks. Beach, sun, aggressive amounts of wine. You need this, babe."

"I have meetings—"

"Reschedule them. Darling, I love you, but you're turning into one of those tragic women who dies at her desk and no one finds her for three days because everyone just assumes she's busy."

"That's dark."

"So is whatever you're doing." His expression softens. "Please. Come and let me feed you food that isn't made by your private chef. Let the ocean do something other than serve as a backdrop for your emotionally vacant existence."

So you go. Because Wes is right, even if you won't admit it. Because the Nice villa feels less like a home and more like an expensive holding cell. Because you've been in Europe for eighteen months and you've barely left France except for work, and even then it's just airports and hotels and conference rooms that all look the same.

Because you're so fucking tired of being empty.

Uruguay is beautiful in the way only places that haven't been completely overtaken by tourists can be. Wes's house is in José Ignacio—a stretch of coast that's somehow both exclusive and understated, million-dollar homes tucked between dunes and native vegetation like they're trying not to draw attention. The house itself is pure Wes: there’s floor-to-ceiling windows, architectural lines that shouldn't work but do, furniture that's somehow both minimalist and comfortable. And the beach—god, this fucking beach. Private and pristine, sand like sugar, the Atlantic stretching infinite and grey-blue. It’s utterly beautiful.

"See?" Wes says, handing you a glass of wine on your first evening. "This is what healing looks like."

"This is what running away looks like," you counter, but you take the wine anyway.

"Darling, you've been running for two years. At least run somewhere with a decent coastline."

You've been here for five days when you realize he's right about something else too, you have a hard time with men now. There's a dinner party—some fashion designer friend of Wes's, artists and models and people with interesting faces and more interesting trust funds. A photographer named Mateo pays attention to you, and he's handsome in that specific South American way, all dark eyes and easy charm.

You let him kiss you in Wes's garden. You let him press you against a wall while the party continues inside. You let him whisper things in Spanish that sound like promises.

Then you feel nothing.  Nothing when he touches you. Nothing when he suggests going back to his place. Nothing except the familiar emptiness and the sure knowledge that if you sleep with him, you'll treat him exactly how you've treated all the others—like they're interchangeable, disposable, a temporary distraction from the permanent ache.

"I should go," you tell him, and you see the confusion in his face. The hurt.

You're hurting people now. You've become the thing you used to hate—someone who uses bodies to forget feelings, who takes without giving, who leaves before morning because staying would require being honest about how broken you are.

"I'm sorry," you add, but it doesn't help.

Inside, Wes takes one look at your face and steers you toward the deck.

"Want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You're crying."

You touch your face. He's right. You didn't even notice.

"I don't know how to do this anymore," you admit. "How to let someone in. How to feel something that isn't just nothing."

Wes doesn't offer platitudes. That's what you love about him. He just sits with you while you cry, while the party continues inside, while you face the reality that you've spent eighteen months building a life that looks perfect and feels like death.

The next afternoon, you're on the deck alone. Wes has gone into town for supplies—or maybe to give you space, he's good at reading when you need solitude. The sun is setting over the Atlantic, painting everything gold and pink and devastating. You're in a linen dress, barefoot, wine glass in hand, watching the waves and trying to remember what it felt like to want something other than oblivion.

That's when you hear it.

Barking. Enthusiastic, chaotic barking getting rapidly closer.

"Ruffus!" A man's voice, British, slightly panicked. "Ruffus, come back here, you absolute—"

A dog appears on the deck—some kind of terrier mix, small and scruffy and completely unbothered by commands. It makes a beeline for you with the confidence of an animal who's never met a stranger.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry—" The voice is closer now, footsteps on the deck stairs.

The dog jumps at your legs, paws on your knees, tongue out and panting like you're the most exciting thing it's ever encountered. You can't help but laugh—the first real sound you've made in days—and crouch down to pet it.

"Hey buddy," you murmur, scratching behind its ears. "You're quite friendly, aren't you?"

"Ruffus, down. Ruffus—Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, he's usually better behaved—"

You look up and the world tilts.

Lando Norris is standing five feet away, haloed by sunset, looking at you like he's seeing a ghost. He's in board shorts and a t-shirt, hair salt-messy, sunburned across his nose. Older somehow—not much, but enough that you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes. There's a wedding band on his left hand that catches the dying light like an accusation.

For a moment—a suspended, airless moment—neither of you moves. The dog continues to lick your hand, oblivious to the fact that the entire world just shattered and reformed into something unrecognizable.

"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds like you've been underwater.

"You—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "What are you doing here?"

"Wes's house." You gesture vaguely behind you. "You?"

"Next door." He points to the house barely visible through the dunes. "We're renting for the month. I—fuck. I didn't know you'd be here, I completely forgot Wes is right there."

We. Of course. We means Magui. We means his wife. We means this is somehow worse than Lake Como because at least there you knew what you were walking into.

You stand up slowly, the dog finally losing interest and trotting back to Lando. Your wine glass is still in your hand. Gripping it like you might break the damn thing.

"Your hair," he says suddenly. "It's different."

"Yeah." You touch it self-consciously. "I needed a change."

"It's—" He stops himself. Looks away. "You look good. Different. But good."

You want to ask if he's happy. If the wedding took. If Magui is inside their rental right now, unpacking groceries or scrolling through her phone or existing in blissful ignorance of the fact that her husband is standing on a deck in Uruguay staring at his ex-girlfriend like she's an equation he can't solve.

Instead, you say, "Congratulations. On the wedding. I know I said it before, but—"

"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Please don't."

"Okay."

The silence stretches. The ocean fills it with the sound of waves, of gulls, of the world continuing despite the fact that you're both drowning in this moment.

"I should go," he says, but he doesn't move.

"Yeah." You don't move either.

Ruffus barks, impatient, ready to continue his beach adventure.

"How long will you be here?" The question comes out before you can stop it.

"Four more weeks." He's looking at you with something that might be hope or might be dread. "You?"

"Three weeks.."

The implication hangs between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Three weeks. In neighboring houses. With his wife and your best friend and eighteen months of unfinished business sitting in the space between what you are and what you were.

"I'm married," he says suddenly. Forcefully like he's reminding himself of it.

"I know."

"And you're—" He gestures at you, at the villa behind you, at whatever version of yourself you've become. "You're different now."

"I am."

"Happy?"

The question is so direct it steals your breath. 

"Are you?" you counter.

He looks at you for a long moment. The sunset paints him in impossible colors—gold and amber and the shade of heartbreak that you've learned to live with but never learned to cure.

"I'm trying to be," he says finally.

It's the saddest answer you've ever heard.

"Me too," you whisper.

Ruffus barks again, and Lando finally, finally looks away. Clips the leash onto the dog's collar with shaking hands.

"I should—Magui will wonder where I am."

"Yeah. Of course."

He takes three steps toward the stairs. Stops and turns back.

"It's good to see you," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "Even if it's—even if we shouldn't—it's good to see you."

"You too."

He leaves. You watch him walk back down the beach toward the house next door, the dog pulling at the leash, the sunset turning everything into a painting of something that might have been beautiful if it wasn't so destroying. You stand on the deck until long after he's disappeared. Until your wine is warm and the sun is gone and Wes comes back to find you exactly where he left you.

"You alright?" he asks, setting down grocery bags.

"Lando's next door," you say flatly.

"I’m sorry. What?"

"With Magui. They’re renting the house next door. For three weeks."

Wes stares at you. Then at the house barely visible through the dunes. Then back at you.

"Fuck," he says eloquently.

"Yeah."

"Do you want to leave? We can leave. I can call the jet, we can be back in Nice by tomorrow—"

"No." You're surprised by how certain you sound. "No. I'm tired of running."

"Darling—"

"I'm staying." You finally look at him. "I don't know what happens next. But I'm staying."

Wes studies your face for a long moment, then nods slowly.

"Okay," he says. "Then we're going to need more wine."

"Much more," you agree.

Inside, your phone buzzes. Unknown number. You stare at it for a full minute before opening the message.

I'm sorry. About the deck. About all of it. I'll make sure we don't cross paths again. Enjoy your vacation.

No name. It doesn't need one. You'd recognize his words anywhere.

You type and delete five different responses before settling on:

It's a small beach. We're adults. It's fine.

It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. But you hit send anyway and try not to think about the fact that you have three weeks in Uruguay, eighteen months of unfinished grief, and the man you still love sleeping in a house thirty meters away with the woman he chose instead.

The universe is cruel.

For three days, you avoid the beach like it's contaminated.  It's not hard—the villa has everything. Infinity pool, private gym, a view that makes the Mediterranean look modest. You work remotely, take calls on the terrace, pretend you came to Uruguay for the architecture and not the ocean.

Wes doesn't call you out on it. He's too busy being disgustingly happy with Fernando. Fernando who arrived two days after the Ruffus incident—tall, Spanish, absurdly handsome in that way that makes even you understand why Wes keeps giggling like a teenager. He's a photographer, which means he and Wes spend hours discussing "light" and "composition" while looking at each other like they've invented romance. They 100% have fucked, and recorded it. 

"You like him," you observe on day three, watching Wes actually blush over breakfast.

"I'm considering liking him," Wes corrects. "There's a difference."

"Please, you’re already planning the wedding."

"I'm planning what he'll wear to my next show. It’s professional."

"Uh-huh sure, just so you know, you’re unbearable when you're happy."

"And you're unbearable when you're hiding." He steals a piece of your toast. "We bought a yacht so we should probably use it."

The yacht is—excessive doesn't begin to cover it. You and Wes bought it six months ago in a moment of shared madness, a 120-foot floating testament to having more money than sense. It's moored in the marina at José Ignacio, white and sleek and absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Vagrancy, you named it. Because even your boat is running away from something. God, the fucking irony. 

"Fine," you concede. "But if I see him on the water—"

"The ocean is large, darling. The odds are astronomical."

The odds turn out to be irrelevant when Fernando gets involved. You're on the yacht by noon—the three of you plus a few friends and a small crew, anchored in a perfect spot where the water goes from turquoise to deep blue. Wes has brought enough champagne to sedate a small army. Fernando has brought his camera and keeps taking candid shots of Wes when he thinks no one's noticing.

You're three glasses deep, lying on the sun deck in a bikini that cost more than most people's cars, trying very hard not to think about the fact that Lando is somewhere in Uruguay, probably doing normal vacation things, probably happy with his wife, probably not thinking about you at all.

"I invited some people!" Fernando calls up from the main deck, way too cheerful.

You open one eye. "What people?"

"The neighbors! They were having a bonfire on the beach, and I thought, why not? The more the merrier!"

Your stomach drops to the ocean floor.

"Which neighbors?" Wes asks carefully, already knowing, shooting you a look that's pure apology.

"The British couple! And their friends—very nice people. They said yes immediately!"

Of course they did. Because Lando wouldn't speak up. Wouldn't say "actually, my ex-girlfriend who I'm definitely over is on that yacht, this is a terrible idea." He'd just smile and agree because that's what you do when you're trying to be normal, trying to be married, trying to pretend the past doesn't exist.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for the champagne bottle.

"We can cancel," Wes says quietly, kneeling beside your lounge chair. "I'll tell Fernando you're sick. We'll say—"

"No." You sit up, drain your glass, refill it. "It's fine. We're adults. It's a big yacht."

"It's not that big."

"Then I'll get drunker."

By the time the tender brings them over, you're five glasses deep and feeling nothing, which is exactly the point. You stay on the sun deck, hidden behind your sunglasses and your artificial calm, while Wes goes down to play host. You hear them before you see them.  Magui's laugh—light, genuine, the sound of someone who has no idea this is a nightmare. A woman's voice you don't recognize, Brazilian accent, must be Pietra. Max Fewtrell's distinctive tone, joking about something. And then—

"Mate, this is insane. How rich are these people?"

Lando. Trying to sound normal. Absolutely failing.

"Very rich," Fernando says proudly. "Wes designed for half of Paris Fashion Week. And his friend—she's in finance. They bought this together."

"His friend," Max repeats slowly. "Does this friend have a name?"

Oh god. Max knows. He fucking knows. Lando's told him everything—Monaco, Lake Como, all of it. You can hear it in the careful way he's asking, the way the entire group goes slightly quiet.

"She's up on the sun deck," Wes says, and you can hear the warning in his voice. "Getting some sun. Very hungover. Might not be very social."

It's a gift. An out. A way for Lando to grab Magui and make excuses and leave before this becomes catastrophic.

He doesn't take it.

"Well, we brought drinks!" Pietra says brightly, oblivious. "Should we bring them up?"

You close your eyes behind your sunglasses. Take a breath. Stand up and make your way to the stairs before they can come to you, because at least this way you control the moment of impact.

They're all on the main deck when you descend. Fernando is opening wine. Wes is already pouring something that looks like it’ll be a problem later. And there they are, Max Fewtrell, mid-sentence, freezing when he sees you like someone's pressed pause and he’s seen a goddamn ghost. His face cycles through recognition, shock, and what might be sympathy before he manages to control it.

Pietra, gorgeous in a simple sundress, smiling warmly because she has no idea who you are. Magui, in a bikini, her hair perfect, her ring catching the sun as she reaches for a glass.

And Lando. Lando in board shorts and a linen shirt, unbuttoned, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. The wedding band on his finger like a brand. Looking at you like you're a car crash he can't look away from.

"Hi," you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near catastrophic. "Welcome to Vagrancy."

"Oh my god," Pietra gasps, looking around the yacht properly. "This is incredible. You own this?"

"Co-own," you correct, accepting a drink from Wes that you don't look at before downing half of it. "Wes has terrible spending habits and I enable them."

"You love it and you know it," Wes says, settling beside Fernando with ease. "Everyone, this is—"

"We've met," Max interrupts, his voice careful. His eyes flick between you and Lando like he's watching a bomb countdown. "Actually. In Monaco. A few years ago."

The lie is kind and you're grateful for it.

"Right!" You smile brightly, artificially. "Max! Good to see you again.”

Pietra is still oblivious, already exploring the deck with wide eyes. Magui is taking a selfie against the ocean backdrop, her phone angled perfectly. And Lando is still staring at you like he's trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with whoever he's been remembering.

"Your hair really is different," he says quietly.

Everyone looks at him. Then at you, and suddenly the air becomes thick with unspoken questions.

"Needed a change," you repeat, same words as the beach, taking another long drink. "You know how it is."

"Right. Change." He's still looking at you. Only you. His wife is three feet away and he's looking at you like she doesn't exist. "It suits you."

"Lando," Magui calls, turning her phone toward him. "Baby, take one of me and Pietra?"

The word "baby" hits you like a physical blow and you decide in that moment to turn away, toward the bar, refilling your glass with hands that shake slightly.

"I'll give a tour!" Fernando announces, because he's lovely and oblivious and trying to be a good host. "Come, I'll show you the state rooms—this yacht has five, can you believe it?"

Pietra and Magui follow him eagerly. Max hesitates, looking at Lando, then at you, clearly debating whether leaving you two in the same space is a good idea.

"Go ahead," Lando tells him. "I'll catch up."

Max leaves with obvious reluctance.

Wes stands. "I should—"

"Stay," you tell him. "It's fine. We're fine."

But Wes knows you too well. He kisses your cheek, whispers "I'm inside if you need me," and disappears after the others.

Leaving you and Lando alone on the deck of a yacht in Uruguay, eighteen months and a marriage between you.

"You're drunk," he observes.

"I’m happily drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."

"It's not even three PM."

"It's five o'clock somewhere. Isn't that the vacation motto?"

He moves closer. You move toward the railing, putting space between you, putting ocean and wind and the reality of his wedding ring between you.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he says. "On the yacht. Fernando didn't mention—"

"Why would he? He doesn't know." You laugh, and it comes out sharp. "Nobody knows except Wes and Max, apparently. Everyone else just thinks we're strangers who met once in Monaco."

"We're not strangers."

"Aren't we?" You finally look at him directly. "You're married. I'm... whatever I am. We don't talk. We don't exist in each other's lives. That's pretty much the definition of strangers."

"That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You can't just show up places looking like—being—" He stops. Regroups. "This is hard enough without you being here."

"Hard?" Your voice rises despite yourself. "You think this is hard for you? You're here with your wife on a vacation, and I'm the inconvenience?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?"

Before he can answer, Fernando's voice echoes from below. "Come see the master cabin! It's obscene!"

Lando looks toward the sound, toward his wife, toward the life he's supposed to be living.

"I should go," he says.

"Yeah. You should."

He doesn't move.

"You look happy," he says finally. "In the photos Wes posts. You look happy."

"So do you. In Vogue. You looked very happy that day too."

"I'm trying to be."

"Still?" The question escapes before you can stop it. "It's been eighteen months, Lando. Are you still just trying?"

His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair."

"Lando!" Magui appears at the stairs, glowing and gorgeous and completely unaware. "You have to see this bathroom. It has a rainfall shower that's bigger than our flat in Monaco!"

Our flat. In Monaco. In the building where you used to live. Maybe even in 3B. Maybe they're sleeping in the bed where you—

"Coming," he calls back, not looking away from you.

Magui disappears again.

"Go," you tell him. "Be married. Be happy. Stop looking at me like I'm the one who got away."

"What if you are?"

The words stop your heart.

"Don't," you whisper. "Don't do that. Don't say things like that when she's right there, when you chose her, when you made vows that apparently mean something even if—"

"Even if what?"

"Nothing. Forget it." You drain your glass. "Go look at the bathroom. I'm getting drunker."

This time he does leave. And you do get drunker.

By sunset, you're seven drinks deep and doing okay. Okay in the sense that you're numb. That the edges of everything are soft. That you can look at Lando and Magui and feel nothing, which is a gift, which is the goal, which is the only way to survive this.

Fernando has set up a spread on the main deck—tapas and wine and the kind of casual elegance that makes Pietra take approximately ten thousand photos. Everyone is relaxed, happy, sun-drunk and actual-drunk.

Max keeps shooting you looks that range from concerned to impressed that you're still standing. Wes hovers subtly, ready to intervene. Fernando, bless him, remains oblivious and keeps everyone's glasses full. You're doing fine until the sun really starts to set. Until the sky turns that specific shade of pink-gold that reminds you of Lake Como. Until Lando puts his arm around Magui's waist and she leans into him with the ease of someone who has every right to, and something in your chest cracks open.

"Need more drinks," you announce to no one, heading for the bar.

There's a guy there—one of Wes’s friends, maybe mid-twenties, attractive in a nondescript way. He smiles at you.

"Can I get you something?" he asks.

You should say no. Should get your drink and go back to the group and maintain the facade of being fine.

Instead, you say, "What's your name?"

"Diego."

"Diego. Do you want to get out of here?"

His eyebrows raise. "We're on a yacht."

"There are other decks. Lower decks. Quieter decks."

Understanding dawns. He glances toward the group, toward Wes who's busy with Fernando, toward Lando who's definitely not looking at you except he absolutely is.

"Sure," Diego says. "Lead the way."

You take his hand. Make sure you're visible as you lead him toward the stairs. Make sure Lando sees. Because if he can move on, you can too. If he can have a wife and play happy and pretend you never mattered, you can take some stranger downstairs and feel nothing and prove that you're fine, you're over it, you're exactly as empty as you look.

The lower deck is quiet. Private cabins that no one's using. You pull Diego into one, close the door, press him against the wall and kiss him.

He tastes like beer and salt and absolutely nothing. You kiss him harder, trying to conjure something. Anything. Your hands in his hair—too soft, wrong texture. His hands on your waist—too tentative, wrong touch. You imagine Lando. Force yourself to imagine it's Lando's mouth, Lando's hands, Lando's body against yours.

Feel absolutely nothing.

Diego is making sounds like he's enjoying this. His hands are traveling, getting brave. And you feel—

Nothing. Empty. So profoundly empty that you want to scream.

"Stop," you say, pulling back. "I'm sorry. Stop."

"What? Did I do something—"

"No. You're great. This is—" You step away, fixing your dress. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. You should go."

"Are you sure—"

"Please. Just—please go."

He leaves, confused and probably offended, and you lean against the wall where you just had him pressed, trying to remember how to breathe. What is wrong with you? Why can't you feel anything? Why is every nerve ending in your body dead except for the ones that apparently only respond to a man who's married to someone else?

You need air. Real air, not the recycled air of this cabin that smells like your own desperation.

The back deck is empty when you stumble out—everyone must still be forward, watching the sunset, being normal people who can enjoy simple things. You grip the railing and stare at the water and try very hard not to cry.

"What the fuck was that?"

You spin around. Lando is standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something you can't quite name.

"What was what?" You're still drunk enough to be brave. "Me getting air? That's not usually controversial."

"Don't play stupid." He moves closer, and there's something dangerous in how he's moving, something barely controlled. "That guy. You and him. Everyone saw you."

"So?"

"So?" He laughs, harsh and sharp. "So you just—what, you just take some random guy downstairs and—"

"And what, Lando?" Your voice rises. "What's it to you? You're married. You don't get to have opinions about who I kiss."

"I saw you." His voice drops, goes rough. "Through the window. I saw you against the wall. His hands on you."

Oh.

Oh.

"Were you watching me?" The question comes out quieter than you intend.

"I wasn't—" He stops. Runs both hands through his hair. "I was looking for the bathroom and I saw—and you were—" He can't seem to finish sentences. "Who is he? Do you even know him?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." He's right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell his cologne, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Yes, it fucking matters. You can't just—you can't just do that. Not here. Not in front of—"

"In front of who? Your wife?" You're angry now, drunk and angry and so tired of this. "I'm sorry, is my presence ruining your vacation? Should I have stayed hidden below deck so you don't have to remember I exist?"

"That's not what I—"

"Then what? What do you want from me?" You're shouting now, don't care who hears. "You married her. You chose her. You get to be happy with your wife and I get to do whatever I want with whoever I want and you don't get a say in it!"

"I know that!" He's shouting too. "I know I don't get a say. I know I have no right. But watching you—seeing you with him—" His hands flex at his sides like he wants to hit something. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"What it does to you?" You laugh, bitter and broken. "You're unbelievable. You're actually unbelievable. You can parade your wife around, put your arm around her, call her baby, be everything to her, but god forbid I kiss someone—"

"Did you like it?" The question stops you cold. "Kissing him. Did you feel anything?"

You should lie. Should tell him it was amazing, that Diego made you forget Lando exists, that you're completely over him and moving on and fine.

The truth comes out instead: "No."

Something in his expression shifts. Cracks.

"Why not?"

"You know why not." Your voice breaks. "You know exactly why not, and it's not fair that you're standing here asking me these questions when you're wearing a wedding ring, when your wife is fifty feet away, when you made your choice and I'm trying—I'm trying so hard to make mine."

"By kissing strangers you don't feel anything for?"

"By trying to feel something for anyone that isn't you!" The confession rips out of you. "I don't feel anything, Lando. Nothing. Not for him, not for any of the others, not for anyone. I'm empty. Completely empty. And I thought maybe if I just kept trying, kept going through the motions, eventually something would work. Someone would make me feel something. But no one does. No one can. Because apparently I'm broken and the only thing I'm capable of feeling is this—" You gesture between you. "This completely hopeless thing for someone I can't have."

The silence that follows is deafening. Lando stares at you like he's seeing you for the first time. His chest is heaving like he's been running. The sunset paints him in impossible colors—gold and amber and the particular shade of heartbreak.

"You think you're the only one?" His voice is barely a whisper. "You think I don't know exactly what you're talking about? I'm married. I have a wife I care about. And I still—" He stops. Takes a breath. "I still feel nothing except when I think about you. When I see you. When I'm trying to be present in my own life and all I can think about is what you're doing, where you are, if you're happy, if you miss me even a fraction as much as I—"

"Stop." You put up a hand. "Don't. Don't say these things. Not now. Not here."

"When, then?" He's close enough to touch now. Close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, see the pain written across every line of his face. "When am I supposed to tell you that marrying her was a mistake? That I think about you every single day? That I saw you on that deck three days ago and every moment since has been torture?"

"You can't say that." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "You can't say that to me. You're married. You made vows. You chose—"

"I chose wrong." The words fall between you like bombs. "I chose wrong and I've known it since the wedding and I can't—I can't keep pretending."

"Lando—"

"I love you." He says it desperately. "I love you and I've loved you through all of it and I know it's too late, I know I'm married, I know this is—but watching you with him, I couldn't—I can't—"

"Baby?" Magui's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. "Are you back here?"

You both freeze.

"Baby?" Magui's voice, distant but getting closer. "Lando? Where did you go?"

Panic flashes across his face. He looks toward the sound of her voice, then back at you—your tear-stained face, your wrecked expression, the evidence of everything written across both of you.

"Fuck," he breathes.

Then his hand is on your wrist, pulling you sideways through a door you didn't even know was there—some kind of storage closet, cramped and dark, life vests and equipment crowding the small space.

"What the fuck—" you start, but his hand covers your mouth.

Not rough. Gentle, almost. But firm. His other hand braced against the wall beside your head, his body blocking yours, both of you pressed into the tiny space. You can feel his heart racing against your chest. Feel his breath coming fast and shallow.

Through the door—which he didn't close all the way, just pulled mostly shut—you hear footsteps. Magui.

"Lando? Baby, where are you?"

His hand is warm against your mouth. You can smell his cologne, his skin, feel every point where your bodies touch in this confined space. Your back against stored equipment, his front against yours, no space, no air, nothing but proximity and panic and the absolutely insane reality of being hidden in a closet with your ex-boyfriend while his wife searches for him.

His eyes meet yours in the dim light filtering through the crack. They're wild, desperate, pleading for—what? Silence? Understanding? Forgiveness for this absolute fucking disaster?

You should bite his hand. Should shove him away. Should announce your presence and blow this whole thing up because at least then it would be over, at least then there would be consequences instead of this endless torture.

Instead you stay perfectly still.

Magui's footsteps pause. She's right outside. Right fucking there.

"Where did everyone go?" she mutters to herself and you almost feel bad. 

Then her footsteps retreat. Back toward the party. Back toward the safety of not knowing.

Lando doesn't move his hand. Doesn't step back. Just stands there, pressed against you in the dark, breathing like he's been running.

His fingers tremble when he lets them fall away, like a confession that might still be snatched back. The closet smells of salt and varnish and now his cologne, sharp and too familiar, and the thin light from the hallway strips the party down to a silhouette at the crack where the door doesn’t fully close. Lando’s face is inches from yours, and the part of you that has been hollow for a year and a half fills up so fast it hurts, an ache that’s mostly hunger and memory and the stupid, reckless hope you have tried to bury.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you whisper, harsh and shaking. "You can't just—you can't just grab me and—"

"You always talk like you mean to leave me," he breathes, voice so low it becomes a vibration through your sternum. His thumb ghosts along the seam of your lip. "You always pretend the gap is something we could step over. You make it sound like there's still room to be sensible."

Heat crawls from your throat to the center of you. You should shove him, should laugh, should call him selfish and walk out into the party and find a corner to die in. Instead your knees give medium and you let him half-lean, half-fall against you until your backs touch the stowed life jackets and a plastic rumble rolls under both of you like the announcement of an avalanche. A Life jacket tips over and thunks to the floor, a small, obscene percussion that makes both of you flinch and then laugh—an animal, breathless sound that dies into a ragged inhale.

"Lando," you say again, but the word comes out wet with everything you have not said for eighteen months. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them the wildness is softer, like a flare that's gone out but still leaves smoke.

"I shouldn’t have gotten married," he admits. "I shouldn’t have—God, I—"

You want to say I should have loved you less, I should have loved you more. You want to say the obvious things that would unspool this with a clean cut. Instead your hand finds the collar of his shirt without thinking and you drag him down, and when his mouth meets yours it is not the tentative, testing kiss of strangers. It is a claim. It is both apology and indictment and the simplest truth you cannot bear and cannot refuse.

His tongue is the map you remember by heart, pulling at old cartography, and your hands find the hard plane of his back, the flex of muscle under the fabric. His left hand cups your face and the wedding band is ice against your cheek—cold, foreign, wrong. You feel the ridge of it, the weight of promises made to someone else, and for a second you almost pull away. Almost.

You kiss like you are trying to fix the way time has been wrong, like you are welding the halves of a broken compass back together. He groans, that low, resident sound you thought you would catalog in a box and never open, and it vibrates against you, making the world tilt.

"Jesus," he rasps between kisses, fingers threading in your hair, tilting your head so he can better devour you. "You taste like the stupidest part of me." His mouth traces your jaw, then the hollow beneath your ear, and the shiver that answers makes him laugh—an ugly, relieved thing. "You always know where to make me lose my head."

The stupidest part that belongs to someone else now, you think, but the thought dissolves when his mouth finds that spot below your ear, the one only he knows about, and you forget how to be good.

You press into him until both of you are two halves pressed into the same small space, and the yacht creaks around you like an audience shifting in their seats. Outside, laughter explodes and a glass shatters—someone's joke finishing off someone else's patience—and you imagine Magui somewhere in there, unaware of the seismic underfoot.

Hands slide like they remember the old language: under fabric, along the small of your back, skimming until the air in the closet feels thinner than before. Buttons rebel under the weight of your impatience; his shirt opens and falls away. His ring snags on your dress—a small catch in the fabric, a tiny resistance. You both feel it. Both ignore it. The thin gold band that should be a stop sign becomes just another thing you're choosing to destroy yourselves over.

Your breath maps the bare skin you have wanted for forever, and he answers every inch with his mouth, with whispered badness and every filthy, reverent thing he used to say in the dark.

"Say it," he demands suddenly, low and fierce. His hands grip your hips until you can feel it in your bones. "Say it like you fucking mean it."

You should be scared. You should be furious. But the only honest thing rising up is the litany you've kept folded and secret for too long, and it pours out of you in a tremulous whisper that might as well be a shout.

"I love you," you say. The closet swallows the sentence whole and it comes back at you, echoed in his breathing. You had not planned on confessing; it leaks out like blood from a shallow wound, unstoppable.

He presses his forehead to yours and there is a brief, desperate silence as if the two of you are measuring the weight of the words. "I love you," he says back, like he is afraid if he repeats it once it will be taken away. "I love you. I love you. I love you." The repetition turns into a stammer, a prayer, until the words are almost a moan.

He said those words to her too. In a church, in front of God and two hundred witnesses, with photographers capturing the moment for Vogue. He promised her everything with that ring on his finger, and now he's promising you the same thing in a storage closet that smells like sunscreen and gasoline. The cruelty of it steals your breath.

There is something feral in the way his hands take you then, not gentle so much as claiming, not violent so much as urgent. You stand, guided by his grip, and the small living space becomes a private planet where the rules that govern the rest of your world do not apply. A box of extra napkins tips and flutters like pale moths. A plastic container clinks and tumbles; life jackets spill in a heap and make a crude nest at your feet. The closet door thunks a little against the frame when both of you shift, a dull, obscene drumbeat that might as well be the ship's heart.

Your knees threaten to fail, Lando catches you, presses you against the wall of stacked supplies, and you both laugh at how ridiculous it is to be making out in such a ridiculous place. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is rougher, edged with something raw and unforgiving, like the tide crashing into cliffs. His palms travel a route they always knew, then explore new ones, learning the tolerances of your skin as if testing the boundaries between caution and collision. You moan—one of those long low sounds that leaks out of the back of your throat, and he answers it with words that are unsteady and perfect.

"You're mine," he says, not in the possessive, but in the knowing way of two people who have once burned and still choose to touch the flame. "Mine even if it's stupid. Mine if it hurts. Mine even if it fucking kills me."

Your hands claw at his shirt, at the belt, at anything that promises more skin, and he obliges. Buttons come undone in a frantic, clumsy cadence; breaths hitch and mingle. There are tears at the corners of both your eyes—tears from the laughable cruelty of being together like this, tears from the too-bright memory of the life you do not have, tears that are also lubrication for the ache inside your chest.

"Don't stop," you whisper, and the words are a plea and a command both. He answers by kissing the place where your clavicle meets your sternum, then lower, lower, until you can feel the heat pooling, a place he has found again with professional certainty. His mouth is an expert cartographer and you are an uncharted island rediscovered, and each ministrations sends static shocks of pleasure through the hollow parts you thought were caved in for good.

The closet is tight, so every movement is close, intimate, invasive. Metal life jacket buckles press against your thighs, a zipper grazes your hipbone, and something knocks over—maybe a box of sunscreen—spilling a smell of coconut and chemicals, ridiculous in the face of what you are doing. The noise is absurd and obscene in equal measure, and you curse and laugh through a breathless exclamation that ends in a choked, needy whisper.

"Lando," you say again, but this time there is no pleading; there is only the raw instruction of someone who has wanted this for too long. "Now. Please."

He answers by lifting you a little, steadying you on his thigh, and the angle is intimate and smart in a way that makes blood rush to your head. His hands are everywhere, and then not enough, and then all-consuming. The friction of bodies, the press of skin against skin, the slick sound of desperate mouths and wet breaths fills the small, oxygen-starved room. You cling to him, fingers tangled in his hair, your lips bruising his until both your mouths sting.

"Say my name," he hisses into your mouth, and you do, as if by naming it you can keep it from slipping away again. The name becomes a litany, a talisman to hold.

Outside the door someone calls out his name againm—Magui, sharp and searching—and both your heads turn as if pulled by an impulse you violently suppress. Lando freezes for the barest second, his forehead against yours, the sound of his wife's voice a physical thing that trembles the air. You both hold your breath, not because you are afraid of being caught, but because being found would mean finishing, sealing, and the idea of being stamped and boxed is unbearable.

"She's close," Lando whispers, voice ragged and far away. "Stay still. Don't move." His hands are on you like anchors; there is a lurching urgency to every touch now, to make the time you have left count. He leans in and bites down lightly on your lower lip, hard enough to taste blood and salt. You respond by arching into him, by letting the burn of it turn into a new kind of pleasure.

The walls of the closet get smaller as you fold into the shape of each other. Clothes fall in a haphazard mess, a silk scarf tangles around his wrist and you pull at it like a mariner hauling rope. The world narrows to the slick, incessant contact between you and the ache underneath. He mutters almost-never-sayable things into your hair, things that smell like confession and want and the sweet, bruising knowledge that you both left a part of your souls on a bench somewhere and now have found them again under fluorescent light and life vest plastic.

"Say it again," he murmurs against your throat, and you answer with a sound that is equal parts sob and moan. His pace quickens without warning, hands driving, hips bucking, and you meet him, a rhythm born of old, practiced intimacy that has not been used in ages but remembers itself like muscle memory.

You cry out when he finds that place inside you, the exact arrangement of pressure and friction and rough devotion that sends something hot and piercing straight to your brain. Tears streak your cheeks as he keeps going, as if the grief and the joy can coexist and spill out at the same time. The sound you make is not pretty; it is something magnificent and ugly and terribly honest. He whispers your name like a benediction and you catch it and hold it against your ribs.

"I love you," you sob, a broken band of sound. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

He answers by slamming into you harder, because words are useless and motion is the only language left. Each thrust is a punctuation mark, a sentence that begins and ends in the heat between you. The closet is small enough that the impacts echo; the plastic life jackets behind you squeak and clap against the wall. You push back into him, nails scoring his shoulders, and he groans something fierce and animal.

There is a moment when the door handle turns and both of you still, eyes locking in a lightning flash of terror and desire so close together they are indistinguishable. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. Somewhere in the party footsteps shift, a laugh floats, and then the door closes again on whatever someone else is saying and the imminent danger slips like water off a duck's back.

When the coast is clear Lando laughs, a short, incredulous sound, and it breaks something inside you open all the way. "We are such fools," he says, voice raw, and you kiss him because only touching can answer the confession.

Your bodies find a brutal, beautiful cadence, shuddering toward something unavoidable. The closet becomes a chapel, a battlefield, a confessional. You say the words until they mean nothing and then mean everything. He keeps saying them back, soft and quick, until the syllables run together and you are both babbling like lovers and old men at once.

Time collapses into a few frantic minutes where you are not the past and not the future, just two people who have decided to trade everything for an hour of honest heat. He grips the back of your neck and drags you up to him, eyes half-lidded with a pleasure so sharp it looks like pain. You come with a strangled cry that is part release, part admission, and when he follows a second later it feels like the world is ripping and being sewn up in the same motion.

Afterwards you cling to him in the dim light, sweaty and messy and whole in the way only devastation can make you. Your breaths slow to the boat's rhythm. Outside, the party's noise is distant and unimportant. The life jackets are in disarray, sunscreen spilled, a trail of small casualties proving you existed in there at all.

Lando's forehead rests on yours, and he hums a sound low in his chest that is almost a laugh and almost a sob. "I can't do this," he whispers, and you feel the words break open in the space between you. Not I can't do this again. Not we shouldn't have. Just the simple, destroying truth: I can't do this.

Can't keep pretending. Can't go back out there and put his arm around her. Can't survive another eighteen months of wanting you while living a lie.

"I know," you say, because you do. Because you can't either.

His thumb traces your jaw, tender in a way that makes you want to scream. "I have to tell her."

"No." The word comes out sharp, desperate. You pull back enough to look at him properly. "No, you don't. This was—this was a mistake. We were drunk and stupid and—"

"Don't." His grip tightens, keeping you close. "Don't do that. Don't make this cheap."

"What else can it be?" Your voice breaks. "You're married, Lando. You have a wife who loves you, who's out there right now probably wondering where you are, and we just—" You can't finish. Can't say what you just did in a storage closet while his wedding ring pressed into your skin.

"I'm going to tell her," he says again, quieter now. Certain. "Tomorrow. Tonight. I don't know when, but I can't—I can't keep doing this to her. To you. To myself."

"And then what?" You're crying now, tears mixing with sweat, everything a mess. "You blow up your marriage for this? For us? We don't even know if we work, Lando. We never figured that out. We just keep destroying each other in increasingly creative ways."

"So we figure it out." He says it like it's simple. Like love is ever that simple. "We stop running. We try. Really try this time."

"She doesn't deserve this."

"Neither do you." His voice cracks. "Neither do you, and I keep hurting you anyway because I'm too much of a coward to admit I married the wrong person."

The confession hangs between you like something alive and dying all at once.

"What if you're wrong?" you whisper. "What if you tell her, and blow everything up, and then we try and it still doesn't work? What if we're just—what if we're only good at the breaking?"

"Then at least we'll know." He kisses you, soft and devastating. "At least we'll have tried instead of spending the rest of our lives wondering."

Footsteps above. Close. Getting closer.

Reality crashes back in with the force of a tidal wave.

"You have to go," he says, even as his hands refuse to release you. "Before someone—before we make this worse."

Worse. As if there's a scale for this kind of destruction.

You fix your dress with shaking hands. He helps, fingers gentle on fabric that's inside out, evidence everywhere of what you've done. His hair is a disaster. There's a mark on his neck you don't remember making. He looks absolutely wrecked, and you probably look worse.

"Lando—"

"Tomorrow," he interrupts. "I'll tell her tomorrow. And then—" He stops. Swallows hard. "And then we figure out what comes next. Together."

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this time will be different, that love is enough, that you won't just destroy each other in new and creative ways. But you've been here before. In Monaco, in Lake Como, in every moment you've chosen each other and then chosen fear instead.

"Okay," you whisper anyway, because hope is the cruelest thing and you've never learned how to kill it.

You slip out of the closet first. The hallway is empty, but you can hear voices from the main deck—Magui laughing at something, Pietra's phone camera clicking, Wes's theatrical storytelling voice.

The party continuing like the world hasn't just fundamentally shifted.

You make it to the bathroom, lock the door, and stare at your reflection. Your lips are swollen, your hair a mess, your dress wrinkled in ways that tell a very specific story. You look like someone who just made the biggest mistake of her life.

You look like someone who would do it again. When you finally emerge, Lando is back on deck, standing beside his wife, his hand in hers. But his eyes find yours across the space, and the look in them is a promise or a threat or both.

Tomorrow, that look says.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Three days had passed.

Not that Lando was counting.

He wasn't.

Not really.

It was just that three days happened to be the exact amount of time since their last message exchange. Three days since he'd spent a Thursday evening in Bahrain arguing with a university student from Manchester about the importance of snacks in elite motorsport.

Three days since he'd laughed at his phone more than he'd laughed during the entire race weekend.

And now, on the flight back to London after Bahrain, with the adrenaline of the weekend finally wearing off and the cabin lights dimmed low enough for most people to sleep, he found himself doing the exact thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't do.

Again.

He opened Instagram.

The chat was still there.

Obviously.

The last message sat exactly where he'd left it.

He'd read it enough times over the weekend that he no longer had to actually open the conversation to remember it.

He stared at it anyway.

Outside the window there was nothing except darkness and the occasional reflection of the cabin lights. Inside, there was the quiet hum of the engines and the strange exhaustion that only came after a race weekend—when your body was tired but your brain hadn't quite got the message yet.

He typed.

survived the weekend. snacks did in fact improve performance.

He looked at it.

Deleted.

No. Too desperate. Too much like he'd been thinking about the conversation.

Which he absolutely had not been.

He leaned back in his seat and dragged a hand through his hair.

This was ridiculous.

He'd spent the last three days racing cars at over three hundred kilometres an hour and somehow the thing making him nervous was sending an Instagram DM.

He opened the chat again.

Typed.

did university finally win?

He stared at it.

No.

Delete.

Too dry. Too weird. Too—

His eyes drifted back to her profile picture.

Then to the last message.

Then to the fact that she'd disappeared.

No stories. No posts. No messages. Nothing.

And before he could stop himself, his thumbs moved.

@lando: just checking. did you get hit by a nuclear weapon or are you voluntarily ignoring me?

He blinked.

Read it once. Twice.

It was objectively terrible.

Which, for some reason, made him laugh.

Before his brain had a chance to intervene, he pressed send.

The message flew off.

And instantly, every cell in his body decided that had been an absolutely catastrophic decision.

He sat there for a second.

Then another.

Then muttered quietly to himself:

"Oh, that's awful."

He unlocked the phone again immediately.

Typed faster this time.

@lando: that was a joke btw. realised after sending it that accusing someone of being hit by a nuclear weapon isn't actually a normal conversation starter.

He hit send.

Then locked the phone.

Then unlocked it.

Then locked it again.

For a man whose entire profession revolved around confidence under pressure, he suddenly felt remarkably bad at both confidence and pressure.

The plane began its descent into London.

The seatbelt sign lit up.

A flight attendant walked past reminding passengers to raise their tray tables.

And Lando, who had spent the entire weekend convincing the world he was perfectly calm and in control, sat staring at his own reflection in the dark window wondering if he'd just managed to make himself sound simultaneously insane, needy, and deeply concerned about nuclear warfare.

—

Thousands of kilometers away from the private jet Lando was on, Y/N was sitting in the one place she absolutely should have been productive: the university library. 

Unfortunately, Y/N had never been particularly interested in doing what she should have been doing.

Which was why, on a Tuesday afternoon, while surrounded by students highlighting textbooks, typing essays, and generally behaving like people who intended to graduate on time, she was sitting in the far corner of the third floor with noise-cancelling headphones on, three iced coffees lined up beside her, and Adobe Premiere open on her laptop.

Not her dissertation.

Not the essay due in four days.

A vlog.

Specifically, a vlog documenting what she had optimistically titled in the notes app on her phone:

"trying to survive university deadlines + birthday weekend + potential near-death experiences"

The footage playing on her screen was, objectively, a disaster.

Friday evening: her swearing at her laptop because a document she'd been working on for six hours had somehow disappeared.

Friday night: her promising the camera she was "only going out for one drink" because it was her friend's birthday.

A jump cut.

Saturday, 3:14 a.m.: her screaming over club music in what had somehow become a drum and bass club despite nobody in their friend group liking drum and bass.

Another jump cut.

Her attempting to walk in heels.

Then not attempting to walk in heels.

Then holding one broken heel in her hand while laughing so hard she was crying.

Another cut.

Her filming herself barefoot on a pavement somewhere in East London.

"I've lost my wallet," she informed the camera with concerning calmness. "And I think one of my shoes. But honestly? The shoe was asking for it."

Present-day Y/N paused the footage and rubbed her eyes.

God.

People will actually watch this.

Worse.

People will enjoy this.

Across the table, her friend glanced up from what was supposed to be a reading assignment.

"How bad?"

Y/N turned the laptop around.

On the screen was a freeze-frame of her sitting on a bus stop bench at four in the morning, barefoot, mascara halfway down her face, holding a half-eaten garlic bread.

Her friend stared.

"Honestly?"

"Yeah?"

"I think this might be your best work."

Y/N laughed.

"That's concerning."

"You had to go to the police because you lost your wallet."

"Allegedly."

"You vlogged yourself reporting a missing wallet while hungover."

"Content never sleeps."

Her friend shook her head and returned to her book.

Y/N sighed dramatically and turned back to the edit.

Twenty minutes later, after adding a zoom effect on her own breakdown and a caption reading "academically thriving", she decided she'd earned a break.

Or, more accurately, she'd avoided work for long enough that she deserved to avoid it a little more.

She opened Instagram.

The plan was simple.

Post a story.

Something stupid.

Maybe a photo of the editing timeline with a caption like:

editing the consequences of my own actions. weekend vlog soon.

She clicked on messages by accident.

And froze.

At the top of her inbox.

Unread.

Lando.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

The Formula 1 driver.

The funny one.

The one she'd spent an entire afternoon in Starbucks arguing with about snacks and Hobnobs and motorsport nutrition.

The one she'd completely forgotten she'd left on seen.

Not on purpose.

She'd just...

Well.

Life had happened.

She stared at the notification.

Then opened it.

@lando: just checking. did you get hit by a nuclear weapon or are you voluntarily ignoring me?

She blinked.

Then immediately saw the second message.

@lando: that was a joke btw. realised after sending it that accusing someone of being hit by a nuclear weapon isn't actually a normal conversation starter.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Then Y/N burst out laughing.

Not a polite laugh. Not a quiet laugh. A full, sudden, library-inappropriate laugh.

Three people turned around.

Her friend looked up.

"What?"

Y/N simply turned the phone around.

Her friend read the messages.

There was silence.

Then—

"Oh my God."

"I forgot about him."

"You forgot about the Formula 1 driver?"

"We had to get to class!"

"He thinks you got nuked!"

"I know!"

They both started laughing.

Across the library, somebody loudly shushed them.

Neither of them cared.

Y/N looked back down at the screen.

At the messages.

At the fact that somewhere between Bahrain and London, a professional athlete had apparently spent enough time thinking about their conversation to send a follow-up message involving nuclear warfare.

And somehow—

somehow—

she found that incredibly funny.

Then, without giving herself too much time to think about it, she started typing.

@y/n.unfilterd: : sorry. i didn't mean to leave you on seen. i was running late to a lecture and thought i'd reply after. then life happened..

It wasn't even ten seconds before the typing indicator appeared. Which, for some reason, made her grin.

@lando: honestly quite refreshing

She frowned.

@y/n.unfilterd: being ignored?

The typing bubble appeared again almost immediately.

@lando: being left on seen. not used to it. keeps me humble

She laughed. Actually laughed. Then another message appeared.

@lando: anyway, wyd

@y/n.unfilterd: just suffering in the library, should be doing my essay, but instead, im editing a weekend vlog. you? 

@lando: just arrived back to London for a few days before the next GP

Shit. Somehow she forgot that she was texting an F1 driver right after an actual race weekend , she typed another message.

@y/n.unfilterd: anyway. how was bahrain?

There was a pause this time.

Long enough that she wondered if she'd asked something stupid.

Then:

@lando: i like that you don't know

She blinked.

@y/n.unfilterd: should i know?

Another message.

@lando: probably. i spent all weekend doing it

She laughed again.

"Okay, what happened in Bahrain?" she asked her friend.

Her friend stared at her.

"You're asking me? You're the one talking to Lando Norris, the golden boy of McLaren."

"Yeah, but I don't know anything about Formula One."

"You know the colours."

"I only know three things: Ferrari is red with a horse, Mercedes is black and German, and I’ve bought enough Red Bull this semester to be considered a majority shareholder. Oh, and ugly orange car is aggressively British. ."

"At least that is something, but probably do not tell him how disgusting the orange is."

Her phone buzzed.

@lando: podium. not bad. snacks performed well.

She shook her head.

Of course.

@y/n.unfilterd: congratulations to both you and the snacks then

The reply came back quickly.

@lando: thank you. we've worked very hard this season. 

For a moment, she just looked at the screen.

It was stupid.

The whole thing was stupid.

And yet somehow, sitting in a university library with an unfinished essay open in another tab and footage of herself barefoot in East London waiting to be edited, she found herself enjoying this far more than she should have.

So she typed again.

@y/n.unfilterd: my weekend was significantly less successful, but the youtube views will probably earn me a fortune 

@lando: elaborate

She looked over at her laptop.

At the paused frame of herself holding a broken heel in one hand and a kebab in the other.

@y/n.unfilterd: let's just say if public humiliation captured in a vlog were a sport, I would have had a better weekend than you. 

A few seconds passed.

Then:

@lando: now i definitely need to see this vlog

Y/N laughed quietly.

"What's so funny?" her friend asked.

She turned the phone around.

Her friend read the message and looked back up.

"Oh, he's invested."

"Apparently."

"Are you sending it to him?"

Y/N looked at the screen.

At the message.

At the typing box waiting underneath.

Then she glanced at the clock hanging above the library entrance.

Five minutes.

Five minutes until her next lecture.

She grabbed her laptop charger, shoved it into her bag, and stood up.

"I'll decide later," she said.

But as she slipped her phone into her pocket and hurried out of the library, she was still smiling.

–

By seven in the evening, Y/N had accepted two things.

First, she had done absolutely no meaningful work all day.

Second, she had spent significantly more time talking to a Formula 1 driver than she had spent talking to any of her actual friends.

Not intentionally.

It had just… happened.

The conversation hadn't really stopped after the library.

It survived the lecture she'd sprinted to. It survived the walk home. It survived her standing in the Tesco meal deal aisle for fifteen minutes trying to decide whether a chicken sandwich counted as a personality trait.

And somehow, somewhere between her sending a photo of the world's saddest university cafeteria coffee and him sending a picture of what appeared to be a perfectly organised recovery meal with the caption "elite athlete fuel", she'd forgotten that talking to him was supposed to be weird.

Now she was back in her flat.

Laptop open.

Editing software still running.

Hair tied up in a way that suggested she'd given up on looking presentable hours ago.

Her phone lit up again.

She smiled before she'd even looked at it.

That was probably a problem.

Earlier that afternoon, after enough persuasion from him and a surprising amount of encouragement from her friend, she'd sent him the vlog.

Not the published version.

Not the polished version.

The actual edit.

The twenty-seven-minute disaster documenting one of the worst weekends of her academic career.

The lost wallet.

The broken heel.

The police station.

The barefoot walk through East London at four in the morning.

She'd sent it with the message:

@y/n.unfilterd: if this ends up leaked somehow i'm blaming motorsport

He'd reacted with a crying laughing emoji.

And then disappeared.

For almost an hour.

Long enough that she'd convinced herself he'd turned it off after five minutes.

Long enough that she'd regretted sending it.

Long enough that she'd started editing the thumbnail.

Then:

@lando: just finished it

Nothing else.

Just that.

Which had somehow been worse.

Then another message.

@lando: i have several questions

@lando: firstly, why did nobody stop you from walking barefoot through london

@lando: secondly, how did you manage to lose both your wallet and your dignity in under 24 hours

And finally:

@lando: honestly though. this might be the funniest thing i've watched in ages

She'd laughed.

Actually laughed.

Because he'd gotten it.

Not the influencer version.

Not the edited version.

The actual joke.

And now, hours later, after countless messages about university, travel, Manchester, and the fact that he'd apparently never experienced the particular humiliation of explaining to a police officer that yes, you had in fact lost your wallet while carrying one shoe, his name lit up her screen again.

She opened it immediately.

@lando: serious question

She stared.

Then typed.

Y/N: this usually ends badly

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Disappeared. Came back. Disappeared again. She sat up slightly.

Then:

@lando: i'm back in the uk for the next couple of days

A pause.

Another message.

@lando: and i know this sounds like a very strange sentence considering we met because you nearly killed yourself avoiding a lorry

She laughed despite herself.

Then the next message appeared.

@lando: but would you maybe want to get dinner?

Silence.

Not in the room.

The room was still loud.

Someone upstairs dropped something heavy.

A car horn sounded outside.

Her laptop fan hummed.

But inside her head.

Silence.

She read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

Then she did the worst possible thing.

She replied.

@y/n.unfilterd: depends. are you planning on kidnapping me or just feeding me?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Of course it did.

@lando: only feeding. promise.

@y/n.unfilterd: okay. sure.

Sent.

There.

Done.

Normal.

Completely normal.

Then she added:

@y/n.unfilterd: when?

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then:

@lando: i mean…

Another message.

@lando: i'm already in london.

Her stomach dropped.

And before she could fully process that, another message appeared.

@lando: i could pick you up in an hour? if that's not insane.

For a second, she genuinely forgot how to breathe.

An hour.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not "when schedules align."

An hour.

She stared at the message.

Then at the clock.

Then back at the message.

An hour.

Her fingers moved before her brain could intervene.

@y/n.unfilterd: an hour is good.

Sent.

The moment it delivered, panic arrived.

Not anxiety.

Not nerves.

Panic.

The full-body, immediate realization that she had just agreed to have dinner with a Formula 1 driver in sixty minutes.

"For fuck sake."

She grabbed her phone and called Alaia, the one friend she knew was the most puncual one to acually answer the phone.

The call was answered on the third ring.

"Tell me you're dying," her friend said. "I'm on the Central line and I hate everyone."

"Worse."

There was a pause.

"What happened?"

"He asked me to dinner."

"Who?"

Y/N closed her eyes.

"Lando Norris."

Silence.

Then:

"The Formula One driver?"

"Unfortunately."

"WHEN?"

Y/N looked at the message again.

"In fifty-eight minutes."

There was a noise on the other end of the phone.

Not a word.

Just a sound.

"You're joking."

"I wish I was."

"What do you mean fifty-eight minutes?"

"He asked if I wanted to get dinner."

"And you said yes?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"And then I asked when."

Her friend gasped.

"You ASKED when?"

"YES!"

"What did he say?"

"He said he could pick me up in an hour."

Another silence.

This one shorter.

More dangerous.

"And what did you say?"

Y/N sat back down.

Very slowly.

"I said an hour was good."

The sound her friend made this time could only be described as a system failure.

"YOU SAID AN HOUR WAS GOOD?"

"What was I supposed to say?!"

"I DON'T KNOW! SOMETHING NORMAL!"

"WHAT IS NORMAL IN THIS SITUATION?"

"THERE IS NO NORMAL!"

"So what do I do?"

Her friend didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she asked:

"How panicked are you? Scale of one to losing your passport abroad."

Y/N considered it.

"Probably... accidentally booked a flight to the wrong country."

"Right."

"Also, what do I wear?" That earned another laugh.

"You own clothes."

"I know."

"You own good clothes."

"I know."

"But now suddenly all of them are ugly."

"YES."

"Okay," her friend said. "Listen to me very carefully."

Y/N sat up.

"You are not wearing a dress."

"Agreed."

"You are not trying to look like you didn't spend twenty minutes deciding what to wear by wearing something stupid."

"Agreed."

"You are dressing exactly like you."

Y/N looked over at the pile of clothes already beginning to form on her bedroom floor. "Which version of me?"

"The expensive-chaos version."

That actually helped. Because she knew that version. Baggy black tailored trousers. A fitted white top. The grey cashmere sweater she'd bought with money she absolutely should have saved. Short heels. Gold jewellery. Hair messy enough to look effortless. Not messy enough to look like she'd slept in it.

"Okay," she said. Then another thought hit her. "Wait."

"What?"

"He's going to be low-key too."

"What?"

"He won't want anyone to know." The words came out before she'd really thought about them. "Like... he's not going to pull up in a McLaren wearing team kit. He's going to want to keep it quiet."

Alaia sounded almost like she nodded. "Yeah."

"Right?"

"Yeah."

“Okay that’s good, I should probably shower”

“Yeah, fingers crossed, text me wherever you need me.”

“Thank you Alia”

The call ended. For a second, the flat was quiet. Then Y/N looked at the clock. Forty-eight minutes.

"Oh, fuck."

And for the first time that evening, she ran to the shower.

-

Fifty minutes later while y/n tried to make her flat look presenteble by hiding her mess under blankets, because what if he picked her up upstairs, her phone buzzed. 

She looked down.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

@lando: outside :)

-

Y/N pulled open the front door, stepped outside and immediately regretted ever thinking this was going to be low-key.

Her hand froze on the brass door handle, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the street.

Parked directly across from her building was a glossy, low-slung black McLaren.

Not just an expensive car.

The kind of expensive car that made people walking past subtly slow down, their heads turning automatically to look at it twice. "...Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered to herself, a rueful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she dropped her chin into the collar of her sweater.

She had genuinely expected him to show up in something normal. A black SUV. Maybe a Range Rover. Something that blended into the gray monotony of London traffic.

Instead, there sat a machine that probably cost more than everything she owned. Which was saying something. She'd been lucky with YouTube. Luckier with brand deals. She earned enough to never really worry about money anymore.

And yet… That car was still ridiculous, a hyper-polished contrast to the slightly worn brick of her apartment building.

The sleek driver's door swung upward like a wing. Lando climbed out, his eyes instantly scanning the pavement until they landed on her, a bright, spontaneous smile breaking across his face.

Not the polished television smile. Just... a smile. Easy. The kind that crinkled the skin at the outer corners of his eyes and softened his whole expression.

His curls had completely escaped whatever attempt he'd made to tame them before leaving his apartment, looking wonderfully unruly, and as he walked towards her, the evening breeze pushed a few dark strands over his forehead.

God. He was annoyingly good-looking in real life, far more real and sharp than he ever appeared on a pixelated phone screen.

"Hi," he said, stopping a couple of feet in front of her, his hands shoving into his pockets as he tilted his head with an amused look.

"Hi."

She looked up at him, her lips parting slightly. There was half a second where they both broke into a sudden, breathless laugh—not because anything had happened, but because of unhealthy amount of messages that ended up exchanged between the two of them in the last 12 hours, actually standing in front of each other suddenly felt strangely surreal, a little wave of nervous energy passing between them.

"So..." Y/N looked from him to the McLaren and back again, her eyebrows raising high up her forehead. "This is your idea of keeping it quiet?"

He followed her gaze, his shoulders shaking with a quiet chuckle before he looked back at her, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"What, you don’t like it?"

"I genuinely thought you'd turn up in something boring," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight to one foot, giving him a playful, judgmental look.

"This is average," he insisted, his face instantly dropping into a completely straight, deadpan expression, though his eyes were practically gleaming.

"Lando." She dead-panned him right back, her gaze dropping to his mouth before snapping back up.

"It is." He looked back at her, holding her gaze completely seriously, his jaw tight as he tried not to break character.

Then they both laughed, the faux-seriousness evaporating instantly as she let out a loud, library-inappropriate giggle.

"You drive a McLaren." She pointed a finger at the car, her smile stretching wide.

"Well, I am their driver," he countered smoothly, a smug little grin tugging at the side of his mouth as he gave a playful shrug.

"I was expecting... I don't know..." She trailed off, her eyes scanning his face, taking in the faint sprinkle of freckles across his nose.

"A Ford Fiesta?" His grin widened, flashing a glimpse of his teeth.

"I would've believed a Volkswagen," she shot back, her Manchester accent slipping out thick and heavy as she let her guard down.

He grinned, a genuine, dimpled look that made him look younger, more approachable.

"I'll remember that for next time." He stepped around the front of the car, his movements fluid and confident, and opened the heavy passenger door for her, bowing his head slightly in mock-chivalry. "After you."

As she climbed in, sinking into the low bucket seat, she couldn't help running her fingers over the smooth, expensive leather of the dashboard, her eyes darting around the futuristic cockpit.

"This is nicer than my flat."

"It definitely isn't," Lando said, closing her door and jogging around to the driver's side, his eyes locked on her through the windshield with an amused twinkle.

"You've never seen my flat," she reminded him as he slid in beside her, the scent of his cologne—something clean, woodsy, and expensive—instantly filling the small space.

"I've seen enough of it in your vlogs," he replied, turning his head to look at her, a knowing smirk on his lips as he started the engine, the car purring to life beneath them.

She laughed, a sudden flush of warmth hitting her cheeks as she realized he actually watched her chaotic videos. "Fair point."

A minute later they were pulling away from the curb, the neon blur of London slowly moving around them, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across Lando’s face.

"So," Lando said, his left hand resting loosely on the top of the steering wheel while his eyes stayed trained on the dark road ahead, "where do you actually want to eat?"

She turned her head on the headrest to look at him profile-on, taking in the sharp line of his jaw. "I thought you'd already decided."

"I have."

He flicked a quick, sideways glance at her, his eyes shining in the dashboard light.

"But?"

"I wanted to check whether you're secretly one of those people who only eats at Michelin-star restaurants," he said, his voice laced with teasing as his lips twitched.

Y/N turned fully toward him in her seat, her brow furrowing in genuine, comical confusion.

"...Have you watched literally anything I've ever posted?"

"I have," he chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he navigated a turn.

"So why would you ask that?" She asked, a dramatic pout forming on her lips.

He smiled, a soft, dimpled look as he glanced over at her. "I don't know. Maybe the fashion weeks fooled me."

S

he laughed, throwing her head back against the seat for a second before looking at him with intense sincerity. “I am the least Michelin-star person you'll ever meet."

Lando kept his eyes on the road, but the smile on his face widened, clearly hooked.

"Tell me why."

She didn't even hesitate, her arms animating as she spoke. "Because the portions are tiny."

He burst out laughing, a loud, barking sound that echoed in the car's quiet cabin.

"I swear every Michelin plate is just..." She pinched her thumb and index finger together, holding them right up in his peripheral vision. "...one suspiciously small piece of fish."

"Mhm," he hummed, nodding along, his eyes crinkling with pure amusement.

"With mushrooms, which I absolutely hate," she continued, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "And some mashed potato that's been artistically smeared across the plate."

He was already laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his grip loosening on the steering wheel.

"And somehow," she continued, her voice rising in theatrical outrage, her eyes wide as she looked at him, "it costs more than my monthly food shop."

"You've really got strong feelings about this," he said, glancing at her with a look of pure adoration, completely captivated by how animated she was.

"I do, because if I'm spending two hundred quid on dinner, I want to leave physically unable to walk." She nodded firmly, crossing her arms again as if she had just won a major legal debate.

"A reasonable expectation," he agreed, his voice warm and thick with laughter.

"And why is there always an edible flower?" She demanded, rolling her eyes toward the car’s ceiling.

"I knew you were going to mention the flowers," Lando teased, shaking his head, a massive, boyish grin plastered across his face.

"They don't belong there." She huffed, a stubborn little pout returning to her lips.

"They're edible." He nudged her side playfully with his elbow.

"I don't care." She shot back, though a smile was breaking through her faux-anger.

He shook his head, smiling to himself as he looked back at the road, a soft, genuine warmth settling into his chest; he was completely, utterly charmed by every single sentence that came out of her mouth.

"I knew you weren't actually a Michelin restaurant person."

"You absolutely knew." She nudged him back, her eyes sparkling.

"I did." He murmured, his voice softening just a bit.

"I think you knew before you even asked." She countered, her voice dropping an octave as she watched the soft light catch his eyes.

"I definitely did," he admitted, biting his lower lip to hide how wide his smile was getting.

She smiled, a soft, content expression stealing over her face as she looked out at the London lights.

"So what are we eating then?"

Lando looked ahead at the traffic, slowing down at a red light before turning his head fully to look at her, the playful spark back in his gaze. "I know a Chinese place."

She raised a single, skeptical eyebrow.

"A proper one," he insisted quickly, his eyes widening to show he meant business.

"Define proper." She challenged, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"The kind where the menu has way too many options, the owners already know my order..."

He listed, counting on his fingers.

"...and?" She leaned closer, matching his energy.

"...and they make the best takeaway chicken and rice I've found anywhere," he finished, looking at her as if he had just revealed a sacred secret.

She laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the car.

"You drive this," she gestured vaguely to the carbon-fiber interior, "and your grand recommendation is Chinese takeaway?"

"Exactly." He grinned proudly, a cocky little tilt to his chin.

She leaned back into the leather seat, a warm, relaxed smile settling onto her face as she looked at him, the initial surreal nerves completely gone. "Now that sounds like my kind of dinner."

-

Twenty minutes later, they were parked up on a dark side street with the headlights cut. The whole hyper-polished interior of the McLaren now smelled heavily of garlic and fried rice, and honestly, sitting there balancing plastic containers on their laps felt way more casual than it had any right to be.

Lando shifted around in his seat, his knees almost hitting the dashboard as he pointed his chopsticks at her.

"Right," he said, a cocky little grin on his face. "Take a bite. I'm putting my entire reputation on the line here."

Y/N looked down at her own container, which was practically overflowing with sweet and sour chicken, while Lando happily dug into his massive portion of takeaway chicken and rice. She took a bite, chewing slowly and pretending to evaluate it while he watched her like his actual F1 championship points depended on her review.

"Well?" he prompted, leaning a bit closer, his grin twitching at the corners.

She swallowed, tilting her head. "It's acceptable."

"Acceptable?" Lando scoffed, throwing his head back against the headrest with a dramatic sigh. "It's a culinary masterpiece. I can't believe I brought a critic." 

"A critic with high standards, babe," Y/N corrected, a sharp, teasing glint in her eye as she poked another piece of sweet and sour chicken with her fork. "If your F1 career ever goes south, Lando, definitely don't open a restaurant. Stick to driving fast things, because your 'culinary masterpiece' tastes suspiciously like a lot of MSG and nostalgia."

Lando let out a breathless laugh, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the amused twitch of his lips. He shifted in his seat, turning his body slightly more toward her, his expression softening into something genuinely curious. "Alright, fair enough. So, if takeaway isn't your standard, what is? What’s something you actually care about—like, completely outside of what everyone else expects you to do?"

He watched her, expecting the usual pause, the calculated hesitation, or the polished, careful answer most people gave him when put on the spot.

Instead, Y/N didn't even flinch. She shoved another massive bite of chicken into her mouth and started talking immediately, not waiting to swallow.

"Honestly? I'm a massive nerd for history and geography," she said, her voice slightly muffled. "Like, proper old world maps where they just drew sea monsters in the oceans because they had no clue what was there. That's the actual reason I ended up choosing International Relations at uni. I wanted to understand how those old-school borders and geography shaped the absolute chaos of the world we're dealing with now. But instead, I'm just drowning in essays about global threats—"

She stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, suddenly realizing she was gesturing wildly with her fork while chewing a completely full mouthful of food.

A blush crept up her neck, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, letting out a muffled, embarrassed laugh. After a quick swallow, her thick Manchester accent creaked out, blunt, heavy, and totally unpolished.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," she groaned, shaking her head as her northern lilt took over. "My mum would bloody skin me if she saw me talking with a mouth full of food like a complete caveman."

Lando didn't look grossed out at all; instead, he was just staring at her, utterly amazed. A warm, genuine smile broke across his face. Most people around him were so hyper-aware of their image, always trying to act perfectly poised. But she was just entirely, unapologetically herself, leaving in all the messy parts. It was incredibly refreshing.

"Don't apologize," he said softly, his voice dropping a fraction. "I like it. You don't filter yourself."

Y/N set her container down on her lap, her playful demeanor shifting into something a bit quieter, more grounded. She looked past his messy curls, locking eyes with him.

"Speaking of filters," she began, tilting her head, her northern accent slowing down to a softer, more deliberate pace. "I have a proper question for you. And I don't want the PR bullshit, or the Lando Norris who drives the ugly orange car, or the golden boy everyone points at to show what stability looks like. When all the noise completely stops, and you're just sitting alone in a quiet room... who actually is Lando Norris on the inside? What are you afraid of when you're not allowed to be fast?"

That surprised Lando more than he thought it could. 

The question lingered between them.

Outside, London carried on as if nothing had happened. Cars rolled past the narrow side street. Someone laughed in the distance. A siren echoed somewhere across the city before fading into the night.

Inside the McLaren, it was quiet.

Lando didn't answer immediately.

He looked down at the takeaway container balanced on his lap, turning the plastic fork absentmindedly between his fingers. "No one's ever asked me that," he admitted after a while, his voice quieter than before. "Most people..." He smiled faintly to himself. "Most people already think they know."

Y/N didn't interrupt.

"They know the version they see online. The one on race weekends. The one that's always joking around." He let out a small breath. "And don't get me wrong—that is me. I do love what I do. I love racing." He paused again "But I think..." His eyes drifted out through the windscreen. "Sometimes I worry that if I wasn't driving Formula One cars..." He shrugged almost imperceptibly. "...I don't really know who I'd be."

Y/N's expression softened.

"I've been doing it for so long that it's become my entire identity. Everything in my life has somehow been measured against lap times, championships, whether I drove well enough that weekend." He laughed quietly. "And when you have a bad race you don't just feel like you've had a bad day. You feel like you failed as a person."

Y/N watched him carefully.

He wasn't looking at her anymore. Just somewhere beyond the dashboard. "I think that's what scares me most," he admitted. "That one day I'll stop racing..." Another small shrug. "...and realise I never really figured out who Lando is without all of this."

Silence settled over the car again.

Not awkward.

Comfortable.

Y/N felt her chest tighten ever so slightly. She hadn't expected that answer. She certainly hadn't expected him to trust her with it. Without really thinking, she smiled gently. "I think you'd still be alright."

He looked back at her. "Yeah?"

"I do." She shrugged. "You'd probably just annoy someone else with your snack propaganda."

A laugh escaped him.

Small. Honest.

"Probably."

"I mean, you're clearly passionate about it."

"I am."

"It would become your whole personality."

"I'd be known as Britain's leading Hobnob ambassador."

"I'd unfollow you."

He laughed again, louder this time.

She smiled to herself, happy she'd managed to pull him out of whatever place his mind had wandered to. Still smiling, she looked back down at the takeaway container in her lap. "You know..." She stabbed another piece of sweet and sour chicken with her plastic fork. "...I actually think this is growing on—"

The chicken slipped. Time slowed.

"No."

It bounced once off the edge of the container.

"No, no, no—"

Then landed. Directly. On the cream leather passenger seat. A generous streak of bright orange sweet and sour sauce followed immediately after.

Silence.

Y/N froze.

Fork still suspended in mid-air. Her eyes slowly travelled down towards the seat. Then back to Lando. Then back to the seat. "Oh my fucking God."

Every drop of colour disappeared from her face.

"I'm so sorry." She reached for a napkin. Dropped the napkin. Grabbed another one. "This is why people don't let me have nice things." She began desperately dabbing at the leather.

"I'm actually going to cry."

"Lando, I swear—"

"I didn't—"

"I'll pay for it."

"I genuinely didn't mean—" She was speaking so quickly the sentences had stopped making sense.

"I'm buying you a new car."

That did it. Lando completely lost it. He doubled over against the steering wheel, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Not polite laughter. Not the kind you fake to make someone feel better.

The kind that physically hurt. His shoulders shook uncontrollably. He buried his face in one hand, still laughing. "Oh my God..." He couldn't even finish the sentence.

Y/N stared at him in disbelief. "I've just assaulted your super car!"

That only made him laugh harder. "You—" Another laugh interrupted him. "You actually—" He pointed helplessly at the bright orange blob sitting proudly on the cream leather. "It lasted..." He laughed again. "...forty-three minutes."

She dropped back into her seat dramatically.

"I knew this would happen."

"I genuinely..." He wiped at the corner of his eye. "...I haven't laughed like this in ages."

Y/N looked down at the stain before sighing dramatically. "Perfect."

She folded her arms.

"Well, I will live here now. It's my seat and I'm never getting out."

-

Another thirty minutes later, they were still driving through London.

The sweet and sour stain was still there. Y/N had attacked it with enough napkins to wipe out an entire restaurant's supply, apologised approximately forty-seven times, and even Googled "can sweet and sour sauce permanently stain leather?" at a red light.

The answer hadn't helped.

She was convinced she'd financially ruined herself. Lando, meanwhile, still found it funny. Every now and then he'd glance at the passenger seat, see the faint orange mark, and another laugh would escape him. "I still can't believe you offered to buy me a new car."

"I was panicking."

"I know."

"I genuinely thought you were going to throw me out."

"I considered it."

She gasped dramatically. "I knew it."

"No, you didn't."

"I did."

"You absolutely didn't."

She folded her arms. "You're right." A comfortable silence settled between them before Y/N looked out of the window at the familiar streets sliding past. "You know," she said, "I've actually been to Monaco a few times."

Lando glanced at her. "For work?"

"Influencer things."

"And?"

She made a face. "I'll probably offend you."

"I'm listening."

"I don't get the obsession."

He let out a dramatic sigh. "Here we go."

"The yachts?" she admitted. "Love them."

"I knew it."

"They're ridiculous."

"They're beautiful."

"They're floating mansions."

"They're both."

"And the parties are fun," she continued. "I'll give Monaco that. Everyone somehow ends up in the same three places by two in the morning."

"So that's two positives."

She nodded. "That's where the list ends."

He laughed. "What else is wrong with it?"

She looked out of the window, thinking. "It's just..." she searched for the word. "Pretentious."

"Ouch."

"No, hear me out."

"I'm hearing."

"It feels like everyone is trying so hard to prove they've got more money than the person standing next to them."

"...Fair."

"Everything costs an absolute fortune."

"Also fair."

"Half the restaurants serve food that's prettier than it is edible."

He couldn't help smiling. "We've established your Michelin trauma."

"And everyone dresses like they're permanently on the way to a yacht they don't even own."

He laughed. "I mean..."

"And don't even get me started on the coffee."

"What did Monaco coffee ever do to you?"

"I paid nearly twelve euros for a flat white." He winced.

"...Yeah."

"It wasn't even a good flat white."

"Now that's criminal."

She pointed at him. "Exactly."

"The only genuinely nice thing about Monaco," she concluded, "is standing on a balcony at sunset, looking at all the boats and pretending, for like... five minutes, that you're rich enough to belong there."

Lando smiled to himself. "You know..."

"What?"

"You might be the first person who's ever told me they like Monaco mostly because of the yachts."

"They're cool."

"They are."

"And then I remember everyone on them is probably insufferable."

That made him laugh loud enough that he had to shake his head. "I promise we're not all like that."

She looked at him for a second before smiling. "I know."

A few moments passed before Y/N looked over at the dashboard. Then at the steering wheel. Then at him. "Can I say something controversial?"

"I'm scared."

"I don't think McLaren is a nice colour."

Lando gasped dramatically. "Excuse me?"

"It's orange."

"It is not orange."

"It is."

"It is papaya."

She looked at him blankly. "Lando."

"It's called papaya."

"It's orange."

"It's different."

She turned towards him fully. "If I asked my five-year-old cousin what colour your car was—"

"He'd say papaya."

"He'd say orange."

"He'd be wrong."

She couldn't stop laughing. "This is the hill you're willing to die on?"

"Absolutely."

"It's orange."

"It is papaya."

"It's pumpkin."

"It's—"

"Traffic cone."

He looked genuinely offended now. "Traffic cone?"

She nodded confidently. "Expensive traffic cone."

He groaned. "I've made a terrible mistake bringing you here."

"You invited me."

"I know."

"And now every time I see a McLaren I'll think of roadworks."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "I can't believe this."

She shifted slightly in the seat. Then again. Then made a face.

"What?"

"I think..."

She adjusted herself once more.

"...my arse is actually starting to hurt."

Lando glanced at her before looking back at the road.

"From sitting?"

She looked around the immaculate interior.

"I thought expensive cars were supposed to be comfortable."

"They are."

"I disagree."

"They are."

"I've sat on chairs in Pret that were comfier."

He laughed.

"That's offensive."

"I'm just saying..."

She patted the leather seat.

"...this feels like sitting on very luxurious concrete."

He shook his head.

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

Another few seconds passed.

Neither of them seemed particularly interested in going home.

They'd driven past her street almost ten minutes ago.

Neither had mentioned it.

Y/N noticed first.

She smiled to herself.

Then looked over at him.

"You know..."

"Hm?"

"If your ridiculously expensive, definitely-orange brand car is going to continue torturing me..."

She nodded towards the windscreen.

"...my flat's only a few minutes away."

He glanced at her.

"We could just..."

She shrugged casually, as if the suggestion had only just occurred to her.

"...carry on talking there."

A beat.

"I make much better tea than this car does."

Lando smiled.

"I'd hope so."

"And," she added, trying—and failing—to sound completely nonchalant, "the chairs are free."

He laughed.

"Sold."

Without another word, he flicked on the indicator and turned towards her street.

-

The lift was painfully slow, the soft hum of the cables filling the silence.

"So," Y/N said, leaning her shoulder against the mirrored wall, her reflection showing a slightly nervous tilt of her chin. "Before we go any further..."

Lando looked over, a faint, curious smile playing on his lips.

"...I'm apologising in advance."

"For?"

"My flat."

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes crinkling. "What about it?"

She sighed dramatically, throwing her head back. "I tried."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"It will."

The lift doors chimed and slid open. Y/N led him down the dimly lit corridor, her shoulder bag swinging as she frantically dug through the bottom of it for her keys.

"Okay," she muttered, finally pulling them out with a small rattle. She unlocked the door, turning her head back to him. "Just... remember that I had less than an hour's notice."

The door swung open. She stepped inside first, quickly kicking a stray trainer out of the direct path.

"...and please ignore the mess."

Lando followed, closing the door behind him. The first thing he noticed wasn't actually the mess. It was that she'd clearly attempted to hide it in a massive hurry.

A large cream blanket had been suspiciously thrown over what looked very much like a mountainous pile of unfolded clothes on the sofa. Three fashion magazines were stacked with almost military precision on the coffee table, though one lonely, mismatched sock poked out from directly underneath them. On the dining table, her laptop sat wide open, the editing software screen still glowing with thousands of tiny cuts. Camera batteries were plugged into a wall outlet in one corner, and a giant ring light leaned awkwardly against the bookshelf.

There were books everywhere. Heavy history books, political science textbooks, and thick fashion archives piled in disorganized towers. One mug sat completely abandoned on the kitchen counter with what looked like three-day-old coffee still inside.

It wasn't messy in a dirty way. It was messy in a someone actually lives here way.

Lando looked around, his smile growing warm and genuine. "I've seen worse."

She narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. "You're lying."

"I promise."

"You hesitated."

"I absolutely didn't."

"You did."

She let out a small huff, dropping her keys into a ceramic bowl by the door with a sharp clack, before disappearing into the tiny kitchen alcove. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Sure."

"What?"

She opened the fridge door. The light illuminated her face as she froze, then immediately started laughing. "Oh."

"What?" Lando asked, leaning his shoulder against the kitchen doorframe.

She stared into the empty shelves for a second. "...well."

"What?"

She looked back over her shoulder, her Manchester accent slipping out in her amusement. "So......I have vodka."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Right."

"Half a bottle of white wine."

"Mhm."

"...and oat milk."

He blinked, a look of pure, comical confusion on his face. "That's... an interesting selection."

"I was going to buy groceries."

"You forgot."

"I forgot." She closed the fridge with her knee. "...Tea?"

"Tea sounds perfect."

Five minutes later, they were both curled up on opposite ends of the sofa, the suspiciously covered pile of clothes sitting right between them. Oversized ceramic mugs warmed their hands, the steam rising between them.

Y/N looked towards the dark television screen. "So..."

"What?"

"We could watch something?"

"I'm easy."

She reached for the plastic remote on the table before tossing it lightly over to him. "You choose."

Lando switched the television on. He clicked the Netflix icon, only for a spinning loading wheel to appear. Nothing. No connection.

He frowned, tapping a button. "Hm."

Y/N leaned forward, looking over. "What?"

"It says there's no internet."

She stared blankly at the screen, her brain pausing for a long beat. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

He looked over, highly amused by the look of horror on her face. "What?"

"I forgot to pay the Wi-Fi bill." There was a tiny beat of silence, and then she buried her face entirely in her hands, her shoulders shaking. "I actually forgot to pay for my own internet."

Lando couldn't stop laughing, a loud, breathless sound that filled the quiet flat. "You weren't joking when you said your life was chaos."

"I'm literally paying rent," she groaned behind her hands. "I paid electricity." Another muffled groan. "I paid council tax." She dropped her hands and stared at the blinking red light on the router. "...apparently Wi-Fi didn't make the cut."

He was laughing too hard to answer, his shoulders shaking.

She pointed her mug at him. "Stop."

"I can't."

"It's not funny."

"It is a little."

"It's incredibly embarrassing."

"It is."

She sighed dramatically, the flush on her cheeks lingering as she took another sip of her tea. "Right. No films."

"No films."

"No YouTube."

"No YouTube."

She leaned her head back against the sofa cushions, looking at him. "I guess we're stuck talking."

"I don't mind."

Neither did she. For a while, they simply sat there, the quiet, distant hum of London drifting in through the slightly open window. The initial rush of hectic energy began to settle into something much softer.

Lando's gaze wandered to the shelf, landing on her camera. "You've done YouTube for... what? three years now?"

"Nearly."

"You ever get tired of people watching everything?"

She thought about it, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. "Sometimes." She shrugged. "But they only really know what I let them know."

He nodded slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. "I don't think people realise that."

"They think because they've watched you for years, they know you."

"And they don't."

"They know a version." She smiled softly, a little self-deprecatingly. "The loud one. The chaotic one. The one who loses wallets."

"Exactly," he laughed softly, his eyes locked on her. "She exists."

"She does, but she's not the whole person."

That statement made him quiet. He stared into his tea for a second, the humor fading into a rare, quiet vulnerability. After a moment, he nodded. "I get that."

She looked at him, her gaze softening. "You probably get it more than most."

Lando swirled the tea in his mug before speaking again, his voice dropping a register. "I don't think people realise how strange it is."

"What?"

"When millions of people think they know your personality." He smiled faintly, a bit tiredly. "They'll tell me I'm having a bad day before I've even decided whether I am."

She frowned slightly, her heart aching a tiny bit for him. "That's... weird."

"It is." He looked around her flat again, his eyes lingering on the stacked books, the messy editing desk, and the lonely sock. "You know what I like about this place?"

She followed his gaze, a bit self-consciously. "What?"

"It looks lived in."

She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. "That's a very polite way of saying messy."

"No." He shook his head, his curls shifting as he looked back at her, his eyes incredibly steady. "It looks real."

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she hid her face by smiling into her mug.

For someone who spent most of his life surrounded by perfectly polished hotels, spotless hospitality suites, and carefully curated public images... that might have been the nicest compliment anyone had ever given her apartment.

-

Three hours later, they were still on her sofa.

Neither of them had planned for that.

The original idea had been simple.

Come upstairs for a tea.

Talk for a bit.

Maybe watch something if the Wi-Fi decided to cooperate.

Then he would leave.

Except somewhere along the way, the tea had been replaced by vodka from the fridge, the television had remained completely untouched, and the pile of clothes Y/N had desperately hidden before he arrived had slowly migrated from the sofa back onto the floor.

The apartment looked exactly like it had before.

Maybe worse.

And somehow, she didn't care.

Lando's car keys, which had been safely tucked away in his pocket when he arrived, were now sitting casually on the coffee table next to two half-empty glasses.

A tiny detail.

But somehow it made everything feel different.

He wasn't the guy who had arrived in an McLaren.

He was just Lando. Sitting barefoot on her sofa, stealing snacks from her kitchen and laughing at stories from when she was sixteen.

The conversation had gone everywhere.

At first, it had been the serious stuff.

The things they didn't usually say out loud.

Fame.

The strange feeling of being recognised by strangers.

The pressure of always being watched.

The way everyone thought they knew you because they had seen a carefully edited version of your life.

Lando had talked about racing.

Not the exciting parts.

Not the podiums or the celebrations.

The other side.

The pressure.

The expectation.

The feeling that one bad weekend could make the entire world question whether you belonged there.

Y/N had listened.

Actually listened.

And somehow, she had ended up telling him things too.

About moving away from home.

About friendships changing.

About growing up and realising some people only liked the easy version of you.

About family.

About the things that shaped them but weren't always visible.

It was strange.

Because usually, Y/N hated conversations like that.

Not because she didn't have things to say.

Because she hated feeling like she was being analysed.

But with him, it didn't feel like an interview.

It felt like two people comparing the things they carried around.

And then, somehow...

They went from that.

To childhood stories.

"I still can't believe you broke your wrist trying to fly."

"I was eleven."

"You were old enough to understand gravity."

"I thought I was special."

"You thought you could fly."

"I was a creative child."

"You were a danger to yourself."

She threw a cushion at him.

He caught it easily.

"That's rude."

"It's accurate."

She narrowed her eyes. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Truth or dare."

He laughed. "No way."

"Why?"

"Because I already know this is going to become dangerous."

"You're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You are."

"I'm literally a Formula One driver."

"And yet you're scared of truth or dare."

He pointed at her. "That's not fair."

"Truth or dare, Lando?"

He sighed dramatically. "Truth."

She smiled. "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"

He immediately regretted his decision.

"That is such a broad question."

"Exactly."

He thought for a moment. Then smiled.

"Okay. During one of my first proper events..." He shook his head. "I was trying so hard to act professional."

"Already sounds bad."

"It was."

She leaned closer, interested.

"I walked into a glass door."

There was silence.

Then she burst out laughing.

"No."

"Yes."

"You're lying."

"I wish I was."

"How old were you?"

"Old enough to know better."

She laughed so hard she had to put her drink down.

"That is actually the most Lando Norris thing I've ever heard."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I took it as one."

The game continued. Mostly stupid questions. Mostly ridiculous answers. Things neither of them would ever admit publicly. Favourite childhood snacks. Worst fashion choices. Embarrassing teenage phases. Things they were secretly bad at.

The kind of meaningless conversations that somehow meant everything because they showed the person behind the image.

At some point, Y/N found herself laughing so hard she couldn't remember what they were laughing about anymore.

And Lando realised he couldn't remember the last time he'd spent an evening like this.

No cameras. No expectations. No one asking about championship chances. No one trying to get something from him.

Just a girl in an oversized sweater, sitting in a messy flat, arguing passionately that McLaren orange was actually just "expensive traffic cone colour."

And somehow...

It felt easier than most things in his life.

The night had started as a dinner.

Somewhere along the way, it became something else.

The game had become less about the questions and more about finding excuses to keep talking. At some point, the ridiculous questions had turned into real ones. Past relationships. First crushes. The people who had hurt them. The people they still missed. The kind of conversations that only happened when it was late enough that nobody felt the need to pretend anymore. 

Y/N was sitting curled into the corner of the sofa, glass in her hand, listening to Lando tell some embarrassing story from when he was younger. 

She was laughing. 

Properly laughing. 

Not the polite kind. The kind where she had to put her drink down because she couldn't hold it and breathe at the same time. "You're actually unbelievable," she said. 

Lando leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he swirled the ice in his glass, his eyes locking onto hers. "Truth or dare?"

Y/N pulled her knees tighter to her chest, a small, reckless smile playing on her lips. "Truth."

Lando didn't even hesitate. The question came out of nowhere, or it acually came from the vodka in his system, cutting straight through the comfortable haze of the alcohol. "Do you find me attractive?"

Y/N blinked, completely caught off guard, before bursting into a sudden, breathless laugh. "Why are you asking that?"

Lando didn't laugh. He kept his eyes pinned to hers, his curls casting soft shadows over his forehead.

 "Because I can't read you," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register. "Which normally, I can. With everyone. But with you, I have no idea."

Her laughter slowly died down, a sudden, heavy warmth settling in her chest as she looked at him. The air in the room felt thick all of a sudden, charged with a tension she couldn't ignore.

"My turn," she murmured, her thick Manchester accent slipping out, low and deliberate. Truth or dare?"

“Wait but you didn't answer,” she turned her eyes upside down 

“Fine, dare” Lando’s gaze drifted down to her lips before snapping back up to lock onto her eyes. 

Y/N didn't let herself second-guess it. The alcohol in her system was the real problem anyway, completely overriding her filter. "Kiss me."

“Guess thats my answer”

“Idiot”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Lando just looked at her.

Somewhere during the evening—somewhere between takeaway Chinese balanced on their laps, tea that had long since gone cold, the unpaid Wi-Fi, and vodka shots neither of them had planned on drinking—he finally understood why she had caught his attention a week earlier.

Why he'd stopped scrolling. Why he'd opened her Instagram.Why he'd watched an entire vlog from a girl whose name he hadn't even known yet.

It had never really been about the mess. Or the university deadlines. Or the jokes.

It was her. The girl sitting in front of him didn't edit herself. She didn't rehearse stories before telling them. She didn't pause to wonder whether she'd sound clever enough, funny enough, interesting enough. She interrupted herself. She laughed too loudly. She admitted embarrassing things without trying to make them charming. She spoke before thinking and somehow still managed to make every sentence feel honest. She existed exactly as she was.

Completely unfiltered. Completely unapologetic.

And the thing that struck him most was that she didn't even realise how rare that was.

To her, this was normal. This was simply how people were supposed to be. But in Lando's world... Nothing was. People measured every word. Every smile. Every interview. Every caption.

Everyone was trying to become a slightly more polished version of themselves, sanding away the awkward edges before letting anyone else see them.

He'd spent years surrounded by people who knew exactly how they wanted to be perceived. Years of media training. Carefully chosen answers. Conversations where everyone seemed just a little too aware they were being watched.

Then she'd walked into his life like a storm. Chaotic. Honest. Completely unaware that the very things she apologised for were the things he couldn't stop admiring.

Maybe... That was what he'd been missing all along. His eyes met hers again. Neither of them smiled this time. The silence between them didn't feel empty anymore. It felt full of everything neither of them had said.

Y/N held his gaze for a moment before the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.

"So..." she whispered.

Lando didn't answer. He didn't wait.

He didn't do it politely. There was no tentative, gentle testing of the waters. He lunged forward, catching her jaw with his hand, and kissed her hungrily—like he’d been sitting on that sofa waiting for that exact green light the entire night.

What caught him completely off guard, sending a sharp jolt of adrenaline straight through his chest, was the way she returned it. There was no hesitation. Y/N met his lips with the exact same frantic, unedited passion, her hands immediately flying to his neck, her fingers tangling tightly in his messy curls.

The shift was instant.

Within seconds, they moved. The cream blanket slid off the cushions as Y/N scrambled up, shifting until she was sitting directly on top of his lap, her knees framing his hips.

Lando's hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against his chest as the kiss deepened, desperate and hot.

Y/N broke away for a split second, her face flushed and her breathing shallow as she started babbling something completely stupid and incoherent about how the room was spinning or how she was an idiot.

Lando let out a low, breathless chuckle, his grip tightening on her waist. "Shut up," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick and commanding.

She let out a muffled laugh against his mouth, but she didn't argue. Instead, her hands slid down from his hair, grabbing the hem of his shirt. In one impatient, reckless motion, she yanked it up and over his head, letting it drop somewhere onto the floor—

And the rest of the night dissolved into the quiet, chaotic dark of the flat.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe this is where the story really starts. Months earlier, in a sterile NASA board room, where Lando sits among men and women twice his age. Some intern drafted up the specifics of Project Orbiter on a free Canva template. Lando can only stare at the GIF of a rocket going back and forth, back and forth, as they try to orient him about the long-shot mission they want him to go on. 

Him. Lando, who once accidentally dyed his suit a blushing shade of pink after forgetting a red sock in the laundry. Lando, who is a mechanical engineer solely because his hands can never stay still. Lando, who only took a shot at NASA because you wouldn’t shut up about the stars and he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. 

“Norris,” Zak, Lando’s direct superior, says firmly. “You still with us?” 

Lando plasters on the fakest smile known to man. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Still with you.” 

They dismiss him two hours later with a sealed manila envelope, a new training schedule, and strict instructions on non-disclosure. Only immediate family. Anyone else was a security risk. To break that particular rule involved jail, so, as badly as Lando itches to tell you or even Fewtrell, he’d rather that neither of you serve time because of him. 

That gives him four months. Four months before he’s jettisoned to outer space, which should be any astronaut’s dream, really. But Lando always thought he’d be sent on one of those smaller missions. A week on the moon. A spacewalk to the International Space Station. Not a nearly-decade long journey to go and see if the icy oceans of Juptier can be harvested to solve Earth’s water shortage. 

Andrea Stella, the Chief of NASA’s Astronaut Office, had pitched for Lando like his life depended on it. “Norris has the mental resilience required for this mission,” Stella had said. 

Whatever the fuck that meant. 

Lando had a great deal of things, but he never thought courage to be one of them. It was not a particularly self-deprecating thought. It was just a living, breathing fact. He didn’t like scary movies. He slept with a night light on. He hasn’t told you how he feels about you. All that jazz. 

That night—when he finds himself in your apartment for your once-a-week hangout—he thinks about it. For just a teeny, tiny moment, he considers it. How hard can it be? 

He’ll tell you he loves you. He’ll tell you he’s been in love with you since he first met you in university, where he’d been an obnoxious fratboy with a backwards cap and you were his project partner constantly annoyed at his incompetence. You had straightened him out. Got him to land in NASA, of all places. The same guy who did jello shots on a Tuesday night was now supposed to be the saving grace of the Earth’s watersheds, and it was because you whipped him into shape.

Lando loved you then, in the clubs with the sticky floors and the library with its rattling AC. He loves you now in your too-small kitchen where you flit around as if you’re cooking something gourmet instead of a Kraft Dinner. He’s pretty sure he’ll love you in space, when he’s lightyears away and all he’ll have are the constellations to keep him company.

If he’s as courageous as they claim he is, he’ll tell you. He’ll say it out loud. He’ll close the distance, kiss you, lift you off your feet—

“Bon appétit!”

You lay down his bowl in front of him. The macaroni pasta glares up at him, sad and orange. He must have made a face because you smack him upside on the head. 

“Ow!” Lando howls, rubbing the sore spot. “What the hell, woman?!” 

“What did I say about saying woman,” you retort as you settle into the seat across from him. 

He levels you with a glare. “Really? We’re going to tackle the intricacies of misogyny now?” 

“You started it.” 

“You hit me!”

“You deserved it.” 

Lando takes a deep breath. You spear your mac’n’cheese. There’s a moment of silence before he shovels a forkful of the ‘meal’ into his mouth, ignoring the way it burns the roof of his mouth. He makes a show of swallowing before gritting out, “I’m sorry for calling you ‘woman’.”

You only stare at him, wholly unimpressed. 

“What?” he huffs. “Do you want me to grovel?” 

“I’m not opposed,” you answer without missing a beat. 

“You—” He breaks off into a laugh, his forehead landing with a light thunk against your kitchen counter. He has had a day you can’t even imagine, a day he can’t even tell you about, and here you are, pushing every single one of his buttons. 

He loves you. He loves you so much it makes him want to be brave. 

But to want to be something is not the same as being, so Lando doesn’t tell you that night. Instead, he listens as you bitch about work. He lets you pick the movie. He doesn’t complain when you fall asleep midway, drooling on his shoulder. 

When he comes back from Project Orbiter—if he does at all—ten years will have passed. Ten whole years without your little weekly traditions, your annual road trips. He’ll miss your birthday, he realizes. He’ll miss so many of them. Forrest Gump plays idly on as Lando spirals on your couch. Who’s going to remember to buy your birthday cupcake? That had always been his job. 

You stir in your sleep, burying your face into his sleeve. You mumble something that suspiciously sounds like his name. He pulls you in gently, gently, careful not to wake you. When he falls asleep himself, he dreams of birthday sprinkles, of solar systems, of shooting stars the same color as your eyes. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

Full stop. Record scratch. 

Lando is t-minus three months, eight days, and one hour to D-Day. He has been good. Maybe a little too good. Constantly asking you to hang out, insisting on more sleepovers than usual. He’s always been clingy by nature, but recent events have turned him into cling wrap. 

Your accusation comes on a Saturday. You’d begrudgingly accepted his invite to an observatory two hours away from your city, getting into his passenger seat at the bumfuck hour of five in the afternoon. Lando made several pitstops. A gas station convenience store, a diner with overpriced pancakes. 

The two of you are back on the road, making your slow, steady way to the planetarium. Your This Is: Chase Atlantic playlist filters through the tinny speakers of his car. Lando’s fingers flex against the wheel as he cowers under the heavy weight of your all-knowing glare. 

“What? Me?” he says with a weak laugh. “Hiding something from you?” 

Historically, Lando has never been good at hiding from you. You’re smart like that. You read him like one of those worn books you keep on your bedside table; annotated, dog-eared, marketed as ‘well-loved’.

You fall quiet. He hates when you do that, when you weaponize your silence. It makes his palms sweat. He changes strategies. “Is it a crime to want to spend more time with you?” he insists. 

“Sure, Jan,” you grumble as you go stare out the window instead. 

Guilt simmers in the pit of Lando’s stomach. He tastes iron as he bites the inside of his cheek from trying his very best to keep the truth from spilling out. Please, he wants to beg, and he’s never been the type to get on his knees—but he’ll do it right now if he has to. Please, the number of hours we have left together is not so large. I don’t want to waste time fighting you when I could be loving you instead. 

Thankfully, you are the forgiving and forgetful type. By the time he’s paying for the entrance to Palomar and ushering you towards the five-point-one meter Hale Telescope, you seem to have effectively forgotten you’re supposed to be upset with him. 

“Did you know,” you say, voice pitched with excitement as you cling to Lando’s arm, “that the Hale corrected what we originally thought about the Andromeda Galaxy?” 

Lando did know, actually. It was on the brochure. Still, he wants to hear you talk about it, so he says, “Really?” 

“Really!” Your laugh, so full of life, echoes around the otherwise empty telescope dome. “Walter Baade wanted to look at variable stars. He didn’t find any; instead, he realized that previous distance estimates were wrong. Andromeda was twice as far as we previously thought.” 

“Twice as far,” he repeats, trying to wrap his mind around that. About something once assumed to be so close being much further than expected. (He tries not to make a metaphor out of it.) 

You have a different take on it. “Just like that,” you hum, gaze roaming around the observatory, “the size of the universe doubled.” 

That’s what Lando remembers the most from that day. Not the look on your face when he got you access to try the Hale out yourself. Not the drive home where you two argued over America’s lack of a metric system. No, he thinks of that brief chat about the astronomer who didn’t know better and the world that was much bigger than expected.

Time marches steadily on afterwards. Lando gets busier with preparations for the mission, with keeping his secret from you and the rest of his friends. He tries valiantly to not make it look like he’s dying, because giving away his belongings and all that would surely have the alarm bells ringing. Instead, he writes letters despite his shitty cursive. He meets a NASA-mandated attorney over Zoom to draft a last will and testament, just in case. 

He buys some six hundred dollars worth of Polaroid film. 

“Be honest,” you say warily as he tears open the package, “are you going through a midlife crisis?” 

“Bingo,” he deadpans. 

It’s not that out of the ordinary. Lando has blown a significant amount of his salary on this hobby. Digital cameras, film rolls. Your expression is only slightly exasperated as you watch him tear into the Polaroid Go Color Film Double Packs he’d bought off Amazon. 

“In my defense,” he grumbles, “they were on sale.” 

“You have the moral backbone of a chocolate éclair,” you shoot back. 

There’s a reason why, obviously. Not only is Lando heading someplace where money won’t matter, but he also won’t really have 24/7 access to Instagram while he’s trying to navigate the Milky Way. He imagines doomscrolling will be the least of his worries up in space. 

He imagines it must be lonely. 

There will be options for phone calls—signal routing, video chats, amateur radios. It won’t be the same, though, and so Lando reaches for what he knows. 

“Hey!” you yelp. 

The flash of his Polaroid is blinding. A mini-galaxy exploding in on itself. The device whirrs before spitting out the photo he’d just taken. You, mid-snort while watching TikToks, chewing distractedly on the aglet of your ratty hoodie. 

The image fades into all of its unflattering glory. You try to snatch it, but Lando’s already holding it over his head. 

“I wasn’t ready!” you whine. 

Neither am I, Lando almost says. Instead, he sticks out his tongue and says, as if it’s the world’s biggest inconvenience, “Let’s take another one, then.” 

You two run through an entire pack. You tease him about being trigger-happy, about wasting his money on some mundane day, but he would argue otherwise. Everything from the too-close selfie to the accidental snap of your socked feet makes Lando feel like the universe isn’t too big after all. 

It can fit, right here, in the palm of his hand. In the sound of your laugh. In the stretch of his room and a sun-lit afternoon with you.

Nobody blinks an eye when Lando goes on to take a bajillion photos. 

Hangouts with Fewtrell and the rest of the boys. Strategy meetings where Oscar shoots him pitying looks. Weekends and evenings and errands with you. 

Lando buys a dozen more boxes of film because all of it suddenly seems so photo-worthy. The flowering weed cracking peeking through the cracked concrete. The dust of flour over his mother’s kitchen counter. Your nail polish, your elbow, your back as you walk ahead of him. 

“Are you planning some sort of exhibit?” you finally ask one evening. 

It’s a lot. It’s two shoe boxes worth of Polaroids with another box already being cleared to make way for a new batch. Lando sits in the middle of all the mess, holding two of the more recent ones—Flo posing with her horse and Oliver flipping the camera off. 

Lando’s shoulders raise in a shrug. “New hobby,” he says, and that’s that. 

He knows he’ll have to do some serious sorting. NASA was clear about his personal preference kit being limited to a maximum of 20 items. A kilogram of material for a decade away. He’s done his complaining, and he’s bought the photo album, and— 

Click. 

Lando blinks away the flash. You stand at the edge of his collection, camera up to one eye. You catch the photo of him before it can flutter down onto the floor. 

“You need to see how insane you look,” you say with a giggle that makes his heart do something funny in his chest. 

He does look insane, certifiably so. He looks dead serious as he stares into the abyss, surrounded by a month’s worth of photographs. “That’s kinda meta,” he says amusedly, reaching for the photo. 

You hold it out of reach. “This one’s mine,” you say. “You already have so many.” 

“Excuse you! Film is expensive.” 

“You can spare me one.” 

“Why should I?” 

“Because you looove me.” 

Oh, the way you say it. Even with the teasing tone, even with that cocky smirk on your face—you say it like it’s a cardinal truth. Astronomers get coordinates wrong; NASA is not infallible in their own predictions. 

But Lando Norris loves you and you know it well. More than that, you trust it. 

It’s cruel, and unfair, and Lando would have it no other way. 

You tuck away the Polaroid with an aha-I-won air. You raise the viewfinder to your eye a second time. “C’mon,” you say. “Say ‘cheese’!”

Lando had been so busy collecting photos of all of you that he’d neglected that you, too, might need some documentation of him. Some proof that he was once twenty-something with his feet to the ground, with his heart in your back pocket. When—if—he comes back, he can only imagine the differences. Wrinkles and laugh lines and silver hair. And so he smiles, says “Cheese,” lets you nick that photo, too. 

For every dozen he takes of the world around him, you’ll steal one or two of him. Lando, toeing off his rubber shoes in your entryway. Lando, struggling to open an umbrella as a storm rages on. Lando, his chin in your palm as he stares at you through the camera lens. He pretend-fights you for each one, just so it feels sweeter when he ‘lets’ you keep it. 

Everything he has is yours to begin with, anyway. 

NASA doesn’t tell him. 

Among the many shitty things the Administration has and is about to put him through, that happens to take the cake. There is no warning on the day they seed the press release. 

NASA to Launch Jupiter Mission with Astronaut Lando Norris. A four-minute read with a quote from Washington’s NASA Headquarters. The accompanying photo features Lando in his suit, with his helmet on his knee, the standard patches over his chest. He’d been smiling so wide his eyes were crescents. 

The news hits while Lando’s in the shower. He emerges to his phone blowing up—seven missed calls from Fewtrell, and several frantic voicemails from Carlos. Lando feels a lump in his throat as he stares down at the deluge of activity on his lockscreen’s Notification Center. 

And then. 

Two texts from you. A link to the article, then a single question mark.

Lando doesn’t waste any time. Doesn’t even bother to get in his car. His shirt’s probably inside out and he doesn’t remember if he locked his front door, but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s running. Down the street. Around the corner. An absolute madman, racing down sidewalks and pedestrian lanes until he’s at your apartment. Even then, he opts for the stairs—taking two at a time, sweating buckets despite his fresh shower. 

He’s nursing a stitch in his side as he rings the doorbell, jamming his thumb into the damn thing enough times that it might even break. 

When you open the door, he beats you to it. “I wanted to tell you,” he blurts out, “but they told—they told me you’d go to jail if I did. And I, ah—” (He’s still trying to catch his breath from all the running. He’s practically doubled over, holding himself up with one hand on the doorframe.) “You would do so badly in prison. Like, so badly. You don’t—you wouldn’t like the food.” 

You try to slam the door in his face.

He jams his foot just in time, wincing as his shoes barely do anything to protect him from the impact. It doesn’t matter. NASA would still send him to space with a broken pinky toe. 

“Please,” he wheezes. “Please don’t be mad.” 

“I’m not mad!” you screech, sounding rather mad. 

But you’re right. When you pull open the door, and Lando straightens enough to look at you properly, he sees that you’re right. You’re glaring daggers at him; your eyes are crossed over your chest. 

And you’re crying.

Your eyes are rimmed with red. There are tears streaming down your cheeks and wet spots around the collar of your shirt, like you tried to wipe them off just a few minutes ago. You’re furious—rightfully so—but you’re also something else. Something that makes Lando want to cry a bit himself. 

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. 

He closes the distance, reaching for you. You try to resist, shoving his chest, his shoulder, but his arms are bands as they wrap around you. His face instinctively buries in the top of your head as you thrash in his grip. 

“Let me go,” you wail, balled fists slamming against his chest. Somehow, it hurts less than the sound of your sobbing. “You—fuck you—don’t touch me!”

Lando’s seen you through your different moods across the years. He should know better. Should know to take a step back, to let you feel what you need to feel, to give you the cursory day or two before processing it all. 

But he doesn’t have the luxury of time today. It’s t-minus a month and two days. If Lando has to spend even thirty minutes of that with you hating him, he’s not sure if he’ll survive. So he holds you as you cry and flail and curse him out; he lets you beat him up, lets you sob through his shirt, lets you feel the fear he’s been doing his best to hide. 

Through it all, he says only two words, over and over and over again. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.” 

What does sorry sound like in space? Did extraterrestrials know what it felt like to feel betrayed? Lando’s thoughts are everywhere and nowhere all at once as he waits you out, as he holds you for what feels like forever. 

You calm down eventually. He invites himself in, making a beeline for your kitchen. He pours you a glass of water—his fingers shaking against the pitcher—before going into Defcon 1 preparations. Your favorite blanket, your comfort show as background noise. It’s a routine that he’s perfected over time. 

You linger exactly where he left you. Lando looks up nervously. “Come on,” he says, his voice cracking. 

When he says your name, it’s a quiet thing. You should know by now that your name is safe with him. Still, you look at him as if he’s someone you don’t recognize. As if a part of you is already grieving the decade ahead. 

You don’t ask Why didn’t you tell me?, because you know why. You don’t ask Are you scared?, because you know he is. 

The question you end up asking is, “Are you going to come back?” 

Lando could talk about the odds. The math and the science behind it all. How there’s a small team at NASA dedicated to making sure everything goes smoothly for him, led by the best engineers in the world. 

He could talk about the unfathomable as well. Mechanical failures and rogue comets. How tomorrow is not promised for anybody, especially those cruising at altitudes that very few will ever get to reach. 

But the look on your face leaves no room for logic. This is not the moment for Lando to spew numbers, to show you his dossier, to reassure you of NASA’s track record. 

Instead, he takes a deep, deep breath. 

He whispers back, “You know I always come back to you.” 

The public sees the pre-launch press conference, the mission briefing. On the week of his departure, they see Lando exactly as how NASA wants him to be seen. A charming, plucky astronaut with carefully gelled curls and a tight-lipped smile. Lando calls the mission an ‘honor’, says it’s a ‘privilege’ to do this for humankind.

They try to pry into his more personal feelings, his innermost thoughts, but he has been media trained to hell and back. He laughs politely. He deflects. He slips in a joke or two, chirping, “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

The public does not see the weekend at the lakehouse. 

Family, friends, coworkers who can keep a secret. Anybody who says ‘Jupiter’ has to take a shot. The dollar-star decorations feature cartoon planets and clip art astronauts. The menu’s themed, too—rocket fruit skewers, sandwiches shaped like stars, Moon Pies. 

You’re at the center of the organized chaos. You’re in the kitchen, making planetary cupcakes with Cisca. You’re handing out towels to people hurtling themself into the lake. You’re running the weekend like the military, and everybody looks away. Nobody says a thing. This is just how you cope, how you make sense of it all.

You’re undoubtedly still mad. Lando’s not naive enough to believe he’s completely forgiven. But work is work, and you know that your days, your hours, your minutes are limited, and so you’ve spent every night at Lando’s apartment. You’ve judged his personal preference kit. You suspend the worst of your emotions in favor of soaking up what little of Lando you have left. 

This Lando, who is crass, whose curls are a mess, who smiles with all his teeth bared. This Lando, who follows you around like a lost puppy. Hooking his chin over your shoulder. Pressing his palm to the small of your back. Whispering some dumb joke in the crook of your neck, then pulling back to see if you’re laughing. (He is soaking up what he can, too.) 

The highlight for everyone else is Saturday afternoon. You, organizing the cooler on the dock. Lando, his footsteps quiet as he sneaks up on you. Conversations pause as you screech, “Norris, don’t you dare—!” 

It’s too late. Lando has thrown you over his shoulder with ease, has booked it down the dock, has sent you two hurtling into the cold water. Some shake their heads. Some snap photos. Everyone laughs. 

You and Lando surface. Your arms tangle around his shoulders, holding on for dear life. “I’m going to kill you,” you sputter as he gasps out breathless, watery laughs. “I’m going to drown you right now, I swear!” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Lando shoots back. 

You try to dunk his head. He gets a mouthful of water before dragging you down with him, the two of you kicking and flailing.

Underwater, above ground, or in space, it doesn’t matter; Lando’s love for you is glaringly obvious. 

What everyone else thinks to be Lando’s favorite part happens that same evening. At dinner, where Lando is dreading the thought of being asked to make some sort of toast—he rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror, just in case—you turn the tables on him. 

“We have some gifts for you,” you announce, and everybody starts pulling stuff from under their chairs as if that were their cue. 

Lando blinks, thrown off, his speech now moot. “I can’t—,” he starts, because he’s already filled out the NASA-mandated 5-by-8-by-2-inch bag for his personal preference kit. 

Oscar, the head engineer of Lando’s team, shakes his head. “We got you another one,” he says. “It was hell to file for, but you’re clear.” 

Oh. Oh. “I could kiss you right now, mate,” Lando blurts out. 

“Let’s not go that far,” Oscar says drily. 

The extra PPK is something Lando had no say in. There’s a beaded friendship bracelet from Flo; one of those nifty Kodak Charmeras from Fewtrell. Cisca packs him an embroidered hanky from his childhood, and Lando traces his initials with his thumb while trying very, very hard not to burst into tears. Nobody would judge him if he did. There isn’t a dry eye left in the room, even as the table attempts to keep it light. Laughter and jokes and jabs. 

Your gift is a ten-pack of birthday candles. One for every year that he’ll be gone. 

“I don’t think they have cake in space,” you say. “So you’re going to have to improvise.” 

Your smile is so sad. Lando knows what you look like when you’re holding back tears, and he imagines you two must look like a pair of fools—stuttering on your words, speaking around the lumps in your throats. 

“Thank you,” Lando chokes out once everyone has shown off their parting gift.

This is probably the time for his grand soliloquy. The part where he waxes poetics about doing the right thing, delivers some zingers about meeting aliens.

None of that. Lando ducks his head instead, rubs his teary eyes with the back of his fists like a kid. “Thanks, guys,” he repeats, his voice cracking, and that’s that. 

They think that’s Lando’s highlight of the weekend. And while it was certainly a memory that Lando holds close, there is one more. 

Once all the plates have been cleared, once the music has been turned down. Once everybody has dozed off and left Lando to his own devices. He knows. 

He knows you’ll be on the dock. He knows you’ll be at the edge of it, legs hanging underneath you, palms flat on the wood still drying from earlier that day. He finds you there and sits down next to you, reaching for the words that have been on the tip of his tongue. 

You speak first. “We’re all being pretty dramatic, aren’t we?” You glance sideways at him. “Video chat is a thing.” 

Coping, Lando thinks, but he goes along with it. “They’re setting me up for weekly Zoom calls.” 

“And we can’t text all the time, but you can do emails.” 

“Right. Modern technology, baby.” 

“And you’ll come back.” 

You say it with so much certainty. You say it like a fact. Lando doesn’t respond immediately. He’s still dancing that thin line of trusting the numbers and fearing the unknown. His hands clench into fists, but his eyes stays fixed on you. He doesn’t look away. He can’t. 

“You’ll come back,” you double down. 

He nods, and something inside him cracks open. 

“I—I don’t want you to wait on me or anything,” he starts, which is a terrible start, but a start nonetheless. “I’m not selfish enough to ask that of you. I just—I—”

Your hand rests against his elbow. “Don’t.” 

You meet Lando’s gaze—half-agony, half-hope—with a resoluteness of your own. Here it comes, Lando thinks miserably. You’re going to let him down gently. You’re going to give him that look of pity. You’re going to—

“Tell me later.” 

He’s not sure he heard right. 

“When you get back,” you say slowly. “You can tell me what you want to say.” 

Lando’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. He stares at you, then, drinking you in. How your hair falls into your face. The soft line of your jaw. The way you’re looking right back at him. 

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. “I’ll tell you then.” 

“I’ll wait,” you say. 

His chest seizes. “Okay.” 

“Don’t keep me waiting too long.” 

He presses his face into your shoulder, laughing just a little bit. It might be a sob. You don’t point it out. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he breathes. 

Your hand finds his. He clings to it like a lifeline. The world spins madly on. 

Lando lied in his press briefing. There is a place he’d rather be than on a rocket to space. Here—in this moment with just you.

By Friday, all eyes will be on him. He will be launched into the solar system with two PPKs and a Polaroid photo pressed in the inside of his suit—a picture of that lakeshore weekend, where everyone he loves is smiling up at the camera. He will spend 10 years, three months, and 22 days on Mission Orbiter. 

For now, he raises your linked hands and presses a shaky kiss to your knuckles, one at a time. One for every year he’s loved you. One for every year he’ll be gone. A dozen, in total, and then a couple more just because he can. 

Would you look at that?