i can't stop thinking about you- LN4
SUMMARY: You end up spending the night with Lando after you ghosted him
FEATURING: Reader x Lando Norris
WARNINGS: Mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of sexual themes
The bass feels like a second heartbeat. It thuds up through the floor, rattles your drink, makes the lights strobe in your chest. The club smells of citrus and sweat, the kind of mix that only ever exists near the Riviera. Youâre leaning on a velvet rail with your three friends, all laughter and too much perfume.
âAnother round,â one of them says, already waving to the bartender.
Youâve lost track of how many youâve had. Enough that the edges of the night are blurred. Enough that even though you're not a clubbing person, you have turned in to one for the night.
Someone shouts a story about the beach earlier, another jokes about the yacht guy who tried to flirt with your friend in Italian. She doesn't speak Italian. You laugh because everything feels easy here: the gold light, the glasses clinking, the idea that you are somewhere else, someone else.
Two of them give up around one. âWeâre dying,â one yells, heels already dangling from her hand. They kiss your cheeks and vanish into the lights. That leaves you and your last remaining partner in crimeâyour boldest friend, the one who never ends the night early or alone.
âAnother?â she asks, pointing to your glass.
You nod, maybe too eagerly, the bubbles sting your throat. The DJ switches to something older, something you know, and you shout along to the chorus, off-key.
When the song fades, your friendâs leaning close to a tall guy at the bar. Heâs all easy grin and cuffed sleeves. Of course she finds him; she always finds a guy. You watch them talk, her hand brushing his arm, and you already know how this ends.
She comes back ten minutes later, lipstick smudged, smiling like she won something. âHeâs staying just up the hill,â she says. âBut Iâm not leaving youââ
You wave her off, words spilling too fast. âIâm fine. Totally fine. Go have fun, you slut.â
She frowns. âYou sure? You can come along, you couldââ
You laugh too loud. âGod, no, I'd rather die. Iâm good. Iâll finish this, then stumble to the hotel like a responsible adult I am.â
She hesitates for another heartbeat, then hugs you and disappears into the crowd with him.
You last three songs before realizing youâre an idiot.
Your walletâyour card, your hotel keyâare all in her bag. You dig through your pockets like maybe theyâll appear if you just try hard enough. Nothing. You mutter something that wouldâve earned a stern look from your mother.
Outside, the air hits cold and sharp. The street glows in that Monaco way: clean, rich, beautiful. You lean against the wall, shoes biting at your heels, and let the world wobble around you.
Your phone feels heavy. You scroll aimlessly, half-hoping someone will magically appear to solve this. The contact list swims a little, but one name catches you anyway.
You shouldnât. You really shouldnât.
Itâs been months since you last saw Lando. Youâd met through friendsâhe was all easy jokes and smiles, the kind of charm that felt dangerous. For a while it was somethingâdinners, late night drives, that almost-more space that never got quite there. Then the warnings came: heâs fun but he'll break your heart, heâs like that with everyone. Youâd believed them, or at least youâd let them scare you. So you ghosted him.
He never knew why. You never told him.
And now youâre drunk in Monaco with no wallet, calling him at three in the morning. Perfect.
He sounds half-asleep. âHello?â
âHi,â you say, too brightly. âYouâre awake.â
âI am now.â Thereâs a rustle of sheets. âWho isâwait, huh?â
âYeah. Sorry. Itâs me. Donât hang up.â
A pause, âYouâre slurring.â
âIâm notâokay, maybe a little. Iâm fine. Totally fine. Just mildly lost and kind of broke.â
âOutsideâuhâLe Mirage?â
He exhales. âYou alone?â
You look around. âDefine alone.â
âStay there. Iâm coming.â
âLando, you donât have toââ
You stare at the screen, then at the sea, then at your shoes, trying to remember which direction the hotel even is. The world tilts again when you move, so you sit down on the low curb and let the cold pavement steady you.
Youâre halfway through texting your friend a string of incoherent vowels when headlights wash over you. A black McLaren slides to a stop, low and quiet like a cat stretching. The window drops.
Heâs thereâhoodie, grey joggers, curls everywhere, face soft with sleep. He looks unfairly good for someone you woke in the middle of the night.
You try to stand too fast. The world dips. His door opens before you can protest, and heâs already out, steadying you with one hand at your elbow.
âWhoa,â he says, half-amused, half-worried. âEasy.â
You blink up at him, cheeks hot. âIâm perfectly stable.â
He laughs, low and quiet, and guides you to the passenger side. You sink into the seat, everything suddenly softer, warmer. The car smells like himâclean and minty and faintly like his perfume.
He looks at you for a moment before starting the engine. âYour friends really left you alone?â
âNot on purpose. She met a guy. Happens, m'happy for her."
He shakes his head. âStill, she shouldn't leave you alone just cause she found a guy to bounce on. You shouldn't wander here alone this late.â
âWasnât wandering. Was⌠sitting decoratively.â
That earns another small laugh. âYou always get this talkative when you drink?â
âOnly when I call people I ghosted,â you mumble.
He glances over, eyebrows up. âAhh, so weâre acknowledging that.â
You sigh. âMight as well. Liquid courage.â
The city slides pastâreflections on the water and empty sidewalks. You watch him drive, the way his hands move easy on the wheel, the way his jaw tightens when heâs thinking.
âI really am sorry,â you say after a while. âAbout⌠disappearing.â
He hums, not looking over. âYou had your reasons.â
âYeah, but I never told you what they were.â
He glances at you then, eyes flicking quick between the road and your face. âYou didnât owe me that.â
âI wanted to,â you admit. âI justâpeople said things about you.â
A corner of his mouth lifts. âLet me guess. That Iâm terrible news.â
You stay quiet. Thatâs enough of an answer.
He sighs, the sound halfway between annoyance and resignation. âTheyâre not wrong, you know. I used to be. Maybe still am a bit.â
âMaybe,â you echo, soft.
Another silence. Outside, the sea flashes silver. Inside, the heater hums.
He says finally, âYou couldâve told me.â
He nods once, eyes on the road again. âNext time, just tell me, yeah?â
He smirks. âAssuming you keep losing your wallet, thereâll be a next time.â
You laugh, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. âYouâre very smug for someone who looks like a homeless bum.â
âComfort over fashion. You should try it.â
âIâm a vision,â you protest, looking down at your crumpled dress.
âA very drunk vision,â he says, but his voice is warm.
You rest your head against the window, watching the city thin into quieter streets. The hum of the car, his voice, the faint salt smell through the ventsâit all blurs together.
âThanks for coming,â you say, eyes half-closed.
He glances at you, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. âYeah. Anytime.â
You can feel the road turning beneath you, the lights flicking past. His fingers tap once on the steering wheel in rhythm with the music playing low on the radio.
Without thinking, you mumble, âYou still drive too fast.â
He chuckles. âYou worry too much.â
âŠâË.ââžââşâ⧠âŠâË.ââžââşââ§
âYouâre telling me I canât go up?â
The poor man behind the front desk straightens a little. âWithout a room key, mademoiselle, I am afraid not.â His French accent makes it sound like a line from a film.
You blink at him, trying to look serious. âBut I am the person staying in the room. Seeââ You pat your pockets, then hold up your empty hands. âOkay, as we established, I don't have the key.â
Lando is standing just behind you, hands in his hoodie pocket, expression hovering somewhere between amusement and disbelief. âShe really is staying here,â he says, leaning against the counter. âShe just lost her key.â
The clerk looks from him to you. âIf she can contact one of her roommates, they can confirm, yes?â
âTotally,â you say, already fumbling for your phone. âThey love me. They'll answer instantly.â You stab at the screen. One ring. Two. Voicemail. You try another. Then another. All straight to voicemail. You glare at the phone like it betrayed you personally. âTheyâre unconscious.â
The clerk gives a small, polite smile that means still no. âI am very sorry, madame.â
Lando sighs, a sound thatâs half laugh. âRight. Come on.â
âMy place,â he says simply, steering you toward the door.
âI already have a place to stay,â you protest, tripping slightly on the carpet.
âYeah, and which you're not getting in tonight."
The night outside has gone quieter, softer. The streets glimmer damp beneath the lights. He opens the passenger door for you again. âYou can crash at mine,â he says. "There's a couch."
You cross your arms. âI donât want to intrude.â
âToo late. You already woke me up in the middle of the night, made me drive across town, and had me argue with a receptionist in three languages. Intrusion achieved.â
You try to glare, âFine.â
His place is a few streets away from the harborâmodern, clean, more lived-in than you expected. The air smells faintly of coffee and the ocean through open windows.
âShoes off,â he says as you stumble inside. âYouâre going to face-plant.â
You obey, kicking off your heels with exaggerated care. They skid halfway across the floor. âSee? Perfect control.â
âUh-huh.â He disappears down the hallway and returns with a black T-shirt. âYou can borrow this. Youâll be more comfortable than in that dress.â
You hold it up by the shoulders. âThis is huge.â
âThatâs the point.â
You squint at him. âYou sure youâre not just trying to get your merch in the wild again?â
He laughs, rubbing a hand through his curls. âPlease, itâs laundry day, not marketing.â
You duck into the bathroom to change. The cottonâs soft and smells faintly like his detergentâclean, crisp, something unfamiliar that makes your chest tighten for a reason you donât want to examine. When you emerge, heâs turned down the bed.
âYou said couch,â you remind him.
âChanged my mind. You take the bed. Iâll take the couch.â
You shake your head, swaying slightly. âDonât be ridiculous. Itâs your bed.â
âFine,â he says, deadpan. âWeâll share.â
That makes you blink. âShare?â
He lifts an eyebrow. âItâs big enough. Promise I'll snore on the other side.â
You study him, trying to read if heâs joking. He isâbut also isnât. And youâre too tired to argue.
âOkay,â you mumble, crawling onto one side. You start gathering pillows, stacking them between you in a sloppy wall.
He watches, amused. âWow. What kind of rumors did you hear about me to need a barrier?â
You grin sleepily. âAll the best ones.â
âThat youâre a menace. And that your bed is cursed.â
He laughs, genuine and startled. âCursed?â
âApparently.â You flop onto your pillow fortress, hair spilling across your face. âIf I wake up with regret, Iâll know itâs true.â
For a moment he just looks at you, still grinning. Then his voice softens. âSeriously, though. What did you hear?â
You hesitate, the buzz in your head slowing just enough to let honesty in. âThat you have⌠a rotation,â you say carefully. âDifferent girls in different cities. That you donât really do serious.â
He leans back against the headboard, silent for a second. âFair,â he says at last. âWasnât exactly a secret back then.â
You peek over a pillow. âBack then?â
He nods. âYeah. I was twenty-something, stupid, busy convincing myself I didnât care about anyone. It was easier.â He shrugs, eyes on the ceiling. âThen you showed up. And I thought, maybe I could try caring for real.â
You blink. The room tilts again, but not from the alcohol this time. âYou donât have to say that,â you murmur.
âIâm not saying it to make you feel better,â he says quietly. âI just wish youâd asked instead of disappearing.â
You hug a pillow to your chest. âI thought I was saving myself the trouble.â
He smiles without humor. âDid it work?â
âNo.â You yawn, the edge of exhaustion finally hitting. âTurns out trouble follows me anyway.â
He chuckles softly. âSeems so.â
The quiet stretches between you, filled with the hum of the city outside and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment. You feel the weight of the day catch up, heavy and warm.
âHey,â he says after a while, voice low. âYou should sleep. We can figure everything out in the morning.â
You nod, already half-gone, eyes closing against the dim light. âLando?â
âSorry I ghosted you.â
His reply is soft. âYeah. Me too.â
The words fade into the sound of his breathing. You drift, the alcohol ebbing, your mind floating somewhere between guilt and comfort.
Half-asleep, you mumble, âFor what itâs worth⌠I still like you.â
He doesnât answer right away. Maybe he thinks youâre too far gone to remember saying it. When he finally speaks, itâs barely above a whisper. âI know.â
The last thing you feel is the mattress shifting slightly as he turns off the light, and the warmth that lingers where his voice was.
âŠâË.ââžââşâ⧠âŠâË.ââžââşââ§
Your phone is screaming before your brain is awake enough to care.
A dozen buzzes, one after another, drilling through the cottony fog in your skull. You pry open an eye. Morning sunlight is stabbing through the curtains, bright enough to make you groan.
You squint at the screen. Twelve missed calls, fourteen messages, andâoh, Godâone photo you donât remember taking. The group chat is a battlefield of punctuation and panic.
where ARE you
are u alive
did u get kidnapped by yacht guy
why did u text âgon wiht lano?â who the fuck is lano?????
You stare at the last one.
You meant gone with Lando, obviously. The drunken typo makes it sound like you joined a freaking cult.
A groan comes from next to you. You glance over. Landoâs sprawled on his stomach, hair a complete riot, half the blanket on the floor. He looks so peacefully asleep that you briefly consider pretending to still be unconscious.
Your phone rings againâyour friendâs name flashing. You sigh and answer in a whisper. âIâm alive.â
You wince. âLong story. Iâm fine. Iâll explain at brunch.â
âYou sound hungover.â
âThatâs because I am.â
Lando stirs, stretching. His voice is rough, sleepy. âTell her Iâm charging a rescue-fee.â
âWho was that?â your friend shrieks through the phone.
You end the call before she combusts.
He cracks an eye open, amused. âMorning, trouble.â
You groan and pull the pillow over your face. âDonât. Iâm suffering.â
âGood sign. Means youâre alive.â He sits up, hair pointing in every direction, and rubs the back of his neck. âCoffee?â
The kitchen is bright and too clean. He hands you a mug big enough to hide behind. The smell of coffee almost fixes you.
You take a cautious sip. âYouâre disgustingly functional for someone who got no sleep.â
âProfessional skill.â
âOf course it is,â you mutter.
He leans against the counter, still in his hoodie, watching you over the rim of his mug. âFeeling better?â
âNot about to pass out on my floor?â
âBarely.â You look down at his T-shirt on youâit hangs to your thighs, soft and faintly creased. âThanks for the rescue. Again.â
He grins. âAnytime. Though next time, try keeping your ID somewhere on yourself.â
You make a face. âDonât start.â
For a minute, itâs quiet except for mugs clinking and the hum of the coffee machine. The awkwardness floats in, soft but obvious. You break it first. âSo⌠about last night.â
He raises an eyebrow. âWhich part? The hotel receptionist? The pillow fort? The part where you accused my bed of being cursed?â
You choke on coffee, laughing. âAll of the above.â
He smiles, but itâs gentler than teasing. âYou were funny.â
âYou mean a disaster.â
âAn entertaining disaster.â
You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeps in anyway.
By late morning youâve managed to shower and tame your hair. Landoâs waiting by the door, keys in hand.
âYou sure you donât want me to drop you somewhere less public?â
âBrunch,â you say firmly. âWith friends who think I died.â
The McLaren purrs to life, black paint catching the sunlight as you slide into the passenger seat again. You try to look composed, but the seatbelt still feels like an event.
He glances at you at a stoplight. âSo you up for a date?â
You turn, surprised. âWhat?â
âHard to forget when someone slurs that they like you before passing out.â
You groan. âOh God. Delete me.â
He laughs quietly. âIâm taking it as a yes.â
You stare out the window, hiding a smile. âMaybe I didnât mean it.â
âIâm willing to find out.â
The cafĂŠ is all wicker chairs and white umbrellas. Your friends are impossible to missâclustered on the terrace, sunglasses on, scanning the street like detectives.
âGood luck,â Lando mutters as he parks.
You glance at him; daylight is unfair to himâit catches in his curls, softens the tired edges. He looks put-together in that casual way that isnât fair to the rest of humanity.
He opens your door before you can. âYou sure youâll survive the interrogation?â
âDoubtful,â you mumble, stepping out and adjusting your bag.
âText me when theyâre done with you.â
âAssuming they let me keep my phone.â
He grins and pulls you into a quick hug. Itâs warm, easy, nothing overthoughtâexcept you can feel the flutter in your chest when he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
Itâs meant to be friendly. Probably.
Unfortunately, your friends have seen everything.
From the terrace, three pairs of sunglasses tilt in perfect synchronization. You can practically feel the collective gasp.
Lando steps back, still smiling. âSee you.â
âYeah.â You try not to look flustered.
As you walk toward the cafĂŠ, you can see their expressions shiftingâshock, glee, scandalized delight. Theyâre already whispering when you reach the table.
âExcuse me,â one says, leaning forward. âWas that Lando Norris?â
âLooked a lot like him,â another adds. âLooked like he just kissed you.â
You drop into your chair, groaning. âIt was a cheek kiss. And he rescued me, thatâs all.â
âOh, sure,â one says, grinning. âRescued you and tucked you into bed, huh?â
You shoot her a look. âYesâliterally. We slept. Like, actual sleeping. No verbs implied.â
They all exchange the same skeptical expression that says youâre not fooling anyone, and you throw your hands up. âYou people are hopeless.â
âHopelessly invested,â one corrects. âNow start from the beginning.â
You sigh, reaching for the menu. âFine. But Iâm eating first."
âYou need to explain everything. Start from when we left you.â
You groan, resting your elbows on the table. âOkay, fine. So, after you left, Miss Spontaneous hereââyou nod toward your friend, the one looking appropriately guiltyââvanished with Mr. Tall-and-Charming, and I realized too late that my wallet, my card, and the hotel key were all in your purse.â
âOh yes.â You take a sip of water before continuing. âSo Iâm stranded outside the club at two-something in the morning, slightly tipsy, very stupid. I scroll through my contacts andââ
âYou call him,â one friend finishes, already smirking.
You give her a flat look. âYes, I called him. Donât sound so smug. He was the only one awake enough to save me.â
âI mean, was he awake?â
âHe was when he answered,â you admit, which earns you laughter from all sides.
The food arrives as youâre halfway through describing the hotel situationâthe poor night clerk, your failed attempt at French, the sympathy in Landoâs voice as he decided, uninvited, that you were not capable of surviving the night alone.
âSo he took you back to his place?â
âYes. On a strictly humanitarian mission.â You slice into your toast pointedly. âHe gave me water, a T-shirt, and approximately three lectures on personal responsibility.â
You blink. âThen we went to sleep.â
They stare at you like youâve said something scientifically impossible.
âWhat?â you ask. âPeople sleep. Itâs a thing.â
âPeople donât usually sleep next to Lando Norris, I mean sure they do, after they've done something else.â one says, leaning in.
You roll your eyes, cheeks warming. âWell, nothing happened. We just talked. He wasââ You pause, looking for the right word. ââreally sweet, actually.âÂ
That earns a round of soft, knowing groans. âOh no,â one murmurs. âSheâs in danger and has been corrupted.â
âIâm not in danger and no one corrupted me.â
âYou are definitely in danger.â Another stabs her fork at you for emphasis. âHeâs devilishly handsome, and you know it.â
You laugh despite yourself. âYou make him sound like a cartoon villain.â
âHeâs charming enough to be one,â another adds. âThat smile? The curls? He could sell sin at wholesale prices.â
You choke on your coffee, laughing. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âWeâre just saying,â your friend says, softer now, âbe careful, yeah? Weâve all heard stories. Heâs nice, sure, but heâs also⌠him.â
âI know.â You toy with your napkin. âI heard the same things, remember? Thatâs why I disappeared the first time.â
They exchange looks. âAnd yetâŚâ
âAnd yet,â you echo quietly. âHe still came when I called and was in trouble.â
The table falls silent for a momentâjust the hum of other conversations and the clatter of cutlery.
Finally, your friend clears her throat. âMaybe heâs different now.â
âMaybe,â you say, uncertain but hopeful. âI guess Iâll find out.â
âAre you going to see him again?â
You hesitate, thinking of the drive over, the quiet between songs, the way heâd smiled. You can still feel that cheek kiss like it happened five seconds ago.
âYeah,â you admit. âI think so.â
âŠâË.ââžââşâ⧠âŠâË.ââžââşââ§
Youâve spent the whole week pretending not to check your phone.
Beach days, market mornings, long dinnersâevery time your friends pull out their cameras, you smile and keep smiling, but your mind wanders. He said weâll figure something out, and then the week vanished away.
Until today. The message comes while youâre packing.
7 pm? Dress nice.
Iâve got plans.
By the time the clock edges past seven, youâre standing outside the hotel, palms a little clammy, the evening light soft and gold. The car pulls up, low and familiar, and your heart does something unhelpful.
Lando steps out before you can wave. Heâs traded hoodies for a crisp white button-down and black jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show his wrists. Thereâs a small bouquet in his handâpale pink tulips, wrapped in brown paper.
You blink. âMy favorite.â
He looks suddenly self-conscious. âYou said once that they were."
âTheyâre perfect.â You take them carefully, the paper crinkling. âYou didnât have to.â
Itâs simple, but it makes something in your chest loosen.
The restaurant overlooks the harborâglass walls, candlelight, the kind of place that makes you sit up a little straighter. A waiter pulls out your chair; the sea glints dark beyond the windows.
He orders for both of you after asking what you like. You tease him for it, but youâre secretly gratefulâyour brain still stumbles over the French pronunciations.
Between sips of wine and shared bread, the conversation slides easily into the small things: how chaotic his scheduleâs been, how your friends canât go ten minutes without texting you and asking about the date.
âDo you ever stop moving?â you ask, smiling across the table.
He shrugs. âIâm trying. Maybe this is practice.â
âDinner with me is practice for rest?â
âSomething like that.â He smirks.
"I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing." You say with a small smile.
You laugh, the sound bouncing off the glass. The air feels comfortable, like youâve both agreed to leave the heavy things behind.
He tells you about a disastrous cooking attemptâsomething involving burnt pancakes and a smoke alarm. You tell him about your failed attempt at French slang that made a shopkeeper nearly cry.
By dessert, youâve stopped noticing how fancy everything is. Youâre just watching the way he gestures when he talks, the small scar on his nose, the way the candlelight flickers in his eyes.
Outside, the air has cooled. The harbor glows with reflectionsâboats rocking gently, strings of lights trembling on the water. He reaches for your hand almost absently, and you let him. His fingers are warm, steady.
You walk in silence for a while, heels clicking against the wooden boardwalk, the tulips now wrapped in a napkin and tucked safely under your arm.
He breaks the quiet first. âSo, did this count as a good date?â
You glance at him. âItâs not over yet I hope.â
âThat sounds promising.â
âItâs factual,â you say, trying not to grin. He chuckles under his breath.Â
The wind brushes against you, carrying salt and the faint buzz of music from a bar nearby. He stops walking, still holding your hand, and you turn toward him.
Thereâs that small, uncertain pauseâthe one that lives between maybe and almost.
His voice is quieter now. âCan Iâ?â
You know what he means. You can see it in the way heâs watching you, waiting for any hint of hesitation.
For a heartbeat, you think about every warning you heard, every reason you told yourself no. Then you think about him standing half-asleep in a hoodie, coming to get you at three a.m., holding tulips tonight because he remembered a throwaway conversation you had months ago.
The first kiss is carefulâsoft, unhurried, like heâs afraid to startle you. You can taste the wine on his lips, feel the faint tremor of his breath when he pulls back.
He starts to say somethingâprobably a joke, or maybe an apologyâbut you shake your head and kiss him again, surer this time. His hand finds the back of your neck, the other still holding yours. The world narrows to warmth and salt and the sound of water tapping the boats below.
When you finally break apart, he leans his forehead against yours, laughing quietly. âYouâre full of surprises.â
âSo are you,â you say, still catching your breath. âYou remembered the tulips.â
You smile, brushing your thumb along his wrist. âThis feels weirdly⌠normal.â
He grins. âThatâs the goal.â
You start walking again, hand in hand, your steps falling into rhythm. The city hums behind you, the sea murmuring in front.
âDo you think this could work?â you ask, half to yourself.
He squeezes your hand. âWe wonât know unless we try.â
You nod, smiling at the ground. âThatâs a very un-Lando answer.â
âMaybe Iâm evolving.â
âMaybe Iâm a good influence.â
By the time you reach the end of the pier, the world feels a little smaller and a lot simpler. You donât need to fill the silenceâitâs comfortable, finally.
You bump his shoulder lightly. âFor the record, this counts as a good date.â
He chuckles, eyes bright. âIâll settle for good.â
âŠâË.ââžââşâ⧠âŠâË.ââžââşââ§
Itâs been four months since Monaco, and the world feels both exactly the same and completely different.
The sun in Mexico City burns brighter, louder, heavier than any youâve known. The air is dry and electricâengines, music, and Spanish chatter bouncing off the grandstands. You tug at your team pass, the laminated badge catching the light, and smile every time you read the word Guest.
Officially, youâre his girlfriend now. Unofficially, you still wake up some mornings wondering if thatâs realâif this version of him, of you, of this, will hold.
Landoâs been on his best behavior. Not because you asked him to, but because he wants to. Youâve seen it in the small things: the late-night calls, the texts after practice, the way he always introduces you with quiet pride. Itâs been easyâmostly. Except for the small voice that sometimes whispers, People donât really change.
You tell that voice to shut up, but it lingers anyway.
Today, heâs untouchable. Leading every session, smiling that effortless grin that lights up cameras and makes the engineers grin back. You watch from the garage, headphones pressing tight against your ears as his voice crackles through the radio. He sounds calm, sharp. Happy.
When the practice ends, the cheers from the crowd roll like thunder. You watch him pull into the pit lane, climb out, the sunlight hitting his helmet just right. For a second, itâs impossible not to feel proudâlike some small part of his achievements belongs to you.
Later, you wait for him in the teamâs hospitality area, a shaded terrace draped in orange and chrome. The scent of food mingles with fuel and desert air. Your phone buzzes with a text.
on my way. donât eat all the tacos.
Youâre still smiling when you spot him rounding the corner, race suit half undone, hair damp with sweat. You waveâthen stop.
A group of womenâmodels, influencers, whoeverâhave intercepted him. Theyâre all sun-kissed skin and bright smiles, their lanyards gleaming with Paddock Club passes. Itâs not unusual. Youâve seen it before.
They crowd in, talking over each other. One touches his arm. Another laughs too loudly. You canât hear every word from where youâre sitting, but you donât have to. The scene is familiar enough to twist something small and unwelcome in your chest.
You force yourself to stay put. Don't be that person, you tell yourself. You trust him. You do.
Then you catch his voiceâclear, polite, firm.
âAppreciate the support, really,â he says, smiling just enough to be kind but not enough to invite more. âBut Iâm on a tight schedule, and my girlfriendâs waiting for me.â
You canât help itâyou smile. The word lands somewhere deep, quieting every little doubt.
He excuses himself gently and strides toward you, shaking his head like heâs half amused, half exasperated. When he reaches the table, he leans down, presses a quick kiss to your lips.
âSorry,â he murmurs. âFan ambush.â
âLooked intense,â you say, trying for casual.
âTheyâre harmless.â He grins. âGood at blocking doorways, though.â
You hand him a glass of water. âOccupational hazard.â
âJealous?â he teases, eyes flicking up.
âMaybe,â you admit, smirking. âTiny bit.â
He laughs, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. âDonât be. I told youâIâm a new man.â
He squeezes your hand once before letting go to grab a plate.
You both pick at tacos and rice, talking between bitesâthe travel chaos, his race engineerâs obsession with spreadsheets, the weird hotel that smelled like cinnamon. He listens when you talk, really listens, and you can see the difference in himâthe calm that wasnât really there before.
You tell him about your friends teasing you relentlessly after Monaco. âThey still donât believe we didnât hook up that night,â you say, grinning.
He nearly chokes on his drink. âSeriously?â
âGuess we didnât sell it.â
You laugh, shaking your head. âNo, apparently you don't really just sleep, whatever that means.â
His gaze softens. âYou worried theyâre right? About me?â
You pause. âSometimes. Old habits, I guess.â
He nods, taking that in. âI get it. But Iâm trying to make new ones.â
After lunch, heâs due for media before the race, but he lingers, still sitting across from you, half in sunlight, half in shadow. The paddock buzzes around youâteam members hurrying by, cameras flashing, fans calling his name. But he doesnât look.
"You're watching the race, right?â he asks.
âWouldnât miss it.â
âGood,â he says, standing and stretching. âIâll try to make it worth it.â
You laugh, rolling your eyes. âAlways so humble.â
You reach up as he bends toward you, straightening the collar of his undershirt. âGo. Be brilliant.â
He kisses you again, quick but sure, the kind of kiss that fits perfectly between words. âSee you after the podium.â
âBig words,â you tease.
âBig race, cheer for me!â he replies, walking backward a few steps before turning toward the noise of the pit lane.
You watch him goâorange race suit gleaming, sunlight glinting off his helmet as someone hands it to him. The roar of the crowd rises again, a living thing. And for once, you donât feel that stab of fear. You just feel proud.
