Gloom

Want to be added to my taglist? Click here!

Lando Norris On the Jack: Sparks in the Pit

Behind the Counter | Chapter 2 [ongoing series]

Peas and Quiet An Angel in Papaya

Whaaaat thats so sweet thank you!! 😭🤍 xXx

And yes, currently working on part three, soz just haven’t had lots of time this week. But for anyone curious, Behind the Counter, is MOST DEFINITELY an ongoing series!

Authors Note* This is my first time writing something smutty. Not sure if I'll do it again but uh yea here you go 18+ ONLY. warning: p in v, teasing, filthy talk, masturbation.... (Think thats all)

The McLaren hospitality suite was always a hive of motion — the soft whir of espresso machines, the muted clatter of cutlery, engineers moving briskly between meetings. Lando was used to the noise, the pace, the blur of race weekends. But lately, it had been harder to focus.

And that had everything to do with you.

You had a knack for being exactly where you didn’t need to be — but exactly where he couldn’t look away. It was never overt, never enough to get you in trouble, but enough to make his pulse spike and his thoughts stray far from data sheets and lap times.

This morning, you’d walked in wearing the team polo like everyone else… but with a skirt that very much wasn’t regulation. He’d noticed immediately — the way the fabric skimmed your thighs, the subtle sway in your hips when you moved. The faint, deliberate arch of your posture whenever you leaned over a desk.

And you always seemed to be leaning over a desk.

He told himself to concentrate. He told himself to stop watching. But then you came over during debrief, setting a folder down beside him with a bend that brought your perfume into sharp focus — warm, clean, and maddening. You didn’t linger, but when you turned to go, your hand brushed the back of his chair, just enough to send a spark along his spine.

By midday, you’d switched to the garage, headset tucked in your hand. He didn’t need it yet, but you appeared at his side anyway. “Need this, Norris?” you asked, your voice smooth and low. He reached for it, but you didn’t let go. The cable wound loosely between your fingers, holding him there in a silent standoff. “Careful,” you murmured, eyes locking with his. “Wouldn’t want to get tangled.”

It was ridiculous how warm his skin felt from something so small.

He spent the rest of the session trying to drive it out of his system, but you were everywhere — passing in the narrow walkways, brushing by him with a murmur of “sorry” that didn’t sound sorry at all, laughing with an engineer while glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

By the time the garage quieted for the evening, he’d had enough.

He caught you in the narrow corridor between the data room and storage, the hum of the paddock fading behind them. His arm braced against the wall, blocking your way before you could slip past. “You’ve been doing this all day,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant. You blinked up at him, lips curving like you’d been waiting for this. “Doing what?” “You know what.”

Your gaze flicked to his mouth, slow and deliberate. “Maybe I just like seeing you… distracted.”

The words landed between you like a match. His pulse kicked hard. The air felt heavy, charged, the kind of silence that demanded something break it. For a second, his hand almost moved — almost closed that inch between you — but footsteps echoed from around the corner.

You stepped past him, shoulder grazing his chest, your smile wicked. “See you later, Norris.”

And then you were gone, leaving him in the corridor, his body thrumming like he’d just come off track at full speed — and knowing it would only get worse.

The driver’s room was quiet — the kind of quiet that made every sound feel amplified. The faint hum of the paddock outside only made the silence inside heavier, hotter.

Lando sat on the couch, hunched forward, elbows digging into his thighs. His chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, each breath doing nothing to cool the heat thrumming through him.

He’d lasted all day. Barely. Every glance, every “accidental” brush of your hand, every time you leaned close enough for the warm scent of your skin to wrap around him — it had been a slow, deliberate undoing.

Now, alone, there was nothing to buffer it. 

He leaned back, head tipping against the wall, eyes shut tight. You were there behind them immediately — the smooth, golden length of your legs, the way your skirt hugged you like it had been sewn on. The subtle sway of your hips when you walked away from him, as if you knew exactly how his gaze followed.

His jaw flexed. His hand shifted lower, resting where the ache was sharpest, where the tension had been building all day until it was impossible to ignore. His fingers curled around his hard cock, a slow, restless movement that made his breath catch.

He pictured you bending over a desk again, your hard nipples under your shirt brushing just enough fabric to make him dizzy. He imagined standing behind you, close enough that you’d feel exactly what you were doing to him. The thought sent a pulse through him, stronger, harder to control. His grip tightened and his pace hastened.

The air in the room felt thicker, warmer. His breathing deepened, uneven, a low sound catching in his throat as his free hand fisted against the couch.

You were in his head completely now — the sly lift of your smile, the way your voice dropped to that private register only he seemed to hear. Careful… wouldn’t want to get tangled.

The coil inside him drew tighter and tighter, muscles taut, every nerve lit and reaching for something just out of grasp. His body jerked slightly with the force of holding back, of riding the edge you’d unknowingly dragged him to.

And then the knock. “Lando?”

It shattered through the haze like cold water, but it was too late — his pulse still pounded in his ears, and his skin burned where his hand lingered, unwilling to let go just yet.

“Yeah?” he called, voice rough, hoarse.

The door cracked open, and there you were. Leaning against the frame, looking effortlessly smug. “Team meeting in ten,” you said, eyes sliding over him, lingering just long enough to make his stomach twist.

He swallowed hard, nodding, forcing his hands to still. But you didn’t move. Not right away. Your gaze caught his one last time, something wicked and knowing in it, before you finally stepped away.

The door shut, and he dragged in a breath, the throb of need still alive, still unsatisfied.

Tonight, he thought, something would have to break.

It happened hours later.

By the time the afternoon session wrapped, Lando was already on edge — wound tight, simmering from hours of stolen glances and your infuriating little smug smiles.

He didn’t wait for the garage to empty. Didn’t care. The second you passed his door, Lando’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, and before you could speak, he’d pulled you inside and slammed the lock.

The sound of it clicked like a starter light — green flag, no going back.

You laughed softly, breathless from the suddenness. “Someone’s impatient—”

He cut you off by pressing your back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip with enough force to make you inhale sharply. “You think this is funny?” His voice was rough, barely restrained. “Skirt shorter than regulation. Leaning over every desk like you don’t know what it does to me.” His tone was pure accusation, but there was heat behind it — molten, unrestrained. “Parading those perfect curves in front of me all day. Smiling like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your lips curled into that infuriating smirk. “Maybe I do.”

His jaw tightened. His thumb pressed into your hip. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say what you’ve been doing to me.”

You blinked, caught between thrill and defiance. “Lando—”

He leaned in until his mouth was just at your ear, his tone dropping to something that vibrated down your spine. “Say it, or I’ll make you say it.”

Your breath hitched. “I’ve… been teasing you.”

His grip shifted, sliding to the small of your back, pulling you against him so you could feel exactly what that teasing had done. The hard, undeniable press of him made you gasp.

“Not good enough,” he said, his lips brushing your jaw. “Tell me how you’ve been teasing me.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “I wore this skirt… bent over where you could see me… brushed against you on purpose…”

His low growl was pure approval and pure warning. “Filthy little tease,” he murmured, the words laced with something that made your knees weaken. “All those times you leaned in close… did you picture me pinning you like this?”

“Yes,” you admitted, voice trembling.

“You’ve been driving me insane. Thinking about you when I should be focused. Waking up with you in my head, going to bed with you still there. You like that? You like knowing you’ve got me this wound up?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

That was the breaking point. His hands moved fast — one cupping the back of your neck, the other sliding under the hem of your skirt, dragging it higher with no patience.

He turned so you were against the couch now, pushing you down onto it. He ripped his track suit and briefs off his body in one sweep, his hard throbbing cock springing up. Looking down at you, your legs were up and spread wide for him, skirt up around your waist, panties pulled to the side. You were a dripping mess for him already. He rubbed the head of his cock against your wet folds, enjoying watching you writhe under him whimpering, hearing how wet you really were.

His eyes closed as he groaned — “Fuck”. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He pressed past your lips, his cock being enveloped by your tight heat. He pressed further, completely burying himself in you, and what couldn’t fit, he made sure you could feel pressed against your wet folds.

His mouth crashed down over yours, and it wasn’t gentle. It was possession — weeks of frustration, want, and denial spilling over. His hands roamed, gripping, claiming, leaving no doubt who you belonged to in that moment. He kept pounding into you in a rhythm that made your toes curl.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re mine, you understand? No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear the sounds you’re making right now.”

It was all heat and motion, his hand gripping your thigh to pull you closer, the faint sound of his name slipping from your lips between broken gasps.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice dropping even lower. “Good girl. Keep making those sounds for me. You’ve been begging for this with every little stunt you’ve pulled.”

Your hands clung to his shirt, your voice breaking with every movement. “Lando—”

“Again,” he demanded, his pace relentless. “Let everyone outside know who’s making you feel this way.”

The slight creak of the couch, the muffled sound of footsteps in the hall — it was dangerous, reckless. He didn’t care. If anything, the chance of being caught seemed to fuel him, his movements faster, rougher, his mouth at your ear, speaking filth between gritted teeth.

“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed. “Being taken apart in my driver’s room. Knowing someone could open that door any second and see what a needy little thing you are for me.”

“Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I love it,” you panted, arching into him. Your breast bounced with each of his thrusts, and you took all of him, spreading your legs wider for him.

“That’s my girl,” he said, his voice dark and full of possession. “Good girl. Always so perfect for me, even when you’re being a brat.”

“Lando, I—”

“Do it. Cum for me.”

Your nails bit into his shoulders as the tension snapped. “That’s a good girl, I’m almost done.” His pace quickened, lifting you up and bouncing you on his cock, your arms wrapped around his neck. He didn’t care if you were quivering trying to come down from your high, he slammed you down onto his length relentlessly. The tension in you building up again, “Lando— please!”

“Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“I— I want you to fill me.” You cried. Releasing on his length again. That was all he needed to send him over the edge. He slammed you down on his cock one last time. Stilling to pump his hot seed into you, with a loud groan.  

Both of you were breathing like you’d just finished a race. He stayed close, still holding you pinned, still catching his breath against your neck.

“You’re never wearing that skirt again,” he murmured, the words a command and a promise all at once. “Unless it’s for me — and only me.”

You laughed breathlessly, unable to respond. Still quivering in his arms, full and satisfied.

Helllo it’s me Gloom!

If you’d like to be added to my taglist please, comment down below the series you’d like to be tagged for OR if you like to be tagged for all my work!

Thank you lovlies! xX 🤍🧡🤍

Author Note: Helloooo y’all this is just a quick little one shot I wrote because I was totally inspired by those pictures of Lando with the kiddos GUH love! Anyway, here ya go soz for mistakes hope you like xXx Also for the fic purposes I chose to have the children in the story be guests from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I do not know the reason the children in the photos, that inspired me, were invited for. My intent is to write a cute story while maintaining the respect and privacy of the children in the photos.

Title: An Angel in Papaya

The simulator bay smelled faintly of coffee and rubber — your usual post-practice routine — but the way Lando kept sneaking glances at you over the rim of his water bottle wasn’t part of the programme notes.

You’d been teammates for over a year now, secretly dating for most of it. It was easy to hide when the world was busy watching your lap times and podium celebrations, not your lingering smiles in the garage.

Zak found you both on the way out, hands in his pockets. “There’s a Make-A-Wish family here today,” he said, his tone softening. “They’ve asked for you both. They’ve got a little boy, about three, and his baby brother.”

The McLaren HQ atrium was all bright light and papaya accents, a little intimidating for such tiny visitors. The toddler stood half-shy behind his mum’s leg, big brown eyes darting between the cars and the people. In her arms, a baby squirmed with restless little kicks.

The moment the boy spotted you, his whole face lit up. He stepped out from behind his mum, reaching one chubby hand toward you in that unmistakable “pick me up” motion.

Without thinking, you crouched down, smile warm. “Hi, buddy,” you murmured, opening your arms. He ran straight into you, arms around your neck, giggling when you lifted him up.

Lando’s chest went molten. He’d seen you with fans before, seen the way you were patient and warm, but something about the way the little boy immediately trusted you… yeah, it was doing things to him.

The baby in the mum’s arms started fussing, squirming toward you too. “Would you mind holding him? He’s a bit wiggly,” she asked.

“Of course,” you said, carefully transferring the toddler to your hip and taking the infant into your other arm. It felt natural, like they belonged there. The baby’s fussing stopped instantly, his tiny head settling against you.

Lando stepped closer, eyes soft. “Hey, mate,” he said to the toddler, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically. He made an exaggerated gasping face, pointing at the baby in your arms like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

The toddler dissolved into giggles, leaning forward to tug at Lando’s hair. “Ow—hey!” Lando laughed, pretending to stumble back like he’d been knocked out by the smallest punch in the world. The baby let out a tiny, delighted squeal at the commotion, and Lando grinned like a fool, making faces just to hear that sound again.

It was one of those moments you wished you could bottle — the two kids safe in your arms, Lando standing inches away with pure joy in his eyes.

The mum smiled knowingly. “You know, there’s an old wives’ tale… when children always reach for you like that, it’s because you’re an angel. They can feel it.”

You laughed, ducking your head. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

But Lando’s heart had already left the building. Watching you like this, every protective, loving instinct in him screamed one thing, and before his brain could stop his mouth—

“We need to have some of our own.”

Silence. You blinked at him. Zak blinked at him. Even the toddler paused mid-giggle.

Lando’s eyes went wide. “Oh—uh—” His hand went to the back of his neck. “That… might have sounded… okay, so—yeah. We’ve been—together. For a while.”

Zak just sighed, but you caught the slight twitch of amusement on his face. “Well, I guess that explains why you two keep finishing each other’s sentences.”

The toddler tugged on your hoodie strings, breaking the tension. The baby made a sleepy noise against your chest. Lando, cheeks still pink, just grinned sheepishly — because secret or not, seeing you like this made it more than worth the slip.

After the Slip

The family had long since left with signed merch, photos, and two very content little boys who’d probably be babbling about “the race car people” for days.

You and Lando had escaped to the driver’s lounge, door shut, both leaning against the sofa like you’d just survived a 50-lap stint on worn tyres.

Lando still had that smirk. “What?” you asked, wary.

He tilted his head, pretending to be deep in thought. “Just… noticing something.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Which is?”

“The kids clearly love you more than me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. “That’s not true. They liked you too.”

“Liked me?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “They tolerated me. You? You’re apparently some baby-whisperer angel. You saw that toddler—he ditched me for you without hesitation.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe you just need to work on your silly face skills.”

“Excuse me?” he scoffed, grabbing a cushion and swatting you lightly. “My silly faces are elite. That baby laughed at me, thank you very much.”

You smiled at him — the kind of smile you only ever gave him — and he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Still,” he murmured, “you looked… amazing, holding them. Kinda hard not to picture it, y’know?”

You nudged him. “Yeah, well, next time try not to say it in front of our boss.”

Zak’s Office

Lando had been summoned. Not in a you’re in trouble way, but more in a we need to talk way. He stepped into Zak’s office, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

Zak looked up from his laptop with a grin. “Relax, Norris. I’m not here to fine you for excessive PDA.”

Lando scratched the back of his neck. “Right. About what I said earlier…”

Zak waved a hand. “I’m happy for you both. Really. You make a good team on track and, apparently, off it too. If you were serious about that whole kids thing… I think you’d both be great parents.”

Lando blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks… that means a lot.”

Zak leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Of course, I’d be less thrilled about losing one of my drivers for an entire year.”

Lando laughed. “You’d survive.”

Zak pointed at him. “Don’t tempt me to start planning for a replacement already.”

When Lando left the office, he found you waiting in the hallway, eyebrows raised in question.

“He’s happy for us,” Lando said simply. “And… he thinks we’d make great parents.”

You smiled, slipping your hand into his as you walked away together — and for once, neither of you cared if anyone saw.

Later That Night

The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional buzz of Lando’s phone.

You’d just finished your skincare routine, hair tied up, and padded into the bedroom to find him propped up against the headboard, phone in hand, grin plastered across his face.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, climbing onto the bed beside him.

He didn’t even look up at first, just kept scrolling. “Not funny,” he said. “Just… this.”

He angled the screen toward you — a series of photos taken earlier at HQ. You holding the toddler on your hip, the baby cradled in your other arm, Lando leaning in making some ridiculous face that had both kids giggling. In one shot, you weren’t even looking at the camera, just smiling down at the baby with this soft expression that made his chest ache.

You groaned, hiding your face in the pillow. “Oh god, I look ridiculous.”

“No,” he said immediately, voice low but certain. “You look… perfect.”

You peeked at him through your hair. “You’re just biased.”

“Damn right I am.” He smirked, then set the phone down and tugged you closer. “But I’m also right. I swear, seeing you like that… I’ve never wanted something so much.”

You bit back a smile, leaning into his side. “Careful, Norris. You already let it slip once today.”

He chuckled, kissing your hair. “Yeah, but this time I’m only saying it to you. And I mean it.”

You stayed like that — tangled together, the glow from his phone dimming as it slid onto the nightstand — with the unspoken truth hanging comfortably between you: one day, maybe.

Pairing: Lando x Reader

Title: "Peas and Quiet" Blurb: She was just there to clean the penthouse — but when Lando comes home a day early, “in and out like a ghost” turns into frozen peas.

The Monaco summer heat didn’t just creep in — it moved in rent-free and refused to leave. Even the penthouse’s air conditioning felt like it was barely hanging on. You’d dressed for survival: high-waisted legging shorts, a slouchy oversized T-shirt with a cartoon avocado doing yoga… complete with two perfectly round little butt cheeks.

Not exactly the kind of outfit you’d wear if you thought you’d be meeting anyone.

It was your last job before the weekend — a full deep-clean before the client returned tomorrow. Whoever he was, you’d never met him. The place was gorgeous but impersonal, like a designer showroom with a suspiciously overstocked fridge of coconut water. You’d been cleaning it for months without ever seeing a soul.

In and out like a ghost — that was the rule.

With your headset blasting music, you danced through the job, vacuum hose in one hand, spray bottle in the other. A little shimmy into the hallway, a spin into the bathroom — who cared? No one was watching.

Except someone was.

Lando had landed in Monaco earlier than expected, dragging his carry-on through the door with a sigh of relief. He peeled off his shirt almost immediately, tossing it over a chair, and padded toward the bathroom, already picturing the shower.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

There was a girl in there — attractive, hips swaying to music only she could hear, leggings hugging her just right, that ridiculous avocado shirt stretched across her back… with cartoon butt cheeks staring right at him. His mouth twitched.

His gaze flicked down, then back up, taking in the cleaner’s kit on the counter, the vacuum cord trailing across the floor. Ah. The cleaner.

Still… not a bad sight to come home to.

“Uh—hello?” he called, but the music drowned him out.

He tried again, louder. “Hey! Excuse me—”

You turned — and froze. There was a shirtless man in the doorway. A shirtless, abs-for-days man.

You screamed, stumbling backward into the empty tub. The shower curtain rod came down in a metallic crash, smacking you on the head before tangling you in vinyl.

“Oh my god—woah!” He was beside you instantly, crouching in the tub, all warm tan skin and perfectly defined abs right in your line of sight. “I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

You groaned, clutching your head. “Who the hell are you?!”

“I live here,” he said quickly, lifting the curtain off you. “And I’m guessing you’re my cleaner?”

You narrowed your eyes, still trying not to stare at his stomach. “Usually you’re not here when I’m here.”

“Usually I don’t walk in on someone disco dancing with a vacuum,” he teased, though his expression softened when you winced again. “Does it hurt? Come on, sit down — I’ll get ice.”

Moments later you were on his couch, a bag of frozen peas pressed to your head, with him sitting across from you — still shirtless, still far too good-looking for your peace of mind.

“I’m really sorry,” he said for the fifth time, leaning forward.

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “Bruised pride more than anything.”

The front door opened before he could reply.

Two men walked in — Oscar Piastri and Carlos Sainz, mid-conversation until they clocked the scene: you with peas on your head, Lando shirtless in front of you.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What… did you do to her?”

Oscar tilted his head. “And why are you shirtless?”

Lando looked instantly defensive. “I didn’t do anything! She’s my cleaner, and I startled her. She fell in the tub. And I’m shirtless because… I was about to shower.”

Oscar smirked. “Sure. That’s all it was.”

Carlos’s gaze flicked to your shirt. “Is that an avocado doing yoga? With… butt cheeks?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “It’s laundry day,” you said quickly.

Carlos grinned. “Classic. So… what’s it like cleaning this guy’s place?” He gestured to Lando.

You hesitated. “…Not as bad as I expected?”

Oscar grinned. “What’s the grossest thing you’ve found here?”

You glanced at Lando, then deadpanned, “Three-week-old protein shake in a blender. I think it was… alive.”

Carlos groaned. “That sounds about right.”

You got to your feet, muttering something about finishing the bathroom, and slipped away — still very aware of Lando’s eyes following you.

The second you were gone; Carlos and Oscar turned to him with identical grins.

Carlos smirked. “Mate, you wanted to bang her so badly you had to involve the shower curtain rod? Bit aggressive.”

Oscar snorted. “Yeah, next time maybe just ask for her number instead of causing a head injury.”

“Shut up,” Lando muttered, trying not to smile.

“She’s attractive, though,” Carlos said, leaning against the counter. “If I were you? I’d get in there with a drink. Something for the trouble.”

Oscar nodded toward the fridge. “At least give her lemonade. She took a rod to the skull because of you.”

Lando rolled his eyes — but two minutes later, he was knocking on the bathroom door with a tall glass of iced lemonade in hand.

“You look like you could use this,” he said, offering it out.

You took it reluctantly. “…Thanks.”

He lingered while you sipped, leaning casually against the doorframe. “So… dinner? Coffee? Something that doesn’t involve head injuries?”

You gave him a look over your shoulder. “You’re assuming there will be a next time.”

“I’m hoping there will be,” he said, smiling that boyish smile that was probably illegal.

You left a short while later, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of the morning. The second you stepped onto the street, your phone buzzed — a text from your boss.

Boss: What did you do? The client just sent through payment with a HUGE tip… and requested to hire you for daily upkeep.

You were still staring at the screen when another notification popped up — an unfamiliar number.

Unknown Number: You forgot your peas.🫛

Your brow furrowed, and then you realized who it was.

You: Pretty sure they were your peas.

Unknown Number: They were a gift.

You: From a man who nearly gave me a heart attack? Generous.

Unknown Number: I also saved you from being crushed to death by a shower curtain. You’re welcome.

You: That was after you caused the problem.

A pause, then another message:

Unknown Number: I’d like to make it up to you. Dinner tomorrow? I’ll even wear a shirt this time.

You bit your lip, typing slowly.

You: I’ll think about it.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Unknown Number: Daily upkeep, right? Means I’ll get another chance to ask.

You stared at the message, biting back the smile threatening to spread across your face.

Authors Note: Part two finally out! Hope y’all like it! Soz if there are mistakes, I’ve been exhausted lately xX

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader Word Count: 3.6k

<<< Chapter 1

Miami was loud in every possible way. The engines were one thing, but the city had its own pulse—bass-heavy music spilling from open doors, helicopters chopping the air above, the scent of fried food and sunscreen clinging stubbornly to the humidity. Even the hospitality suite felt brighter, busier, more restless than usual.

You’d worked this job long enough to get used to the chaos. But Miami pressed in on you differently—the heat sticking your shirt to your back, the clatter of cutlery on porcelain, the steady stream of VIPs who thought a smile was optional when ordering.

Somewhere in that noise, you spotted him.

Lando.

Cap backwards, sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his McLaren kit, curls damp from either the Florida humidity or some brutal morning training. He was grinning before he’d even reached the counter, like this was the part of his day he’d been waiting for.

“Anything ice-cold back there.” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter.

You held up a sweating bottle of water. “Always. But it’s for drivers only.”

He smirked.

“Good thing I qualify,” he replied, taking it from your hand—fingers brushing yours in a way that made your chest tighten for reasons you refused to examine.

As he twisted the cap open, his eyes flicked to yours. “You gonna watch practice?”

“Of course,” you said lightly, like it wasn’t the truth every single time.

He grinned. “Knew I could count on you.”

It was nothing. It was always nothing.

Except… maybe it wasn’t.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Oscar glancing between you as he walked past, helmet bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t comment—just raised his brows like he’d seen something worth filing away before disappearing toward the driver’s room.

Maggie, of course, was less subtle.

By the time you turned back, she was at the counter, smirking like a cat that had caught a mouse.

“What?” you asked, already bracing yourself.

“Nothing,” she said, which in Maggie-speak meant everything. “Just nice to see the boy wonder knows where the real VIP section is.”

You rolled your eyes, fussing with the espresso machine. “It’s called customer service.”

“Mm-hmm,” she drawled, making it sound like the least believable thing she’d ever heard.

Later, when the rush died down and you were restocking pastries, your thoughts betrayed you.

Was it stupid? That small thrill when you saw him walk in. The way you replayed conversations in your head, wondering if he meant something more. You weren’t supposed to stand out here—you were background. A piece of set dressing in the endless travelling circus that was Formula 1.

Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you wanted to be noticed so badly you’d convinced yourself he saw you differently.

And yet—

When he came back after FP2, hair a mess, face flushed, and spotted you instantly across the room—ignoring everyone else to head straight for the counter—you felt that dangerous flicker again.

“Think you could sneak me one of those muffins before they disappear?” he asked, voice low, just for you.

Without thinking, you slid one to him over the counter.

“Were you watching?” he added, halfway through peeling the wrapper.

“Obviously,” you said, smiling before you could stop yourself. “Sector two was nice.”

He grinned. “I knew that was you on the timing screens, willing it faster.”

“Like a lucky charm.” You tested.

His grin widened, boyish and easy, and your stomach betrayed you completely.

From the far end of the counter, Maggie caught your eye and mouthed, Uh-huh.

Saturday, after qualifying

The sun dipped low, washing the paddock in gold and shadow. McLaren’s quali had been decent—not perfect, but respectable. You were clearing away empty glasses when someone stepped up beside you.

Oscar.

He didn’t speak right away, just leaned against the counter, hands buried in his pockets like he was weighing his words.

“You and Lando seem… friendly,” he said finally, his tone mild but pointed enough to make your stomach turn.

You frowned. “We work in the same paddock. Everyone’s friendly.”

He gave you a look that said he wasn’t buying it. “Right. Friendly.”

Before you could reply, Maggie appeared with a tray of clean cups. “Oh, Oscar, don’t start. She’s in denial—let her live there a little longer.”

“Maggie!” you hissed, heat rushing to your face.

Oscar smirked, shaking his head. “Got it. Denial. Noted.” He pushed off the counter, strolling toward the driver’s room. Over his shoulder, he tossed, “Careful—you sure you want to open that door?”

You pressed your lips together, pretending you didn’t understand exactly what he meant.

By the time the last generator hummed low and the fan zone music had faded, the paddock was nearly still. You and Maggie wiped down counters, stacked cups, and clicked off the espresso machine in practiced silence.

Outside, the air was cooler, sea salt mingling faintly with asphalt. You locked the hospitality doors and fell into step beside her.

“I’m so fucked,” you murmured.

Maggie arched a brow. “Define fucked.”

You exhaled. “What do I do?”

Her mouth twitched. “About the fact you’ve got it bad for a certain papaya-clad menace? Admit it to yourself first. Then maybe—maybe—do something about it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach still flipped.

“Fine,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “If I see him tonight—which I won’t—I’ll tell him.” You said it like you were daring yourself. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Sure you will,” she teased.

The paddock was all long shadows and echoing footsteps when you heard another set behind you.

You both turned.

Lando. Cap backwards, hoodie loose over his race kit bottoms, faint smile tugging at his mouth when he saw you.

“Hey. You leaving?” His gaze flicked to Maggie, but landed—and stayed—on you. “I’m heading to the parking garage. I can walk you.”

“Sure,” you said, hoping your pulse didn’t give you away.

You’d barely made it ten steps before Maggie stopped. “Crap—I forgot something back at the suite. Go on without me.”

You shot her a glare. Little shit. She just smirked and turned back, leaving you and Lando in the quiet.

For a few moments, it was just the sound of your shoes on asphalt.

“Long day?” he asked, glancing over.

“Always,” you smiled faintly. “You?”

“Not bad. Did better, but…” he shrugged, “at least I didn’t bin it into Turn 14 like yesterday.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, that wasn’t your best moment.”

“Ruthless,” he grinned. Then, almost as an afterthought: “So… did you watch?”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Start was messy, but you pulled it back.”

He gave you that warm, almost shy smile you weren’t used to seeing from him. “Guess I’ve got to keep earning your approval.”

The conversation stayed light—jokes about the hospitality food, him teasing you for not saving pastries, you accusing him of never paying for the ones he stole. But beneath it, something tighter wound itself between you. Your mind was racing trying to decide when it’s the best time to tell him.

Before you knew it, you were at your car.

He lingered, hands in his hoodie pocket. “Well… guess this is you.”

Your chance. Just say it. ‘I like you.’

Instead: “Thanks for walking me.”

His smile warmed, slow and genuine. “Anytime.”

“G’night!” you blurted.

“Night.”

You shut the door before you could change your mind, watching him walk back toward the garage in your rearview mirror—like a chance you’d just let pass by.

Sunday — Race Day

Miami woke up hot.

The kind of heat that didn’t wait until midday to punch you in the chest — it was already there when you stepped out of the hotel, clinging to your skin before you even hit the paddock.

Race day heat was different.

The air was thicker, charged with the kind of tension that sat in your bones. The streets around Hard Rock Stadium were already a sea of fans in orange bucket hats, the hum of engines and music bleeding into the humid morning air.

You’d barely stepped into hospitality when Maggie pounced.

“Well, well, sunshine,” she sing-songed, sidling up beside you as you restocked the croissant tray. “How was your romantic moonlit walk last night?”

You gave her a flat look. “We walked to the parking garage, Maggie.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, like that somehow made it more romantic. “And? You tell him?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “No.”

Her gasp was loud enough that one of the McLaren engineers looked over. “You what? Why! You literally said — and I quote — ‘if I see him tonight, I’ll tell him.’ And then you saw him.”

Because it’s complicated. Because you weren’t sure. Because the words felt too heavy in your mouth.

You shrugged instead. “I panicked, okay?” you muttered. “I said thank you and goodnight. Look, even if I had said it, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?” she asked, genuinely confused now.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “Because I’m not… y’know. I’m not glitz and glamour. I’m not one of those people who gets photographed walking into the paddock with perfect hair and a designer bag. I’m the one pouring their coffee. I’m background. And guys like him…” You trailed off, shaking your head again. “They don’t stick around for background characters.”

Maggie’s expression softened. “Classic. Y/N the Heartbreaker strikes again — except you’re breaking your own heart.”

You threw a dish towel at her. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do... Just don’t wait so long that the window shuts” she said, starting to line up pastries.

“Yea, yea.” You sighed, trying to busy yourself with stocking cups —like the conversation hadn’t just scraped something raw. But your mind kept skipping — flashes of last night’s walk, the way he’d glanced sideways at you under the dim paddock lights. It was harmless, you told yourself. He was just being nice.

Maggie laughed softly, shaking her head at you.

“What!” you said feeling embarrassed about how well your friend could read you.

She groaned like you’d ruined her favorite TV show. “You had one job, y/n!”

Before you could defend yourself, a burst of laughter erupted from the crew table, and you caught yourself scanning the crowd.

Lando’s POV

Across the room, Lando’s voice carried in bursts—laughter with a mechanic, a quick word with Zak. He caught sight of you once, and for a second, the grin faltered. Not because he didn’t want to see you—quite the opposite. But the more he liked you, the more a quiet, unwelcome thought crept in: you don’t need my kind of trouble.

He turned back to Zak before you could notice.

A moment later, he laughed at something one of the mechanics said, but his eyes kept drifting toward the counter. Toward you.

You looked busy—head down, hands moving, Maggie talking animatedly beside you. But there was a tightness in your posture he couldn’t name, like whatever Maggie had said had settled wrong in your chest.

He knew he should stay focused. It was race day. He should be thinking about strategy, tyres, his start. But instead, he caught himself wondering—again—if talking to you more would make you smile the way you had last night… or if it would just drag you into the kind of circus you didn’t deserve.

It was easy to imagine the headlines, the noise, the pressure. You didn’t need that. And he didn’t trust himself not to be selfish about it.

So, he stayed where he was, letting you finish whatever Maggie was saying without interrupting. Still, when you glanced up for half a second, he was already looking.

When he finally made his way over, it was mid-morning. Race suit half-unzipped to the waist, fireproof top clinging to him in the Miami heat. He was mid-conversation with Oscar when he saw you.

The grin this time was instant, like you were the only person in the room, and your stomach twisted.

“Morning.”

“You’re early,” you said, sliding him a bottle of water before he could even ask.

“Am I?” He leaned against the counter, unbothered by the heat or the chaos outside. “Maybe I just wanted to see you before the race.”

You pretended to busy yourself with the pastry display, but your hands were clumsy, and you could feel Maggie’s stare burning into the side of your head, silently trying to will you to tell him.

Before you could, a call crackled over his radio, and he was gone—walking backwards for three steps just to ask, “So… will you be watching?”.

Your mouth opened, closed. You nodded, which earned you one last smile before he disappeared toward the garage.

By the time the national anthem echoed through the paddock and the drivers were heading to the grid, you were still rattled.

Maybe Oscar was right. Maybe you weren’t ready to open that door.

Lando’s POV

Something was… off.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Y/N was quieter today. Not in the busy-hospitality, pre-race chaos way. Not in the Maggie-stole-my-favourite-pen way.

More like she was somewhere else entirely, head full of things she wasn’t saying.

And maybe that shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.

But it did.

He’d been thinking about last night more than he’d admit. That walk to the parking garage — Maggie disappearing halfway, leaving just the two of them. You looked like you wanted to say something. He was sure of it. The way your lips parted, the little crease in your brow.

And then… just a thank you and a goodnight.

It shouldn’t have stung. But it did.

Between pre-race meetings, the driver parade, and media duties, he caught himself looking for you — at the counter, in the corner of hospitality, walking with Maggie toward the paddock gates.

Each time, you smiled. Each time, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He told himself not to overthink it. But he knew what the problem might be.

Maybe I’ve been too much.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the fallout if there was something between you — fans dissecting every glance, reporters sniffing for a story, Zak pissed he was mixing work with… whatever this was. The power dynamic alone would make it a PR nightmare.

It was enough to make him wonder if it’d be kinder to just… step back.

But then, in the driver’s room, Oscar walked in, phone in hand, and Lando found himself blurting, “Hey — uh — you think I’m annoying?”

Oscar looked up slowly. “…Yes?”

“No, I mean—” Lando huffed out a laugh. “Not you annoying. Like… do you think I’m too much? Around people?”

Oscar leaned against the wall. “This about Y/N?”

Lando’s silence was all the answer he needed.

Oscar shrugged. “She doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, she’s the one in her head.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look,” Oscar cut in, “if you’re worried about her, just… talk to her. You’re both walking around like it’s the final lap and nobody wants to pit.”

Lando gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Later — Post-Race, Miami

It was perfect— Oscar P1, Lando P2. A midfield fight, a few overtakes, a finish that was headline-grabbing and solid. Another McLaren double podium for the season. On paper, anyway.

By the time the champagne had been sprayed and the team debrief wrapped, most of the hospitality crowd had thinned. You were wiping down the last few tables when he appeared—hair damp from the post-race shower, race suit swapped for a team tee and joggers.

“You closing up?” he asked, leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Pretty much,” you said. “Congrats on the points.”

He gave a half-shrug, like P2 wasn’t what he’d wanted but he’d take it. “P2, easy peazy… but, hey—” His eyes caught yours, the corner of his mouth curving. “Did you watch?”

For a second, you thought about all the things you hadn’t said last night. All the reasons you’d told yourself it wasn’t the right time. But mostly, you thought about how you were just the girl behind the counter—coffee stains on your sleeves, hair pulled back because it got in the way—not the kind of girl who ended up in his story. Not the kind of girl who stayed in his orbit once the paddock lights went out.

Still, you didn’t even try to hide the smile. “From lights out to checkered flag.”

Something in his expression shifted—softened—like the noise of Miami fell away. Maybe he’d been waiting to hear you say it. Maybe it was proof you still cared, even if neither of you was saying as much out loud.

“Good,” he said quietly, like it mattered more than he’d admit. And maybe it did.

He straightened, tapping the counter lightly before turning to leave. You watched him go, feeling that same tug from last night—the almost. The window you weren’t sure was still open.

Halfway to the door, he glanced back. Just once. Long enough for your chest to tighten. Long enough for him to think, if she wanted this, she’d say it. Long enough for you to think, if he wanted this, he’d stay.

Then the moment was gone.

He was gone.

Lando’s POV

Lando walked out of the restaurant with that restless ache sitting low in his chest, the kind that made the night air feel heavier. He’d walked you to your car the night before, convinced—absolutely convinced—you were about to say something. When you didn’t, he’d told himself not to push. Not to ruin the comfortable, fragile thing between you.

But tonight, during the dinner, after an hour of polite smiles, clipped conversation, and avoiding each other’s gaze for longer than a few seconds, it felt like that invisible door had closed.

He left the team dinner early. Said he was tired, that he needed an early night. Truth was, he couldn’t stand the thought of sitting there for another hour pretending nothing was off.

The Miami air wrapped around him as soon as he stepped outside—warm, thick with salt from the ocean and exhaust from the traffic still pulsing through the city. He didn’t go back to the hotel. He just… walked.

By the time he looked up again, the neon glow of a rooftop bar was calling him in, bass already rattling through the sidewalk. He climbed the stairs into a haze of strobe lights and cigar smoke, the skyline stretching out like a glittering ocean beyond the glass railings. Drinks were already in people’s hands. Laughter cut through the music like broken glass.

One drink turned into three before he even thought about leaving. The alcohol smoothed the edges in his mind, just enough to stop thinking about the way you’d looked at him earlier—like you wanted to say something and decided against it.

That was when she appeared. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Her perfume hit before her smile did—sweet, sharp, expensive. She leaned into his ear to say something, voice drowned by the music, but he smiled anyway. Because she was pretty. Because she was easy. Because she was not you.

And maybe that was the point.

She laughed at something he didn’t hear, touching his arm in a way that told him she’d done this before. He let himself kiss her, tasting nothing but vodka and the intent to forget. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of the flash. A camera. Maybe two. He didn’t pull away.

If the world wanted a headline, he’d give them one. Let them see it.

Let it be a mistake.

Y/N’s POV — Later That Night

Your hotel room was quiet except for the low hum of the AC. You sat curled beneath the covers, hair damp and skin still warm from the shower, scrolling through your phone without really taking anything in. It was supposed to be mindless—just a distraction before you finally got some sleep.

But then you saw it.

A trending tag. His name.

You told yourself you didn’t need to click. That whatever it was, it wasn’t your business. Your thumb tapped anyway.

The first photo was grainy, shot through the blur of a crowd, but you’d know him anywhere—Lando at a Miami rooftop, the city skyline behind him like a postcard. The next was sharper. His smile turned toward a blonde in a low-cut dress, her hand on his arm like it belonged there. Then another. And another. One of them kissing, lit by the harsh, unflinching glare of a camera flash.

You stared until the photos blurred into a wash of color.

Your chest felt hollow, like someone had taken something out of you and left nothing in its place. The AC hummed on, too loud now, the sheets too heavy and the air far too warm. You set your phone down slowly, deliberately, as if it might burn you if you held on too long. But it didn’t matter—the images were already burned into your mind.

You pulled the covers tighter around yourself, curling in smaller, like you could block the world out.

You told yourself you didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. That he could kiss whoever he wanted.

You told yourself again.

And again.

But each time, the lie broke a little more, until all you were left with was the truth— you cared. You cared so much it hurt.