⌗ synopsis — At Briar University, she is the campus diva and the keeper of secret alibis for her friend Allie and the untamable Dean Di Laurentis—the guy she secretly loves.
⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed.
⌗ LOVE, DEAN PT. II | ⌗ MAIN MASTERLIST
The silence at Briar University was always an illusion. If you paid close enough attention, behind the constant hum of the campus, you could hear the crunch of ice under blades, the dull thud of a hockey puck hitting the boards, and the booming laughter echoing from the off-campus house. To most people, that house was the epicenter of the wildest, most uncontrolled parties of the semester. To me, it was simply my living room.
—If you don’t drink this right now, I swear I’ll tell Coach Jensen you’ve been skating on a swollen ankle all week,—I threatened, crossing my arms as I leaned against the kitchen counter.
Garrett Graham let out a dramatic groan, letting his head fall back against the living room sofa. He had an ice pack pressed to his left shoulder, his brow furrowed from the pain of their last practice.
—You’re a dictator,—he muttered, though he still reached out to take the glass filled with the protein-and-painkiller smoothie I had made for him. —A beautiful dictator, but ruthless.—
—I’m the only reason you still have a functioning shoulder, Graham,—I reminded him, walking over to sit on the arm of the couch. —So less complaining and more drinking. Tucker, did you finish reading the case for criminal law?—
From the far end of the room, John Tucker looked up from his notes, sporting noticeable dark circles under his eyes. He stared at me as if I were a ghost from the past, but forced one of his slow, Southern smiles.
—If by ‘finish’ you mean the letters have started dancing across the page and I’m seeing double, then yeah, I finished,—he sighed, slamming the heavy textbook shut. —I need coffee. Or a miracle. Or for Logan to stop making noise with that damn console.—
—Hey!—John Logan’s voice protested from the floor, where he sat cross-legged with his eyes glued to the TV screen, his fingers moving at an inhuman speed over the PlayStation controller. —I’m one game away from breaking the league record in FIFA. Don’t ruin my focus. Besides, she makes better coffee than you, Tuck. Give her a break.—
I smiled, feeling that familiar warmth that only they knew how to give me. For the past couple of years, I had become a permanent fixture in their lives. I wasn’t just some girl hanging out at the house; I was their confidante, their anchor, the one who patched up their scrapes after a violent game, the one who helped Logan memorize tactical plays on makeshift whiteboards, and the one who spent countless late nights brewing strong coffee in this very kitchen so Tucker wouldn't fail his exams.
There was a mutual devotion between us. They were loud, protective, competitive giants on the ice, but the moment they walked through that door and I was sitting in the living room, they let their guard down completely. We were a chosen family.
The front door flew open, shattering the afternoon quiet. Allie Hayes walked in carrying a couple of bags from the campus café, closely followed by Hannah Wells. The atmosphere instantly shifted to something much livelier.
—We brought donuts!—Hannah announced enthusiastically, dropping her backpack on the floor and walking straight over to Garrett to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. —Though I think Logan will eat them all if nobody stops him.—
—That is slander!—Logan yelled without tearing his eyes away from the screen.
Allie walked into the kitchen, flashing me a knowing smile as she passed. —Do you have a second?—she mouthed silently, casting a quick glance toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
I nodded slightly as I got up from the sofa. Garrett grabbed my wrist before I could walk away, looking at me with those serious eyes that seemed to see right through anyone.
—Everything good?—he asked in a low voice, setting down the now-empty glass.
—Yeah, perfect. Just going to help Allie unpack some things in the kitchen,—I lied effortlessly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before he let go.
Garrett had an incredible protective instinct when it came to me. Sometimes I felt like he suspected something was off in my head, but he was too respectful to push if I wasn't ready to talk. And the truth was, I wasn't. I couldn't be.
Once in the kitchen, Allie had already shut the door leading to the back hallway, ensuring our privacy. She leaned against the counter, letting out a long sigh that fluttered her bangs.
—I need you to cover for me later today,—she blurted out, dropping her voice to a bare whisper. —Hannah thinks we’re staying at the library late to review our final literature essay, but... Dean wants me to go to his room after karaoke at Malone’s.—
My heart skipped an imperceptible beat in my chest—a sharp little pang I was getting used to, but that didn't make it hurt any less. I forced my best smile, putting on that confident diva façade I always used as a shield.
—Again, Allie?—I teased in a light tone, crossing my arms. —You’re going to end up owing me a whole month of free dinners at the dining hall. What am I supposed to tell Hannah if she asks why your car is still parked on campus?—
—Tell her I left you the keys because you had to pick up something heavy,—Allie begged, clasping her hands together in a plea. —You’re the only person I trust with this. If the guys find out about me and Dean... God, Garrett would kill Dean, or Dean would kill Garrett, or the whole house would explode. You know how territorial they are about the team.—
—I know,—I replied softly. —Don't worry. I've got you covered. No one will find out anything from me.—
—You’re the best friend in the world,—Allie said, giving me a quick, heartfelt hug.
As I wrapped my arms around her, my eyes inevitably drifted to the kitchen window facing the backyard. I didn't hate Allie. I didn't feel envious of her, nor resentful. Allie was wonderful, funny, and one of my best friends at Briar. But the bitter taste that settled in my throat every time I had to weave a lie so she could run into Dean Di Laurentis’s arms was a silent torture.
Because nobody knew that long before Allie and Dean started their complicated game of hide-and-seek, my eyes were already drifting toward the blonde, arrogant hockey player.
Flashback: Three Months Ago
The early morning air in the off-campus house was freezing. It was four o’clock on a winter Tuesday morning, and I couldn't sleep due to midterm anxiety. I had come down to the dark kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt of Tucker’s and a pair of shorts, looking for a glass of warm milk.
I didn't turn on the lights so I wouldn't wake anyone. I sat on the counter, my feet dangling, watching the reflection of the moon on the hardwood floor. Suddenly, the back door of the kitchen opened with a soft click.
I tensed instantly, ready to grab the heavy ceramic mug as a weapon, but the silhouette that walked in was unmistakable. The messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders, and that posture dripping with an almost offensive confidence. Dean.
He stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing my presence in the dim light. His blue eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, a slow, smirk spread across his face.
—Well... what is a goddess like you doing awake at this hour in my kitchen?—Dean whispered, taking a step forward. His voice had that raspy, sleepy edge mixed with an innate sensuality that sent a shiver down my spine.
—I could ask you the same thing, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice steady and locking into my diva attitude, refusing to show how much his proximity was wrecking my heart rate. —Did you just get back from breaking some heart over at the girls' dorms?—
Dean let out a low chuckle, stopping right in front of me. He was so close I could smell his cologne—a mix of mint, leather, and that clean, distinct scent that was entirely his. He leaned against the counter, inches from my legs, trapping me between his arms without actually touching me.
—Actually, no,—he admitted, looking straight into my eyes. There was a strange intensity in his gaze that night, something that went beyond the superficial flirting he usually flashed at everyone. —I was studying the plays for the next game. My head won't turn off. What about you? Studying too?—
—Trying to,—I whispered. The space between us seemed to have vanished into thin air. My eyes flicked down to his lips for a split second, and I swore he noticed the movement because his smirk softened, turning a little deeper.
—You know... you spend a lot of time taking care of the other guys,—Dean murmured, reaching out a hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my face. His fingers grazed the skin of my cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. —Garrett, Logan, Tuck... Sometimes I wonder when it’s going to be my turn to have you look after me.—
The air grew thick. The sexual tension in that dark kitchen was so real you could practically cut it with a knife. I was on the verge of losing control, a second away from leaning forward to find out what Dean Di Laurentis’s promises tasted like. But before either of us could make a move, the sound of heavy footsteps upstairs snapped us out of it.
Dean stepped back with feline agility, winking at me before grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
—See you at breakfast, gorgeous,—he murmured, disappearing down the back hallway before Logan even reached the stairs.
That night, lying in my bed, I realized two things: that Dean Di Laurentis was the most dangerous man on campus for my sanity, and that I was already hopelessly lost for him.
End of Flashback
—Earth to the campus diva?—Allie’s voice snapped me back to reality, waving a hand in front of my face. —You froze up staring out the window. Are you sure you’re okay with this? If it’s too much trouble, I can figure out something else to tell Hannah...—
—Oh, please!—I exclaimed, shaking my head and recovering my usual mask with a dramatic wave of my hand. —Since when has saving your skin ever been a problem for me? Besides, Hannah is easy to convince if I tell her you were super stressed out. You just focus on your... ‘study session’ with Dean.—
Allie smiled, relieved, and opened the kitchen door to head back into the living room with the others. I stood alone for a second, taking a deep breath. Right at that moment, I heard Dean’s laughter from upstairs. He was coming down the steps.
I walked out of the kitchen just in time to see him enter the living room. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, his hair perfectly pushed back, and that smug look that drove every girl at Briar crazy. His eyes scanned the room; they passed Logan, Tucker, and grazed Allie in a way that was almost imperceptible to the rest, but they stopped for a full second on me. A spark of recognition flashed in his gaze—the shadow of that secret we shared in the dark hours of the night before everything got complicated.
—Hey, Di Laurentis!—Logan shouted, finally setting down his controller. —Are you going to Malone’s tonight or are you staying behind to admire your own reflection in the bathroom mirror again?—
—Logan, please. My reflection deserves at least two hours of daily admiration,—Dean fired back arrogantly, earning a collective groan from the group. —But yeah, I’m going to Malone’s. I need to watch you try to flirt with Grace and fail miserably for the twentieth time this week.—
—Tonight is the night!—Logan defended himself, pointing a finger at him. —In fact, I already have a mastermind plan for tonight.—
I turned my head toward Logan, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
—What kind of mastermind plan, John?—I asked, using his first name to warn him that I didn't like his tone.
Logan smirked in that way that signaled imminent danger.
—You’ll see, gorgeous. You’ll see. Just make sure to bring your best attitude tonight.—
I looked at Garrett, searching for backup, but he just shrugged with an amused smile.
—Don't look at me. When Logan gets an idea in his head, it’s better to just let him crash and burn on his own,—Garrett said, getting off the couch and stretching his arms. —Anyway, I’m gonna go shower. If we’re going to Malone’s, I suggest we move fast before the line wraps around the block.—
The group began to scatter around the house to get ready. Allie and Hannah went upstairs to change, Tucker went to put his books away, and Dean lingered by the kitchen island for a moment, checking his phone.
I stood right in the middle of the living room, feeling the weight of the night that lay ahead. Malone’s was going to be packed. The music would be loud. The drinks would be flowing. And I would have to spend the whole night watching Dean from across the room, knowing that when the bar closed and the lights went down, my phone would vibrate with a text from Allie, asking me to lie for them just one more time.
What I didn't know at that moment, as I caught Dean’s eye from across the room, was that Logan’s —mastermind plan—was about to completely change the rules of the game tonight, throwing me right into the center of a stage where I would no longer be able to hide behind my lies.
The green neon sign of Malone’s blinked rhythmically against the dark night sky, reflecting in the puddles on the main avenue's sidewalk. Inside, the atmosphere was a perfectly choreographed chaos—a dense mass of college hormones, alcohol, and music turned up to a volume that vibrated right in your chest. The smell of spilled beer, old wood, and expensive perfume mingled in the air. It was a classic Briar karaoke night, which meant the bar was packed to the brim and the campus hierarchy was clearly on display.
We had our usual table: the large, worn leather booth near the pool tables. The hockey guys claimed it every weekend as if it were their private property, and no one in their right mind dared to dispute the space with the star team. Hannah and Garrett were submerged in their own bubble in a corner of the couch; he was whispering something in her ear with his typical Southern drawl, and she was laughing, hiding her face in his neck. Allie, on the other hand, was playing with the straw of her drink, but her eyes discreetly drifted toward the bar every time the crowd parted.
I was sitting right in the middle, flanked by Tucker and Logan. I was wearing a black spaghetti-strap top with a subtle but killer neckline, tight pants, and knee-high boots. My short hair fell with a rebellious, chic vibe that framed my features perfectly. Holding a glass of vodka cranberry in my hand, I crossed my legs with a sophisticated slowness. I enjoyed the attention; I knew several eyes in the bar were locked on our table—and specifically on me—but my internal radar was locked onto a single target.
Dean Di Laurentis was sitting directly opposite me. He had taken off his leather jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. He hadn't said a single word since we sat down, but he didn't need to. His intense, lazy blue eyes scanned my look from head to toe with a slowness that bordered on insolence. When his gaze met mine again, he flashed that crooked smirk—the one that screamed he knew exactly the effect he had on women. I felt the familiar electric jolt shoot down my spine, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze in a silent, diva-like challenge. Two can play this game, Di Laurentis.
—It’s a done deal.—Logan’s voice shattered the staring contest instantly. He slid back into the booth with a smug grin that set off all my alarms, dropping down beside me with an unbearable air of triumph.
I turned to him slowly, narrowing my eyes and resting my chin on my hand.
—What exactly did you do, Logan?—I asked in a dangerously soft tone. —And it better not involve my car, my credit card, or my mental health.—
—I put you on the karaoke list. You’re singing tonight, babe,—he dropped casually, taking a long sip of his drink as if he were the king of the world.
I froze. A lock of hair fell perfectly over my face as I stared at him with a mix of disbelief and pure indignation.
—You did what, John Logan?—I repeated, reaching out to give his forearm a sharp slap.
—Ow! Hey, relax,—he protested, rubbing the spot but keeping his teasing grin. —You need to express your feelings, seriously. You’ve seemed tense lately, like you’ve got a secret or some knot locked up inside that you won't let out. Look at me and Grace. Sometimes you just have to dive in, be honest, put your heart on the line, and let things flow...—
The name Grace floated above the table like a helium balloon about to burst. My self-defense instinct reacted before my brain could even process it. I didn't want to sing. I didn't want to be exposed under Malone’s spotlights when my head was an absolute mess because of the guy sitting across from me—the very same guy who was now sleeping with one of my best friends.
—Just like you did with Grace? Because I recall that ending in a monumental disaster of biblical proportions, with you crying on my kitchen floor,—I fired back, quick, cold, and sharp as a razor blade.
Tucker let out a muffled —uhhh—from his corner, his eyes widening as he covered his mouth with his hand, while Hannah let out a nervous chuckle. The noise at the table seemed to grind to a complete halt. Logan visibly tensed, the smile vanishing from his face as a flash of guilt and pain crossed his eyes.
The comment was a low blow. A direct hit to his pride and his healing process. I knew it the second the words left my mouth, and remorse instantly punched me in the stomach.
—I’m sorry...—I apologized immediately, dropping the entire diva façade for a second. I placed my hand on his arm, softening my voice. —That wasn't right, Logan. Seriously, I was being an idiot, I’m sorry. It’s just... I don't want to sing tonight. I’m not in the mood to have the whole bar staring at me.—
—Hey, look at me,—Garrett intervened. The team captain leaned across the table toward me, resting his heavy arms on the worn wood and capturing my full attention with that trademark confidence of his that worked like an anchor in any storm. —You’re my favorite, and you know it.—
I caught a quick glimpse of Dean out of the corner of my eye. He had leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold with his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes hadn't drifted from me a single millimeter; he was analyzing the tension between Logan and me with a steadiness that burned my skin.
—Whatever is going on in your head right now... with Dean, with your exams, with whatever... set it aside for three minutes,—Garrett continued, his voice low, firm, and grounding. —You’re incredible, babe. Get up there and remind all these idiots why you’re the queen of Briar. Go crush it. Next round is on me.—
Tucker nodded enthusiastically, taking a swig of his beer.
—He’s right. Go show 'em how it's done,—Tuck added with his eternal optimism.
Allie looked at me from the other side, offering a bright, encouraging smile. It hurt. It hurt because she genuinely cared about me, and she didn't have the slightest clue that the real reason my heart was hammering wasn't stage fright, but the secret that involved her and the guy sitting next to her.
The bar's emcee took the microphone on the small stage at the back, shattering my thoughts with the echo of the feedback.
—Alright, Briar! Next up on the list... we have our house diva! A huge round of applause for her!—
I stood up in one swift movement, exhaling all the breath I’d been holding. I adjusted the straps of my black top with a slow, deliberate gesture, straightening my spine. Shyness and doubt evaporated in a blink, replaced by that armor of confidence and sensuality that I wore like a pro. I walked toward the stage as the murmurs from the tables began to quiet down to make way for me. The hockey team started cheering loudly; Logan whistled sharply through his fingers, proving the low blow was already forgiven, and Garrett banged his fists on the table.
As I climbed the three wooden steps, the main spotlight hit me full in the face, warming my skin. I grabbed the mic with one hand, adjusted the stand, and looked out at the crowd. Half of Briar was watching me. Guys from rival fraternities lowered their pool cues to look toward the stage; a group of sophomores at the bar elbowed each other, pointing in my direction. I was the center of attention, and I loved it.
When the sophisticated, heavy-bass pop chords of Sabrina Carpenter's —Sugar Talkin’—started thumping through the speakers, a slow, feline smile spread across my lips. The rhythm of the song was perfect: danceable, flirtatious, a little shameless. Just like me.
I looked for one specific gaze.
Dean.
He had stood up from the table. He was no longer sitting. Now he was leaning against the wooden bar counter a few yards from the stage, swirling a glass of whiskey between his long fingers. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were completely locked on me, gleaming under the blue and green flashes of the neon lights.
I started to sing, and my voice flowed clean, with a velvety, suggestive tone that caused the general hum of the bar to drop into a near-complete hush.
—I know we're technically just friends... / But I'm textin' you at 2 AM...—
I sang the first lines staring straight at the hockey table, but the moment I hit the word friends, my eyes snapped directly to Dean. I saw him tense imperceptibly against the bar. I walked from one end of the small stage to the other, swaying my hips with a slowness that knew exactly what kind of reaction it provoked. My high boots resonated against the wood.
Reaching the chorus, I stepped close to the edge of the stage, holding the microphone with both hands, leaning forward slightly. The black top exposed the line of my collarbones under the red glow of the spotlight.
—Sweet talk, sugar talkin’... / You got me walkin' on a wire...—My voice sounded playful, teasing, yet laced with an underlying emotion that very few in that room understood.
I turned my face toward a group of football players in the front row and flashed them a stunning smile, winking. Two of them gasped and straightened up in their seats, completely hypnotized by the performance. But I wasn't looking at them. I turned my gaze back to the bar.
Dean had set his whiskey glass down on the counter. Both of his hands were now gripping the edge of the wood, leaning forward. The playful, arrogant smirk he always wore had completely vanished; his jaw was tightly clenched and his blue eyes were dark, fixed on my lips with an intensity so physical I could practically feel it brushing against me. I watched his Adam's apple move as he swallowed hard. He was jealous. Not in a logical way, because he wasn't mine, but with that primal, territorial instinct that hockey guys just couldn't hide. It pissed him off that the whole bar was desiring me in that exact moment, and it drove him crazy knowing I was doing it on purpose just to provoke him.
I spun around on stage, turning my back to him for a second to move with the beat, letting my silhouette cut through the light before whipping back around for the final line of the song, pointing my index finger directly at him as I sang in a suggestive whisper:
—...you know exactly what I want.—
I held eye contact until the last note of the bass faded into the air. For a second, the bar remained in absolute silence, trapped in the electric atmosphere I had just created.
And then, Malone’s erupted.
The cheers were deafening. The football players in the front row applauded wildly, several guys shouted my name, and my hockey boys threw a monumental fit, slamming their beer mugs against the wood. I walked down the stage steps with my heart hammering a thousand miles an hour in my chest, feeling pure adrenaline rushing through my veins like liquid fire. The diva mask was intact, shiny, and triumphant.
I made my way back to the bar area, dodging a couple of compliments from strangers, and stopped in front of Garrett and Logan, who already had their glasses raised to greet me.
—Told you so. A total rock star,—Garrett boasted, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulders with genuine pride, giving me an affectionate squeeze.
—You were incredible, seriously. I take back what I said about you being ruthless... well, no, you’re still ruthless, but you sing like an angel,—Logan admitted, clinking his glass against mine with a wide, sincere smile.
—Thanks, boys. Just doing my part to elevate the standards around here,—I replied, slipping back into my sophisticated, flirtatious tone, taking a long sip of my vodka to cool my throat.
I smiled, feeling—for a brief, glorious second—like I was on top of the world, completely unburdened. I turned slightly, searching for Dean.
He was walking purposefully in my direction. He had left the bar behind and was cutting through the crowd of students with long, firm strides. His gaze was intense, direct, without a trace of his usual laziness. He had that same fierce determination he used on the ice when he had the puck and his eyes on the goal. The space between us shrank with every second; the tension was so thick, so charged with sexual static, that I swore Logan and Garrett would notice the shift in the air. He was going to say something to me. I was certain he was going to call me out on the song, the dancing, the looks I gave the other guys...
Bzzz.
The phone vibrated violently in the back pocket of my pants, cutting the music in my head.
I broke eye contact with Dean just as he was barely three steps away from me. With my hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline, I pulled out the phone and unlocked the screen. Allie Hayes’s name illuminated the glass.
Allie: Cover for me with Hannah, please. I'm leaving with Dean. See you at the photo booth in 10. Don't forget about the car thing if she asks.
The high of the music, the applause of the crowd, Garrett’s pride, and the fire of the adrenaline plummeted in a freefall, crashing face-first into Malone's concrete floor.
I lifted my eyes from the phone slowly. Dean had stopped dead in his tracks two steps away from me. He had glanced over my shoulder toward the bar's side exit, where Allie had just quietly slipped out toward the back parking lot. He looked back into my eyes. It was a quick look, barely two seconds, but it was agonizing—it was loaded with silent frustration, a flicker of an apology, and a shared secret that made my stomach turn.
Without saying a single word, Dean spun on his heel with that feline agility of his and walked toward the back hallway that connected to the emergency exit, vanishing from everyone's sight in a heartbeat.
I squeezed the phone against the palm of my hand until my knuckles turned completely white, swallowing hard to try and dissolve the bitter, dry knot tightening in my throat. The flirtatious stage diva had to evaporate in a second, forcing me to lock the pieces of the unbreakable perfect, loyal friend mask back into place.
—Everything good?—Logan asked, furrowing his brow and tilting his head as he noticed the drastic, sudden change in my face.
—Yeah...—I forced my best smile—the one I’d been practicing for three months—slipping my phone into my pocket with a quick motion. —Everything's perfect. Just Allie, she left her room keys in my bag and asked me to bring them to her because she’s feeling a little tired and heading back early. I'm gonna hit the restroom and find her, guys. Be right back.—
I turned around before Garrett could ask one of his analytical questions, walking toward the dark hallway at the back. I knew exactly what was coming next. I knew that out there, in the dim light of the photo booth or the back seat of a car, I would have to smile, act normal, listen to Allie’s sighs, and be the perfect shield for the secret that, piece by piece, was breaking my heart in absolute silence.
I slipped my phone into my back pocket, my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour. The music at Malone’s was still thumping in my ears, but now it sounded muffled, distant, as if I were underwater. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, forcing my facial muscles to maintain that sophisticated, carefree smile everyone expected from me.
—Seriously, babe, that song was out of this world,—Logan insisted, giving Garrett an open elbow nudge. —Did you see the look on those football idiots' faces? They were practically drooling.—
—Anyone with eyes would be drooling, Logan. Don't be basic,—Garrett replied with a half-smirk, though his light eyes settled on me with that analytical steadiness that always put me on guard. —But your expression shifted real fast. Are you sure Allie just wanted her keys? You went pale.—
—It’s just the adrenaline crash, Gray,—I lied with a naturalness that was starting to scare me, giving his chin a playful tap. —Being up on stage takes a lot of diva energy, you know? I need to touch up my lipstick and get some air. Don't move, I’ll be back in five.—
I turned around, ready to head down the hallway leading to the restrooms and the back exit, where the bar’s old vintage photo booth was located. But I hadn't even taken three steps before a figure stepped right into my path.
It was Cami, one of the girls from the campus events committee, notorious for having the fastest and most dangerous tongue in all of Briar. She held a red solo cup in her hand, sporting a malicious grin and wide eyes that gleamed with the spark of someone who had just struck absolute gold.
—Well, well... the star of the night,—Cami said, blocking my way with a fake familiarity. —You sing incredible, seriously. But I think the real show wasn’t on the stage.—
I tensed, but kept my chin high, crossing my arms with a bored expression.
—Oh, really? I didn’t know Malone’s had a double feature tonight. What are you talking about, Cami?—
Cami leaned in closer, dropping her voice so the booming music wouldn't drown her out, but with the clear intention of watching my reaction.
—I’m talking about your friend, Allie Hayes. And Dean Di Laurentis. I just saw them walk into the back hallway together. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think they went into the men’s room to compare literature notes. Dean looked around twice before slipping into the photo booth with her.—
My stomach wrenched with a violence that nearly stole my breath, but my face didn’t give in. Not a single millimeter. I let out a clean, loud, perfectly practiced laugh, earning a bewildered look from her.
—Seriously, Cami? Is that the best you’ve got today?—I asked, looking at her with a mock pity that I had mastered to perfection. —Dean is doing her a favor by passing along the contact info for a tutor for next week’s exam. Allie was incredibly stressed out, and he offered because, even if he plays the bad boy, he’s a softie. They went in there to talk without the noise from the football troglodytes blowing their eardrums out.—
Cami narrowed her eyes, not entirely convinced.
—In the photo booth? That’s a pretty cramped space to talk about tutoring.—
—It’s the only spot with a curtain that blocks out the neon lights, sweetheart. Basic marketing: if you want focus, you look for privacy.—I took a step forward, subtly invading her personal space with that intimidating diva stare that could break anyone. —So I suggest you stop inventing fanfictions in your head before Garrett overhears you and decides you’re no longer welcome at the off-campus house parties. It would be such a shame for you to miss the one next Saturday, don't you think?—
The color drained a bit from Cami’s cheeks. She knew perfectly well the power the hockey team—and I, by extension—wielded over Briar’s social scene. She swallowed hard and forced a smile.
—I was just saying... it looked weird. But if you say so...—
—I do say so,—I declared with a radiant, fake smile. —Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.—
I brushed past her, subtly bumping my shoulder against hers. The moment my back was turned, the smile vanished from my face. Real panic settled into my chest. If Cami had seen them, anyone could have. I had to get them out of there before someone else investigated, or before Garrett decided to go find Dean to order another round.
I walked briskly down the dark hallway. The noise of the bar began to fade, replaced by the hum of the pipes and the smell of damp air. Turning the corner that led to the emergency exit, I saw it: the old wooden structure of the photo booth, its lights flickering, and the heavy red velvet curtain completely drawn shut. From inside, nothing could be heard over the bar's music, but the tension in the air was practically solid.
I stepped up and, without hesitation, ripped the curtain open.
—Time’s up, guys. We have a problem,—I snapped in a firm voice, crossing my arms.
The space inside was tiny. Allie was sitting on Dean’s lap, her cheeks flushed and her hair slightly unraveled. Dean’s hands were locked around her waist, but at the sound of my voice, his head snapped up. His blue eyes were blazing, unfocused from the adrenaline of the moment, but the instant they locked onto me, a mix of surprise and that annoying frustration rushed back onto his face.
—What’s wrong?—Allie asked, jumping down with a face full of panic, frantically adjusting her sweater. —Is Hannah coming? Garrett?—
—Worse,—I replied, staring straight at Dean for a split second before turning back to her. —Cami saw you two walk in. I tried to stall her with the tutor excuse and threatened to blackball her from the parties, but she’s starving for gossip. If you guys don’t leave separately this damn second, the whole bar is going to find out.—
Allie gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth, turning pale.
—Oh my God... no, no, no. If Garrett finds out...—She looked at Dean in desperation.
Dean stood up from the small bench inside the booth, filling the cramped space with his height. He adjusted his white t-shirt with an infuriating calmness, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed that he wasn't nearly as relaxed as he wanted to appear.
—Relax, Hayes. It’s fine,—Dean said, his voice carrying that raspy edge that completely wrecked my insides. —Go out through the back emergency door and head toward the parking lot. I’ll walk out through the main hallway in a minute, like I’m going to find Logan. No one’s going to suspect anything if they don’t see us together.—
Allie nodded frantically, looking at me with a devotion that made me feel like the worst person on earth.
—You’re my savior, seriously. I owe you my life. I’ll see you at the house,—she whispered, giving my arm a quick squeeze before pushing the metal bar of the emergency exit and disappearing into the cold Massachusetts night.
The door shut with a dull thud, leaving me completely alone with Dean in the narrow hallway.
The silence that settled between us was dense, heavy, loaded with everything we hadn't said to each other since that night in the kitchen three months ago. Dean took a step forward, stepping out of the photo booth. He stopped mere inches away from me, forcing me to tilt my head up just to hold his gaze. I could smell him—the whiskey, the mint, and that physical warmth that threw my nerves into overdrive.
—So... saving our skin again,—Dean murmured, dropping his voice to that dangerous whisper that sent shivers down my spine. There was a strange intensity in his eyes, a spark of reproach. —You sing beautiful, by the way. Though I could’ve sworn that look at the end wasn’t meant for the idiots on the football team.—
I shoved my hands into my pockets so he wouldn't notice my fingers trembling. I locked into my untouchable diva posture, even though I was breaking into a million pieces on the inside.
—Just doing my job, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice cool and flirtatious. —I protect my friends. And about the song... don't flatter yourself. I sing for anyone who cares to listen.—
Dean let out a low chuckle, a short sound that vibrated right in my chest. He took half a step closer, effectively trapping me between his body and the wooden wall of the photo booth without actually touching me, recreating the kitchen scene almost perfectly.
—You’re a terrible liar when you’re nervous, babe,—he whispered, tilting his head slightly toward mine. His eyes dropped to my lips for a second that felt eternal. —You were teasing me up there. You know it, and I know it. Why play games like that if you’re just going to run and hide behind the guys afterward?—
My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it. The proximity, the scent, the frustration of spending months as a spectator to his story with Allie... everything pooled in my throat. I was a millimeter away from losing it, away from grabbing his shirt and screaming that I hated him for being so indifferent and so damn necessary all at once.
But the rules of the game were the rules of the game. And I was a diva, not a homewrecker.
—I play because I can, Dean,—I answered, locking my eyes with his with all the strength I could muster. —But you already have a game in progress. And I suggest you play it well, because next time, I might not be around to clean up your mess.—
I ducked right under his arm before he could react, letting the scent of my perfume wash over him one last time. I walked with a firm, steady stride back toward the glowing neon lights of the bar, feeling his blue eyes piercing my back like two daggers of ice.
I quickened my pace down the hallway, forcing my Vans to hit the floor with the firm, determined rhythm of a girl who has everything completely under control. But the second I crossed the threshold of the side door and the freezing Massachusetts night air hit me full in the face, the diva armor crumbled entirely.
I leaned against the brick wall of Malone’s back alley, away from the lights, away from the eyes, and finally let out the breath I felt like I’d been holding for three whole months. My hands shook uncontrollably inside my pockets. The echo of the bar’s applause was still buzzing in my ears, but now it felt like a cruel mockery. What was the point of having an entire bar looking at me, desiring me, if the only pair of eyes I actually wanted didn't belong to me?
I stared into the darkness of the parking lot. In the distance, the silhouette of Dean’s car flipped on its headlights, cutting through the shadows for a split second before slowly rolling toward the back exit. I knew exactly who was sitting in the passenger seat. I knew Allie was fixing her hair, smiling in relief because, once again, her best friend had saved the day.
And there, in the solitude of the alley, I realized I was utterly exhausted. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of waging an invisible war inside my own head—a battle that had been lost since the very first day.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that whatever they had was just a temporary arrangement, a college distraction, deep down I knew better. I knew how to read the looks. I knew how to spot the tension. That friends-with-benefits relationship between Dean and Allie had real foundations; it was strong, heavy, and grew a little more every single time they locked themselves in a room. It wasn’t a stupid game. It was happening for real.
I closed my eyes, feeling the night chill seep into my bones, but the ache in my chest was so much worse. Allie was my friend. One of the few people at Briar who had offered me genuine loyalty, who looked at me with pure affection and trusted me with her most precious secret. I couldn't do that to her. I wasn't that kind of girl. I couldn't allow myself to cross the line and covet the guy she was sleeping with—the guy who made her smile in that very specific way. Friendship had sacred rules, and I wasn't going to be the villain in my best friend’s story.
But the bitterest truth—the one that burned in my throat and made it hard to swallow—was something else. It was the silent humiliation of waiting. Waiting in the shadows of the kitchen at four in the morning, waiting for a sidelong glance in a bar booth, waiting for some miracle where Dean Di Laurentis would open his eyes and choose me.
How stupid. What a pathetic, goddamn fantasy.
Dean wasn't going to choose me. He had his life, his game, and he had Allie. At the end of the day, when the neon lights faded and the music stopped, nobody cared about what happened behind my untouchable diva façade. My practiced smiles, my flawless lies, my sleepless nights taking care of everyone... all of it was just the stage setting for someone else's romance. On the grand chessboard of Briar University, my feelings didn't matter. They were just the price I had to pay to keep a lie afloat—the very lie that was breaking my heart in absolute silence.
The crunch of slow footsteps on the alley gravel shattered the silence of my dark corner. The sound forced my spine to snap straight instantly, swallowing the knot in my throat and blinking rapidly to erase any trace of vulnerability. The diva mask locked back onto my face out of pure survival instinct, ready to repel whoever had dared to follow me.
—Are you okay? Do you want to leave?—The voice coming from behind me was soft, low, but carried a slightly raspy, drawn-out tone, with a cadence that didn't belong to the North, but rather to a much warmer, more sophisticated coast.
I turned around slowly, resting my hip against the brick wall. The dim light from Malone’s green neon sign silhouetted him, and the air escaped my lungs—but this time, for a completely different reason.
It wasn't one of the hockey guys. It wasn't anyone from Briar.
Physically, he looked like he had stepped right out of a high-society catalog but had decided to rebel against it. He was tall, with a lean yet wiry build, wearing a light linen button-down shirt left slightly open at the collar, which contrasted ridiculously with the Massachusetts cold. His hair was light brown, almost dark blonde, faded very low on the sides but with enough texture on top for a few stray locks to fall over his forehead with an aristocratic carelessness. He possessed sharp features, a highly defined jawline, and clear, pale blue eyes that often conveyed a dangerous, almost erratic intensity. Yet, at this exact moment, as he looked at me, the internal storm he always seemed to carry had completely dissipated. His gaze was clean, strangely protective.
An involuntary smile—the first real smile of my entire night—curved my lips as I remembered how I had met him. It happened a few months ago, during those vacation weeks when I needed to escape from everything and ended up in a small coastal paradise—a place of endless beaches, wooden piers, and golden sunsets where nobody knew my name. He didn't belong there either; he was just passing through, dealing with his own family demons, and our worlds—both so broken and so perfectly camouflaged under designer clothes—collided one afternoon by the sea.
—What are you doing here?—I whispered, letting my shoulders drop, allowing myself to let my guard down just a single inch. —Don't tell me you drove for hours just for Briar karaoke night.—
He took a step forward, closing the distance between us. There was something about the way he moved, a latent tension in his shoulders that screamed he could lose control at any moment, but when he stopped right in front of me, his gestures became incredibly tender, almost delicate, as if he were afraid of breaking me.
He reached out a hand and, with a gentleness no one at this university would believe a guy of his stature capable of, used the back of his fingers to trace the outline of my cheek, brushing my short hair away from my face. His skin was warm, a direct reminder of the summer I missed so terribly.
—I heard you singing from the entrance,—he murmured, staring intently into my eyes, reading the exhaustion and the pain I was trying to hide from the rest of the world. —You were incredible, babe. An absolute queen. But your eyes aren't saying the same thing as your voice. Let’s get out of here. You don’t have to keep taking care of people who don’t know how to take care of you.—
The weight of his words hit me right in the center of my chest. He didn't know anything about Allie’s mess, or Dean, or the Briar alibis, but he knew me. He knew the girl behind the persona. And for the first time all night, I felt like someone was looking into my dark corner, not to ask me for a lie, but to offer me a way out.
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pairing – garrett graham x reader
notes from me – i know i usually only write rafe/drew but i'm on my second rewatch of off campus and i couldn't help myself!!
warnings – alcohol, drunken silliness, soft/protective garrett, party chaos, mild innuendo
word count – 4.1k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about Garrett Graham being on a one-drink limit was that it made him unbearably observant.
Usually, at parties like this, Garrett was loud in the easy way he always was when the room already liked him. Leaning against the kitchen island with a red cup in one hand, shoulder knocked against Logan’s while Tucker said something dry enough to make both of them laugh through their noses, still getting pulled into conversations every two minutes by guys who remembered Briar had a game tomorrow and thought “bury those assholes” counted as both analysis and encouragement.
He was still doing that, still smiling when somebody slapped his shoulder on the way past. Still nodding along when a freshman he vaguely knew started talking at him about the power play with the intense glassy-eyed sincerity of a man who had consumed too much cheap vodka and exactly one hockey podcast. Still charming people mostly by accident, because Garrett had never once walked into a room and thought maybe he should make himself smaller for everybody else’s sake.
But sober Garrett had range. Unfortunately for her, sober Garrett noticed things.
He noticed when Logan’s cup went from beer to something stronger. Not his problem. He noticed Dean talking with both hands while Allie stood tucked under his arm, laughing like she knew whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be either stupid or actionable. Also not his problem.
He noticed Tucker quietly moving somebody’s drink away from the edge of the counter before it got knocked onto the floor, because Tucker had always possessed the exhausting dignity of a man born already tired of everyone’s shit.
And he noticed the exact second his girlfriend put one hand on the kitchen bench again. That was his problem.
He’d already stopped this exact mission twice in the last ten minutes, which felt excessive for a girl who kept insisting she was literally fine while blinking a little too slowly and smiling at him like the lights had all gone soft around the edges.
The first time, he’d caught her by the waist and set her back on the floor with a calm, captainly, “Nope,” said close to her ear. The second time, he’d stepped between her and the counter like a very attractive barricade while she pouted at him like he'd personally cancelled fun.
Now she was trying again, because, apparently, the second a vodka cranberry and an Ariana Grande song got into the same room, her ability to retain recent history collapsed entirely.
Her skirt was too short for climbing. It was probably too short for several forms of normal standing, if Garrett was being honest, but that was between him, God, and the part of his brain currently doing threat assessment on behalf of her underwear.
Her heels were tall enough that Allie had called them hot but fucking dangerous when they arrived, and now one of them scraped against the cabinet front as she lifted her knee with absolutely no concern for balance, modesty, or Garrett’s long-term cardiovascular health.
Dean, from the other side of the kitchen, had been waiting for this. Garrett could feel it in the air. The man had made three separate comments about keeping her away from elevated surfaces and then looked personally enriched every time Garrett told him to shut the fuck up.
Garrett moved before the room really had time to understand what was happening. One second he was beside Logan, cup loose in his hand. The next he was behind her, cup abandoned somewhere near the sink, palm landing firm and warm against the back of her thigh as he tugged the hem of her skirt down with the grim focus of a man handling something highly flammable.
“Yeah, nope,” he said, low against her shoulder, his voice amused even as his hand stayed where it was. “Not doin’ that.”
She turned around like she'd been caught doing something cute instead of deeply stupid, her face bright with that pleased, unfocused warmth she got when the room had started moving a little faster than she could keep up with and Garrett was suddenly close enough to touch.
Her hands went straight to his chest, fingers sliding up the front of his shirt with drunken affection and absolutely no subtlety, and she beamed at him like she hadn't seen him in months. “Baby!”
Garrett looked down at her hands, then back at her face, his mouth twitching. “Hi.”
“Where were you?”
“Right there.” He nodded vaguely over his shoulder, where Logan had turned to watch them with the exact expression of a man who would rather die than become useful. “Saw you, like, ten seconds ago.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider this very seriously, brows knitting for one whole beat before her face opened again, delighted by the rediscovery. “Hi.”
“Yeah, we did that part.”
She smiled anyway, her hands still sitting flat against his chest like she had every right to keep them there. Which she did. That was becoming a problem, actually. The newness of it. The fact that they were together enough now for people to know, for her to touch him without pretending it was accidental, for him to stand in a crowded kitchen the night before a game with one beer in his system and her skirt in his hand like this was a normal responsibility a man could acquire through dating.
She swayed into him. A small tilt of her weight, the kind someone else might have missed if they were drunker or less embarrassingly tuned to her. Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist before she seemed to notice she’d moved at all.
“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out in warning. “Bar stool. Right now.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicious and visibly pleased. “That’s not what I said.”
“No, but it worked better.” He turned her neatly by the hips before she could decide the counter still had unfinished business with her. “Sit.”
She made a noise of offence, but she let him guide her onto the stool, mostly because it was already there and because Garrett’s hands were warm and annoyingly sure and doing that thing where they seemed to make decisions for her body a full second before her brain managed to file an objection.
The room tilted pleasantly when she sat. The bass pushed through the kitchen floor and up into the bones of her legs. Someone had spilled beer near the fridge and the tile caught lightly under the heel she kept tapping against the stool rung. Across the room, Allie was tucked into Dean’s side, laughing at something Tucker said while Dean looked over her head with the bright, vicious joy of someone watching Garrett suffer a romantic inconvenience in real time.
Garrett went to the sink and filled a plastic cup with water. He came back holding it out like evidence.
She reached for it.
He lifted it just out of range.
She blinked at him.
His face went blank in that innocent way that always meant he was about to become deeply irritating. “What?”
“Gimme.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m trying.”
She pouted. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m providing medical care.”
“You’re making me work for water, Garrett.”
His laugh came out before he could stop it, quick and real, his head ducking for half a second as if he was genuinely annoyed with himself for enjoying her this much. He lowered the cup again. She reached. He moved it left. Her fingers closed around absolutely nothing.
“Garrett.”
“Reflexes are a little rough tonight, huh?”
“I will break up with you.”
“No, you won’t.” He brought the cup close again, then jerked it back when she lunged, and she burst into giggles so hard her knee knocked against his thigh.
“Baby, this is bleak. This is like watching a kitten lose a fight with a shoelace.”
“I hate you.”
He finally let her take it, but only after wrapping his hand around hers to steady the cup because she came in too fast and almost sent half of it down her front. “Slow. Drink it like you’ve used a mouth before.”
She glared at him over the rim while she drank, which would have worked better if he hadn’t still been holding the cup with her. The water was cold enough to make her teeth ache, cutting through the sugary film of whatever Allie had mixed earlier and landing hard in the warm, spinning centre of her stomach.
Garrett watched her with his head tipped slightly, all amused mouth and attentive eyes, and she hated, immediately and deeply, how much she liked it. Not the fussing, she would deny enjoying the fussing until the end of time. But the way he did it. Like he could tease her without making her feel stupid. Like the joke was never that she was embarrassing him. Like he had simply accepted that she was drunk, pretty, badly behaved, and his to keep upright for the next hour.
His hand settled on her thigh while she drank, thumb resting just under the edge of her skirt, not doing anything much except being there. The contact was casual enough to look like nothing from the outside. From inside her body, it had weight. A small, steady point in a room full of noise.
Someone yelled his name from the living room. “Graham!”
Garrett turned his head. “What?”
A couple of hockey guys were waving him over, one of them yelling something about the line changes tomorrow and another immediately shouting over him that they were not talking strategy at a party because some of us actually know how to live.
Garrett’s attention shifted for barely two seconds. Barely. His hand left her knee. His shoulders angled away. And then the opening presented itself. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn’t. Because Ariana came on.
The song that reached into the middle of her chest and hit whatever drunk, glittery emergency button existed in girls at parties. The one that made Allie gasp from across the room and point at her because Allie understood. Allie knew. This was not about Garrett and his very boring anti-countertop agenda anymore. This was bigger than him. This was practically civic duty.
She set the water down very carefully, which felt mature enough to balance the scales of whatever happened next, and slid off the stool.
Dean noticed first. Dean noticed anything with potential for either nudity or injury, especially if both were being offered at once.
His whole face lit up. “Wooo!” he shouted, lifting his cup. “Get up there!”
Allie smacked him in the stomach, laughing even as she did it. “Don't encourage her.”
“What? I’m supporting women.”
“You’re supporting Garrett committing murder.”
Dean’s grin widened.
Garrett turned.
The timing was, unfortunately, beautiful. Her knee was already on the counter. One hand braced against the surface. Her skirt was doing its absolute best in conditions no garment that short should ever have been expected to survive.
She looked back over her shoulder at the exact moment Garrett’s expression shifted from distracted amusement to flat, immediate disbelief.
His cup was gone again. Nobody knew where he kept putting them. One second his hands were empty; the next they were on her waist.
“Alright,” he said, hauling her backward before the second knee could get involved. “We’re done here.”
She made a sound that was half laugh, half protest, her feet finding the floor with such minimal commitment to the task that he had to catch more of her weight.
“We’re done.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You were halfway to a public incident.”
She furrowed her brow, glaring up at him. “I was dancing.”
“You were climbing furniture.”
“For art.”
“For urgent care.” He bent a little to look into her face, and fuck, he was so annoying like this. So sure of himself. So warm around the edges of his authority that it made arguing with him feel less like resistance and more like foreplay’s better-behaved cousin. “Up we go.”
Her eyes widened. “Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t this kitchen.”
“Garrett, no–”
But she was already laughing, because he had that look. The one that said he had made a decision and her role in the next thirty seconds was mostly decorative. His arm slid around the backs of her thighs, the other braced firm at her waist, and before she could do anything more strategic than clutch at his shirt, the whole kitchen flipped.
Light, ceiling, cabinets, Logan’s deeply entertained face, Dean’s open-mouthed delight. All of it went upside down in one warm, dizzy rush as Garrett threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing and he had reached the end of negotiations.
She shrieked.
Everyone cheered.
“Garrett!”
“Yup.” He adjusted his hold like this was a normal thing to be doing in somebody’s kitchen, one hand firm across the backs of her thighs, the other keeping her skirt decent. “That’s my name.”
She smacked his back, badly, mostly because she was laughing too hard to aim. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“I’m serious!”
“You’re drunk and upside down. You’re not serious.”
Dean was losing his mind across the room, bent halfway over Allie’s shoulder while she tried and failed to look disapproving. Logan lifted his cup with solemn respect. Tucker, because he had chosen betrayal, called, “Honestly, I think this is the safest option available.”
“I hate all of you,” she announced to the kitchen, though it came out wobbly with laughter because Garrett had started walking and every step made her bounce lightly against his shoulder.
Garrett paused in the doorway and turned just enough for the room to see her dangling there, hair falling toward the floor, cheeks hot, both hands planted uselessly against his back while her skirt remained under the firm jurisdiction of his palm.
“Say goodnight, everyone,” he said.
She lifted her head with great effort, spotted Allie first, then Dean, then Logan, then the blurry, bright collection of cups and boys and bad decisions behind them, and waved with both hands like she was leaving a pageant. “Goodnight, everyone!”
The kitchen erupted again. Dean actually clapped. Allie blew her a kiss. Logan yelled, “Hydrate!” with the confidence of a man who had not had water since Thursday.
Garrett carried her through the house, past the crush of bodies in the hallway, past two people making out badly against the wall by the stairs, past somebody’s abandoned jacket and an open front door letting in a thin slice of cold night air.
The music followed them out in pieces, bass first, then voices, then the muffled whole of the party dropping behind them as Garrett stepped onto the porch and the night came up around her bare legs.
The air sharpened everything at the edges. Damp grass. Car exhaust. The metallic bite of early spring. Garrett’s cologne caught in the cotton of his shirt where her cheek had ended up pressed against his back.
For a few seconds she kept wriggling on principle, because it seemed important for the record that she hadn't gone quietly. Then the path dipped slightly and the world swung with it, and she decided stillness had a lot going for it.
Halfway down the walk, she stopped struggling altogether and just hung there, arms loose, one heel slipping lower on her foot.
“Babe,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You have a nice butt.”
Garrett did not miss a step. “Thanks, baby.”
“Like, really nice.”
“I know.”
She gasped, offended despite having introduced the subject herself. “You’re so cocky.”
“You’re upside down staring at my ass and giving live commentary. I feel like the confidence is evidence-based.”
She giggled again, softer this time, the sound spilling out into the cold. Garrett’s hand shifted against the backs of her thighs, careful with her balance, careful with the hem of her skirt, careful in a way that shouldn't have been noticeable when she was upside down and full of vodka and openly objectifying him, but was.
He could have made a thing of it. Could have rolled his eyes harder. Could have acted like taking care of his drunk girlfriend was some massive inconvenience being inflicted on him by the universe and Ariana Grande.
But Garrett just carried her like it was easy. Like she was funny. Like she was his problem, and he was, privately and embarrassingly, kind of pleased about it.
At his car, he set her down slowly, both hands at her waist until her heels found pavement and stayed there. The world rushed upright too fast, porch light blurring behind his shoulder, and she grabbed his forearms while her stomach took a second to remember where it lived.
Garrett watched her face, his smile fading into something more focused. “Good?”
She nodded, then immediately leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest because nodding had been a little ambitious. “Mhm.”
“That was wildly convincing.”
“I’m graceful.”
“You tried to climb a kitchen counter because Ariana Grande told you to.”
“She did.”
“She didn't personally tell you shit.”
She pointed one finger up at him. “You don’t know our relationship.”
His mouth curved again, and he brushed her hair back from her face, knuckles grazing her cheek in a touch so light it made her eyes want to close. “Your relationship with gravity is a little unstable right now.”
She looked up at him. The kitchen light was still on him somehow, caught in the angles of his face, in the dark sweep of his lashes, in the small amused pull at the corner of his mouth. He was close enough that she could see the faint scrape near his jaw from shaving, the tiredness tucked under his eyes from practice, the way his attention kept moving over her in pieces. Eyes. Mouth. Balance. Mood.
He was still teasing her, still Garrett, still unfairly pleased with himself, but under it sat the thing he did without announcing it. The checking. The steadiness. The hand already there before the fall happened.
She slid her hands up his chest again because it was the easiest place to put them, fingers curling loosely in his shirt. “Are you mad?”
Garrett looked genuinely insulted by the question. “At you?”
“Mm.”
“For trying to flash half the hockey team and die on a countertop?” He pretended to consider it. “Nah.”
Her mouth turned down. “That sounded judgy.”
“That was the edited version.”
“You’re mean.”
“I’m driving you home, giving you water, and preventing you from becoming a cautionary tale. I’m a hero.” His hands settled at her hips again, thumbs warm through the thin fabric at her waist. “A hot one, apparently. Nice butt. Heard that somewhere.”
She groaned and dropped her forehead back against his chest, and his laugh moved under her ear, low and pleased.
For a few seconds they just stood there beside his car while the party carried on without them, muffled and distant now, her body still buzzing with music and alcohol and the delayed embarrassment of nearly becoming a story Dean would tell until graduation. Garrett’s hand moved once down her back, then up again.
When she tipped her face up, he was already looking.
“What?” she asked, suspicious.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing a face.”
“That's because I have a face.”
“A smug one.”
“Yeah, that’s genetic.” He opened the passenger door and guided her toward it, one hand hovering near her head so she didn’t knock it against the frame. “In.”
She sat with less dignity than she would have preferred, knees bumping together, one heel catching awkwardly on the floor mat. Garrett crouched before she could fully process the problem, fingers closing gently around her ankle as he straightened the shoe and set her foot flat. The intimacy of it caught weirdly in her stomach.
“There,” he said. “Both shoes accounted for. Huge night for us.”
She stared down at him. “You’re really pretty from this angle.”
He looked up, one brow lifting. “From the floor?”
“Mhm.”
“Good to know.” He reached across her for the seatbelt, and she took the opportunity to press a messy kiss to his cheek, catching more jaw than anything else. Garrett paused with the belt pulled across her lap, mouth twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile too obviously. “You missed.”
“I didn’t.”
“That was my jaw.”
“I know what I did.”
“Terrifying sentence.” He clicked the belt into place and tugged once to check it, then braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at her. “You gonna puke in my car?”
She considered lying, then made a face. “No.”
“Very long pause.”
“I was thinking.”
“That’s what scared me.”
She laughed, head falling back against the seat, and Garrett’s smile went helpless for half a second. There and then mostly gone, swallowed back under the usual cocky tilt of his mouth before she could do anything devastating with it, like point it out.
But she saw it. The fondness. The stupid, pleased little crease near his eye, like this – her drunk and difficult and half-asleep in his passenger seat, mascara probably doing something unfortunate, skirt riding high enough on her thighs that he reached in and tugged it down again with a muttered, “Jesus, baby,” – was somehow not a nuisance to him.
Somehow, it was worth smiling about.
He shut the door and walked around the front of the car, and through the windshield she watched him shake his head to himself, still grinning.
When he got in, the party disappeared almost completely. Door closed. Engine on. The car filled with the low blue glow of the dashboard and the clean, familiar smell of Garrett’s hoodie thrown in the backseat.
He handed her a half-full water bottle from the backseat. “Drink.”
She took it with both hands. “You’re bossy.”
“You like it.”
She hummed into the rim, then looked over at him with her cheek pressed against the seat. “Maybe.”
Garrett pulled away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over without looking to settle warm over her bare knee.
“Next party,” he said, “we’re putting you in pants.”
She made a horrified noise. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine. Longer skirt.”
“No.”
“Flats?”
She turned her head very slowly, giving him the full weight of her disappointment. “Garrett.”
He glanced over, and the grin came back. “Yeah, okay. That was too far.”
“Thank you.”
“But no counters.”
She sighed like he had asked her to give up art. “You’re ruining my brand.”
“Your brand almost gave Tucker a full view of your underwear.”
“Was he impressed?”
Garrett’s hand tightened on her knee. Enough that she felt the shift before she saw the look he kept aimed at the road. “Careful.”
Garrett Graham, competitive down to the bone. Still warm, still amused, but with that little edge in his voice that made her grin against the side of the water bottle because he was so easy sometimes. Pretty and cocky and gone for her in ways he kept trying to disguise as confidence.
She reached over and covered his hand with hers, fingers slipping between his. “I’m kidding.”
“I know.”
“You’re my favourite.”
His mouth softened before he could stop it. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Her eyes were getting heavy now, the night stretching into something blurred and honey-warm around the edges. “Even when you’re mean and anti-Ariana.”
“I’m pro-Ariana. I’m anti-head injury.”
She hummed again, sinking lower in the seat, her thumb moving lazily over his knuckles. The car rolled through the quiet streets around Briar, past porch lights and parked cars and the occasional burst of noise from other parties spilling out over lawns.
Garrett drove slower than usual, glancing over every so often like she might attempt to climb something inside the car if left unsupervised.
Maybe she loved that. Just a little.
Maybe that was the problem with him. The dangerous part wasn’t the grin, or the body, or the fact that half the girls at every party seemed to know where he was without looking directly at him.
It was this. His hand steady under hers. His hoodie in the backseat. His voice still teasing because he knew she would hate being fussed over too seriously, even while he kept watch like it mattered.
She turned her face toward him, smiling sleepily. “Garrett?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Next time she plays that song, I’m getting on the bench.”
He laughed under his breath, eyes on the road, thumb brushing once over the side of her hand.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)
Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.
Summary:
Oscar gets a species of wasps named after him. Bee has thoughts.
Warnings and Notes: ...Oscar gets roasted by a 5 year old. That's the story 😂
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂
Oscar found out about the wasp because Lando sent him seventeen messages in a row.
That was usually how disasters started.
Oscar was sitting in the kitchen at Lavender House, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea, the other bouncing Nell gently against his hip while she gnawed on the corner of his hoodie string with the fierce determination of an eight-month-old who had discovered textiles.
Felicity was at the island, slicing strawberries for Bee’s breakfast, hair piled on top of her head, wearing one of his old McLaren jumpers..
Oscar’s phone started vibrating next to his plate..
Once.
Twice.
Then it lit up like a Christmas tree.
Oscar frowned. “Lando,” he said.
Felicity didn’t even look up. “What did he break?”
“Emotionally or physically?”
“Both are possible.”
Oscar picked up the phone.
Lando: MATE
Lando: MATE
Lando: YOU’RE A BUG
Lando: OSCAR
Lando: ANSWER ME
Lando: YOU HAVE A WASP
Oscar blinked.
“What?”
Felicity looked up then. “Sorry?”
Oscar scrolled.
Lando had sent a link, three screenshots, and what appeared to be a badly cropped meme of Oscar’s face edited onto a wasp.
Oscar opened the article.
Then read the headline.
Then read it again.
Apparently, a newly described fossil wasp from Burmese amber had been named Gwesped piastrii after him. The amber was from the mid-Cretaceous period, around 98–100 million years old, and the name partly honored Oscar because the amber reminded the author of McLaren papaya.
Oscar stared at his phone.
Nell tugged harder on his hoodie string.
Felicity slowly set down the knife. “What is it?”
“I think…” Oscar said carefully, “I think somebody named a wasp after me.”
Silence.
The kitchen went very quiet.
Then Felicity’s face did something dangerous.
The corners of her mouth twitched. Once. Twice.
And then she absolutely lost it.
Not a polite laugh. Not a soft laugh. A full, bent-over-the-counter, one-hand-braced-beside-the-strawberries laugh.
Oscar stared at her.
“I’m glad this is funny to you.”
She tried to speak. Failed. Waved a hand at him.
Bee’s head snapped up from her porridge. “Papa got a wasp?”
Oscar looked down at the screenshot again, still feeling like this was somehow one of those fake headlines Lando sent when he was bored.
“Apparently.”
Bee scrambled up immediately and came to stand beside him, chin barely clearing the table but eyes sharp and interested.
“Can I see?”
Oscar handed her the phone without hesitation, because Bee was five now and could navigate scientific abstracts with more confidence than most adults Oscar knew.
Bee squinted.
Her lips moved silently over the scientific name.
“Gwes… ped… pias… tree-eye?”
“Piastrii,” Felicity supplied, still laughing under her breath.
Bee frowned. “That sounds like us.”
“It is us,” Oscar said. “Sort of.”
Bee squinted at the article. “It is extinct,” she announced.
Oscar frowned. “The wasp?”
“Yes, Papa. Obviously the wasp. It is from the Cretaceous period.”
Felicity’s shoulders were shaking.
Oscar looked between them. “Why does my daughter sound like David Attenborough?”
Bee ignored him, already scrolling.
“It is over one hundred million years old.” She paused, then looked up at Oscar with thoughtful seriousness. “That makes sense.”
Oscar frowned. “Why does that make sense?”
Bee patted his forearm kindly. “Because you are old.”
Felicity turned away from the counter.
Her shoulders shook.
Oscar stared at his eldest daughter. “I’m twenty-five.”
Bee nodded again. “Yes. Very old.”
Felicity lost it.
She laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the counter, and Nell, delighted by the noise, started giggling in Oscar’s arms — a gummy, breathless little sound that made the entire kitchen brighter.
Oscar looked down at the baby in his arms. “Not you too.”
Nell slapped his chest again. “Ba!”
“Betrayal,” Oscar muttered.
Nell made a happy squeaking sound and smacked Oscar’s chin with one damp fist.
“Thank you, Nell,” he muttered. “Very supportive.”
Bee had gone back to reading. Her brow furrowed.
“It went extinct sixty-six million years ago,” she said. “With the dinosaurs.”
Oscar leaned one hip against the counter. “That feels a bit harsh.”
“The asteroid was very bad for many species,” Bee said gravely.
Felicity, still laughing silently, managed, “She’s not wrong.”
Bee scrolled again, then stopped.
Her expression changed. Bee looked up slowly. “Papa.”
“Yes?”
“You got a wasp.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“I am Bee. You are my Papa.”
“Correct.”
“So you should have got a bee named after you because of me.”
Oscar leaned back in his chair.
Honestly, airtight logic.
Felicity kissed the top of Bee’s head. “Maybe someone will name a bee after you one day.”
Bee brightened. “Bees are better than wasps.”
Felicity covered her mouth.
Oscar shifted Nell higher on his hip. “I’m not sure I should comment.”
Bee crossed her arms, tiny and furious in dinosaur pyjamas. “Bees help flowers. Bees make honey. Bees are important for the environment. Wasps are—” She paused, searching for the harshest insult available to a five-year-old. “Mean.”
“Wasps are also pollinators,” Felicity offered, because apparently she had chosen violence.
Bee turned her betrayed gaze on her mother. “Some wasps are pollinators. Some are parasitoids. Bees are better.”
Oscar murmured, “Careful, Fliss. You’re about to get peer-reviewed.”
Bee pointed at the phone. “This wasp does not even help the environment anymore because it is dead.”
Oscar pressed his lips together. “That’s a strong point.”
“It is extinct,” Bee said, with the devastating finality of a judge delivering sentence. “And it is not even orange.”
Felicity wheezed.
Oscar looked down at Nell, who was now trying to eat his collarbone. “Do you have an opinion on this?”
Nell blew a raspberry.
“Thank you.”
Bee climbed back onto her chair, pulling Oscar’s phone closer. “I need to read the full paper.”
Oscar blinked. “The scientific paper?”
“Yes.”
“You’re five.”
“I can read.”
“I know you can read, but—”
Felicity, traitorously, handed Bee her tablet. “There’s probably a PDF.”
Oscar looked at his wife. “You’re encouraging this.”
“I married you at eighteen. My standards for sensible decision-making are historically inconsistent.”
“Does the paper have pictures?”
Felicity leaned over Bee’s shoulder. “It might have diagrams.”
Bee brightened. “Good. I like diagrams.”
Felicity, still smiling, pulled up the journal page on the tablet. “We can read it together.”
Bee leaned forward immediately, all outrage forgotten in the presence of new information.
Oscar watched his wife and daughter bend over the tablet together, Felicity explaining amber fossils and preserved insect morphology while Bee nodded like she was attending a conference panel.
Nell drooled down his hoodie.
Oscar sighed.
“I get a species named after me and somehow I’m still the least impressive person in this kitchen.”
Felicity looked up, eyes sparkling. “You did get an extinct wasp.”
Bee nodded without looking away from the article. “A very old dead wasp.”
Oscar stared at her.
Then at Felicity.
Then down at Nell.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you, family. Very proud moment for me.”
Bee finally looked up, expression softening slightly. “It is still cool, Papa.”
Oscar’s chest softened.
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “Because someone found something very old and special and thought about you.”
That hit him harder than he expected.
He looked down at the image of the tiny fossilised insect on his phone. Something trapped in amber for over a hundred million years.
Something that had existed before humans, before racing, before noise and engines and championship points.
And somehow, absurdly, it had his name.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That is pretty cool.”
Bee leaned back, satisfied.
Then added, “But next time, ask for a bee.”
Felicity laughed softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.
Oscar looked at his daughters — Bee, brilliant and indignant on behalf of pollinators; Nell, drooling on his hoodie like it was her life’s work — and thought that no extinct wasp, no trophy, no headline in the world was ever going to beat this.
Still.
He looked back at the phone.
“Over one hundred million years old,” he muttered.
Bee smiled brightly. “It’s okay, Papa. You look good for your age.”
Then she read the name again, very slowly.
“Gwesped piastrii.”
Oscar waited.
Bee looked up.
“Can I draw it?”
“Of course.”
She slid off the stool and ran for her insect notebook, the one covered in stickers of bees, butterflies, and beetles.
Felicity watched her go, still smiling.
Oscar looked at his wife. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I’m married to an ancient wasp,” she said. “Let me have this.”
“It’s scientifically significant.”
“It is,” she agreed, leaning over to kiss Nell’s cheek, then Oscar’s. “My very significant fossil.”
He gave her a flat look.
She grinned.
A few seconds later, Bee returned with pencils, a magnifying glass, and the intensity of someone preparing a museum exhibit.
She sat at the table and began drawing.
The wasp had six legs, wings, a tiny helmet, and — for reasons Oscar couldn’t begin to unpack — his number on its back.
Underneath, in careful letters, she wrote:
PAPA WASP OLD EXTINCT IMPORTANT BUT NOT AS GOOD AS BEES
Oscar read it.
Then looked at Felicity.
Felicity was biting her lip so hard she looked like she might injure herself.
Bee added one final note at the bottom.
DIED WITH DINOSAURS. SAD.
Oscar sighed.
Nell slapped one tiny hand against his cheek.
Bee looked up proudly. “I’m going to show Lando.”
Oscar immediately reached for his phone.
“No—”
Too late.
Bee had already climbed off the chair, drawing in hand, heading for Felicity’s phone because she had learned exactly which adult was easier to manipulate.
Felicity handed it over without shame.
Oscar stared at her.
“Traitor.”
Felicity smiled, radiant and unrepentant.
“She’s peer reviewing your species.”
By lunch, Lando had sent back twelve crying-laughing emojis, Mark had replied with ‘finally, a Piastri with wings’, and Nicole had asked whether Bee wanted a book on fossil insects.
Bee did.
Obviously.
Oscar looked around the kitchen — Felicity laughing softly into her tea, Nell chewing on a silicone spoon, Bee lecturing Button the Frog about amber preservation and ecological value — and thought, not for the first time, that his life had become very strange.
He had a formula 1 seat. 2 daughters. A Genius wife. Nearly a dozen race wins… and a wasp species named after himself.
“Papa?” Bee said.
“Yeah?”
“If you are a wasp, does that mean you sting?”
Oscar glanced at Felicity.
Felicity’s eyes gleamed.
He sighed. “Only on track.”
Bee considered that.
Then nodded.
“Okay. That is acceptable.”
And just like that, apparently, he had been scientifically approved.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/OscarPiastri:
Apparently there is now an extinct wasp named after me. This is very cool.
Can it be a bee next time, maybe? My daughter had thoughts.
@/OscarPiastri:
(She also said it makes sense the wasp is extinct “because you’re old”, so I’m having a great morning, thank you for asking.)
@/f1paddocktea:
OSCAR TWEETING “can it be a bee next time, maybe? my daughter had thoughts” IS TAKING ME OUTTTT
@/papayascientist:
Bee Piastri said “congratulations on the taxonomic honour but I have notes”
@/fossilfuelledf1:
“my daughter had thoughts” = Bee wrote a full peer-reviewed rebuttal titled WHY BEES ARE BETTER THAN WASPS
@/piastriupdates:
Oscar has been a wife guy, a girl dad, a chicken dad, and now apparently an extinct wasp. The range.
@/AcademicF1Girl:
As someone who works in taxonomy I am begging the scientists to name an actual bee after Oscar next because Bee Piastri has clearly opened a formal complaint.
@/formulabee:
“Can it be a bee next time maybe” HE SOUNDS SO TIRED 😭 that child absolutely lectured him over breakfast.
@/beepiastrination:
Bee Piastri has standards. Bees pollinate. Wasps chase people at picnics. She’s RIGHT.
@/landoscarbrainrot:
He didn’t tweet “this is an honour.” He tweeted “my five-year-old has filed a complaint.” That’s fatherhood.
@/fossilwasposcar:
New username acquired. Thank you, science.
@/f1girlie44:
“my daughter had thoughts” is the most ominous thing oscar piastri has ever tweeted
@/papayaprints:
Bee Piastri heard her father got a WASP named after him and immediately convened an environmental ethics committee.
@/boxboxbee:
Oscar: very honoured
Bee: actually bees are better for the environment and this is taxonomically offensive
@/papayaenthusiast:
Oscar being immortalized in science and immediately using the moment to report that his daughter disapproved is peak Oscar.
@/academicwag:
The sentence “my daughter had thoughts” is so funny because you just know Bee had a full presentation ready.
@/norrisnation:
The funniest part is Oscar did not say “my daughter was excited.” He said “my daughter had thoughts.” That child had CRITICISMS.
@/piastrination:
Scientists: we named a new fossil species after you!
Oscar: thank you :)
Bee: why not a pollinator with stronger environmental credentials
@/graveltrapgirl:
Bee Piastri being personally offended that her name is Bee and Oscar got a wasp named after him is actually so valid.
@/beesbeforewasps:
NEW USERNAME UNLOCKED THANK YOU BEE PIASTRI
@/turnonechaos:
The way Bee is going to grow up and discover this thread and be like “yes, I was correct.”
@/papayafossil:
Oscar didn’t get a wasp named after him. Bee got a new research topic and Oscar happened to be involved.
@/f1archivegirl:
Oscar’s entire online presence is just:
dry race comment
dry race comment
daughter says I should have a bee named after myself, and also that I am old
dry race comment
@/F1:
Race winner. Dad. Now fossil wasp.
Oscar Piastri’s résumé keeps growing.
@/papayapiastri:
OSCAR GETTING A WASP NAMED AFTER HIM AND BEE PIASTRI BEING OFFENDED ON BEHALF OF ACTUAL BEES 😭😭😭
@/oldmanoscar:
“because you’re old ”
OSCAR IS 25 😭😭😭
@/piastriarchive:
Oscar really has the most insane soft launch-to-hard launch family lore ever:
2024: surprise wife and daughter
2025: surprise second baby
2026: surprise extinct wasp
@/sciencegirlf1:
Oscar: “I got a species named after me!”
Bee: “Incorrect pollinator. Revise and resubmit.”
@/fossilf1:
As a paleontology student and F1 fan, I need everyone to understand that Bee Piastri demanding a bee species instead is the greatest public engagement with taxonomy we have had in years.
@/carbonfiberbee:
Oscar Piastri accidentally making his five-year-old daughter care about extinct hymenoptera is exactly the content I needed.
@/landoscaragenda:
NOT OSCAR ASKING THE SCIENTIFIC COMMUNITY TO NAME A BEE AFTER HIM NEXT BECAUSE HIS FIVE YEAR OLD WAS UNIMPRESSED
@/mclarenorange33:
some drivers celebrate species being named after them. oscar immediately gets bullied by his own child. perfect.
@/sciencegirlieF1:
Bee Piastri discovering her father’s namesake species went extinct with the dinosaurs and deciding that makes sense because “Papa is old” is genuinely the funniest thing I have ever heard.
“You coming to Canada?” Lando asked as he eyed your suitcase placed next to his in the hallway, confusion evident on his face.
That you had been at more races recently was no secret and something he secretly thanked your old boss for after letting you go the previous year. To have you by his side for more races had honestly been the highlight of this season yet. Given, the new regulations weren’t making this exactly hard.
But now he was confused. Not that you wanted to come, but that he hadn’t known about it.
Normally he was the one organizing a Paddock pass for you, but this time, you hadn’t asked for one. Hadn’t even mentioned that you would be joining him.
Placing your backpack next to your suitcase you nodded. “Yeah, why?”
The man just shook his head and continued the search for his keys. “Just asking cause you didn’t mention it. You got a pass from the Team or sumn?”
He tried to sound nonchalant about it, but the hint of anxiety he felt about you possibly being denied entrance to the track still slipped through.
Handing him the key that had sat literally right in front of him on the sideboard standing in the hallway, you nodded again. “Don’t worry, I got it figured while you were in Comporta.”
Well okay then, Lando thought and accepted the answer for what it sounded like.
“You ready then?” he asked, already bending down to pick up your bag so you had free range with your purse and suitcase.
“Yup, let’s go,”
He probably should have been a little more suspicious of the situation in hindsight. It seemed fishy how easy you went with him but had not told him about your plans.
And yet, he went with it. Put your stuff in the trunk of his car with his, sat in the driver’s seat and headed toward the Airport in Nice.
What you hadn’t told him was that you weren’t going to be with him. At least not directly. Not with McLaren.
But that was a problem for when you’d arrive at the airport. One that already started at check-in because with Lando breathing down your neck, it was a little difficult to hide that you were in fact not going to be on the same flight as him.
“Wait, why is your flight going later then mine by an hour?” he questioned when the Boarding pass showed a very different Flight number as his.
You pulled up a lie about his flight having been scheduled far earlier then yours and that you calling the team had been a last-minute decision.
Thankfully he bought it and from then on you were safe for the next few hours.
Lando went to the separate private lounge meant for private jets as he was flying with Zak and Andrea and you went to your gate where an enthusiastic Monegasque driver was already waiting for you with his wife.
Leo barked excitedly at you, knowing you enough from hanging out with his mother every now and then to demand instant pets and scratches while Alexandra loosened his retractable leash so he could run to you before following the dachshund to hug you.
Charles, who had been busy on his phone, looked up and greeted you with a smile of his own.
“There my new assistant is! How has Lando taken to the news?” he asked with a smile you wouldn’t think he was capable off as a Ferrari driver.
The question threw you off. You had not expected to be confronted with this right away and Charles seemed to see that too. His eyebrow rose high as you stammered a bit.
“You have told him, no?” he wanted to know.
“Well…” you started, a little high-pitched as you tried to find the right words for no, as you kept scratching Leo’s ear before getting up.
“That’s a no then.” Alexandra deadpanned with a laugh for you.
Charles looked downright offended on Lando’s behalf while Alexandra just looked amused, already reaching for Leo again before he tangled himself around your legs and trip you.
“You got hired by Ferrari and you did not tell your best friend?” Charles asked dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You make it sound so bad, like that,” you muttered weakly.
“Because it is bad,” Alexandra snorted. “The poor man is going to have a heart attack if you show up in enemy colors all of a sudden.”
You groaned, already dreading the exact moment it would happen, because you knew Lando well enough to know there would first be confusion, then betrayal and then a big amount of sulking.
Charles, meanwhile, looked far too entertained by the situation. “I cannot wait for media day now,” he grinned. “But he knows you are going to be there?
“How do you think I got to the airport?” you questioned dryly while Alexandra burst out laughing and somewhere deep down you realized that keeping this a secret until Canada might actually have been the worst idea you had in a long time.
“This is going to be fun,” Charles cackled at the thought about all of this going down.
“I was going to tell him,” you defended yourself quickly. “I just… missed the moment.”
“And now the moment is apparently him seeing you in Ferrari kit instead of Papaya?” Alexandra laughed, shifting Leo into her arms when the dog tried to chase after another passenger.
“Seems so?” you said with pursed lips and followed the two into another Lounge where Lewis was chatting with a flight attendant as she checked his boarding pass.
Charles looked delighted. “Please let me be there when it happens,” he begged.
You pointed a warning finger at him. “You are aware that you might end up battling him wheel to wheel on Sunday?”
“Oh no,” Charles grinned as he picked up his carry-on. “I am soo scared. Whatever shall I do about loverboy being petty?”
You showed the woman your boarding pass too and suddenly felt very weird to fly private without Lando by your side.
The odd feeling only got worse once you were seated across from Charles on the jet, a Ferrari jacket folded neatly beside you instead of the familiar papaya one you usually put on.
The flight was chill. Lewis, although surprised, had quickly taken to you and involved you in conversation to make you feel more included.
Leo had apparently found his new favorite as he slept to your feet instead of Charles’s or Alexandra’s and your new boss Charles treated you more like a friend then an assistant.
And somewhere over the Pacific while Lando sat blissfully unaware on a completely different plane, you realized that in less than twenty-four hours your best friend was either going to kill you, ignore you for a week, or become unbearably dramatic.
Your guess was all 3.
7 hours later, the plane touched Canadian ground.
With the Ferrari Team all put in the same hotel as each other and you being Charles’s new assistant, you had been booked there too, only a couple rooms down from his and decidedly not a Hilton.
Your explanation for that to Lando when he had asked to get dinner along with Oscar , was far less complicated than you had thought.
“The Hilton was completely booked already.”
Having seen how full the lobby was earlier, this also made perfect sense to him. Not even Oscar, who was for more suspicious batted an eye at it.
What you hadn’t accounted for was how quickly your little secret would become a problem the next morning.
You stepped into the paddock wearing mostly neutral clothes, fully intending to grab your pass and ease into the day by hiding the flaming red of your shirt underneath a jacket.
However the weather was absolutely not on your side because you were warm. To warm to wear that damn jacket for longer than a few minutes.
Charles was already waiting in front of the hospitality when you came over, jacket thrown over your arm and ready to hide inside to hide from the public eye for a little longer.
The Monegasque was leaning against the railing of the hospitality. His usual team kit shining as bright as your own.
“Nice to see you made it,” he grinned.
“Barely,” you muttered, glancing around instinctively as if Lando might materialize out of thin air at any second.
Charles followed your gaze and hummed in amusement, clearly enjoying your suffering a little too much.
Charles pushed off the railing and met you halfway.
“You do realize that I got press with him in a bit so he’s going to see you within the next hour, right?” he said casually.
“I read the schedule, thanks.” You said and let him lead the way down the ramp.
Oscar, who was walking out of the McLaren hospitality a bit away stopped in his tracks when he saw a glimpse of you in enemy colors and needed a moment to collect himself before his eyes bugged out of his head.
Oh this is going to be fun, he thought with a chuckle.
Thankfully you had dissapeared around the corner with Charles already when Lando stepped out behind him, promptly complaining about why he was blocking the door all of a sudden.
“Mate, really?”
“Yeah, sorry. Got distracted by something for a moment.”
Standing in, until now, enemy territory known as the Ferrari garage was strange in itself. You did your job fantastically, even getting a compliment out of Fred for how quick you adapted to the team and followed Charles anywhere he needed.
That didn’t stop the weird looks you received from people you knew such as Carlos, George or Alex who you threatened to keep silent with on quick gesture of your thumb trailing over your throat or the looks from fans who also needed a moment to comprehend the color you were wearing. Or the garage you just walked out from.
Will damn near dropped his data pad when you waved carefully at him as you walked past Lando’s garage.
Then a familiar voice cut through the noise behind you, sharp with confusion and disbelief.
“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” Lando said slowly, sounding a bit breathless as he quickly took a hold of Oscars wrist as if to steady himself. “Or that this is just a very scary nightmare.”
You slowly turned around, meeting his gaze as his expression flickered from Charles who barely surpressed his laugh, to your shirt, to Oscar, back to your shirt and then to your face.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he gasped in horror, gesturing with the hand he wasn’t clinging to Oscar with to your ensemble.
Charles physically had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing while you stood there like a criminal.
“Haha well, funny story actually…” you started taking a careful step back.
“No, no, love. There is no funny story about you cheating on papaya. I call that a horrormovie!” he said, more shouted in betrayal while Oscar had to look to the side to not lose it.
“I didn’t cheat on papaya, I—”
“You kind of did.”
“Not the moment Charles!” you hissed, mortified as several mechanics nearby had very obviously started listening in.
Lando looked one second away from passing out, eyes blown wide and praying to everyone who would hear him that he was not going to have to share you with Charles from now on.
“I mean I knew you were searching for a new job but why them? I could have gotten you into our Team had you just asked!” he whined, now sounding like a child who’d gotten his candy taken away.
“I know, and that’s why I didn’t ask. Because I need to know that I am on a team because I am good, not because I know you, Lan.” You explained, arms crossed to get your point across and judging by Lando’s softening face, you did just that.
“Fair, I get that but why them?”
“Want me to apply for Red Bull? I’m sure Max has an opening somewhere on his team. Want me to ask?”
The simultaneous and panicked, “No!” you received from all three drivers startled you, though you had the feeling that Oscar was only against it because having Lando complain about you and Max, would be far worse than if it was you and Charles.
Lando huffed and turned to the driver clad in red.
“Fine. But if you think I’ll share her with you then you are dead wrong.”
Charles held hia hands up in surrender. “I would never,”
Oscar freed his wrist and retreated slowly into his garage.
“And you,” the brit pointed at you. “Will answer all of my questions over lunch!”
With that he turned tail and went to spill his sorrow to his engineers.
He’ll just have to get used to it, you thought.
And once Will he got it into his drivers head that this would mean you’d join every race from now on, he suddenly was far less peeved about the color swap.
─── A PROMPT IN WHICH IT'S A HUMID SUMMERS EVENING BUT IT ISN'T THE HEAT TONIGHT THAT'S MAKING LUCKY FEEL FLUSTERED ✶
warnings. short smut towards the end.
au. the soulmate au universe.
pairing. soulmate!matt & lucky!reader.
notes. based on this ask. ( divider credit. . . always @chrisssiren ) 🧡
“matthew, seriously. why is it so fucking hot?”
you’re fanning yourself with both hands from where you’re sprawled across the garden chair beside matt, legs thrown over his lap as his fingers move slowly up and down your leg, completely absentminded on his end while he sits beside you, head tipped back against his own chair, eyes closed shut behind the sunglasses he’s wearing.
“‘cause it’s a heatwave, baby,” he says after a second. “that’s usually how they work.”
you immediately turn your head to look at him, hands still attempting yet failing to cool you down.
“don’t be sarcastic and annoying.”
your attitude gets an easy reaction out of him. not a big one, but enough for his mouth to lift into a slight smirk before he lifts his free hand and pushes his sunglasses up into his hair.
a truly terrible decision for him to make right now.
because now his hair somehow looks even messier than it already did from constantly pushing it back in the humidity making it sit exactly the way you love it most, there’s no shirt in sight leaving every tattoo of his fully on display across his newly tanned body while he sits beside you looking completely unaffected by the heat when it’s not the heat that’s even really affecting you most right now.
the heat itself wasn’t even the issue to begin with. you like summer, love it actually. you love sitting by the pool all day with birdie and the girls, love planned evenings like tonight when the group all come over for dinner al fresco, love the warmth on your skin and you definitely love the tiny polka dot bikini currently worn on your body especially considering you put it on when matt had texted you to say he was coming over earlier than everyone else.
what you don’t love so much is the way this situation is affecting you more than it usually would. matt’s hand moving slowly up and down your leg for the last twenty minutes suddenly making you aware of his touch in a way you really wish it hadn’t, and every time he shifts beside you or pushes his hair back again, the stupid butterflies in your stomach somehow continue to get worse.
plus the fact birdie, chris and nick are all due over any minute now which timing wise is awful because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes since matt arrived looking like this dealing with a slightly inconvenient internal issue and there’s zero time to do anything about it.
you look away from matt immediately trying to ignore the thoughts, but then they’re soon back on him, then quickly away from him again when suddenly the floats moving with the water around your parents’ pool are the most interesting thing in the entire garden to look at because looking at matt for too long instead seems to be causing you serious problems.
“what time did nick say they were coming when you last spoke to him?” you ask, eyes still very much fixated on the pool ahead.
“sweetheart, why’re you lookin’ at the pool like you’re talkin’ to it instead of me?” he chuckles, giving your leg on his lap a gentle squeeze. “m’over here.”
your head turns immediately toward him and unfortunately that was another terrible decision on your behalf because matt’s looking at you now. properly looking at you, actually looking at you without sunglasses in the way and you really don’t want to think about the way your stomach immediately flipped the very second that you made eye contact with him again.
“i’m looking at you now, aren’t i?”
“mhm.” matt’s mouth lifts into another smirk. “can see that.”
you narrow your eyes immediately because there’s a tone to his voice now. a subtle tone that tells you he’s figured out exactly what‘s going on with you right now, and the worst part of him knowing is that now you both know you don’t have enough time to act on it.
you hold his stare for another few seconds before tapping out first, swinging your legs over and out of his lap as you stand from your chair.
“where you goin’?” he asks, eyes following your every move.
“nowhere.” which is technically true considering you’ve moved all of two steps and are now just standing directly in front of him with your hands on your hips, looking down at him while he looks up at you, smirk still clear on his face.
his hand reaches out then, straight to the bikini string that’s dangling at your hip.
he twists it around his finger once, then again, almost so casually that you’d think he isn’t aware that he’s even doing it right now, though you know full well he is.
you frown at him instantly.
“matthew.”
“lucky.”
“you know what you’re doing.”
he looks up at you for another second, still twisting the string lazily around his finger before he lifts his eyes back to your own.
“do i?” he asks, and the slight smirk on his face only gets worse because the answer is obvious, quite painfully obvious in fact.
you stare at him and he just stares back. until his hand eventually slides from the bikini string at your hip to your waist instead, his grip so natural against you that it almost makes things somehow feel even worse.
“lucky, c’mere.”
you frown again.
“matt, it’s too hot.” an excuse.
“too hot for what?” he asks, still looking up at you. “too hot for a kiss?”
you roll your eyes even though you still take a tiny step closer, giving into him already.
“baby,” he laughs, fully smiling at you now. “s’never too hot for a kiss. i said c’mere.”
you step closer standing between his legs properly as his grip tightens against your waist, pulling you in until you’re stood close enough that he can lean in to you now but also to keep you stood in place. for a second neither of you says anything, his hands completely sliding round you as he presses a soft kiss against your bare stomach.
then another, followed by another whilst your fingers slide into his hair, automatically gripping the strands just slightly.
his mouth trails down more kisses until he stops at the band of your bikini bottoms, pressing one more kiss just above the fabric before his fingers hook the edge, tugging them aside. he looks up at you again as he slides his fingers to trace slowly against your folds, finding you slick and desperate for him as a low hum comes from his throat.
“fuck, baby.” he murmurs, placing another wet kiss just beside your belly button. “you’re so wet, pretty girl. all f’me? all that attitude ‘cause y’wanted me to touch you?”
“matt, shut up.” you barely manage to whisper, not really able to get anything else out now that he’s finally touching you. he curls two fingers inside of you slowly, his thumb slowly beginning to circle firmly against your clit, his other hand gently tugging at the string of your bikini again dangling from your hip.
before your bikini bottoms are fully gone from you, typically you hear the sound of chris’ jeep pulling up against the rocks on the driveway, making you immediately drop your forehead into matt’s shoulder with a groan.
matt just laughs quietly, quickly tightening the string of your bikini again before giving your ass a light tap as he nods towards the front gate of your parents’ property.
“open the gate for ‘em to drive in, sweetheart.” he stands, walking backwards inside to go open the door for the three of them. “we’ll revisit this later.”
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it was nights like these that you often found yourself here, standing at matt’s door.
another argument with chris about the lack of transparency with your situation led you right back to matt, like it always seemed to do.
you weren’t using him, you really weren’t, you do enjoy his company. not only that, things were easy with matt in a way that they never were with chris.
there was the obvious set back of him being chris’s brother, but that was a fact you tried to ignore. although it was extremely difficult when they shared a face.
though that didn’t stop you from finding yourself here, on his doorstep, waiting patiently for him to let you in.
the second the door swings open revealing matt, standing there with tired eyes, his jacket half zipped and his face covered in that stubble you’ve grown very fond of recently, you jump on him. immediately pressing your lips to his and wrapping your arms around his neck.
it’s not the first time this has happened, and you both know it won’t be the last.
his body tenses for a second at the sudden movement before relaxing into you. his hands find their way to your hips, grounding you.
the two of you stumble further into his apartment, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you gently.
before things can move any further, matt pulls his lips away from yours. you let out a small whine at the lack of contact, already knowing where this is going.
"bug... bug what're you doing here." he asks reluctantly.
he knows why you're here. it's always the same thing. chris did this, chris did that. matt was just a distraction for you whenever his idiot brother screwed up. at least that was how matt felt.
"i don't wanna talk about it." you murmur, brushing off the way his voice drops low like he's concerned.
you ignore the way his brow furrows like he's waiting for you to explain further as you lean back in for another kiss, to which matt dodges.
he slowly lowers you back to the ground, breaking you out of the haze you'd found yourself lost in.
"what happened now?" matt's hands are still resting on your waist as he asks. his bright blue eyes searching for an answer in yours.
you shake your head before letting out a humorless laugh. "take your pick. i'm sure whatever you guess will be right."
your gaze drops to your hands, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
you hear matt sigh softly before you look back up at him. you see the tension in his body, the way his jaw works like he's biting back a million thoughts.
he takes a deep breath before speaking, voice low when he does. "why do you keep letting him treat you like this?"
that question hurts more than you care to admit, partly because he's right, partly because you don't have a good answer to give him.
"he's lily's dad." is what you end up settling with, knowing it's a poor excuse.
matt also knows that which is why he scoffs at your words immediately. "doesn't give him the right to treat you like you don't matter." his voice is rough now, laced with irritation at chris's own stupidity. how could he have all of this and still throw it away for some cheap thrill? he would never be able to understand that.
you sigh, taking a few steps away from matt, his hands falling from your waist as he follows behind you as you make your way to his couch, curling your legs underneath you.
matt drops down into the cushion beside you, draping his arm over the back of the couch behind your head.
the two of you sit in silence for a few minutes before matt breaks it.
"sooo..." he trails off, looking at you trying to decipher what was going on inside your head.
"i don't wanna talk about him matt." you roll your eyes with a small huff, immediately growing defensive at what matt wasn't saying yet.
his hands immediately raise in surrender. "i'm not asking about him, bug."
"you're not, but you want to. i know you do." you sigh, shifting your body so your back is against his chest, leaning further into him.
"i just wanna make sure you're okay. that's all." he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head before letting his arm fall over your shoulders keeping you pressed against him.
your arms reach up to pull his arm further across your chest, pressing light kisses to his wrist. "i know, but i'm okay."
he laughs softly, more to fill the silence than because he found something funny. "you're always okay... even when you're falling apart."
the silence swells for a beat before he speaks again, "i just want you to be happy, bug."
you tilt your head back slightly to look at him better, the side of his face coming to your peripheral. "i'm happy right now. right here. just us."
"good." matt replies, tone light and fond as he does so.
you hum softly in agreement before allowing yourself to relax into matt. relaxation doesn't last long because your phone starts ringing from your pocket.
you reach for it, already knowing exactly who's calling you. you can feel matt's body tense behind you as you pull your phone out, his arm tightening around you immediately as if a silent request for you to stay put.
you sigh before speaking, "s'chris..."
"yeah... yeah i know. always is... go ahead and answer it if you need to. could be something wrong with lily." the hurt in his voice doesn't go undetected by you, the same way it always does when chris seems to ruin the moment.
you sigh, peeling yourself away from him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek before sliding the answer button over and heading towards the kitchen for some privacy.
when you disappear into the kitchen, matt can hear your voice as you undoubtedly argue with chris, the same way you always do. the voice in the back of his head growing louder and louder every time the two of you play this dangerous game.
when will she wake up and realize she deserves the world?
ryss yaps: this is not proofread, i just wanted to get it posted and out of my drafts! chapter one of the actual storyline coming soon!! comment here or on this post to be added to the taglist! please specify which taglist you'd like to be added to in your comment! as always, any and all interaction is greatly appreciated!!
all dividers by: @/cursed-carmine @/honeyluvsw & @/chrisssiren🩷
lucky's had enough of tonight, and matt always knows when there's something wrong with the girl he loves most.
read part one ꒰ here ꒱ before reading the below.
content warnings ◞ angst.
“okay, what’s going on with you?” birdie slides into the empty chair beside you without any warning at all, the sound of her voice making you jump slightly in your seat. you look up to find her staring back at you, head tilted. “and don’t say nothing, because i know something’s wrong.”
you blink, still a little startled by your best friend’s sudden appearance, and it’s only then that you realise you’re the only one left sitting at your family dinner table.
plates are being cleared in preparation for dessert, your family already scattered around the room socialising, your mum making her way around all the tables, checking in with guests, making sure everything is still running smoothly, still very much in stressed out hostess mode.
you truly hadn’t even noticed them all get up and leave, you’ve been staring at the same spot on the table for far too long, too caught up in your own head to clock anything else.
“nothing’s wrong, bird..” you reply, probably a little too quickly for it to sound convincing, so you keep talking. “i’m just…over it. all these boring, false conversations, my parents’ happy family act in front of the crowd, i’m exhausted.”
you know she doesn’t buy that excuse. you can tell that by the way her brow lifts slightly. your parents playing perfect couple at events like this isn’t anything new because they’ve been this way for years, and you both know that.
“these things can be a lot sometimes,” she sighs, “but it’s nearly over.” she reaches over tugging your dress strap back into place before your mum clocks it from the other side of the room. “just gotta get through dessert, then we’re out of here. after party’s at nate’s parents’ beach house.”
that news is enough to make you smile. everyone your age in this room knows that’s the only redeeming part of nights like this is that someone will always host an after party and after the way tonight’s had you feeling, you’re more than ready to get out of here.
“are you gonna head back to the apartment to change?” birdie asks you, clearly already deciding for herself, “or are you committing to this dress all night?”
you open your mouth to answer, but your attention drifts past her shoulder before you can stop it. across the room, the triplets’ family table is half empty, only matt and chris left still sitting there, and matt’s already looking at you.
you’ve felt his eyes on you more than once throughout the night so far. every time you looked up, you could feel it. four, maybe five times throughout the entirety of dinner alone, you managed to successfully avoid meeting his eye contact.
until now, when your eyes meet for the first time in a while.
birdie keeps talking beside you, telling you about how the dress she’s wearing is comfortable despite it being long so she could just leave it on. you nod along automatically, but you’re not really taking in a word.
across the room, chris is saying something to matt, hands moving rapidly as he talks, clearly mid rant about something that’s irritated him.
chris and birdie are mirroring each other without realising as they both yap away, completely unaware that neither of them are being listened to, not by you and not by matt, because you’re still too busy looking at each other.
matt’s expression softens just slightly the second that he realises you haven’t looked away this time, like you’ve been doing every other time he’s attempted to catch your eye tonight. but then, almost like she times it perfectly without even knowing, piper appears at his side.
she leans in a little, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear. matt’s eyes stay on you as both her and chris talk at him from either side, and he turns his head for just a second to answer her.
by the time he looks back over at you, you’ve already looked away and you’re pushing your chair back before birdie’s even finished her sentence.
“i need to head to the bathroom super quick,” you say, needing to get out of this dining room, though you keep your tone casual like you’re not trying to escape. you’re already standing, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “i’ll be literally two minutes, tell my parents if they come over asking you where i’ve gone.”
birdie looks up at you, a little thrown by how quickly you’re moving and also how off you’re being tonight, but she nods anyway as you squeeze her hand before leaving.
you head straight for the bathrooms, walking a little faster than you mean to, and when you step inside, the quiet compared to the noise and chaos that’s been surrounding you all night hits you almost instantly.
you make your way straight over to the sinks, rinsing your wrists under the cold tap, attempting to cool yourself down when really all you want to do right now is just cry and disappear out of the country club entrance doors, but you won’t.
instead choosing to re-apply your lip gloss, “snap out of it, lucky.” you whisper to yourself in the mirror as you apply the gloss to your bottom lip, “what the fuck are you doing?”
you take one final look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the strap of your dress back into place for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, smoothing your hands down over the fabric before heading back out there with a smile on your face.
a sigh escapes your lips as you open the door, but you barely make it one step back into the corridor before matt’s suddenly in front of you. his stance almost like he’s been waiting for you the whole time.
his hand finds yours a little too easily, in the same way it always does, and his touch throws you off more than anything else tonight has.
“c’mon, sweetheart.” he mutters, asking you to follow despite the fact he’s already guiding you down the hallway before you can answer.
he pushes open a door just off to the side, pulling you into a small storage room you didn’t even know existed as he shuts it behind you quickly, the noise from the dining room instantly cutting off again.
boxes are stacked high in the corners, a layer of dust coating almost everything like no one’s been in here for years. there’s an old wooden table pushed up against the back wall that you find yourself leaning against without even thinking about it.
“really, matt?” you sigh, glancing around the room. “in here?”
he doesn’t answer, though. he just steps closer, placing his hands on either side of you against the table, not touching you, but close enough that it feels like he is.
“you’ve barely looked at me all night, lucky,” matt speaks first, breaking the silence, his voice is quiet but his tone makes your chest automatically tighten.
you shrug, your gaze dropping to the floor, then to the boxes in the corner, then to the minimal space between you both. anywhere but matt’s eyes.
“it wasn’t on purpose,” you mumble eventually. “you know how these things get...it’s been busy. my parents keep pulling me into conversation after conversation.”
“nah,” he exhales quietly, shaking his head just slightly, eyes still on you. “don’t do that.”
you frown a little, though still not looking at him. “do what?”
“act like that’s all it is upsettin’ you.”
your fingers trace over a chipped piece of wood in the table, the tip of your manicured nail following the lines like if you focus on that instead, you won’t have to deal with this conversation.
“you shut down on me the second you saw me tonight,” he says again, his voice softer now, but there’s still something underneath it. not anger, something closer to a slight frustration.
“i didn’t…“
“but you did,” he cuts in gently, “i know you did, i could see it.”
that makes you look up at him, really look at him, properly for the first time tonight.
“what do you want me to say, matt?” you ask quietly, betrayed by your own voice as it starts to shake just slightly.
his expression shifts at that.
“i want you t’be honest with me,” he says, “not whatever this is that we’re doin’ right now.”
you let out a small breath, shaking your head once like you’re trying your hardest to act fine, but it doesn’t work. not with matt, never with him.
“okay, fine. you want honesty?”
he nods at that.
“they’ve clearly got a whole future planned out for you and piper out there,” you admit, gesturing your arm in the direction of the dining hall, “and i don’t exactly love watching your parents parade you around with her.”
there it is, out in the open. what you’ve been avoiding all night.
matt’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t step away, nor does he pull back.
“lucky, sweetheart. c’mon.”
“no, matt. it’s fine,” you cut him off quickly, even though it very clearly isn’t fine. “because it makes sense, doesn’t it? new deal, new family in town, pretty daughter who obviously likes you.”
“baby, stop it.” his voice softer now, but firm.
you look away again, eyes dropping back to the chipped piece of wood on the table, your nail picking at it now without thinking.
“why are you even sayin’ any of this?” he asks, his eyes searching your face like he’s trying to figure out where your head’s at tonight, why you won’t let him in like you usually do.
you don’t answer straight away, because the truth is you don’t really know how to.
he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair before he lets it fall back to the table, this time placing it down closer to yours than before.
“it’s just business tactics, lucky.” he says, “that’s it. that’s all it is.”
you nod, but it’s an automatic, barely there nod, and he clocks it immediately.
“talk to me,” he adds, stepping closer again. his voice dropping as he gently tilts your face up with his finger under your chin. “baby, stop shuttin’ me out like this.”
you sigh, lifting your hand before you can stop yourself, your fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist. not pushing him away anymore, but not pulling him closer either.
“i’m not,” you whisper, even though you both know that you are.
he studies you for a second, a look on his face almost like he’s deciding whether to push you further on this or not.
“you are.”
your fingers tighten slightly around his wrist.
“it just…” you start, then stop, shaking your head before forcing yourself to keep talking, “it just didn’t feel like just business tactics, matt.”
you notice the way is expression shifts, like your words have hit him harder than you meant them to.
“yeah?” he asks, but the sound of wheels rolling past the room cuts through the moment quickly, voices of the staff getting louder as they move through the hallway, signalling dessert, and also that your time in here is up.
“you really think my head is ever goin’ to be anywhere else?” matt asks anyway, eyes fixed on yours. “when you’re standin’ right here.”
your stomach drops at that, and this time you don’t look away again.
“we should probably get back,” you say softly, changing the subject out of avoidance. “my parents are probably already stressing birdie out asking where i’ve gone.”
he nods, letting out a small breath. frustration still very much sitting heavy in the air between you, this whole conversation no where near being resolved.
his hand comes up again, brushing your jaw softly as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, letting it linger for just a second too long.
then he steps back, shaking his head slightly.
“y’don’t even know how long it’s been you for me, lucky.”
his hand is on the door handle, already half way out the room. you almost say something, but he’s already slipping out, muttering under his breath,
“you’ve really got no idea at all.”
notes. thank u kindly for being so patient, and apologies for the delay between part one & part two. i am sooooo very excited for this to be out of my notes :) :) :) enjoy !!!
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)
Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.
Summary:
The public likes to call Oscar Piastri Ice Boy. His wife very much disagrees.
Warnings and Notes: ...the whole "Oscar doesn't have emotions" gimmick annoys me so much.
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂
PRESS CONFERENCE — SPANISH GP 2025WINNER: OSCAR PIASTRI (McLAREN) P2: LANDO NORRIS (McLAREN) P3: CHARLES LECLERC (FERRARI)
Journalist (Autosport): Oscar, congratulations. Huge win today. There’s been a lot of chatter online recently comparing you to a young Kimi Raikkonen— they’re calling you Ice Boy, even saying you’re the next Iceman. Cool under pressure, never showy, always calm. What do you think about that?
Oscar Piastri: (smiling slightly) I’ve heard it. I’ve also been called robot boy in school, so… I guess some things never change.
Lando Norris: (snorting, half-laughing) He’s literally the most sentimental guy you’ll ever meet. Don’t let the press conference face fool you.
(Oscar shakes his head, laughing quietly.)
Oscar: Lando’s seen too much. My wife calls me Tin Man when I get too emotional. Like the Wizard of Oz guy, before he got the heart. It’s her very subtle way of telling me to get a grip.
Journalist: (laughing) So you’re not as emotionless as the nickname suggests?
Oscar: Not even close. I’m just… selective. I don’t tend to do cartwheels in parc fermé, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. I just save the dramatics for when my daughter tells me she likes Ferrari red better than papaya.
(General laughter in the room.)
Charles Leclerc: (grinning) That’s betrayal.
Oscar: You don’t know the half of it.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/formula_wifey: OSCAR “TIN MAN” PIASTRI??? I am never recovering. Felicity, you are doing the Lord’s work.
@/landoismytherapy: the way lando immediately outed oscar for being the most sentimental man alive… i love this stupid grid family
@/padduck_gossip: Oscar Piastri: calm under pressure, clinical on track
Also Oscar: cries at handmade birthday cards from his toddler
(source: vibes)
@/beepiastristan: him: I was called robot boy in school also him: my wife calls me Tin Man when I get too emotional THE RANGE.
@/melbournemechanic: so you’re telling me the man who silently handles million-dollar machinery at 300km/h cries so much that his wife roasts him? peak husband material.
@/formulawife: oscar piastri being called robot boy at school and tin man by his wife is PEAK emotionally repressed husband behavior and i for one am obsessed
@/softoscarupdates: lando saying oscar is the most sentimental man alive and oscar immediately confirming his wife calls him “tin man” when he gets too emotional ??? i’m sorry that’s ROMANCE
@/f1burneracc: piastri: i don’t show emotion
also piastri: tells his wife he loves her so much she has to call him tin man to stop him crying
🤝 duality
@/raceweekroses: tin man piastri is now my roman empire. he is so unbothered until he’s talking about his wife and daughter and then he’s like 🥺🫶
@/felicitysupremacy: i just KNOW felicity says “okay tin man” every time oscar starts waxing poetic about something dumb like Bee’s little frog plushie or her sourdough starter
@/f1lore: the fact that he only shows emotion around his wife and daughter is the most unintentional romance novel protagonist thing i’ve ever heard.
@/formulacursed: oscar piastri being called robot boy in school makes so much sense but also hurts my feelings personally
@/wheresthedrs: lando norris going “he’s the most sentimental guy you’ll ever meet” and oscar just calmly saying “my wife calls me tin man” like it’s not the cutest thing anyone’s ever heard???
@/piastribrainrot: HE WAS CALLED ROBOT BOY IN SCHOOL 😭😭😭😭 AND NOW HIS WIFE CALLS HIM TIN MAN I’M GOING TO EAT CONCRETE
@/f1heartstopper: this press conference has now made it canon that oscar piastri is soft for exactly two people and they are his wife and his daughter.
we love a tin man with priorities.
@/neverbreezyinbarcelona: someone find the classmates who called him robot boy. I just want to talk. with a tire iron.
@/landochaosnorris: lando norris is the biggest oscar piastri wife truther and I support him in this campaign
@/thepiastrihive: not oscar being all “i’m just selective with emotions” while we KNOW he probably framed his daughter’s first drawing like it’s a Monet
@/spicyymechanics: I’m sorry but the idea of Oscar getting too soft and Felicity just being like “okay Tin Man, calm down” while chopping onions is so deeply hilarious to me
@/beeandbreadfan: Felicity calling him Tin Man is such quiet, married energy. That’s not a nickname. That’s years of context.
@/emotionallyunstablegp: no but imagine being married to oscar piastri and instead of “babe calm down” you hit him with “ok tin man”
I’d ascend.
@/feralgirlsontrack: i was FINE until he said “I save the dramatics for when my daughter tells me she likes Ferrari red better than papaya”
i am unwell. emotionally deceased. this man is a father.
@/piastrilibrary: someone draw fanart of fel holding a wrench and just pointing at oscar going “TIN MAN” while he blinks in confusion holding a bouquet
PLEASE
@/landozbestie:: lando fully snorted laughing and exposed oscar as the softest husband alive. i am in shambles
@/landoischaotic: lando snorting at “robot boy” and saying oscar is the most sentimental man you’ll ever meet… best friend behaviour.
(but also: tell us everything immediately.)
@/fernboysgf: OSCAR PIASTRI SAID HIS WIFE CALLS HIM TIN MAN WHEN HE GETS TOO EMOTIONAL I’M LOSING MY MIND
@/lanzoftheday: robot boy → tin man arc… he’s healing 😭
@/maxielvows: Oscar: yeah I was called robot boy growing up Also Oscar: my wife calls me Tin Man when I cry too much me, sobbing: CAN YOU TWO STOP BEING SO SOFT
@/fastcarspinknails: Felicity Piastri if you see this: I love you. Also please release the Tin Man merch line. I would buy it in bulk.
@/charlesleclur: oscar piastri: deadpan king.
also oscar: my toddler betrayed me by liking ferrari red
me: parenthood has HUMBLED this man
@/papayaoverboys: tin man piastri is the nickname of the SEASON actually. nothing can top this. nothing.
***
Oscar hadn’t expected it to matter.
The press conference was fine—actually, better than fine.
He’d won. Again.
The team was buzzing, Zak was delighted, Lando was making jokes at his expense, and he hadn’t completely embarrassed himself in front of the media. A successful day by all accounts.
And sure, the “Ice Boy” nickname came up again. But that wasn’t new.
He’d been hearing variations of it since his schooldays. Robot boy. Circuit brain. Emotionless Piastri. The names had followed him from karting paddocks to Formula 2 garages to the Formula 1 media pen, like gum on the bottom of his race boots.
Oscar had never liked it, but he’d learned how to wear it. He’d built a career on clean lines and cool heads. People could call him whatever they liked as long as he kept finishing ahead.
So when the question came up, he’d smiled. Said something light. Let Lando make it funny. Mentioned Felicity and Bee. Moved on.
Oscar didn’t expect Felicity to be upset.
It was late, the kind of late where the house felt hushed and settled. Bee had been asleep for hours, curled up with Button the frog. Felicity was in the kitchen, barefoot, kneading a new batch of sourdough bread. The windows were open. The scent of warm olive oil and rosemary hung in the air. Everything should’ve been calm.
And yet… she wasn’t.
Not frantic, not angry—but quiet in a way that wasn’t peace. Focused in a way that felt like a wall.
He leaned against the doorframe and watched his wife for a moment before saying, “You’ve been quiet.”
Felicity didn’t look up. “Have I?”
“That’s my line,” Oscar said lightly.
She gave a smile—small, polite, not real.
“Bee talked about you in her sleep,” he said after a beat. “Something about you being the queen of suspension geometry.”
That earned a breath of a laugh. But then she went back to kneading the dough, hands precise, movements tight.
Oscar crossed the room and leaned against the counter beside her. “Talk to me.”
Felicity was quiet for a long time. The dough smacked gently against the bowl.
She shook her head once. Then again. And then, finally: “I hate that they call you Ice Boy.”
Oscar blinked. “What?”
“I hate it,” she said again, more firmly now. “I hate that they act like you’re cold just because you don’t perform your emotions for the cameras.”
He just stared at her “It’s just a nickname. It’s a narrative. People like neat categories. It’s easier to say I’m robotic than admit I just don’t like yelling on the radio.”
“It’s not just anything,” she said, slamming down the dough onto the counter with far more aggression than usual. “They reduce you to a caricature. They act like you’re a machine. Like you don’t feel anything.”
Oscar tilted his head. “But I don’t mind. Really. It’s been around forever. And besides, it’s not true. The people who matter know that.”
Felicity’s throat worked like she was trying to swallow something sharp. “I know you don’t mind. That’s what makes it worse.”
He was quiet. Watching her. Letting her talk.
“I just…” she breathed out, eyes shining in a way he knew she hated. “I’ve seen you cry at Bee’s drawings. I’ve seen you stay awake for days when she was sick. You memorize people’s coffee orders. You keep every note I’ve ever written you. You once cried because I called you my constant. And they still look at you and say Ice Boy like you’re a shell.”
Oscar reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb gently across her knuckles.
“You’re not a robot,” she whispered. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”
“I know,” he said softly. “You know. Bee knows. That’s what matters to me.”
“But don’t you ever want people to see it?”
He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her fingers. “I want you to see it. Everyone else gets what I give them. I’m not hiding it, Fliss. I’m just saving the best parts for the people I love.”
Her eyes closed for a moment. Like something unclenched.
Felicity leaned her head against his. “I just… wish the world saw what I see.”
“They don’t have to,” he said. “Because you do.”
She looked at him, eyes full. “Still.”
He pressed their foreheads together, voice low. “Then I’ll make sure they see enough to know who I am. Just enough.”
“You already did,” she murmured. “You said Bee likes Ferrari red. You exposed your greatest heartbreak.”
Oscar laughed quietly. “It is a betrayal.”
“You’re soft,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “And I love you for it.”
He smiled, small and warm, letting it reach every corner of him. “That’s why you get the real version. Not Ice Boy. Not Tin Man. Just me.”
And in the quiet kitchen, where the tea had gone cold but the room felt warm again, Felicity nodded. “Just you,” she said. “Always.”
Hi lovely, since your request is open, Can I make a request pretty please?
So the request is about reader is dating lando and reader is invited by lily Oscar gf for her birthday dinner which she invited all of the wags and which reader is very worry if she should come cause Charles gf is there since reader used to date Charles and afraid things gonna be awkward for her and Charles gf
And ofc Lando being supportive and encouraging reader to come to the dinner and have fun with the wags
Idk if it make sense you can ignore it🥴
Between Red and Papaya - LN1
served with: lando norris x fem!gf!reader
chef's notes: the one where Lando is the ultimate hype-man, and Y/N realizes that the "ex" tag doesn't define her place in the paddock.
portion size: 2.4k
The soft glow of your phone illuminated the dim living room as you stared at the WhatsApp notification for the fifth time. It was a message from Lily, Oscar’s girlfriend, inviting you to an intimate birthday dinner with "the girls"—the tight-knit circle of Formula 1 WAGs.
Normally, you’d be thrilled. You loved Lily, and the group was usually a source of laughs amidst the chaos of the race calendar. But your stomach did a nervous flip as you scrolled through the RSVP list.
Alexandra. Charles’s girlfriend.
The history was there, heavy and unspoken. You and Charles had ended things on good terms a long time ago, but the F1 paddock was a small world. Being the "ex" in a room full of people who now spent every weekend with the "current" was a recipe for the kind of social high-wire act you weren't sure you were ready for.
"You’re doing that thing again," a voice interrupted your thoughts.
Lando leaned against the doorframe, a lopsided grin on his face as he watched you chew on your thumbnail. He walked over, dropping onto the sofa beside you and tugging the phone out of your hand.
"Lily’s birthday?" he asked, glancing at the screen. "You should go. She’d be gutted if you missed it."
"Lando, you know why I’m hesitant," you sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder. "It’s going to be so awkward. Alexandra is going to be there. What am I even supposed to say? 'Hey, I used to date your boyfriend, pass the salt?'"
Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating against your temple. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. "First of all, you’re hilarious. Second of all, it’s only awkward if you make it awkward. You’re with me now, and Charles is happy. Everyone has a past, Y/N."
"I just don't want to be the reason there's a 'vibe' at Lily’s dinner," you murmured.
"There won't be a vibe," Lando said firmly, his tone shifting from playful to genuinely supportive. "You’re one of the kindest people in that paddock. If anything, she’s probably just as nervous about meeting you. But you’re going there for Lily. You’re going to have a glass of wine, eat some overpriced pasta, and realize that you belong in that circle just as much as anyone else."
He turned your face toward him, his eyes bright and encouraging. "Don’t let a ghost from a couple of years ago stop you from having a night out with your friends. You look incredible, you’re dating the best-looking guy on the grid—objectively—and I’ll be right here waiting to hear all the gossip when you get back."
You couldn't help but laugh at his ego. "The best-looking guy? Is Oscar busy?"
"Hey!" Lando poked your side, making you squirm. "Focus. You going?"
You looked back at the phone, the anxiety still lingering but dampened by Lando’s confidence in you. Having him in your corner made the paddock feel a lot less like a minefield and a lot more like home.
"Fine," you whispered. "I'll go."
"That's my girl," he beamed, kissing your forehead. "Now, go pick out an outfit that makes you feel like a million bucks. If you’re going to be 'the ex,' you might as well be the one they can't stop talking about for all the right reasons."
-
The restaurant was tucked away in a quiet corner of Monaco, all soft velvet booths and dim, amber lighting that made everything look like a scene from a high-end editorial. You smoothed down your silk dress, Lando’s parting words—“You belong in that circle”—looping in your head like a mantra.
As the hostess led you toward a long, flower-adorned table in the back, the familiar sound of laughter drifted toward you. You spotted Lily immediately, looking radiant at the head of the table.
“Y/N! You made it!” Lily hopped up, pulling you into a tight hug. “I was worried the traffic from the track would catch you.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you lied smoothly, your heart hammering against your ribs. You greeted a few of the other girls—Carmen and Rebecca—with quick air-kisses, but your peripheral vision was locked on the seat halfway down the table.
Alexandra was there. She was mid-conversation with Kika, her dark hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. She looked effortlessly elegant, exactly as you’d pictured.
As Lily steered you toward your seat—which, of course, was almost directly across from her—Alexandra looked up. The conversation at that end of the table dipped for a fraction of a second.
“Hi, Alexandra,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You offered a small, genuine smile. “It’s good to see you.”
The table seemed to hold its breath. In the F1 world, everyone knew the timeline. They knew you had been the girl in the Ferrari garage before Alexandra was. They knew the history.
Alexandra blinked, then a soft, graceful smile broke across her face. She didn't look cold or competitive; she looked... kind.
“And you, Y/N,” she replied, her voice melodic. “I’ve heard such lovely things about you from Lily. I was hoping we’d finally get a chance to actually talk tonight.”
The tension in your shoulders didn’t disappear, but it shifted from a sharp ache to a dull hum. “I’d like that,” you said, sliding into your chair.
“I love your dress, by the way,” Alexandra added, gesturing to the silk fabric. “That color is stunning on you.”
“Thank you. Lando actually helped me pick it out,” you said, and saying his name felt like a protective shield. “He’s got a surprisingly good eye for fashion when he’s not in a team polo.”
The table laughed, the ice effectively shattered. For the next hour, the conversation flowed easier than you expected. You realized that Alexandra wasn't a "rival" or a "replacement"—she was just another woman navigating the high-pressure, fishbowl world of professional racing.
When the wine was poured and the appetizers arrived, you found yourself actually enjoying the stories. You realized that while you shared a past with Charles, you shared a present with these women.
Under the table, you felt your phone buzz. A quick glance showed a text from Lando.
Lando: Checking in. Are we at the 'throwing drinks' stage or the 'best friends' stage yet? x
You smiled to yourself, typing back a quick reply.
Y/N: Actually... I think we're at the 'sharing skincare tips' stage. You were right. (Don't let it go to your head).
As you tucked your phone away, you caught Alexandra’s eye again. She raised her glass slightly toward you in a silent, polite toast. You raised yours back. It wasn't the "ex-girlfriend showdown" the tabloids would have hoped for, but it was exactly the peaceful evening you—and Lando—knew you needed.
The hum of the elevator was the only sound in the quiet hallway as you made your way to the front door. You felt a strange mix of exhaustion and adrenaline—the kind that only comes from navigating a high-stakes social situation and coming out the other side unscathed.
As soon as you turned the key, the familiar scent of Lando’s cologne and the soft glow of the TV greeted you. Lando was sprawled on the sofa, a controller tossed carelessly to the side, looking like he’d been halfway through a stream before losing interest.
He sat up the moment he heard the door click, a wide, expectant grin spreading across his face.
“She’s back!” he announced, hopping off the sofa and meeting you halfway. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground before setting you back down. “Well? Do I need to go find a bail bondsman, or did we keep it civil?”
You laughed, leaning back into his hold and tossing your clutch onto the side table. “No bail needed. It was actually... really nice.”
Lando raised an eyebrow, guiding you back toward the couch. “Nice? Like ‘we didn't look at each other’ nice, or ‘we’re planning a spa day’ nice?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” you said, kicking off your heels and tucking your legs under you as you settled into the cushions. “She was lovely, Lando. Truly. She even complimented my dress—the one you picked, by the way. So, naturally, your ego is going to be even more insufferable tomorrow.”
Lando smirked, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “I knew it. My fashion sense is elite. But seriously, how was it? No weirdness when the Charles topic came up?”
“Honestly? Not really,” you admitted, feeling a weight lift just talking about it. “We didn't dive into the past, but we didn't avoid it either. It was like this unspoken acknowledgment that we’re both just part of the same crazy circus now. She’s really sweet, and Lily was a great host.”
Lando watched you for a moment, his expression softening. The teasing glint in his eyes was replaced by something warmer, more grounded. He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.
“I told you,” he whispered. “You worry too much about what people think. You’re easy to like, Y/N. Even for an ‘ex.’ It’s hard to hold a grudge against someone who’s actually a decent human being.”
You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes. “Thanks, Lan. I really needed that push today. I probably would have stayed home and watched Netflix in the dark if you hadn't talked me into it.”
“And missed out on that pasta? Never,” he joked, though he pulled you closer, letting your head rest on his chest. He started mindlessly tracing patterns on your arm. “I’m proud of you. I know it wasn't easy going in there alone.”
“I wasn't alone,” you murmured, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I had your annoying texts vibrating in my purse every ten minutes.”
“Hey, that was high-quality moral support!” he defended, though his voice was thick with sleepiness. “Next time, we’ll do a double date. Just to really test your 'civil' theory.”
You snorted, poking him in the ribs. “Let’s not push our luck just yet.”
He chuckled, kissing the top of your head and pulling the throw blanket over both of you. For the first time in weeks, the "paddock politics" felt miles away. You were exactly where you were supposed to be.
-
The Spanish sun was beating down on the Barcelona paddock, the air thick with the smell of tire rubber, expensive espresso, and the frantic energy of Thursday media day. You were weaving through the crowd toward the McLaren hospitality suite, clutching two iced lattes—one for you and one for Lando, who was likely currently melting in a debrief.
Just as you passed the gap between the McLaren and Ferrari motorhomes, you nearly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.
“Oh! Sorry—” you started, pulling the tray of coffees back just in time.
You looked up to see Alexandra, looking effortless in a white linen set, a Ferrari pass swinging from her neck. For a split second, that old instinct to look away kicked in, but then you remembered the dinner. You remembered the girl who had complimented your dress and shared skincare secrets.
“Y/N! Hello!” Alexandra smiled brightly, her eyes crinkling behind her sunglasses. “No harm done. I’m the one rushing—Charles forgot his lucky hat, of all things.”
You laughed, the sound genuine and relaxed. “Lando once left his entire passport at the hotel on a flyaway race. A hat seems manageable.”
“Men,” she joked, rolling her eyes playfully. “Are you enjoying the heat? It’s much more intense than Monaco was.”
“It’s brutal,” you agreed, shifting the weight of the coffee tray. “I’m basically living off these lattes today.”
“I don’t blame you. Actually, I was meaning to message you—did Lily ever send you the link to those gold earrings she was wearing at dinner? I completely forgot to ask.”
You spent the next three minutes chatting, leaning against the paddock railing like old friends. You were so caught up in the conversation that you didn't notice the subtle click-click-click of the long-lens cameras from the media bridge above, or the way a few photographers nearby suddenly pivoted their gear toward the two of you.
“I’ll send you the link!” you said as you finally parted ways. “See you later, Alexandra!”
“See you, Y/N!” she waved, heading toward the red garage.
By the time you made it into the cool sanctuary of the McLaren motorhome, your phone was already blowing up. Lando was sitting at the back table, staring at his phone with a massive, mischievous grin.
“Well, well, well,” he said, not even looking up as you set his coffee down. “The internet is currently losing its collective mind.”
“What now?” you asked, taking a seat.
He flipped his phone around. An F1 gossip account had already posted a high-res photo of the two of you laughing together. The caption read: “The crossover we didn't know we needed: Lando’s girlfriend and Charles’s girlfriend proving there’s nothing but love in the paddock. 🧡❤️ #F1WAGs #Queens”
The comments were a flood of heart emojis and fans praising the "maturity" and "class" of the interaction.
“Look at you,” Lando teased, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Breaking the internet before I’ve even turned a wheel on track. You’re more famous than I am at this point.”
“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, feeling a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the Spanish sun. “I was just being polite.”
“It wasn't just polite,” Lando said, his voice dropping an octave as he reached across the table to squeeze your hand. “You looked happy. And you looked like you belonged there. I told you everything would be fine.”
He checked the photo again, nodding to himself. “Though, I have to say, the lighting really favors you. Good thing I picked that outfit for you this morning.”
“Lando Norris, you did not pick this out. I had to fight you to put on matching socks!”
“Details, details,” he chuckled, leaning back. “Anyway, Charles just texted me. He said ‘Our girls are trending,’ followed by a face-palm emoji. I think we’ve officially ended the Ferrari-McLaren rivalry for the day.”
You leaned back in your chair, watching the chaos of the paddock through the glass windows. For the first time, you didn't feel like an outsider or an "ex." You were just Y/N—and you were exactly where you wanted to be.
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ft. norris, piastri, verstappen x fem journalist!reader
abu dhabi 2025 is just around the corner. the top 3 are in the hot seat. and all that's in your head is... food?
INCLUDES: mentions of food, utter chaos, set in the 2025 season, hence 2025 abu dhabi...
NOTE: yeah... idk what to say... just enjoy ig...
( idiot asks | mics up )
The room is exactly what anyone would think it would be.
It is the final press conference before Abu Dhabi and the championship is on the line. Cameras are lined up, flashing intermittently, journalists packed shoulder to shoulder like they're afraid to miss a single breath.
And yet, you're bored.
You lean back slightly in your chair, microphone resting loosely in your hand as another question about 'race pace' and 'season consistency' floats across the room. It's not that it isn't important— it is. It's just... been asked. A hundred different ways.
Up in front, the top three sit in a neat row on the couch:
Lando Norris in the middle, already slouched, arms crossed like he had already done this a million times.
Max Verstappen to his right, composed, unreadable, ready to get this over with.
Oscar Piastri to his left, posture straight, expression a bit too calm.
You glance down at your phone, scrolling through your notes app. Then you look back up and raise your hand.
There's a split second where the moderator hesitates— because they know.
You were known to not take press conferences seriously. You hated it just as much as the drivers did and usually only showed up but never asked. In fact, you'd join in on gossiping to the drivers about how stupid and redundant certain questions were.
It eventually came to a point where you made it your mission to make these conferences fun for the drivers rather than more annoying that it already was. So, when the moderators shaky eyes and the drivers tired ones found your upstretched hand in the air, while one sighed the other three internally cheered.
"Last question," the moderator says cautiously. "Go ahead."
You sit up, eyes glinting with mischief. Lando perks up immediately, read for whatever bullshit you were about to spew. Max smirks, a boost of energy slowly pulsing through him. Oscar just tilts his head, already curious.
"Alright," you say, voice light, mock seriousness paralleling every other reporter in the room. "Lando, Max, Oscar, you know the drill."
There's a ripple through the room once they figure out who you were. A few stifle laughs. Some shift in their seat.
"Let's say," you continue, "the championship battle this weekend was a meal... what would it be?"
There's a beat. Then—
"Messy," Lando says immediately into his mic. "Like— like a burger that's too big to eat properly. Stuff falling out everywhere. You don't know where to start."
You snort softly. "That tracks."
Max blinks a few times to think before answering. "Steak."
"Care to elaborate?"
Max shrugs, a grin on his face. "You know what I'm talking about."
You laugh, nodding along. Then Oscar adjusts in his seat, voice even.
"Tasting menu."
You shift your attention to him, intrigued. "Oh?"
"Small portions. Very precise. Everything matters."
For a moment, no one speaks. It lands— clean, intentional. Then Lando turns, incredulous. "That's so pretentious."
Oscar turns to him, mouth agape. He blinks a few times in shock at his teammate's cheshire grin. "You said messy burger."
"Well yeah, because it's realistic."
You press your lips together, fighting a smile at the chaos you have just started. This was slipping out of control exactly like you wanted it too.
"Alright," you say, moving on before they start arguing like an old married couple again.
"Next question," you say. "Who here is most likely to overcook under pressure?"
Lando gasps like you've personally attacked him. "That's targeted."
"You're sitting right there," you point out.
Max answers immediately. "Him."
"Absolutely not," Lando fires back. "You—"
"You just said messy burger."
"Because it is!"
Oscar leans forward slightly, voice calm. "You did panic in Brazil."
Lando turns so fast the couch shifts. "I did not panic."
"You said 'this is fine' four times."
"That doesn't mean I was panicking!"
You laugh, fully this time, your head dropping before you can stop it.
Right. Professional. You straighten quickly, clearing your throat.
"Okay. Right. If your race engineer was a kitchen appliance, what would they be?"
"Microwave," Lando says. "Fast—"
"Loud," you cut in.
He points at you. "Exactly. Loud. Beeping all the time."
Oscar nods. "That's accurate."
"Oven," Max says. To which you sigh in return. "Of course it is. Why?"
"Reliable." You pause for a second, thrown off by the sincerity. Yet again, it wasn't like Max was known to have a bad race engineer anyway.
"Air fryer," Oscar answers. You squint at him then shake your head, glancing briefly towards your phone.
"I don't think your race engineers are going to thank me for this."
You keep going. "Okay," you say, flipping through your notes like you're still following something structured. You're not.
"Be honest, whose driving style is most like instant noodles?"
Lando doesn't even hesitate. "Him."
"At least I win," Max replies instantly.
You snort. "Oh, that's— okay, wow."
Oscar leans forward slightly. "Instant noodles are efficient."
"You're supposed to be neutral," Lando says, facing his teammate like he has just been betrayed.
"I am."
"You're not."
You open your mouth to respond—
"Alright," the moderator cuts in, voice tighter now. "Let's— uh— keep the questions focused on the race, please."
The room shifts. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to call it out. But you feel it.
You pause, microphone hovering just below your lips.
There it is. The moment where you're supposed to pull it back. Ask something safe. Respectable. End it properly.
You glance up at the front. Max is already looking at you, eyebrows raised. Lando looks personally offended. Oscar just looks... curious. Like he's waiting to see what you'll do.
You exhale softly.
"...Right," you say, nodding once like you're about to behave.
You don't.
"So," you continue smoothly, like you weren't just warned, "if you had to sabotage one of these two using only food—"
A few laughs and groans break out immediately. The moderator inhales sharply. "We'll move on to—"
"Let her finish," Max says quickly, leaning into his mic.
The room stills. You blink. Lando shifts slightly in his seat, then— casual as anything— adds, "it's fine."
Oscar tilts his head, glancing briefly toward the moderator before speaking, voice calm. "I'm interested in the answer."
There's a very long beat. The moderator hesitates, clearly weighing options that no longer existed.
"...Okay," you say lightly, like this is still under control. "Go on then. Sabotage."
Lando grins immediately. "Spicy food. Like, ridiculously spicy."
"Wouldn't work," Max says.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Oscar hums softly. "Undercooked chicken."
You freeze. "...I'm sorry?"
"Undercooked chicken."
There's a ripple through the room. Half laughter, half disbelief.
"That's not sabotage," you say, staring at him. "That's attempted murder."
Lando recoils. "That's evil."
Max laughs and Oscar just displays a sheepish grin.
And just like that, the room is gone again. Not physically. The cameras are still there. The journalists, the weight of a championship weekend— all of it still exists. But it fades to the background.
You glance briefly towards the moderator. They look like they've just accepted defeat. You bite back a smile.
"That's all my questions."
"Aw, come on," Lando says immediately, leaning closer to his mic. 'That's it?"
You blink at him. "You have a race to get to."
"And?" he shrugs. "You can do more."
You let out a quiet laugh. "This is why I shouldn't encourage you."
Max tilts his head slightly, glancing at you. "You're stopping now?"
You look at him, narrowing your eyes. " You were the one who looked like you wanted to leave five minutes ago."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Max smirks at this. You shake your head, trying not to smile wider.
Oscar shifts slightly in his seat, leaning just a fraction closer to his microphone. "You skipped dessert questions."
You pause. "Ok, noted for next year."
"Next year?"
Lando turns toward him. "What does that even mean?"
Request (idk if this was a request but I'm using it) from @piastris-pastries - i would simply like to say that i find oscar's freckles and moles extremely attractive
Word count: 286 (very tiny one but cute I think)
Oscar is a very cuddly man. At least for his girlfriend he is.
Y/n is maybe slightly more clingy than people would expect Oscar to enjoy, but y/n can't help it.
Just look at him.
"Did you know..." Y/n states pausing to kiss his his neck. "They say moles are where a lover from a past life liked to kiss you."
"Who says that?" Oscar questions loving to tease y/n when she comes out with those sorts of things.
"Oscar." Y/n huffs jabbing him in the ribs for ruining the sweet moment. "I'm trying to be nice."
"I know, you're being adorable." Oscar hums hugging her closer. "So maybe...since you love kissing all those places too, you were my lover in a past life too."
Y/n's fleeting annoyance is soothed by his sweetness and y/n grins then planting more kisses on his skin.
"I'm your lover in every life."
"Ok, we need to stop calling each other lovers, baby." Oscar states not being able to withhold his cringing at the use of the word.
"Sorry, Osc." Y/n grins though she's not at all, seeing Oscar's feel flush a little from the fact he'd used the word makes her beam.
Y/n continues to kiss all over his moles and freckles, choosing a pattern as if she's tracing each one and creating a constellation from them.
"Y/n." Oscar grunts while y/n smiles against his skin knowing he's weakening under her touch.
Y/n rarely needs to make much effort to seduce Oscar, he's putty in her hand from those unrelenting kisses that are practically an on button. Even if he cringed only half a minute ago.
Hiii can I ask for a steve x reader on father’s day where max and dustin give him a gift because “you’ve been more of a father than our real dads ever were” and like he tries to play it cool but when the kids leave he just breaks down cause he wanted to give them a presence in their lives he never had and this means so much to him
I love this so much. It’s one thing for every to joke about Steve adopting the kids and another for the kids to agree. I love them so much. Little emotional Steve at the end. Thank you!
—————
There’s knocking, then banging then double banging. You glance at the bathroom door in Steve's room, where he’d been for the past 30 minutes, showering. You don’t know that he was expecting anyone, with it being Sunday. You toss the magazine you’d been reading to the side as you push your way off the bed and shuffle down stairs.
You were half inclined to believe it was Eddie. All the windows in the house were open, hoping to save the AC for when the summer heat was at its highest. You’d heard metal music not too long along, but it was too quiet for Eddie’s usual ear splitting noise.
You tug slightly at your shorts, straightening your shirt before shaking your head. There was no need to look good. It was probably a door to door sales man. The banging returns. A very impatient door to door salesman.
You finally pull the door open and your annoyance melts, “Dustin, Max, hi.”
“Hi, is Steve home?” Dustin asks rushed, looking a bit antsy. Max rolls her eyes beside him.
“Oh no, I stole the deed to the house and kicked him out,” you answer, earning you a barely contained smile from Max and a scoff from Dustin, “He’s in the shower.”
You pull the door open wider, stepping to the side to let them in, eyeing the box and bag in their hands, “Wait a minute. You guys hate biking in the summer and I didn’t drive you, Steve didn’t drive you. So does that mean-”
“Wow, such chivalry, holding the door for me,” Eddie welcomes himself into the house, beelining for the kitchen.
You shake your head laughing, “Hi Eddie. Please come in, you're more than welcome.”
“Thanks, shortstack,” he calls out from the kitchen, no doubt stealing food or a drink.
Your focus returns to Dustin and Max, eyes dropping to the gifts in hand, “what’s this?”
“Nothing,” max shrugs, gaze dropping to fiddle with the soft paper poking out of the bag.
You grin at the sudden shyness of the girl, so unused to it coming from her, “Mysterious.”
“They’re for Steve," Dustin offers you a proper answer.
“Oh?” Your brows pinch in confusion, “Want me to go get him? I'm sure he's almost done.”
“That’d be great, thanks,” he gives you one of his cheesy smiles that makes you want to squish his cheeks no matter how old he's gotten. You control yourself.
“Sure thing,” you turn towards the stairs and add a shout to the kitchen, “You better not eat all the ice cream we have left, Munson.”
You get a muffled reply, clearly full of ice cream, “I don't know what you're talking about.”
You roll your eyes and track up the stairs. You worry the entire time. Did you have Steve's birthday wrong? It was in June and you swear you'd already celebrated it. Did he pretend that you had the day right?
You find him half dressed in a pair of comfortable shorts, sorting through his drawers for a shirt. You settle behind him, kissing at a freckle beside his spine, then one on his shoulder blades. Your arms wind around his waist.
“There you are, pretty girl. Where'd you go?” He murmurs, hand patting yours against his belly.
“We have guests. Eddie drove Max and Dustin over,” you tell him, pressing your cheek to his back, still damp from the shower.
“What? They didn't call while I was in the shower, did they?”
You nearly laugh at his worry but you're overcome by his fond need to be number one on the kids list.
“No,” you his skin again before stepping back from him, letting him pull on an old t-shirt, “They do have presents for you though. You didn't lie to me about when your birthday was, right?”
His face scrunches up as he turns to look at you, offended that you would even put the idea of him lying out there, “No, honey. You had my birthday right. I don't know why they brought presents.”
“Huh,” you can't even fathom what special occasion would have the two going out of their way to get presents and have Eddie drive them over.
“C'mon, let's go find out,” he runs a hand through his wet hair and lifts the back of your shirt, smacking his hand lightly against your bare back.
You yelp, jolting away from his hand and the left over water, “Steven!”
“Oh, Steven. My bad, honey, just trying to cool you down,” he gives you a cocky grin and you want to smack him for it. Before you can enact your fantasy of violence, he's steering you towards the door.
His touch leaves you at the top of the stairs and he bounds down in a rushed two steps at a time, making you worry he'll fall. Thankfully, he only trips over the last step. It makes you laugh, muttering karma under your breath before you’re following after taking the stairs as a normal person.
You catch the tail end of the kids giving Steve his presents. He’s quick when he speaks, fondness in his tone, “For me? What for?”
You move to stand by Eddie, sipping on what you're certain is a root beer float he’d made with the last of ice cream. You manage to keep your mouth shut about it, if only to hear why the kids have presents for Steve. You do pinch Eddie’s rib though, earning a glare from him before he’s offering his cup to you.
You take it as Dustin says, “it’s fathers day.”
You still in surprise, with the cup to your lips. Eddie tugs the cup from your hand clearly losing his benevolent spirit.
“Fathers day?” Steve doesn’t hide his surprise and neither do you, glancing at Eddie beside you. He just shrugs and mouths driver to you. Unhelpful boy.
You turn your gaze back to the three as Max speaks, “It’s dumb but my dad… he’s great but he hasn’t really called much since we moved to Hawkins and you're just, you're always there, Steve. It's like, I don't know. This was Dustin’s idea.”
“It was not,” Dustin glares at Max before his gaze returns to Steve, “It was our idea together. We just want you to know we appreciate you, Steve. You didn’t ever have to stick around after the thing with Dart, but you did and I don’t know what I do without you.”
It was so odd seeing the two nearly embarrassed about the whole matter but it made you smile nonetheless.
You hip bump Eddie beside you as you mutter to him, “and you drove them all the way here for this. Knew you had a heart.”
“Pssh, sure do. You're out of ice cream by the way,” he says as he slurps his stolen root beer float. You ignore the gut urge to smack him upside the head and instead step towards where Steve was currently strangling the two teens in a tight hug.
“God, don't be a loser about it,” Max says, voice muffled against Steve's shoulder even as she hugs him back.
“You guys are so sweet,” you grin when you hear a sniffle from Steve, clearly trying to hold himself together when he pulls them back from the hug, hands tight on their shoulders as he shakes them a little.
“You guys make it easy to care. You're growing up too fast,” he gives them a sad, reminiscing smile. You knew Steve met the kids when they were just a tad smaller and younger.
“Shut up,” Dustin shoves at Steve's shoulder, smiling a bit more watery.
You sense the waterworks before they start and evidently so does Max, “Okay you wimps, we’re not doing that. Eddie said he'd take us to the arcade. Happy Father's day, Steve.”
She shifts and gives Steve a kiss on the cheek before she's rushing towards the door, cheeks reddening. Eddie follows after her with a shout, “only cause you said you'd pay so I could beat your ass.”
“You're full of shit, Munson,” you catch her voice outside.
Dustin drags Steve into another hug, "I mean it man. Thank you for sticking around. Happy father's day.”
Steve reluctantly lets go of Dustin and the boy offers you a wave as he heads out. The front door shuts. A beat of quiet.
“Man, this fucking kids,” steve wipes his hand over his face before. You finally move around to be face to face with him.
“Steve?” He blinks at you, eyes wet, "what're you crying for, huh? You always knew they loved you.”
He collapses into a hug against you, face to your neck. Your hands move to stroke up his back and into his damp hair. He speaks against your skin, words muffled and lost to you.
“What?”
He speaks again and this time you catch a few words, babies, and love them, and better. You sigh overly fond of the mess of a man in your arms.
“There, there, Steve," you pat his shoulder with your sarcastic response, “least we know you already have two little nuggets,”
He lets out a wet snort against your skin and finally pulls away from you, eyes red, “they think I’m like a dad.”
“Yeah?” you nod. You’d always known the kids looked up to Steve. You don’t know what's got him so emotional.
“I’m not bad.”
Your brows pinch at his words, “What?”
He shakes his head before he’s glancing at one of the family portraits on the wall. You never paid them much attention after your first few glances. The Harrington family had no idea how to take cozy family photos.
“I was so scared and I’d be like them,” Steve admits quietly, “but the kids, they think I’m good. They’re not even mine and they think I mattered to them enough to get a father’s day gift for me.”
“Steve…” you rub your hand up and down his arm.
His gaze returns to yours with a smile, “It makes me really fucking happy.”
He dives into an abrupt hug with you, startled screech escaping you when he spins around.
“I can be a good dad,” he repeats as he sets you down with a wider grin. Your mind suddenly reaches an understanding that as much as Steve wanted his many children, he still worried about the type of father he’d.
“You’re gonna be a great dad, Steve.” you grin back at him.
Summary: “I got a nosebleed when you tried to kiss me. I told you, it’s like I’m fucking cursed!” – or the one where a clumsy girl stumbles and falls for everything, including Lando Norris.
Pairing: Lando Norris x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 23k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ smut, unprotected penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving). mention of minor and major injuries, surgery, blood and scars. mention of a car crash. reader has a dead parent. i can't remember if there's anything more so please tell me if something is triggering!
A/N: i've been going through old wips and found this that i wrote in 2024 and had posted on my old F1 blog (@/immoral-stranger). since i don't know what to post on this blog anymore i figured it could be a good time to bring this back. together with strangers, it's my favorite F1 writing that i've done.
Lando didn’t recognise you at first. Granted, he wasn’t the best at remembering faces, but usually if he’d met someone, he would remember them the second time around. Although, this wasn’t his second time seeing you, he would later learn. It was probably close to the tenth time. It had just been some time since your last encounter. For a logical reason, he would also later learn.
Albert Park, 2024. Race day. That’s where he saw you this time. Walking down the paddock, next to Oscar and his girlfriend Jasmine, trying to keep up as the three of you made your way to the McLaren garage. Your hair getting messed up by the breeze, annoyingly sticking to your glossy lips, feet almost tripping on the seam of your baggy jeans. You were out of your element, putting on a brave smile — and Lando could tell.
He didn’t realise he’d been staring at you, from his seat on the steps up to his motorhome, until you were out of eyeshot again, somewhere in the garage. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why you were familiar and it was killing him. If you were Australian, maybe that would explain it, since Lando had no way of keeping track of all of Oscar’s old friends.
But you weren’t Australian. As he later walked into hospitality, he overheard a bubbly British accent talking to Jasmine and Oscar, an accent belonging to you. It confused him even more, really gnawed inside of him. He should know you, yet something wasn’t aligning, something wasn’t right. Oscar wouldn’t just fly anyone halfway across the globe.
It all came crashing down when he heard Jasmine ask you a simple question.
“Bunny, can you grab me a fork?”
Standing up from the table, you gave Lando a small smile as you caught his gaze, signalling that you at least knew who he was.
Bunny, Bunny, Bunny. The nickname finally made him realise, finally made him recognise you. But you weren’t the Bunny he’d met at multiple races before. You didn’t look like she did. Or, you didn’t look like you used to. Bunny was Jasmine’s childhood friend who had gotten sick, who had stopped traveling, who had stopped coming to races at all. The girl before him however, wasn’t sick. You didn’t look weak in any sense. Nervous, fidgety, and out of place, sure — but never weak.
As you were about to say a quiet hello to him as you walked past, Lando was already falling apart — socially that is. Words were stumbling out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to keep up. He cringed internally before he could even finish the sentence.
“Holy shit, I thought you were dead!”
He shocked you, that was obvious. Your eyes went wide as you struggled to say something in response.
“Lando, you can’t just say that to someone,” Oscar chuckled from a few metres back.
“I-I’m sorry, I just… didn’t recognise you,” Lando stuttered out as you still stood dumbfounded in front of him.
“You don’t think I would’ve told you if my best friend died?” Jasmine butted in, standing from the table, placing herself beside you.
She could tell that you didn’t know how to react, already expressing your nerves about how uncomfortable it would be to attend a race after not going for a very long time, afraid that people would ask too many questions.
“It’s alright, it’s been a long time,” you finally managed to say.
Then, an uncomfortable silence fell over the four of you. It was like you knew that you should explain why it had been such a long time, but you didn’t know how to do it —casually explaining the second most traumatic experience of your, thus far, relatively short life. It wasn’t casual at all, and you couldn’t even try to fake it.
“Ehm, I’ll go get that fork for you Jazz,” you broke the silence, swiftly excusing yourself to go back to the catering table.
Oscar couldn’t stop chuckling and Jasmine looked borderline offended, something she tended to do, a resting bitch-face of sorts. Lando felt like the stupidest, most socially inept person alive, mentally facepalming himself as he watched you leave. This was going to be a long day.
Lando’s race however, was frustratingly short.
You and Jasmine watched the race from the garage, surrounded by muddled mechanics, blinking monitors and loud noises. It really was a circus, a well-oiled machine, fascinating to watch. You’d forgotten how fun it could be. Also, how nerve-wracking it was to be standing next to Jasmine while her boyfriend — love of her life, light of her eye — was going 300 km/h, head to head with insanely competitive people, in big death traps.
The early races of the 2023 season that you had managed to catch in person hadn’t been too impressive, from McLaren’s standpoint. Your humble opinion was that anyone who even sat in one of those cars was more courageous and impressive than you would ever manage to be. As the last season went on, you had learnt to trust the process, but both you and Jasmine would be lying if you said that 2024 didn’t look like an even better year for the brightly papaya-coloured team you were rooting for.
With both drivers in good starting positions and Verstappen’s brakes catching fire on the third lap, Jasmine couldn’t contain her excitement, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet next to you. Ferrari’s in the lead and McLaren fighting for that glorious third spot. It wasn’t until Lando had a chance to pass Leclerc that the castle in the air came crumbling down. Ooh’s and aah’s filled the garage as you watched the scene unfold on a monitor.
“Oh, fuck,” you said under your breath, knowing that barely anyone would be able to hear you in the crowded space. “Is it over for him?”
Jasmine had been too busy squealing over Oscar going into third that she failed to realise that it was on the cost of Lando. That was until his car came rolling into the pit lane with irreparable damage from making contact with Leclerc.
You’d seen it happen before, but that didn’t change the feeling. Your heart basically lodges itself in your throat, making you unable to breathe for a couple seconds. And then it was the aftermath… Seeing the driver leave their car, head hung low, just wanting to scream at the world in frustration but bottling it all up inside.
Leclerc wouldn’t even get a penalty, it was just how racing worked sometimes. That didn’t change the feeling of complete utter failure for Lando. You could tell that as he, with assertive steps, made his way to his driver’s room, slamming the door shut so hard that it only flew back open again.
“Bunny.” Jasmine grabbed your arm to get your attention, leaning closer so that you would hear her. “One of us has to go ask if he’s alright. He doesn’t have anyone here with him.”
“Doesn’t he have an entire team to do that?” you wondered.
Surely, they didn’t send these drivers out without having enough support from the team when something went wrong. Surely, you thought. The look on Jasmine’s face told you the opposite. The fact that no one was running after Lando to his room was also quite telling. Or maybe… they knew better than to disturb him. Maybe Jasmine was setting you up for failure by asking you to comfort someone who didn’t want to be comforted.
“He’s gonna need someone who’s not obsessed with performance and profit. Trust me, the people on this team may be nice, but they are not human when it comes to things like this,” Jasmine explained, and you took her word for it.
“Am I the best option?”
You didn’t know him. And you were awkward. But so was he… Yet, you couldn’t even get your little brother to stop crying by making him laugh or comforting him — let alone a grown man, like Lando.
“Please,” she insisted, and you could tell that she was serious. There was no point in arguing with her. Seeing the rest of the race with Oscar battling to keep his podium position would be enough of a feat for her poor emotions. She wouldn’t be able to walk away from it.
You weren’t even sure if you were allowed to walk back there, but there was also no one stopping you when you did it. Your steps were the opposite to Lando’s assertive ones as you made your way to his driver’s room. You had no idea what to expect when you reached the already open door…
… but Lando, sat on his little bench, racing suit halfway off, lazily scrolling on his phone was not it.
“I understand that I’m most definitely not the person you would want to talk to right now, but Jasmine said that you were here alone and I just wanted to ask if you’re okay,” you rambled out way too quickly.
It got his attention, looking up from his phone, but he didn’t say a word. He was mostly shocked to see that you were the first person to come talk to him. He had expected Jasmine, or maybe someone from the team that he wouldn’t want to talk to anyway. But not you. You had no reason to even be nice to him after how weird he’d been.
“Uhm, so this is me asking that,” you reminded him when his silence got too much for you.
“I’m fine,” Lando sighed, dragging his fingers through his sweaty curls, getting flashbacks of what had happened all over again.
You could tell from the look on his face that he, in fact, was not fine.
It was toxic and harmful, that his first instinct when something like this happened was to immediately check his phone to see what people were saying about it online. But he had done it anyway. And sure enough, there were people blaming him — calling him reckless and a whiny little kid, finally getting what he deserved. There were also people calling Leclerc out, but Lando somehow couldn’t focus on it.
Because the thing he saw most of when he was scrolling through twitter was your face. Maybe that was why he was even more surprised to see that it was you standing in the doorway to his room and not someone else.
“Do you know that we’ve gone viral?” he asked you, referring to the phone in his hand. He couldn’t help but let out a little laugh under his breath.
“No?”
You looked confused as Lando scooted over to make space for you to sit down beside him. You didn’t have any social media, and Lando knew. He definitely hadn’t tried to look you up after your encounter earlier to see why on earthhe hadn’t recognised you. It had gotten him nowhere. You had no accounts of your own and Jasmine hadn’t posted any photos of you. He had stopped himself before searching up old paddock photos. So, it wasn’t a surprise that you didn’t know about the video that was circulating around right now.
“Apparently, someone was filming when I said that I thought you had died. It’s quite a funny clip,” he clarified, tilting his phone to show you the screen.
He watched as you looked at the clip, a gentle giggle leaving your mouth at how ridiculous it was. Your smile then turned into concern, seeing the amount of interactions the post had earned.
“Is that not bad publicity for you?”
“I don’t care about that,” Lando said honestly. “But I am truly sorry for saying that to you.”
Thinking someone had died was a new low even for him, and saying it to your face was just unexplainable behaviour. Yet, he still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t recognised you. Sure, he knew that you had been sick and then… probably gotten well again? But did that change your appearance? Maybe he just hadn’t really looked at you before.
“I can’t blame you, Lando — I probably looked dead the last time you saw me,” you laughed.
You couldn’t remember exactly when it was, sometime mid last season. Right before it got really bad, but while your condition was stable enough for you to go to races. Maybe it was Silverstone. You had a vague memory of seeing Lando on that podium. You knew that you had looked horrible either way. When you thought about it, maybe Lando had never seen you completely healthy.
“There was something wrong with your lungs, right?” he asked, wondering if he was remembering things correctly.
“Just the left one. I had spontaneous pneumothorax three times in a year,” you explained, earning a confused look from Lando before adding, “Collapsed lung, basically air was leaking from the lung out into my chest.”
He raised his eyebrows as you spoke. You made it sound a lot more trivial than what he assumed it was.
It happening one time wasn’t actually that uncommon. Apparently, lungs collapsed right, left, and centre. It was usually a quite easy fix as well, not even something that required surgery. But when it happened to you, that third time — it was obvious that the problem was much larger. There was multiple surgeries and constant checkups. There were ugly scars and never-ending breathing exercises.
It was a lot, for anyone. Even worse for someone just about to graduate from their bachelor’s programme. Your life had fallen apart, to say the least, and it wasn’t something you gladly talked about, so making it sound trivial was your way of coping. If Lando realised that was another question.
“And I’m sat here moping about a DNF,” he heard himself mumble before realising how insensitive that might’ve come across. “But you’re okay now?”
“One final checkup left, practically as good as new,” you said, putting on a smile. “You do know that it’s not comparable though, right?”
Lando didn’t understand at first, so you kept on speaking.
“Me, having a life threatening medical condition — and you, having a bad day at work?”
Maybe you were the one sounding insensitive now, knowing full well that his work wasn’t normal in any way, shape, or form. But that was the opposite of your intentions, so you kept on rambling to try and save yourself.
“You’re allowed to be selfish and angry about something going wrong in your life without thinking about how other people might have it worse,” you added. “Because let’s be honest, someone is always going to be in a worse situation. That doesn’t take away from your right to feel things about what’s happening in your life.”
What had happened with Leclerc was shitty as fuck and if you were Lando, you’d be crying, cursing everyone and their mothers that even had a slight connection to Ferrari. But you weren’t a professional race car driver. You were an emotional young woman. What you were trying to say was that Lando had a right to even be a fraction more emotional than what he was showing right now.
“I don’t know what to say,” Lando answered simply after a moment of silence.
He wasn’t used to people telling him he had a right to be emotional. He’d been told since he was a child by people in the industry that being a whiny little kid would get him nowhere. Maybe you had a point. Whatever he was doing now to deal with his emotions (which was ignoring them completely), obviously wasn’t working with how he was feeling inside.
“You don’t have to say anything to me if you don’t want to, just allow yourself to feel, because even I can tell that you’re shutting yourself out and I don’t even know you.”
Your voice was soft as you spoke. Your accent reminded him of the people he grew up around. That was something he hadn’t realised before. He was starting to think that he had been completely self-absorbed all the other times he’d met you. You were almost… pretty, when you sat there next to him in ugly fluorescent lighting. Maybe it was the way you seemed to actually care that made his brain a little mushy.
You were scared to cross a line with him by saying too much, so you decided to retreat. Standing up from the bench, creating more space between you, you took a stance in the doorway again. It felt like you couldn’t breathe in his tiny little room.
“I should probably go back to see how Oscar is doing,” you said, signalling with your hand to the garage.
Lando looked up at you with big eyes, nodding understandingly. You could almost visibly see how he was holding back from telling you that he was, in fact, not okay.
You really had no business pushing him to say something to you. But, something inside of you was calling you a coward for not even giving it a try. For not even giving it a second chance, trying to make him feel better about himself. It all reminded you a little all too well of something that your mother always used to tell you. Fuck it.
“My mum taught me to always linger in doorways for a couple extra seconds before leaving someone,” you said, feeling heat rise to your cheeks at the mere thought of how stupid this was. “That’s usually when people get to thinking about things they haven’t had the courage to say yet, since you never know when you’re next going to see the person.”
You were over-explaining it, pressing your nails into the soft skin of your palms as you got nervous. You were trying to say that you always resolved to leave people feeling better than they did before you talked to them.
Lando cracked a small smile as he watched you stumble over your words. He had now decided that you were pretty, standing in the doorway, your gaze oscillating between him and the floor.
“I’ll ask one more time and then I’ll go — Lando, are you okay?”
“No,” he sighed. He couldn’t hide it. “But I will be.”
“It’s never okay after something like that happens. I keep on blaming myself for things I have no power over, but that’s got to stop at some point, right? I have to learn at some point,” he continued, voice coming across as slightly defeated.
You recognised his mentality, Oscar usually said something similar after experiencing a setback. You still didn’t understand how he wasn’t more visibly upset, yet you now knew that he was harbouring it all inside. It made you feel better that he had actually said it out lout — that he wasn’t fine. You also felt a little bit worse, getting the feeling that his self-deprecation was far more severe than you originally thought. He blamed himself without good reason.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough to say the right thing now, but for what it’s worth, I’m so impressed by you,” you admitted truthfully, hoping you weren’t showing pity. He was actually such an inspiration, such an idol. Even when he sat there, looking like he had run through hell and back, fighting his brain to not feel sorry for himself.
“Have I done enough lingering to make my mother proud, you think?” you joked, tilting your head while you looked at him.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “I’ll join you out there in a minute.”
Oscar had secured his third position and his first home race podium. Getting to see him up on that podium, covered head to toe in champagne was so special to you. Even though you were Jasmine’s friend first, you had really grown to love Oscar during their years of dating. Although, Lando never managed to make his way to the celebrations, something that lingered in the back of your mind.
You had tried so hard to get it right, to say the right thing — to make him feel better about himself. That was more than most people did. He was used to people sucking up to him, but this was different. This was honest. You had no reason to be nice to him. You had no reason to even give him your time of day. But you did it anyway. Lando didn’t even think to say thank you before you left. He should’ve, because you were right. He didn’t know the next time he would see you, hell with your track record you might actually be dead tomorrow, and it was a shame if you didn’t know that your words had helped.
Lando wasn’t sure how long he stayed in his room, sitting on that uncomfortable little bench. Letting his thoughts get the best of him while simultaneously trying to think of what you’d said to him. That he should feel, that he should think this through. He was just hoping that what he was feeling was healing more than it was self-destructing.
He stopped spiralling when Oscar came back to his room to change, just next to Lando’s. He was covered in champagne, exuding pure joy of getting a home race podium. While Lando was happy for his teammate, trying his best to give him a heartfelt congratulations, he also couldn’t stop thinking about how that trophy could’ve been his. The first one of the season.
What Lando didn’t know was that Oscar was very much aware of all of this, having learnt how to read his teammate’s expressions quite well after spending so much time together. He knew that Lando took defeat harder, or at least he showed it more clearly than Oscar ever did. He also knew that he needed someone to… turn on the faucet for him, making him feel like it was okay to spew out feelings about how the race had gone, without judging him for what he might say.
“Did Jasmine come check on you?” Oscar asked, leaning in the doorway to Lando’s room.
Lando would never be able to look the same way at a person standing in a doorway without thinking about what you had said about lingering, staying for a couple extra seconds.
“No, uhm, Bunny did,” he replied, feeling himself smile for some reason. He felt odd using your nickname, as he had no idea where it originated from. Yet, it was just so you.
“What was that look?” Oscar laughed. Lando’s smile wasn’t just a normal one. Oscar could almost guess what had happened, that was just the kind of person you were.
“She’s different from when I last met her,” Lando explained, feeling heat rise to his face as he wondered just about how transparent his emotions actually were. “Oscar, she’s trouble.”
“This is about to be hilarious, isn’t it?”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Lando didn’t have to wait long to see you again. On a week without racing, he decided on a whim to stay in England for a couple of days longer than planned after debriefing at the MTC. It was someone’s birthday — a mechanic, an engineer — he really didn’t know, but a bunch of people from the team ended up in a pub, drinking to their hearts’ content. It was nice, but most of all, it was relaxing. It wasn’t Monaco, where everyone had their eyes on him as soon as he stepped outside. He could blend in better with the masses better here.
As could Oscar. Lando had never really seen Oscar drunk before. Apart from now. Putting him in a cab alone and sending him home wasn’t an option when the poor lad could barely stand on his own. That’s how Lando ended up in his and Jasmine’s shared flat. Even helping Oscar up the stairs had been a mission, especially since Lando wasn’t that sober either. It was alright, they were young and without responsibilities for the rest of that week at least. The team leaders didn’t even have to know…
“Bunny is in the guest room, but you can stay on the couch if you want,” he heard Jasmine say from the kitchen, getting Oscar a glass of water, as Lando had just watched her wrestle him to bed. Jasmine was a short woman, but when she set her mind to something, she could move mountains. Or, her boyfriend.
It took Lando’s inebriated brain a concerning amount of time to figure out that Bunny meant you. You were Bunny. And he liked you. Or he thought so. He liked the picture of you that he had built up in his head after your conversation in his driver’s room.
He wasn’t sure what you were doing here. Maybe you and Jasmine had a girls’ night when Oscar was away. He didn’t actually know that much about you, even less so when his brain was compromised by alcohol.
Lando thought he was being sneaky as he walked over to the guest room, where the door stood ajar, but the wooden floors creaked beneath his feet. He could spot your head of hair peeping out from under the sheets, shoulders covered by a papaya-coloured shirt that he assumed was originally Oscar’s. Your eyes were closed but you weren’t sleeping.
“Lando, I can feel you staring,” you almost whispered, cracking a smile but still not opening your eyes.
“M’sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling ashamed.
You reached out to turn on the lamp that stood on the nightstand. Lando watched as you sat up in bed to get a better view of him, looking amused as soon as you caught his gaze. “Drunk?”
“A little.”
“Did you two have fun?”
“Yeah, I’ve never seen Oscar this drunk before,” Lando said, letting out a soft laugh. He’d been like Bambi on ice getting out of the cab and up the stairs. It was certainly a bonding experience between teammates. “Jasmine had to wrestle him to bed.”
The shirt looked huge on you, it was too big to even be Oscar’s. That was a nicer thought, for Lando. As you sat up, the sheets pooled at your waist, with a bare leg sticking out on the side. For a second, it struck him that you probably had no trousers on.
No, nope, look at her face Lando.
Your face was bare. If he stared long enough he would probably start counting your birthmarks and imperfections. It almost looked freshly washed. Maybe you and Jasmine had done face masks. He didn’t really know what a girls’ night entailed.
“Your hair is shorter.”
Lando said it out loud the moment he realised it. His drunk brain didn’t let him keep anything in.
“It was easier to manage while I was back at the hospital,” you explained, on instinct reaching up to touch it.
“Fuck, right, the surgery!”
Oscar had told him about it and Lando had somehow forgotten. He could blame the alcohol for now. You only having one checkup left and being practically as good as new had been too good to be true.
“Uh, how did it go?”
“Simple checkup turned into an emergency surgery and two weeks in a hospital bed.” You shrugged, as if you had told him what you had eaten for dinner, not showing any signs of how awful it had truly been. “But I survived.”
Lando nodded. “That’s good, I guess. Scary, but good that you’re good.”
How many times could he use the word ’good’ in one sentence?
The both of you turned silent after that, unsure of what to say next. You watched him as he stood in the doorway, his feet tentatively moving as his eyes flickered around the room. You started to smile as you realised what he was doing.
“Is this you lingering in the doorway?”
“I think so,” Lando shyly admitted. “Is it working?”
You chuckled, still smiling all sleepily at him like what he had said was funny, or special. It made Lando’s heart hurt and his cheeks burn.
Truth be told, you could’ve used some lingering right now. You had talked to your father and to Jasmine of course, but you still felt like you had this pressure over your chest for things you hadn’t said.
You could’ve told him about how you’d gone alone to the hospital because you’d thought it would be quick, but ended up getting prepped and rushed into surgery before anyone you knew even had time to make it there to be with you. There had been no one there to hold your hand.
You could’ve told him about the scar on your chest that was now worse than ever before. It was larger, more red, and way more noticeable. You’d cried trying on shirts before going to dinner with Jasmine tonight, which you hadn’t had the heart to tell her about. You’d wanted to cancel the entire thing, before sucking it up and putting on a turtleneck.
You could’ve talked about it for ages, knowing that maybe he would listen. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not right now. Not to him.
“I think we should both go to sleep, Lando,” you said, yawning comically loud as you turned off the light before falling back on the mattress.
Lando didn’t push you. Instead, he chuckled and said a soft goodnight. He knew he maybe should’ve pushed you to talk. He sensed that he could’ve done it. But it also didn’t feel like the right time. Not when he was drunk. Not when you were tired.
His eyes longed on you for a couple extra seconds, you looked adorable with the sheets practically swallowing you whole. He then walked back into the kitchen where Jasmine was standing, putting wine glasses into a display cabinet. Maybe you weren’t entirely sober either.
He took a seat at the kitchen island, slouching over as he rested his face in his hands. Jasmine smiled at him, tilting her head to the side as if to silently ask him if something was wrong.
“Jasmine, has she always looked like that?” Lando said, unsure of what he was even asking.
“Bunny?” Jasmine questioned, leaning her elbows on the counter, scrunching her eyebrows in confusion.
“She looks different from when I first met her.”
Maybe you just weren’t sick anymore. Maybe Lando had just been a right idiot the other times he’d met you and not properly cared to look at you. Maybe you had been shy and he had been self-obsessed. Maybe it didn’t matter what had happened before.
“Well, for a start, she has two working lungs now,” she argued, a laugh slipping out under her breath as if what she said was obvious. “Got the colour back in her skin and gained some healthy weight, I think.”
Lando hummed in response. It made sense. You did look different. That was the only sane explanation as to why you were constantly on his mind.
“Why did you ask?”
She looked at him for an answer, her eyes staring him down, searching for eye contact that he wasn’t able to hold. He couldn’t help but turn to the side so that she wouldn’t see how pink his face was.
“Holy shit, you like her!”
Jasmine let out a gasp as she realised, having to contain herself to not squeal and wake the entire building. Lando had nothing to say all of a sudden, his drunkenness not showing at all.
“You’re not even going to deny it?”
He quickly stood up to go to the bathroom, ignoring her question and hiding his dumbstruck smile.
“Goodnight Jasmine.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you felt your hands grow sweaty against the stack of papers you held in them. The costume looked nice — almost too nice to be on your body. Beautiful, sparkly platform heels. Delicate lace and trims on the dress. The corset showed off a waist you didn’t know you had. It wasn’t you, so thank god you were acting like someone else.
“Go on, Magenta. Say your next line,” Jasmine urged you from her spot on the bed in your childhood room. The old canopy and fairy lights that decorated your bed made her look ethereal in a way.
There was something heartfelt, seeing your oldest friend in that room again, now a whole lot older than when the two of you would play with dolls on your floor. When you dropped out of university, you had to move back in with your dad and little brother. It hadn’t been awful, but not ideal either.
Magenta was the character you were playing in your local theatre's production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You’d been part of the crew at the little theatre for most of your life and now, when you had no classes to worry about and no summer job lined up for you — being part of a musical over the summer seemed like the perfect waste of time. You were going back to university in the autumn, so you felt like you had a chance to have some fun this summer.
“…to sing and dance once more to your dark refrains. To take that step to the right...”
Magenta was the opposite of you. She was bold, and sexy. She had a sultry voice and was dressed in a stereotypical maid costume. Showing off both legs and cleavage. It was a fun change, but a scary one too.
“But it's the pelvic thrust… That really drives you insane?”
Jasmine couldn’t keep a straight face as she acted like your counterpart, starting to giggle like a schoolgirl, trying not to get told off by the teacher for laughing. The lines made no sense to her.
“And our World will do The Time Warp again — Jazz, you’re not focusing!” you exclaimed, joining her laugher as you fell on the bed next to her, ruffling the huge amount of decorative pillows you had on there.
“This was so much easier when you were doing Moulin Rouge, because then I at least understood the plot,” Jasmine scoffed as she looked over the manuscript, leaning into your shoulder as you both relaxed into the pile of pillows.
“What do you meeean your character is a maid who is also an alien? Babe, why are they going to space?” she continued, gesticulating wildly with her hands at the pages.
“It’s camp, Jazz. Or maybe just written by someone on acid,” you laughed.
Rocky Horror was not the simplest of musicals to explain to someone who had never heard of it before. It was camp, and queer, and rock’n’roll. There were aliens, and virgins, and a man in golden underwear. It was a nightmare — and the most fun thing one could imagine.
“Who have you invited for the opening night? I’m so sorry again that we can’t come,” Jasmine asked, turning over to lay on her back, staring up at the fairy lights.
The premiere was only weeks away at this point, but you had known for awhile that Oscar and her were busy celebrating her parents wedding anniversary on the same exact date. She had kept on apologising and you had kept on telling her that is wasn’t that big of a deal. They could come on the second weekend, or the third, or any weekend during the entire summer. It didn’t matter to you.
“Don’t apologise,” you reassured her. “I haven’t invited anyone. Dad has to go with Matteo to his first ever football game.”
Matteo was your little brother. He was the sweetest kid you knew, albeit biased. He was also the most anxious kid you knew, so you could already guess that performing well during his game would be important to him. Your father had to be there, even for your own sanity.
“But you need someone there, cheering you on. This is a big deal!”
It really wasn’t. You’d done it alone before.
“Jazz, Matteo is 10. He needs dad there more than I do,” you remarked.
“I didn’t just mean your dad. You need someone there in general, Bunny.”
You really didn’t. You’d done a lot of things without someone holding your hand along the way.
“Lando should be in England on that day, y’know, some MTC thing,” Jasmine hinted, her gaze catching yours.
You thought you heard her wrong at first. She never talked about Lando casually. From what you had gathered, he and Oscar hadn’t even been that close up until the start of this season. Now, you knew that they hung out, but what did that have to do with you and your little musical?
“Huh? That’s just absurd. He would hate it.”
If you were allowed to be judgmental for a moment, you would assume that Lando had never seen a musical in his life. Let alone something as weird as Rocky Horror. You also didn’t understand at all why he should come watch you, on his own. That would honestly just make you feel like the joke was on you.
“I think he likes you,” she commented plainly, as if it was clear as day and not at all something from her wildest imagination.
She might as well have been speaking Greek. You did not understand Greek.
“Why would he like me?” you squeaked, your eyes going wide.
“You’re hot and funny, maybe a bit odd, but people like that. Why wouldn’t he like you?”
“I’m sat here flipping pages of a manuscript, while he is flipping some model over in bed,” you expressed, throwing your copy of the script at her.
Maybe that was harsh. You didn’t know Lando well enough to say something like that with confidence. But, you did know yourself well enough to say that you weren’t his type.
“So, what? He could flip you over!”
You snorted in response, hiding your laugh. Jasmine was being ridiculous right now.
“It’s like you lost all your confidence when you got sick,” she said, her voice suddenly softened. “Remember our trip to Malaga? That Bunny would’ve jumped on his dick without thinking twice.”
It was crazy how she could make your trip to Malaga sound sentimental, or like an old memory of how you used to be. Malaga had been anything but orthodox. A group of teenage girls — too young to be drinking, making questionable decisions and racking up their body counts.
“I guess I grew up, Jasmine. I also shouldn’t do something reckless with Oscar’s teammate.” You shrugged, standing up, ready to be over with this conversation and to start rehearsing again.
“That is if he actually fancied me, which he does not,” you decided.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Lando didn’t know what he was doing. When he sneakily asked Oscar if he was doing something after their meetings, he had really been thinking about you. In his mind, maybe they could’ve done something the four of them, so it wouldn’t be as obvious that it was you he wanted to see again.
But Oscar had an anniversary dinner to go to with Jasmine. And you — you were in some off off-West End musical. He really had to get to know you better, because that was not something he would have ever imagined about you.
Not that he was imagining you doing things…
Oscar had told him to go. Lando had questioned his entire existence.
Yet, he still somehow ended up outside of the small theatre on a Friday night. He wasn’t even sure if he was technically still in London, that’s how remote the little community he was in felt. Going out clubbing with Max was his plan B, if this turned out to be as ridiculous as it sounded.
The Rocky Horror Picture Show — that was what the poster outside said. Nothing but a big pair of messily painted red lips were on it. He had no idea what he was in for and Google hadn’t been much help. It looked like a mixture of the story about Frankenstein’s monster and a drag queen show.
He was early, arriving right in the middle of the final dress rehearsal. Something that Oscar had recommended he did, to not get recognised as much and to be able to leave swiftly if he turned out to absolutely hate it. Lando wondered how much of an avid musical-goer Oscar was, or maybe he had just gone to yours.
The theatre was small, probably not more than a hundred seats. It was classic looking, with red velvet chairs and heavy curtains lining the stage. He slid into one of the seats at the very back, looking with anticipation at the stage. The room was maybe filled to one third with what he mostly assumed were the cast’s friends and family.
The stage was decorated with delicately handmade props. It showed a grand hall with checkered flooring, a wooden staircase at the back. Multiple odd sculptures and a wonky replica of the Mona Lisa. All under bright red lighting.
Lando didn’t even have time to take it all in before actors entered the stage.
“Are you having a party?” said a girl in a baby pink dress and a comically blonde wig. Her voice was so high and brittle that it was almost annoying.
“You’ve arrived on a rather special night. It’s one of the master’s affairs,” answered a man with a fake hunchback, his long white hair making him look nothing but creepy.
“Oh, lucky him,” said the girl again.
That’s when he heard a voice he recognised. A voice belonging to you. Sliding down the bannister of the stairs, you whipped an old-timey feather duster around.
“You're lucky. He's lucky. I'm lucky. We're all lucky!” you practically yelled as you made your way to the girl, who looked positively terrified by you. Her looser boyfriend (Lando assumed), who stood by her side looked even more frightened.
It had been two minutes and Lando already rooted for the weird people — meaning you and the man with the hunchback. You were in what he would call a… slutty maid costume. Except it wasn’t slutty; it was more artful. What was he even thinking?
Your wig was large and curly, the dark red colour of it suited you well. Your makeup was dramatic, and your entire costume was covered in silver sequins and glitter. You were not the nervous, out-of-her-element girl that he had seen in Australia a couple months ago. Right now, you were acting completelylike someone else. And you were damn good at it.
Much like he imagined a musical to be, the conversation immediately turned into song. The Time Warp, he had heard of that one before. The stage flooded with an ensemble of dancers, dressed in tuxedos. The plot of this musical was still something completely alien. Maybe it barely had a plot.
Lando couldn’t decide if he loved it or hated it. He felt like maybe that was the entire point of the show. Like it was supposed to be annoying, but also so colourful and odd that you couldn’t help but be amazed by it.
Even with so much happening on stage, all he could focus on was you. You didn’t dance or sing like someone who’d injured her lungs not that long ago. You performed like you loved it, having a hard time hiding your smile even if your character was more of a moody type.
Lando, too, found himself smiling. He was astonished by how such a small production still could archive basically perfection. The singing, the choreography — it was like watching something prerecorded. It had to be a passion project for all of you, because he wasn’t sure small theatre productions were the most lucrative thing.
At the end of the number, the dance ended with everyone falling to the floor. That’s when it happened, when he for the first time in the performance, heard something that didn’t sound like perfection. No, that was the sound of someone in pain.
His eyes tried to find you in the pile of bodies on the stage.
You’d practiced it a million times. Falling over — gracefully that is — in high heels wasn’t the easiest of tasks. But never once before had it hurt like his. A stinging pain that never ended, so you couldn’t help but scream. It gathered everyone’s attention, quickly stopping the act and flicking on the normal lights.
A broken ankle. Your broken ankle and your yelping voice. It hurt like hell.
You could see how the people around you started to panic, talking about a first aid kit and getting a stand-in ready to take your place. You couldn’t focus on anything but the pain, your eyes filled up with tears, clouding your vision.
God, you would pass out if this pain didn’t stop.
Lando watched it all unfold from his seat. Seeing you sat in the middle of the stage, clenching your hands over your foot, tears falling down your cheeks, taking your mascara with them.
Ironically, something started to hurt inside of Lando, and he didn’t know how to react. Could he sneak out so you wouldn’t have known he was here? No, no. He was going to see if he could be of any help. That was the only right thing to do. In seconds, he had left his seat and started to march down to the stage.
“Lando?”
Your voice was pathetic. Your tears clogged your throat and you felt ashamed, so fucking ashamed.
You knew that Jasmine had talked to Oscar, and that Oscar had talked to Lando. But seeing him by the edge of the stage, a worried look on his face, wasn’t something you actually thought would happen. You did not understand why he would’ve wanted to come.
“Is your foot okay? The fall looked pretty bad,” Lando said as he crouched down in front of you, looking more at your face than at your ankle so as not to scare you more than what was already inevitable.
“You saw me fall? Oh fuck, why are you even here?” you groaned in pain.
You didn’t mean for it to come across as rude — you just didn’t have much of a choice over your emotions right now. It was nice that he was there, so fucking nice.
“Oscar told me to come — I mean, I wanted to come too,” he emphasised.
Lando didn’t exactly know how to help you now that he had waltzed up on the stage like some knight in shining armour. He looked around to see a man in his mid-thirties come forward with a bright red first aid kit. He tried not to raise his eyebrows too much at the man — dressed in his costume, looking like if Elvis Presley had been in a motorcycle gang.
The man tried not to look too much at Lando either — having known you most of your life and never once seen you bring a boy to the theatre.
“Darling, that’s broken,” the man said as soon as he got a view of your ankle.
Lando could’ve said the same thing.
“No, it’s not Eddie. Just bruised I think,” you tried to tell yourself, and Eddie.
Eddie, whose character in the musical coincidentally was also named Eddie, was your on-sight medic, working as a nurse when he was not busy acting and singing in his studded leather vest and greaser-like hairstyle.
Bruising meant you could suffer through it. Broken meant spending the summer in a cast and missing every single one of your performances. That’s what you got for wanting to have a fun, selfish summerfor once in your life.
“Bunny, I don’t know how to tell you this in a nicer way — but it’s broken,” Eddie persisted, rummaging through the first aid kit for something to help with the pain.
“B-but the show…”
You said it quietly, but Lando heard. Your voice was heartbreaking.
It showed how much this meant to you, and he realised now that you were probably embarrassed. He drew parallels to his own life and career, and how much a clumsy mistake could leave its marks for a long time forward. Even if this was only a hobby, it was still important.
“I can wrap it up for you, but it won’t heal unless you go to a hospital,” he continued, not waiting for an answer before he began to gently move your foot.
You whimpered in pain, biting down on your lower lip to not scream as it shifted. Grasping for just about anything to hold on to, you found Lando’s hand. You didn’t have time to think it through, but Lando had a lifetime.
Your nails were painted black to match your costume, and your hand felt so small and cold in his own, yet you were strong as hell as you gripped his fingers in pain. He suffered through it, knowing that what you were feeling was a million times worse.
Eddie wrapped your ankle in a tight bandage. Lando could tell that he’d done it before. Some girl had found a bag of frozen peas in the staffroom freezer, that he then strapped over it to ease the pain. By the look on your face, it did absolutely nothing.
“I’ll drive you to A&E,” Lando offered without thinking twice. He could see Max some other time.
Then it was the trouble of getting you down the stage and out of the building. Eddie throwing you over his shoulder could’ve maybe worked, but you had this thing called dignity.
So, with one arm around Lando and the other one around Eddie, you hopped your way out of there on one foot, cursing Mother Earth herself every time you accidentally touched the ground with the injured one.
“You’re supposed to go to a UTC with broken bones,” you pointed out when you remembered it, feeling the need to correct Lando.
“You’ve broken a bone before?” Lando asked.
Eddie didn’t have to ask because he already knew about your history with hospitals.
“Twice. My wrist once from falling off a trampoline, and a finger from shutting a car door on it,” you explained.
“You’re a walking emergency, aren’t you?” Lando said, like he was joking.
It wasn’t really a joke to you anymore, though.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mumbled, thinking he wouldn’t hear you.
But he did, and it got him thinking.
You couldn’t help but laugh as you got out to the parking lot. In your periphery, you could see how Eddie’s jaw dropped. A bright orange McLaren was not what you had expected to see, but then again, you couldn’t have said what you expected instead. The man was a Formula 1 driver, for Christ's sake.
Eddie kept his mouth shut, but the look he gave you said something along the lines of you have a lot to explain, young lady. You would have no idea how to explain how you ended up here, even if you wanted to tell him.
“Lando…” you said to get his attention. “I don’t think I can get in this car without it hurting like hell.”
“I borrowed it for the weekend. I didn’t think—” he stopped himself, unsure of how to continue.
I didn’t think you would break a bone and I’d have to drive you?
Yeah, no. He couldn’t say that.
“I was about to tell you to just shove me in the backseat, but it doesn’t even have one,” you tried to joke, earning small smiles from both Lando and Eddie.
Just as getting out of the building, slow and steady won the race. Only this time, you weren’t only cursing Mother Earth but Lando and Eddie too, blaming them for whenever your foot nudged something. You hoped they could take it lightheartedly because you weren’t angry or mad at them. You were angry at yourself.
“You, young man — take care of our best performer, okay?” Eddie said to Lando as he shut the door on your side.
You scoffed at his wording. He knew he didn’t need to take on the role as a protective older brother-like figure in your life, but you kind of liked it when he did. Lando probably met a lot of important and intimidating people with his choice of career, yet Eddie felt different. He had no actual influence, but he had a heart that cared for you. Lando couldn’t joke that away.
“I will, sir.”
The UTC was relatively calm for a Friday evening, so you didn’t have to wait long until you were rushed into a room to be assessed and treated. Nurse after nurse who saw your ankle said the same thing, get x-rays, evaluate, and hope it’s not surgical.
Lando didn’t say much, only helping you explain what had happened when your pain made you unable to form coherent sentences. He stayed by your side, though. You had half-expected him to leave as soon as you got there, making up some excuse about being busy.
But he never did.
You even had to convince him to leave to get your bag that you had left in his car. He was unsure about leaving you alone the first couple of times you mentioned it.
But you wanted to get your makeup off, and fix your hair which had been left a mess after you’d taken the wig off. You’d thought about that part, but the maid’s costume was still on your body. At least the nurses got a good laugh out of it — a barefoot, glittery maid with makeup smeared all over her face and a packet of peas strapped to her ankle.
When you were rolled off to get x-rays taken, Lando finally agreed to go outside and get it. It wasn’t like he was allowed to go with you anyway.
“Thank you,” you said as he handed you the bag. “The x-rays will take a while, but the doctor said it is most likely a simple fracture and I will only need a cast.”
You immediately took out a makeup wipe and a comb. The braids you had on under the wig were starting to feel very stiff, giving you a headache. Or maybe you were just tense because of all the other pain you were feeling.
“That’s good.” He nodded, taking a seat on the edge of the hospital bed. “Did they give you anything for the pain?”
You giggled a little, rolling your eyes, overplaying how loopy you were. “Can you already tell?”
“Just a little.” He pinched his fingers, showing just how little. “Do you want help with that?”
“You don’t have to—” you tried to tell him, but his hands had already undone one of the hair ties, his fingers moving gently to separate the braided hair.
He scooted behind you to reach better as you continued to take off the makeup, the wipe quickly turning a messy mixture of red and black with how much product was actually on your face. Stage makeup was no joke. His fingers through your hair sent shivers down your spine, but you tried not to think too much about it. He was just being nice. That’s all he’d been the entire evening.
“You probably have better things to do on a Friday night,” you mumbled.
Lando shook his head, and then he figured you couldn’t see it as he sat behind you.
“I called Oscar when I went out. He said he would tell your parents.”
“Parent. My mother’s not alive,” you whispered. “But that’s good, I guess. Did Oscar say anything else?”
You didn’t give Lando any time to think or ask about what you had said. That was on purpose. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway, with every possible sentence coming to mind feeling insensitive or way too pitiful.
“No, not really,” Lando replied.
That Oscar had made fun of him, for getting to play a knight in shining armour as you were a damsel in distress, was something he opted out of telling you.
“He didn’t say that this was typical of me?” you muttered, rubbing your face in obvious distress.
Lando was done undoing the braids so he could move to see your face again, seeing it streaky and glittery from you having wiped off the makeup without a mirror at hand. He reached for a clean wipe, his eyes silently asking you if it was okay if he helped.
“I just… I can’t fucking believe it.” You exhaled from your nose as he wiped your undereyes clean from glitter.
“It’s always like this,” you continued, showing frustration. “Whenever I’m about to accomplish something in life, I always get injured.”
“I don’t believe that—”
You cut him off by explaining, “Well, I fucked up my lungs right as I was about to graduate.”
“You didn’t fuck them up. Things like that just happen,” Lando interjected.
“I lost my voice on the second show the last time I did a musical. Had to give up a leading role for one that was just dancing, no singing,” you counter-argued, proving that it wasn’t just some one-time thing.
Lando looked at you, waiting to see if you could come up with more examples before he told you that it wasn’t fate that got you injured. They were coincidences.
“My wrist was broken when I took my A-level exams, that was hell on earth,” you said, raising a finger of conviction. “Oh, and I had appendicitis on my 18th birthday. Jasmine still hates me for that one because I ruined a girl’s trip.”
“Is there more?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows.
You snorted out a laugh as another one came to mind. “I got a nosebleed when I lost my virginity. It didn’t stop bleeding for like three hours.”
Lando pursed his lips to not laugh, but he couldn’t keep it in for long. “I’m sorry for laughing, but the picture in my head is really funny.”
In hindsight, it was quite funny. At the time, however, it was the most embarrassing moment of your life.
“I was going to say that probably everyone experiences these sort of setbacks, but… I don’t know anymore,” he tried to comfort.
“I think I might just be cursed, Lando,” you huffed, locking eyes with him again.
You both went quiet for a couple seconds as he took in your expression. A gaze so hollow, it didn’t matter that you were trying to hide it with a smile. The smile was blacked out anyway.
He didn’t understand how you could talk to him and reassure him without making it sound like you were second-guessing things, or ever feeling unsure of what your words meant — but as soon as the subject was switched to regard yourself, you were suddenly cold. Or not really cold at all, but just not as warm as you were when you talked about other people.
Your staring contest was interrupted by a young boy saying your name. A man came shortly after him into the small hospital room. Lando assumed it was your father and little brother, as he stood up from the bed to introduce himself. And to make some space between the two of you, since you were sitting suspiciously close together.
The boy got shy as soon as he saw Lando. He looked a lot like you, with the same coloured hair and the same big doe eyes, only he was clad in a green football kit. Your father was wearing a matching one to show support.
“Hi Matteo,” you called out as your brother walked past Lando to immediately get to you. He was like that — shy with people he didn’t know and anxious to talk to them. So you saved him, by talking to him as you saw Lando shake your father’s hand. That wasn’t awkward at all.
“How did the game go?” you asked, ruffling his sweaty hair as you invited him to sit next to you on the bed.
Matteo started talking, all excited about how they’d won and that he had gotten an assist. Pretty solid for a first game, he thought. You were mostly glad that he had a good time and that he seemed to get along well with the other boys on the team. He didn’t have it easy making friends because of his shyness.
Lando overheard the conversation, taking notice of how you had asked him how it went and not if he had won. It was those little things that made you different, made the way you talked to people so much more worth it. You were so fucking lovely, and you seemed to have no idea about it.
Your father had recognised him, but Lando couldn’t tell if that was only because of Oscar or if he cared about racing.
With your family there, Lando started to feel excessive. He couldn’t exactly argue his case for wanting to stay right there in front of you, and your father. He guessed it wasn’t too late to still catch up with Max, but a part of him almost didn’t want to do it.
No, he had to leave. He couldn’t explain his reason out loud.
As he said his goodbye, he met your eyes from his position in the doorway. He didn’t have much to say to you, or maybe he had so much to say that his brain couldn’t find what was most important. His shoes almost felt sticky against the sterile hospital flooring, something glueing him to the spot.
“Will I see you at Silverstone?” Lando decided to ask before leaving.
“Uh… maybe? I’ll have to talk to Oscar,” you said unsure, still sat in the bed with your arm around Matteo.
“Can I come this time?” he whispered, looking up at you.
You were shocked by his question. He’d never asked to come before. But it wasn’t really up to you if he could or not. It was always someone else getting you race passes, so you were in no position to be greedy.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll sort you out,” Lando hurried to say, seeing the uncertainty on your face.
You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you… for everything.”
For showing up, for driving you, for staying. He’d done so much that he didn’t need to do. Maybe Jasmine was correct. Maybe he didn’t just see you as her friend that he had to be civil to. Or maybe, he’d been dealt really bad cards tonight and had no option but to comply. Otherwise, he would be seen as a complete dickhead.
Lando nodded, pursing his lips into a smile, staying in the doorway for a moment too long, before finally walking away. You didn’t notice him doing it, but someone else certainly did.
“Bunny…” your father said.
“Mm?” you mumbled, perking up your ears.
“Did that boy just linger in the doorway?”
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“Are you avoiding me?”
Lando’s voice shocked you as he came up from behind. You’d seen him around during the day but kept your distance. You were technically his guest today, only ever having been invited by Oscar before. But you would be lying if you said that premise had made you more liberal with how you interacted with Lando. You stayed with Oscar and Jasmine, and your father and Matteo, because that was what you knew.
The paddock at Silverstone was a lot, even for you who had been to this rodeo before. Matteo and your dad, however, would fall asleep quickly tonight with how many new impressions they’d received today. You’d only managed to come on the Sunday, with you on crutches and Matteo being, well… Matteo. It was good enough of an experience anyway.
“No, there’s just a lot of people here to see you. I didn’t want to be a bother,” you explained, nervously laughing.
It was jam-packed with friends and family, sponsors, and celebrities. Every time he had a moment for himself, it could quickly turn into a meet-and-greet if he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Now, minutes before he had to make his way to the starting grid, it was finally sort of calm in the garage. You were standing in the viewing section, a papaya-coloured headset around your neck.
Lando shook his head and sighed. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
You could not be a bother, even if you tried.
“So, it wasn’t a make-a-wish thing after you saw me fall on my face and break my ankle?”
“Would I’ve been your wish?” he asked, voice affected by laughter.
“No, sorry, I’d pick a broadway show over this any day,” you responded jokingly.
“How’s your ankle anyway?”
The cast and the crutches you were leaning on didn’t look too dramatic. It just looked like you had broken your ankle and were now dealing with it to the best of your ability.
“It’s healing just fine,” you nodded, leaning to rest on one crutch to show Lando your palm. “The worst thing right now is the heat and the crutches giving me callouses.”
As you reached out your hand, Lando couldn’t help but gently grab your fingers to take a closer look. He was practically holding your hand. Sure, you held his when Eddie was wrapping your foot, but you were in an immense amount of pain at the time. This was something different. The callouses weren’t even that bad.
Why was he holding your hand?
In the same moment you could overthink it, he let go.
“Have you been hopping around the paddock all day? You should’ve told me, I could’ve gotten you a golf cart or something,” Lando wondered, feeling kind of bad.
He hadn’t thought about your broken ankle when he’d asked you to come.
“It’s alright. Matteo’s been having a blast all day, so… thank you,” you shrugged.
You could deal with being uncomfortable for a day if it meant that Matteo got a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
His McLaren cap was signed, and he had ice cream in his belly. He’d even gotten a wave from Sir Lewis Hamilton himself, and if that wasn’t enough to make him school ground royalty for at least a week, you didn’t know what was. Maybe you took your big sister duty too seriously, but literally nothing could make you stop caring for that kid.
“And your dad?” Lando asked.
You looked over your shoulder to see what he was doing. With Matteo in front of him, practically hiding into his side, you could see him talking to someone and smiling. You understood that he was mostly doing this for you and Matteo, but there was some underlying fascination that middle-aged men had with fast cars that you knew he was trying to hide.
“He appears to be smiling, that’s always positive.”
“He’s talking to my dad,” he revealed. That wasn’t awkward at all.
Lando hesitated, unsure of asking you what was on his mind, but soon enough, words were falling out of his mouth anyway. You seemed to have that effect on him.
“I need to get ready, but can I see you afterwards? Maybe you can come back like you did in Melbourne.”
You smiled, agreeing before adding, “I’ll watch you get on the podium first.”
The race started with both Lando and Oscar in good positions, which probably led to a false sense of security. Your gut feeling was unsure of it all.
Matteo held on to your hand during the entire start, you could tell that it was mixed emotions of excitement and anxiety. His headset was big on his little head, and he looked positively adorable as he tried to understand what was going on.
“Lando is third right now,” you explained to him, pointing to a monitor. “And Oscar is fifth, you remember them, right?”
Matteo nodded. “Lando broke your foot, and Oscar talks funny.”
“I broke my own foot, but you’re right about Oscar,” you laughed.
It was you that had to hold onto Matteo for a moment during the race when it really looked like both Oscar and Lando had a chance at winning. But after some godawful strategic calls, you realised that the podium wasn’t as secure as you thought. Hamilton was steady in the lead, and Verstappen was chasing Lando like there was no tomorrow.
You were so focused on the leaders that you didn’t even realise what was happening at the bottom of the grid. Pictures of two cars making contact flashed over the screens, and Matteo tensed up beside you.
“What happened?” he worriedly asked, clinging to your arm. “Did they get hurt?”
“No, no, it was just a little love tap,” you reassured him. They probably didn’t even have any damage — that was how minimal it was. “Like when I reversed into grandma’s postbox.”
“That was you?” your dad laughed.
“Be quiet, I’m trying to watch the race,” you hushed him, eyes back on the leaderboard.
Verstappen ended up catching Lando. P3 was the bittersweet consolation prize that Lando would have to act like he was happy about. Parade around the podium, covered in champagne, as if he wasn’t completely gutted inside. You could see on his face that he was acting happy as they celebrated. He wasn’t that good of an actor, if you were to be honest.
If only they had put on different tyres for his last stint.
Afterwards, you made your way back to his driver’s room — just as he’d asked. You could have overthought that question a million times, but you decided to just go for it. It was crowded with people, both staff and guests, rushing to congratulate him. Or maybe to comfort him. Your guess would be on the latter.
At last, the hallway cleared, and you hopped to stand in the doorway, finally seeing him.
“P3, baby!” you joked cheerfully.
Lando stared at you blankly, shaking his head as he snorted out a laugh.
“Yeah, no, that was frustrating to watch. I can’t even imagine how you feel.”
He had no words. Already having had to put on such a fake façade to everyone else he had met after the race. He didn’t want to do that to you. So, he ended up speechless.
“Should I leave you alone?” you whispered, breaking the silence.
“No!” he hurried to say. “Uhm… please, sit.”
With some struggle, you managed to sit next to him on the bench in his room. Much like Melbourne. It was, however, a lot more difficult to move in the little room while on crutches.
He sighed as you sat down, helping you rest the crutches against the wall so they wouldn’t fall to the floor. His racing suit was halfway off and filled the room with a scent of champagne. You tried to look him in the eye, but ended up focusing on how his helmet had left red imprints on his cheeks — like a gorgeous mark of endurance.
“I just… I don’t know what to say, or what to feel. It’s always so fucking close, and then I lose it.” Lando’s voice was stern and measured, his face blank.
It was a forced expression, though. He could cry if his tear ducks would’ve allowed him to. Some mental barrier stopped him from doing it. He almost wanted to do it so that you would see his true emotions.
Your heart broke a little, seeing him be so harsh on himself. Because, with your mentality, he had just done something miraculous. He’d done something mere mortals couldn’t accomplish.
“I’m impressed you get out of that car alive every weekend, so I might be the wrong person to complain to,” you softly told him.
Lando had heard those sorts of words before, how he was superhuman for even getting in the car. He’d felt the same way when he started, and maybe he’d lost that initial spark he used to have.
Your words didn’t mean that you didn’t want him to complain. He should vent, to the people that it mattered to. Get it out of his system, so that he could be sensible in front of the media.
It was funny how the sport worked that way. That he was somehow less happy in third, than Sargeant was in eleventh. That the people on the second and third steps of the podium were the biggest losers. And, they were expected to be robotic about it, otherwise, they would be deemed erratic and emotional.
What was the crime in being emotional anyway?
“I think you drove a perfect race,” you complimented him. “And then I think there were some strategic… mishaps that you’re not to blame for. Overall, this race was like the coolest one I’ve ever witnessed, and Oscar didn’t even get a podium. He’s my favourite driver!”
You tried so hard to get him to laugh again, but he wouldn’t budge. He had to tell himself not to. It actually kind of annoyed him that Oscar was your favourite. He knew he didn’t know you well enough to be your favourite, yet.
“I don’t get how you’re not proud of yourself,” you finally sighed, gesticulating with your hands as you spoke. “You have every right to be proud, annoyingly so.”
Lando knew he had to let his guard down. That was the only way he would feel better about this. This wasn’t like Australia, when it hadn’t been his fault for the bad result. He’d still blamed himself, but let it go after a couple of hours. This time, a good result was somehow his fault. It was insane, the mental game he was playing with himself. And he couldn’t let this go without talking it through.
“I’ll be that later, I just need to feel sorry for myself for a couple of hours first,” he scoffed.
It was Silverstone, after all. He’d gotten a podium on home soil. That was an accomplishment to be proud of. Last year, he was over the moon over his Silverstone race, but maybe that was because the car hadn’t been that great. This time he had a great car, but was somehow a worse driver. It didn’t make any sense to him.
His spiralling thoughts were stopped when he heard his phone continuously vibrate from the other side of the room, somewhere hidden under a pile of clothes.
“Are people blowing up your phone with congratulations?” you asked amusingly.
“No, it’s the PR team,” he said as he looked over his notifications, a confused look on his face. “We’ve gone viral again. It looks like I held your hand when you showed me the callouses from the crutches.”
You did technically hold my hand, was what you wanted to say. You decided that staying quiet felt better.
Lando regretted his wording as soon as he said it. He held your hand in a garage filled with cameras. He knew that. He was to blame for that. But was any harm done?
“I don’t get how it’s always with you that it happens,” he mumbled nervously.
He sat back down beside you, giving you a view of his phone screen. The photos were cute, if you were to be honest. But also blurry and obviously taken by someone who wanted to be sneaky.
“Always? Meaning once before?” you questioned.
That showed how little you were on social media. You didn’t know about anything other than the video from Melbourne.
“No, there were also photos of me at the hospital when you broke your ankle,” Lando explained.
The photos had been everywhere. He, and that orange car, at a hospital parking lot on a Friday evening. It was quite the headline for news outlets and gossip accounts.
“Oh…”you said, visibly surprised. “I’m so sorry if it caused you problems to be seen with a girl in a slutty maid costume.”
For a second there, Lando could watch you go through the five stages of grief, all through your facial expressions.
“You weren’t in the photos. It was just me and that… obnoxious car when I went back to get your bag,” he quickly added, calming your nerves.
You nodded understandingly, feeling yourself get less tense. “Did you have to explain it to anyone?”
“Thankfully not, I’m such a bad liar.”
What would he need to lie about?
Then you realised that someone like him probably couldn't just say that they drove a friend who had injured themselves. That would only lead to a million more questions. And, if he had said something — people would’ve been able to put two and two together as you showed up to the paddock with a cast and crutches. Maybe he was protecting you.
You didn’t know what else to say to him now, meeting his bright eyes once again. They had this way of shining, even though he was sad. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but you were starting to wonder if you’d overstayed your welcome.
Then Lando spoke again, his voice in a happier tone. “Has Jasmine mentioned Italy to you?”
“Monza?”
“No, now before Hungary,” he replied. “Oscar and I have to represent McLaren at some charity auction, and I thought about inviting you as my plus one so that Jasmine doesn’t have to be alone if we have to work a lot.”
The invitation is carefully phrased, and you recognise that. If you had been more sure about Jasmine’s ridiculous idea that Lando liked you, you would’ve made fun of him for dragging in Jasmine in his way of asking you to come with him.
“Oh,” you mused. “I’d be a fool to say no, but there has to be other people that you’d rather go with.”
Lando looked at you in confusion.
“Like, don’t invite me just to do Jasmine a favour,” you continued.
He finally broke into a smile, not being able to contain it anymore. You were clueless, and Lando found that hilarious. “It’s not like I hate your company, y’know?”
You chuckled. You hadn’t expected him to say something so direct.
“Can I talk to Jazz about it first, before I decide?”
Lando nodded softly. “Sure, I mean, the invite is yours anyway. If you don’t want to come, I’ll just go alone.”
You turned quiet again, looking him in the eyes as you took in what he’d said. The invitation was yours. He hadn’t ever thought of bringing someone else. Maybe he truly was doing Jasmine a favour. Maybe this was him sneakily making a move. He’d have to be a lot more upfront for you to catch on, though.
A tension settled over the room, an eternity passing without anyone saying anything. The mood switched, and you both could tell. It was probably time for you to leave, yet the expectation to say that last little thing was there. The little thing that would leave him feeling better about himself. You wanted to linger in the doorway, or linger on the bench, you guessed. You wanted to say so much more.
Oscar intruded by softly knocking on the already open door.
“Oscar, hi!” you squeaked out of surprise, straightening your back to make space between you and Lando.
“Your dad’s looking for you,” he explained, chuckling.
“I guess I better go,” you said, standing up, finding balance with the help of your crutches. “You both should be proud of yourselves today, or every day for that matter.”
Lando looked down at the floor as you left. He knew that whatever face Oscar put on or whatever sentence he formed, it would accuse Lando of being down bad for you.
“Did you invite her to Italy?”
“Yeah, she said she’ll talk to Jazz about it,” Lando mumbled, hiding his smile.
You hadn’t immediately said yes, but that was almost his plan by dragging Jasmine into it. She wasn’t even supposed to come with them to Italy at first. But Lando wanted the four of them to do it together. It was a foolproof plan to get to spend some more time with you that wasn’t in a paddock nor in a hospital.
“On another note,” Oscar said while he remembered it. “How the hell did you get her dad to come to a race?”
“I don’t know… I just sent Bunny three passes?”
“I’ve invited him to races since I was in F3 and he’s never once shown up,” Oscar began explaining.
Lando scrunched his nose, unsure of where Oscar was going with his reasoning.
“He’s a good man, funny even — but he does not like racing, at all,” he continued.
Was Lando being stupid for not getting Oscar’s point? Lando couldn’t tell if he was being stupid. He probably was.
Then, it finally clicked for Oscar. “You don’t know how her mum died, do you?”
Lando could do nothing but slowly shake his head, his mouth slightly open out of confusion. He could tell that Oscar hesitated to tell him. Maybe he shouldn’t be telling your story, but he trusted Lando.
“Alone, in a car crash. She died on impact. Bunny was 15 or so when it happened,” Oscar said gently, his face showing pity with a downturned smile. “Her dad has always told her not to come to races, in case someone crashes and it brings up bad memories for her.”
Now, Lando was definitely being stupid, because it still didn’t click for him. It made him understand your mentality more — that you’d said you were impressed he got out of that car alive every weekend. Because you had, close up, lived through someone not making it out of a car — a car going nowhere near as fast. But what did that have to do with your father attending a race?
“I think Bunny must’ve convinced him to come see you, specifically,” Oscar finally said.
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“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” you sighed, looking from the balcony out to the beautiful garden.
Fruit trees, pink oleander, and pungent lavender. Beautiful limestone houses. It looked picturesque, like something out of a movie. Yet, you were unsure if you belonged there.
“You’re spending the weekend in an Italian villa. That is what you’re doing,” Jasmine insisted, wrapping her arm around your shoulder.
The house was gorgeous. The area was gorgeous. Everything was just perfect. And you felt undeserving of it. You’d gotten to take off your cast just in time for the trip. This was your moment to be selfish this summer.
So, why the hell did you keep on questioning yourself?
“You’d have no stories to tell from this summer if it wasn’t for this trip. You need things to talk about when you go back to university, otherwise, you’ll make no new friends,” she then pointed out.
You hadn’t even thought of that. All your other friends had graduated. You still had six months of classes left because of your stupid lungs. You didn’t want to make new friends. You wanted to keep your old ones.
You crossed your arms, looking up at your best friend with a pout. “I’ll let you know that me and Jane Austen have had a riveting summer thus far in my dad’s hammock.”
Doing just about anything with a broken ankle was impossible, so reading in the garden it was.
“While you travel the world and go to races, I will always entertain you with hilarious Goodreads reviews,” you added.
Jasmine shook her head disapprovingly. “I really don’t need to know even more nasty things that you would do to Mr. Darcy.”
Deep down, you knew she got a giggle out of getting a notification on her phone with a five star review only saying Mr. Darcy could raw me and nothing more.
“Isn’t this going to be awkward though? It’s like we’re double dating all weekend!”
“Would that be so bad?” Jasmine laughed, thinking that it was probably Lando’s plan all along.
You realised quite quickly that Lando hadn’t lied about them having to work. During the day, they were off to the manor house that was hosting the auction, doing lord knows what. It was something about cars being auctioned off and sucking up to millionaires.
You didn’t understand why this type of event even existed. It felt like the 2011 classic Monte Carlo with Selena Gomez. That was at least your only experience with auctions for rich people.
While this one was for charity, it still only felt like a way for these millionaires to seem humble. They would’ve bought the cars anyway, it was only for their own conscience that the charities even mattered. Maybe you were being harsh.
You and Jasmine at least got to spend some quality time with each other in the villa. You ate a long breakfast, cycled down to the city centre to try odd flavours of gelato, and went into cute little boutiques to find her a pair of heels to wear with her gown for the auction.
Your dress was black, and so were your heels. That was how fun you were going to be.
Truth be told, it was a prom dress that you hadn’t gotten to wear because of covid, so maybe you were a little excited to get all dolled up tomorrow night.
When the boys got home for the day, they decided you all should take the bikes to a nearby lake. You didn’t have much of a say, packing a basket with antipasti for dinner. It was unbearably hot even though the sun had started to settle, so maybe going for a swim wasn’t the worst thing.
As the four of you swooshed down Italian country roads on rusty borrowed bikes, Lando and you ended up in front of Jasmine and Oscar, going much faster than they did. Everything wasn’t a race, but some things definitely were.
Oscar cycled closer to his girlfriend, asking her a question he’d been dying to ask all day. “Do we tell them something about how they are both madly infatuated with each other or will they figure it out on their own?”
“I tried to tell Bunny, but she wouldn’t believe me. It’s like she doesn’t understand that people still find her attractive after she got sick,” Jasmine said.
She didn’t know if she should sigh or laugh at your behaviour recently. She understood that your life had changed completely, but falling in love, or even just dating, shouldn’t be something to be scared about. Not when you had a boy acting like a fool right in front of your eyes.
“So, we let Lando try and awkwardly flirt with her by himself? And watch Bunny be clueless about it?” Oscar laughed
“He has to be upfront at some point, right?” she responded.
They probably wouldn’t have to wait long until Lando would scream in your face that he liked you. He had no filter left when it came to you.
The lake was small, surrounded by a pebble beach. The water looked almost artificially teal, like natural sources of water tended to do. You’d never been to Italy before, but it was quickly becoming one of your favourite destinations. It was idyllic in ways you couldn’t have dreamt of.
You threw the bikes in the grass and put out your beach towels close to the water. Feeling the pebbles under your bare feet and the sweet smell of sunscreen, you and Jasmine started to pack up your picnic basket.
There were almost no other people there, only seeing a family with children taking an evening swim on the other side of the lake.
After eating a little, the boys tested the water, groaning about how cold it was, yet somehow getting in anyway. You still didn’t know what they had done during the day, but with their lifestyles, you guessed they always needed to find ways to relax.
Jasmine rested on her towel with her nose in a book, recognising it as one you had rated highly on Goodreads. See, you knew she loved your reviews. She mumbled something about how the protagonist reminded her of you when you asked her if she was enjoying it. You took that as a good sign.
You went down to the waterside, only dipping your toes in before deciding that it was way too cold for you to want to swim in it. Instead, you crouched down to look at the rocks, all round and polished from the water, in pretty green and coral shades. You’d already gotten Matteo a local football shirt as a souvenir, but you could definitely fit some cool rocks in your suitcase as well.
Lando, zoning out from whatever Oscar was talking about next to him in the still water, tried to secretly keep his eye on you. He could catch a glimpse of a bright red bikini underneath the long, sheer white shirt you had on. His fondness had grown so large that even watching you pick pebbles warmed his heart. Or maybe that was the bikini’s doing.
Jasmine could watch it all happen through the darkness of her sunglasses, having lost focus from her book. She furrowed her brows with concern. “Bunny, aren’t you warm?”
Your hand subconsciously traced the edge of the your shirt collar, a faint smile forming on your lips. “Yeah, but I’ll scare the children away if I show the scar on my chest,” you replied, your tone light yet tinged with an undercurrent of insecurity.
“It’s not that bad,” she said, promising, her eyes meeting yours as she tipped down her shades.
You laughed a little in disbelief. “You haven’t seen it since they reopened it.” You were talking so loud that the boys in the water definitely could hear you. “I also hate touching it, so I don’t want to put sunscreen on.”
Jasmine remembered the first time she saw your scar, a jagged reminder of the surgery that had saved your life. A long red line, right on your sternum, that had faded over time. But she hadn’t seen the new scar, the one left by the recent, unexpected procedure.
“Don’t be such a wimp,” Jasmine urged, getting up from the towel, a bottle of sunscreen in her hand. “Get your shirt off and I’ll do it.”
She knew you well enough to push you to do it. You would never get over this mental hurdle without people telling you that you looked fine. People had scars. That was the way life worked.
You sighed, slowly fumbling with the shirt buttons as you tried to decipher Jasmine’s reaction. “See? It’s awful.”
She shook her head, trying to keep a neutral face. It was worse than she thought, but she could never tell you that, because it hurt more than it helped. And it wasn’t like the scar tainted your entire being. You were still a gorgeous woman, in Baywatch-esque red bikini. That was an unstoppable combo.
“It’s really not bad. It needs some more time to fade, that’s all,” Jasmine reassured you, having no problem with touching the uneven skin to apply sunscreen.
You didn’t want to look at her hand as she did it, so you looked out over the lake, catching Lando’s surprisingly… odd gaze as he stood in the water next to Oscar.
You hadn’t wanted to stare too much at him earlier, knowing that your head would get messed up if you saw him shirtless in swim shorts. But now, you couldn’t disregard the look on his face.
“Lando, I saw that look. Just tell me that it’s bad,” you said, clearly still frustrated over the entire thing.
Lando was shocked you were talking to him, struggling to find the words.
“He’s staring at your tits, it’s totally different,” Oscar suddenly said, having kept quiet for too long.
You almost didn’t know if you had heard him correctly, but Jasmine’s ringing laughter told you that it was true. Lando sternly said Oscar’s name before drenching him in water, a playful fight breaking out between the two of them, overshadowing what had just happened.
That didn’t mean it left your mind, though.
It was dark by the time you got back to the villa, stars hanging above you in the night sky. You knew it was the same sky as you had home in England, yet there was something much more magical about it this time.
Jasmine and Oscar went to bed, but you had a few things to prepare for the auction. You wanted to paint your nails and do a face mask; maybe even get in an everything-shower to save time tomorrow.
The night was still warm as you made your way out to the balcony in your nightgown, deciding that you might as well take advantage of the view while you painted your nails. The balcony felt like a secluded little sanctuary, bathed in a soft glow from the outdoor lighting and wafting in the breeze of the Italian countryside.
Behind you, the glass door slid open with a soft creak, and you turned to see Lando stepping out onto the balcony, carrying what looked like a cup of tea. You’d thought he was asleep, the villa eerily quiet.
He had an easy confidence about him — something you admired. Clad in a soft cotton t-shirt and sweatpants, the kind that looked threadbare and like the most comfortable fabric ever. His eyes silently asked you if it was okay for him to join you, and you nodded. He sat down across from you at the outdoor dining table.
“Orange?” Lando asked softly, seeing the colour of the nail polish.
“I thought it was papaya,” you joked, biting your tongue to not get it on your cuticles as you continued to paint. “I bought it for Silverstone but forgot to wear it.”
Lando didn’t care. At least he told himself that he didn’t. You were just representing his team by carefully painting your nails orange. There was no need to get all mushy inside because of it. It wasn’t like it was permanent. Only a week or so of you thinking of him every time you saw your own hands. Maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe you didn’t think of him.
“I should’ve told you earlier, but you look great today,” he said like it was nothing, raising his cup to take a sip.
He could tell that you were slightly baffled, a line forming between your eyebrows as you scrunched your nose in disbelief. “Scar and all?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Oscar had maybe been right about what Lando was looking at when you had asked him about the scar. They had overheard the entire conversation you had with Jasmine, so when he caught a glimpse of the scar, he had imagined something much worse. It truly wasn’t that bad. It at least didn’t steal his attention when you were standing in front of him in a bikini.
For a moment, neither spoke, the silence filled only by the sounds of the night. Cicadas, a distant car, and birds chirping. Lights from neighbouring houses twinkled like scattered diamonds.
“I don’t know if you wanted me to know, but Oscar told me about your mother,” Lando’s voice trembled, confessing it to you. His eyes searched your face for a reaction, a mixture of concern and vulnerability painted across his features.
You stared down at your painted nails, adding one last stroke before closing the bottle of polish. You were scared to look at him, unsure of how this conversation would play out.
“It’s not really a secret, just a hard thing to tell people,” you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
You somehow felt the warmth from Lando’s body even though there was a table’s length between you. His presence wasn’t uncomfortable to you, but the conversation certainly was.
“Don’t pity me like I’m some motherless child. It’s really not that bad,” you continued, trying to keep your composure, the familiar ache in your chest making it hard to breathe.
In moments like these, it was like you could feel your scar glowing, how the tight skin wanted to rip right open to help you take full breaths.
A flicker of frustration crossed Lando’s face.
He hated how you had said it — how you tried to downplay everything that had happened in your life. He understood that it was your way of coping, but your entire being basically screamed for the emotions to be let out. You were hypocritical, and he was tired.
“It’s allowed to be bad. You were the one that told me that in Australia. You’re allowed to feel bad about things that are shit,” he insisted, his voice carrying a firmness that contrasted with the tenderness in his eyes.
His raw honesty sliced through your defenses. Your view of him blurred as tears filled your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Clearing your throat, you calmed yourself down.
Lando wasn’t actually frustrated with you. It was more at the circumstances. He didn’t want to push you, and you didn’t want to upset him. It was just a very difficult conversation to have.
“Do you ever have nightmares about crashing?” you asked, whispering.
“No, not really,” he admitted.
If he was thinking about what might go wrong all the time, he wouldn't be able to continue driving. Racing showed some people horrible fates of life. The abundant success that could be archived was harvested by others.
It was all about finding a balance, about showing respect for the thing they put themselves through, but also overcoming it by showing no fear.
Maybe it was different for you, Lando thought. Maybe you had already given in to the fear, because you’d get no success out of it no matter how hard you tried. You couldn’t get your mum back anyway.
You took a deep breath before confessing. “I do. All the time.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The early morning sun filtered through his bedroom windows as Lando got out of bed. He’d slept like a king. The countryside was so quiet compared to Monaco and the cities he raced in. He stretched as he drew back the curtains, getting a view of the garden, and you.
The conversation you had yesterday had left the both of you unsatisfied. Yet, neither wanted to push the other to really get to the bottom of the problem,
This morning, however, you were waltzing through the garden on bare feet, a big bowl in one hand and a small ladder in the other one. The summer dress you were wearing blew with the breeze. You looked free. And slightly out of your mind, climbing a ladder to reach the fruit trees, without anyone keeping an eye on you.
Not that you needed supervision, but climbing a ladder could be dangerous. That was what Lando told himself as he rushed outside.
“Oh god, please don’t fall down,” he said, voice laced with concern as he almost ran through the garden to get to you, keeping his steady hands on the ladder.
You glanced down at him, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “It’s a stepladder, Lando. I’m one metre above the ground,” you reassured him.
“Still, you should be careful,” he insisted.
“I’ll break your nose if you look up my dress,” you warned. You weren’t serious, but Lando felt his cheeks flush anyway. “Do you want one?” you asked, referring to the fruit you were picking.
“What is it even?”
“I thought peaches at first, but they’re not hairy. Not small enough to be apricots but maybe hard enough to be nectarines, so that would be my guess.”
You examined the fruit as you stepped down from the ladder, tossing one in the air before catching it again and placing it in the bowl.
“Are you sure you’re still talking about fruit?”
“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, rolling your eyes at the innuendo.
You picked up a nectarine and took a bite, the sweet juice dribbling down your chin. “I made breakfast, but I assume you’re on the same diet as Oscar?” you asked, voice muffled by the mouthful of fruit.
Lando stared at you in awe, taking way too long before nodding.
“Well then, I guess you can watch me eat while you stick to oatmeal,” you replied playfully.
As the sun rose above the horizon, casting a warm amber glow over the cosy balcony, you and Lando sat by the outdoor furniture, eating your breakfast. The air filled with a scent of fresh coffee and the sweet nectarines. You ate them with yoghurt and honey, and Lando was totally jealous.
You didn’t say much to each other. It wasn’t really necessary. The world around you started to wake up, but on that little balcony, it felt like time had slowed down just for you two.
Lando turned to you, curiosity in his eyes. “Why do people call you Bunny?” He’d wanted to ask you that for quite some time.
“It’s quite a sad story, to be honest,” you began, swallowing what was left of your breakfast.
He almost regretted his question immediately. He hadn’t even thought about how a cute nickname like yours could be from a sad memory. You watched as Lando’s expression softened, his eyes encouraging you to continue.
“Matteo stayed a lot at our grandparent’s house after mum died, because… well, life happened,” you explained, your orange fingernails tracing the rim of your coffee mug. “Since he was so young, he hadn’t really understood the fact that I was his sister, so I instead became the girl he would visit from time to time who owned a pet bunny.”
Lando leant his elbows on the table, captivated by your way of talking, his interest piqued.
“And Bunny was easier for him to pronounce than my actual name,” you continued, a faint smile forming on your lips.
“You had a bunny?”
“Yeah, his name was Taco,” you laughed, your smile growing more genuine.
He chuckled softly at the name. You would name a pet Taco, that was just the kind of person you were.
“Do you like having it as a nickname?” Lando inquired, his tone gentle again.
“I don’t mind it,” you shook your head. “Matteo doesn’t say it anymore, but it’s… it’s different when other people say it.”
It’s different when you say it, Lando.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
“You’re drooling, mate,” Oscar’s voice laughed from behind him as they got out of the cars.
“I am not,” Lando protested, but Oscar only shook his head.
He wasn’t fooling anyone as he watched you and Jasmine step out on the front porch, dressed to the nines, ready for the auction.
Oscar and him had picked up the two cars that were being auctioned off while you got ready. It was important that they were seen driving the cars up to the manor house as they arrived, and you and Jasmine were supposed to be arm candy. It felt both below and above your worth.
You laughed as you saw the cars, shiny and polished McLaren’s. You didn’t care enough to know the models, you just knew they were worth millions.
Jasmine walked down to Oscar with ease in her high heels, a beautiful burnt orange satin gown on her body. You watched as he greeted her with a kiss, feeling both a sense of pride and also some loneliness in your stomach.
Your feet already hurt from your own heels. Something wasn’t entirely right since you broke your ankle, but you would have to suffer through it.
Lando walked up to the porch, casually keeping his hands in the pockets of his well-fitted black suit. The white shirt he had on underneath probably had one too many buttons undone. Not that you were complaining, it looked gorgeous in contrast with his tan skin. He looked gorgeous.
You were dressed in all black, apart from your orange nail polish. Your gown with a perfectly poofy tulle skirt and a flattering balconette corset top. You looked delectable, and Lando had a hard time hiding that.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said seriously to him.
“Like what?” Lando replied, feigning innocence as he took your hand to help you down the front porch stairs.
Like you’re falling in love with me.
“Like this is some early 2000s rom-com and I’m the nerdy girl who’s just gotten a makeover by a more popular girl,” you replied, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress the smile tugging at your lips.
He gave a genuine laugh, the kind that could only bring a smile to your face. He wanted to respond with some cliché statement about how it was only fitting since you looked like a movie star, but he remained silent.
Lando helped you into the car like a real gentleman, while Oscar and Jasmine got into the other one. The drive was two minutes at most.
“Did you have a dress like that lying around?” he asked, fastening his seatbelt.
You nodded, moving your hands over your lap to smooth out the fabric. “It’s a prom dress that I never got to use because of covid.”
A spark lit up in Lando’s eyes. “I never got to have a prom either, y’know.”
A moment of silence passed between them, the weight of missed milestones hanging heavy in the air. You assumed it was because he hadn’t really gone to school like a normal kid, too busy with karting. Then, with a sudden burst of determination, Lando revved the engine.
“Come on, let’s treat this night like prom.”
The manor house was bigger than anything you’d ever seen before. You couldn’t grasp it — the multiple stories, the annex buildings, the beautiful and meticulous gardens. It was all too much for you.
Lando pulled up to park the car next to the grand entrance, handing the keys to the valet before coming to open the door for you. You were met with camera flashes as soon as you stepped out. It wasn’t paparazzi, thank god — only photographers hired for the event.
Lando didn’t dare to hold your hand in front of the cameras, this time. He settled with a hand on your lower back as you made your way inside after Jasmine and Oscar.
The action was held in a grand hall — no, a conservatory. It had a glass roof. It was filled with decorations, floral arrangements, and candle lights. A stage was built by the end of the room, which you assumed would be where they auctioned things off.
It was also filled with people, dressed in sharp suits and colourful gowns. It looked photoshopped with how perfect it was. Not a thing out of place nor a person behaving oddly. Except for you, of course. You did not belong here.
“What are they compensating for? Tiny cocks?” you whispered for only Jasmine to hear as you took in the room. This was bonkers.
“The tiniest of cocks,” she snorted under her breath.
Oscar and Lando did have to work — work the room that was, mingling and sucking up to people with big wallets.
You and Jasmine made your way around as well, albeit much slower and with less intention. You talked to some people, drank some champagne, and eyed the canapés being served around. It didn’t look like anyone was eating, so you didn’t want to be the odd one out. You already were. So, now you were both odd and starving.
You also eyed the objects up for auction. It was jewellery, cars, and destination vacations in places you’d never heard of. All in favour of some charity that was hardly mentioned once. Was this just a rich person shopping spree without the guilt of overconsumption?
Lando kept looking across the room for you, his eyes always seeming to find you within seconds. And you found him to, sharing smiles or joking faces, saying get me out of here.
It wasn’t possessive — it was more of a secret bond that existed right there in time and space, going unnoticed by everyone but the two of you.
The bond was broken when a man approached you. Lando didn’t recognise him, but he already despised him. He was flirting with you; that would be obvious to anyone but you. You didn’t necessarily look uncomfortable. It seemed more like you found the conversation he tried to have with you pointless.
You were so oblivious to the impact you had on men, or maybe on all people in general. It made him want to set himself on fire. The itchy feeling inside of him, telling him to scream for everyone in the room to hear — that you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And that you should be talking to him, and only him. Not some suave-looking asshole in an ill-fitting suit. God, you made him stupid. More stupid than normal.
As Lando’s thoughts spiralled, you somehow got out of the conversation, swiftly making your way across the room and out of a door that he thought led to the garden. Or one of the gardens. This place was huge.
He had things to do inside, people to talk to — but for a moment, he came to his senses and said fuck it. He needed to know if you were alright.
His assumption that the door led to a garden was correct. The evening light cast a silvery glow over it, a tranquil contrast to the busy ballroom. From a distance, he saw you take a seat in an old stone gazebo, covered with ivy. You bent down to unclasp your heels.
Lord, was he about to risk it all.
His steps over the gravel path made you hear him, and he couldn’t help but feel busted.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
You shook your head, gesturing with your hand to the space beside you. He sat down, shyly looking at his hands in his lap. On the bench, he saw what he thought was the reason you had come out here, besides that man talking to you. Dessert. Two of them in little ramekins, but only one spoon.
Lando breathed in the silence before hastily asking you what had been on his mind.
“Who was the man you were talking to?”
“Some stuck up think-tank-bitcoin-billionaire,” you huffed. “He asked me if my company was up for auction.”
It wasn’t company as in a business. It was company as in your time of day. Or time of night more likely. He was asking to spend the night with you. Would audibly gagging be too improper of a reaction? Lando had to fight himself to not do it.
“What was your answer?” he wondered, trying to keep his cool.
Your lips turned into a smug smile. “That it’s free for people who deserve it, and then I walked away.”
Lando chuckled, liking the fact that you showed a sense of pride with your actions. “Do I deserve your company?”
“Haven’t asked you to leave yet, that should tell you something,” you mumbled, shrugging your shoulders.
Lando nodded, scrunching his nose, a pink tint on his cheeks forming from the crisp air.
No, he was blushing. It wasn’t even cold outside.
“Have you had fun otherwise?” He cleared his throat, making the conversation about something else.
“I don’t know. I feel like a fraud, like I don’t belong,” you shrugged, fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “I think I might have convinced multiple people in there that I’m a communist, just because I was raised with a working-class perspective on things.”
Lando suppressed his laughter for it to not be too loud. You saw his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“This entire thing just feels performative to me,” you added.
“Oh, it totally is,” he agreed.
You glanced back at the manor, hearing the sound of voices in the distance. Your face reflected a mixture of amazement and discomfort. “And don’t get me started on the way people look,” you began again. “My mascara smudged and my dress got wrinkled the minute I stepped into that humid room, yet everyone else continues to look flawless.”
Lando thought about interrupting you, saying that you still looked flawless to him. Or maybe you didn’t, and that was the best part. He understood your point fully, though.
You shook your head as you continued, a bitter sigh escaping your lips. “And I can’t walk in heels since I broke my ankle, and my dress shows my scar, and I’m just… being a miserable little twat.”
You dropped your shoulders, looking down at your bare feet as your heels were on the ground next to them. It hadn’t even crossed Lando’s mind, the shoes nor the scar, but it made sense that you didn’t feel confident about it. That he thought you should be confident wouldn’t exactly change your mind.
“Oh! And they don’t eat,” you hastily pointed out. “They just hold the food and look pretty.”
That was definitely true. He knew that you couldn’t eat yourself full at functions like this. His own empty stomach was a testament to that.
“Is that why you came out here with two desserts and one spoon?” he questioned, containing his laughter to not come across as judgmental.
You giggled. “Have you seen Amélie?”
Lando shook his head no.
“It’s a movie. It doesn’t really matter, but one of the main character’s favourite things in life is cracking the sugar on a crème brûlée, and I… think I agree with that,” you explained, grabbing one of the ramekins and carefully smashing the caramelised surface.
It made a slight sound. Your eyes lit up as you looked at it. “See? Did you hear that?”
He couldn’t help but grin at your reaction.
“Try the other one,” you urged, handing him the spoon.
He had tried crème brûlée before but never in this way. Never with someone telling him about how it was the best thing in life. As he cracked the sugar, he laughed so hard he felt his chest vibrate.
He knew he couldn’t eat the dessert because of his diet, but seeing you take a spoonful was almost satisfactory enough.
“Your mind is so… special,” he smiled in disbelief. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore, he just knew he needed you to hear it. “I don’t get how the universe could’ve created you.”
Your smile faded as your laughter turned quiet. “Is that a compliment?”
“In the highest form, Bunny,” Lando insisted.
He didn’t know how to read your reaction, your sudden silence was a shock for him. Had he ruined a perfect moment by saying too much? That’s when he saw it, the tears pooling in your waterline as you fought with yourself to not let them fall.
Lando was a soft mess in seconds. “A-are you crying because I complimented you?”
“I’m sorry,” you said, trying to laugh but your voice came out hoarse.
“Don’t cry, it’s alright,” Lando said softly, reaching out to wipe the tears away from your face, gently cupping your cheek with his palm.
He crossed a line as he did, moving closer to you than ever before.
You knew where this was going, and you weren’t prepared for it at all.
“I just…” You were full on crying now. “I have no idea who I am, and this environment really showed me that.”
Your lack of confidence broke his heart. Things had really piled up on top of each other to now finally get to you. A stupid auction being your downfall, the thing that made you realise how much your life had put you through.
“I can’t get a degree, I can’t do musicals, and I definitely cannot fit in here. I have no way of being the girl that you want me to be, Lando,” you sobbed, your breathing picking up as your hands gesticulated out of pure panic.
Your words hung heavy over the garden, suffocatingly, as you honestly believed them to be painfully true.
“Hey… don’t say that,” Lando tried to comfort, grabbing ahold of your hands to stop you moving, centering your focus. “You have no idea what I want from you.”
“I want to hear you laugh at my stupid jokes. I want to feel your painted nails when you hold my hand. I want to see you get all giddy over a crème brûlée,” he listed things as they came to mind.
The warmth from his hands surrounded you as you let yourself relax, exhaling loudly.
“I want you to linger in every possible goddamned doorway you can find,” Lando continued, looking you deeply in the eyes. “That’s all. Nothing more.”
You were so close that he could see how colours reflected in your eyes. He liked you in ways he didn’t know was possible — for the little things that he’d never thought about before with other people. He couldn’t think clearly anymore. He didn’t want to think clearly. Lando hesitated, his eyes searching yours, as if seeking permission.
You knew where this was going, and you weren’t prepared for it at all.
He scanned your face, his gaze finally landing on your lips. You were waiting for him to move, for him to lean in, because you were too scared to do it yourself. But you wanted him to do it. You wanted it more than anything else.
But all of a sudden, the lust in his expression turned into concern, and you felt something wet drip down on your upper lip. Blood.
“Oh, fuck.” Your hands flew to your face, trying to stop the blood from dripping further.
Of course this would happen now. You were cursed, after all. What were you thinking? A pretty boy could not just kiss you. The universe had decided that happiness wasn’t for you.
“Let me help—” Lando said, trying to get a hold of you to stay still, but you had already stood up.
You moved to pick up your shoes, and Lando sat frozen in his spot. “I’m gonna walk back to the villa, you stay and do your rich person duties,” your voice cracked as you said it, taking a step back to avoid his proximity. You had panic written all over your face and blood on your hands.
Lando’s emotions finally caught up with him as he too stood up to try and stop you. “Bunny, please! Don’t go, let’s talk about this,” he pleaded, hearing how pathetic he sounded. But he felt like he had no choice.
You recoiled further away from him, your eyes glistening with tears as you started to walk, your bare feet over gravel, heels swinging from your hands.
He couldn’t understand — how you’d gone from laughing about crème brûlées, to crying, to almost kissing each other, and then to you getting a nosebleed. He also couldn’t understand how he had let you get away. Fuck, was he stupid.
His thoughts got interrupted by the sound of someone running on the gravel. He met Jasmine’s worried eyes, contemplating if she should just murder Lando now.
“Did she just leave? What did you do?”
Lando could only shake his head, running a hand through his hair, the gesture portraying his inner turmoil. “I didn’t do anything…” he muttered, sighing loudly. “I was about to kiss her, and then she got a nosebleed all of a sudden.”
Oscar came walking after Jasmine, just close enough to hear what Lando said. “That’s so typical of her,” he breathed out, baffled at how you always managed to almost comically mess things up.
Jasmine rubbed her temples. “Are the two of you actually fucking stupid?” she questioned angrily before yelling, “Lando, don’t just stand there. Go after her!”
“To do what? Get rejected again?” he gesticulated with his hands in defeat, feeling his voice crack. His own tears had started to form.
Jasmine looked back at him like he was stupid. Lando was stupid. That was a fact he now knew.
“To clean up the blood and then actually fucking kiss her — because she did not reject you, she’s just scared!” Jasmine shot back, an intensity in her eyes that made Lando listen. “All she knows is fear, and falling in love with you hasn’t exactly helped with that.”
He was stuck, his feet glued to the floor, the weight of Jasmine’s words hit him like a punch in the stomach. Falling in love — that was what the two of you were doing. Lando had been too blinded by his own infatuation to realise that you were scared of it — scared of that stability because your life hadn’t been stable for years. You truly believed yourself to be cursed.
Fuck, was he stupid. He needed to fix this, and that was quick.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
He left the auction, Oscar assuring him that he could handle the rest of the night alone. The villa was quiet when Lando returned. He didn’t know what he should say when he saw you. He didn’t even know what kind of mood you’d be in.
For a moment, he stopped in the hallway with all the bedrooms. Your door was open, a faint yellow light seeping through. He heard you moving around, the tap running in your en suite bathroom. That made him dare to move, to stand in your doorway.
Your room was a bit messy from earlier when you were getting ready, your suitcase basically turned inside out. Your dress was tossed on the floor, next to your heels. A small red stain could be seen on the beige soles.
Suddenly, you exited the bathroom. Your face was washed clean from makeup and blood, and you were wearing an oversized sleep shirt, reaching your mid-thigh.
You stopped abruptly when you saw him, first shocked, then annoyed. He had no right to use your own methods against you, even though you knew he was right. Whatever he’d said to you, he would be right.
“Now is not the time to be lingering in some fucking doorway, Norris,” you snapped, more to mask your own panic than anything else.
You walked up to the door with determined steps, your fingers hovering over the doorknob. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as you clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms.
“I’m not letting you close that door, Bunny,” he said softly, but with an edge of determination, placing his hand on the door so it couldn’t move.
“I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” you insisted, shaking your head as if to physically ward off his words.
Lando’s eyes softened, the frustration melting away to reveal an expression of raw sincerity. “Doesn’t that defy the point? Your mother’s entire idea with teaching you to linger?”
“Don’t,” you whispered. He had no right to bring up your mother.
“We might be dead tomorrow, but you won’t hear me out?”
“Don’t say that,” you pleaded through gritted teeth, tightly closing your eyes to even bear with your emotions.
“Why won’t you let me tell you that I like you?”
He dropped the bomb. He had no option but to confess it to you. It was the scariest thing he’d ever done, yet when it was out there in the open, a weight was off his shoulders. This was meant to go this way.
You opened your eyes. “Because I’ll screw this up like I always do!” you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. “I got a nosebleed when you tried to kiss me. I told you — it’s like I’m fucking cursed!”
“Something always gets in the way of me and good things,” you continued.
“I’m a good thing?” he whispered, but it almost echoed in the quiet room.
“That’s what you got from that?” you cried, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. “You don’t understand. Everything good that comes into my life, I mess up. I can’t even be normal around you because I’m so afraid of ruining it!”
“Because that’s the only thing that matters — that we like each other, that our feelings are mutual,” Lando explained like it was simple. “You’re not cursed. You’re just human. And so am I. We’re allowed to mess up, to be scared, to get nosebleeds at the worst possible moments.”
He took your hand, basically shaking as he held it. You didn’t move away. You let him hold you. You let him closer.
“Or… if you are cursed, then I’ll start carrying a first aid kit,” Lando continued with a small smile, moving his free hand to wipe your cheek clean from tears.
You let out a surprised snort, the sound mingling with your sobs. It was a ridiculous notion, yet somehow, it made perfect sense.
“Can I try kissing you again?” he softly wondered, a semblance of hope in his voice.
Lando watched as you started to smile at the question, nodding slowly. “Please, kiss me.”
He brought both his hands up to your cheeks, your eyes intensely locking for a moment before he softly leant closer, his lips meeting yours in a featherlight connection.
The kiss was sweet. Softer than what you would’ve expected. It was also quite telling of all the emotions that you both harboured inside, finally being set free.
Lando kissed you like it was important, like his life depended on you knowing how much it meant to him — like the two of you would never need another form of communication to tell each other things. This was for you to know that calling yourself cursed was just stupid. You were scared, that’s all. But you didn’t have to be scared anymore.
He was the one to break the kiss, his breath hot against your face as he grinned. “See? Not cursed.”
That was enough to get you laughing, turning your head down to lean against his chest as you let out a pathetic giggle. No blood, no broken bones, no compromised breathing. Okay, maybe your breathing was a little off, but that was to be expected after kissing someone.
For a long, hazy moment, the two of you simply stare into each other’s eyes. How you ended up on the bed passed in a blur, the only thing your mind could focus on was Lando’s hands on your body. His lips back on yours.
The kissing quickly grew fevered and devoted, his tongue exploring your mouth, neck, and chest as you melted against him and the soft mattress, your fingers clutching around him. He took away all of your thoughts, every lingering worry or doubt completely removed. Insecurities too, gone with the wind.
He was breathless when he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. You fiddled with your fingers to undo the buttons on his shirt, revealing a landscape of freckled tan skin before your eyes. His palms moved over your hips, up your waist, cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin cotton of your t-shirt.
As he moved to take off your shirt, you froze. Lando stopped in his tracks, waiting for you to say something.
“The scar,” you said. “It makes me feel… weak, and I don’t want you to treat me like I’m weak.”
Weak was the last word Lando would use to describe you. But he also understood.
“I don’t have to see it. It’s alright like this if that’s what makes you comfortable,” he explained softly.
You nodded, deciding on keeping your shirt on as you watched Lando remove his own. He was perfect, and you were you. Maybe that was enough.
Lando caged you beneath him again, crawling over you, leaving sloppy kisses on your face, arms, and over the fabric of your shirt. The kisses ended with him biting your lower lip as his hands found home in a tight grip on your hips, the lace edge of your underwear tickling his palms.
“Can I go down on you?” he whispered. His eyes looked for permission to continue, and you nodded, messily kissing him back.
He lowered back down your body again, his strong hands absentmindedly massaging the plush skin of your thighs, before finding the waistband of your panties, pulling them off you in a slow motion. He nestled between your legs, not breaking eye contact.
You almost felt cold by being naked, even though the room was delightfully warm. You wanted to cringe at what his sight of you must be like, but he didn’t give you a chance to do so, a string of praise words falling from his mouth.
As each word was said, he spread your wetness through your folds with a feathery movement of his fingers. Lando brushed your clit with a light touch, taking in your reaction before dipping his fingers into the pooling wetness.
“P-please, Lando, oh fuck—” Your voice was wrecked as you grew desperate for more.
He grinned at your words as his face met your heat, leaving kisses around it before finally touching the part where you needed him the most. “So pretty,” he mumbled against you, kissing your clit. That made your brain short circuit.
You reached down to push the curls of his forehead as he delved in, softly bringing you pleasure. Sucking on your clit with intention while his fingers curled deeper into you, his free hand gripping at your thigh, certain to leave crescent-shaped imprints from his fingernails as your soft skin spilled out between his fingers.
You truly did look pretty, though — through Lando’s eyes. With the evening glow of the sun shining through the windows and the white linen bedding surrounding your body, you looked angelic. As your shirt rode up, your stomach was revealed. He loved seeing your skin. Nipples pebbled through the t-shirt, hair dishevelled, skin gleaming from a thin layer of sweat. You made him painfully hard by just lying there, letting him taste you.
“I’m—” You couldn’t get the words out, voice choking on your own moans, but Lando knew to increase the intensity.
You were a fucking mess when you finished, letting that hazy feeling completely take over, whimpering his name out like it was the sweetest thing. He kept on babying your clit with the tip of his tongue until you tugged at his hair, lifting his face. He could’ve gone on forever if you’d let him.
“Come up here,” you urged him, your voice shaky. You watched him lick his glossy lips, running a hand up your body in a soothing manner before collapsing next to you.
“You should see how breathtaking you look right now,” he exhaled, looking at you with your face flushed and your eyes glossed over. You stared at him so deeply, catching your breath, as you realised you couldn’t decide what eye colour he had. They shifted from green, to blue, to brown. Fuck, you were spent.
You thought for a while, and Lando could see it on your face, a mischievous grin forming on your lips before your hands moved down his stomach, stopping by his belt buckle. He let you undo it, your bottom lip nestled between your teeth as you teasingly looked up at him.
Already worked up from before, he moaned as you started to palm him over his trousers.
“I’m not gonna last if you do that,” Lando gasped, holding your hand still with a tight grip around your wrist.
“Take them off, then,” you simply answered, earning a laugh.
He couldn’t say no to that, moving awkwardly to get both trousers and underwear off as quickly as possible. He then settled closer to you, having you basically wrap your legs around him, clinging like a koala. You shared a look between each other, making sure that this was okay. It was so much more than okay. This felt necessary, like you were meant to do it.
“I’m on the pill, so this is fine by me,” you explained to him, a tremble in your voice by having him so close to you.
He kissed you before he did anything else, settling your nerves. Feeling your bodies mould together, creating a common heat. He glided himself through your folds, touching your already stimulated clit. As an act of desperation, you moved your hips lower, grinding against him.
“You okay?” he chuckled.
You hummed against the skin on his shoulder, playfully nibbling as you kissed him all over. His eyes met yours as he pushed into you, waiting patiently to see your reaction to the light stretch. You nodded, your breath hitching as he began moving more purposefully.
The slow drags set of sparks of pleasure within you, so intense your eyes rolled back. You weren’t sure what kind of noises left your body, uncontrollable with the pleasure. Hearing Lando moan deeply into your ears made you feel less unsure.
Completely intoxicated, you tried your best to take it all in. You focused on the golden shimmer in his eyes, the scattered freckles on his face, and the scar on his nose. It was so warm, and wet, feeling him thrust inside of you. You didn’t know what to do with your hands again, just desperately spreading them over his back to his shoulders. Your sharp nails were destined to leave claw marks.
“Faster, baby,” you breathed out, ready for more.
You felt Lando grin against your cheek as he heard the pet name. It had completely slipped out on accident, but that didn’t mean it drove him any less crazy. You felt him grip your body harder as he fucked up into you.
“Doing so well for me,” he moaned out your name. “C’mon, Bunny, let me see how pretty you are when you come again.”
A litany of moans filled the room, from the both of you. That, along with the sounds of your bodies crashing together, made you fucking delirious. You were close, so close. You wanted to feel that feeling again, of him bringing you to the end.
You shamelessly used him as you felt the familiar fire spread through your veins. He wasn’t long after, almost lifting your body to get you closer to him as he finished. His moans were slow and shaky as he rested his lips on your forehead.
His hips lost all rhythm as he spilled into you, his cock twitching inside you while he slowly pumped you full of his release, thrusting several times as he rode it out. You wanted to memorise the guttural sounds and the tremble of his face muscles as he reached the ultimate high.
“We’re a mess,” he commented, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
You let out a small chuckle. “Stay still for a second,” you ordered him as you relaxed in his hold. Both of you sighed at the sensation of him filling you up completely. You would enjoy this feeling of having him as close as humanly possible for as long as he let you.
“I don’t ever want to move.” he murmured against your hair.
You caught your breaths in unity, staying close together without saying much more. You didn’t need to. Lando knew that all his future dreams would take place here, lying quietly next to you, in your own sacred heaven. You two, sharing heavy breathing and sighs, after delicately bruising each other’s bodies.
He looked you deep in your eyes, seeing how tired you were, but solidifying what was once a doubt for you. He looked at you like you were a risk worth taking. A river worth wading. A river worth drowning in.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Lando woke up the morning after feeling well rested, in a bed that was warm and the sheets scented by you. He felt you moving next to him as he came out of his slumber, mumbling something about it being too hot and how you had forgotten to open the window before falling asleep.
He didn’t understand how you felt hot when all he felt was ice cold as you left him alone in bed. The room got brighter as you moved the curtains, opening a window to let in the outside air. He opened his eyes to see you, back turned against him, stretching your body to wake up. A grin plastered on his face. He was painfully happy.
You moved to wrap your arms around yourself, lifting the hem of the shirt you’d slept in. As you pulled it over your body, Lando got a view of your entire being. He was certainly awake now. Naked, your skin glowed golden technicolour from the sunlight, in stark contrast to the white room.
You knew exactly what you were doing as you slowly turned around.
“Just look at you…” Lando exhaled. “Fucking gorgeous, Bunny.”
In seconds, you were back in bed next to him, pulling the bedding up to hide your face.
“Gonna act all shy now?” he teased, chuckling.
As you peeked back out, Lando was quick to get closer to you. He hovered over you as his hands found your body.
He didn’t even have to tell you — your lips already parting as his thumb caressed your cheek, moving closer to your mouth. You took his thumb in your mouth, softly sucking as it rested on your tongue. You saw how his eyes fluttered at the feeling, gently removing it to press a passionate kiss to your wet lips.
Lando was hesitant to let his hands wander lower, softly cupping your breasts and littering your sternum with open-mouthed kisses. His fingertips lightly pinched the sensitive peaks of your nipples, as he looked up at you through tired eyes, always wanting your reassurance, as his lips got close to the scar.
You nodded gently, allowing him to kiss it. You didn’t like touching the scar, but somehow, you had no issue when his mouth did it. He kissed it gently before moving to kiss your nipple. He smiled with pride at the breathy gasp you let out as he placed his mouth on you. You were practically whining at the pressure of him sucking at your skin.
He released you after a moment, lying down next to you. He felt your heartbeat through your chest as his head rested on top of your breast, softly padded by the plush skin. You looked down at him with joy, placing a finger under his chin so he was looking right back at you.
Slowly, your fingers traced his face. He smiled at your orange nail polish. You took your time tracing the bridge of his nose, stopping when you got to the little mark he had right across it. He had his scars too.
“My heart hurts,” you groaned quietly, as you ran your fingers through his hair.
“Huh? Are you serious?” he mumbled against the skin of your chest.
“It’s a dull ache, a desire almost,” you explained, and Lando understood your point.
“I think it’s contagious,” Lando smiled. He let the words linger in the air before adding, “You should come with me to Hungary after this.”
You sighed, realising how hard it would be to say no to him in the future. “I don’t go back to uni for another couple of weeks, so…”
“I’m buying you a plane ticket right now,” he said, reaching for his phone, but your hands stopped him.
“No,” you said.
For a second, Lando started to second-guess everything.
“Join me in the shower first.”
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Summary: He let you slip through his fingers and didn't realize it until it was too late.
Warnings: Angst, language, some effects of depression, mentions of weight loss
Word Count: 10k
Comms: Here is my first F1 fic! I have been thinking about this for a while now and have been in desperate need of some more angst. So much so that I decided to write my own. I hope you enjoy, and I do not apologize for the pain this may cause. I am trying to figure out if I am fit for writing in this fandom. Note, this does not really follow real-time events. This is a work of fiction and does not accurately reflect any real-life human.
10 years.
You had known Lando for 10 years.
The two of you had met when Lando was driving in Formula 4. It took him a while to catch your eye. He was a little awkward and didn't really have full control of his limbs, but when he got behind the wheel of the car, it was hard not to look.
You were in the garage three doors down, hands greasy and hair always up in a bun. Always looking older than you actually were, but had grown used to being around boys who resorted to stupidity to get your attention.
It never worked.
Your interest was in the cars. The dream - F1. The same as everyone else around you, just in a different capacity. You had your eyes set on becoming a performance engineer ever since your grandfather had been a part of Patrick Head's core team when Williams Grand Prix Engineering was founded back in 77'. When you came along as his first grandchild, he wanted you to be the one behind the wheel - so much so that he was also a part of founding the Williams Driver Academy. Little did he know, you only wanted to be under the car, not in it.
So when your younger brother was born, and then old enough to start karting, it thrilled your grandfather and opened the door for you to join your dad at the karting track. Spending countless nights with him in the garage, working on John's kart. The mechanics of the whole kart were so fascinating that it clicked almost immediately. Not much came naturally to you, but this did. Your dad noticed and started teaching you everything he knew.
That was only the start, only becoming more and more knowledgeable as you attended John's karting races and learning from anyone who would teach you.
With everything you were learning about the dynamics of the karts, you also learned early on that the boys would make a fool of themselves to get your head to turn. It didn't help that at the age of 10, you looked 12, at 12, you looked 15, and at 15, you had fully grown into your womanhood. Not that you cared, you just cared about the way the two-stroke engine sounded and how the gearbox shifted.
When your brother had been picked up to drive in Formula 4, the only person happier about it than he was was you. You had started to see your dreams become tangible. It was still far from the ultimate goal, but the knowledge you would have access to would only better your chances of getting there.
You could remember it like it was yesterday - your first time in a Formula 4 garage. The smell of the fuel, the low hum of the engine. It was everything you had dreamed of to this point. The one thing you didn't expect was a pair of eyes locked on you as you took in every inch of the car your brother would be driving.
You didn't notice him, too engrossed in the beauty in front of you, but your brother did. Went and stood right in Lando's line of sight, causing the Brit to turn a shade of red that mirrored a boiled tomato.
That was the first of many encounters your brother had with Lando, none of which you knew about at the time.
You had always been so engrossed with the mechanics before and after the races that Lando never really found the opportunity to talk to you, only get caught staring by your brother.
It wasn't until Lando had won his 3rd race that you began to notice him, but not in the way he was hoping. You found him annoying - irritating at how good he was in the car. You didn't understand how he dominated so quickly. His car was decent. Carlin did what it needed to do to provide a car that was drivable. Lando just drove like he owned the track - and if you weren't so stubborn, you would admit that.
That is, until one hot mid-summer afternoon, the heat got to everyone. You were sitting under a tree, looking over different suspension options from the data your dad had given you for John's car. An apple in one hand, tablet settled on your knee, and scrolling with the other.
Someone made their way to your little hideout. You expected it to be your brother, so don't bother looking up. It isn't until you feel something tap your arm that you look up to find Lando sitting next to you, holding out an ice-cold water bottle.
"Gotta stay cool on days like this," he says, dimples making an appearance with his goofy smile.
You are frozen in place, then make a move to flip over the data you had been combing through.
"I'm not interested in any of that," Lando says, still holding a water out for you. "Came over to make sure you don't pass out from the heat." His voice cracks at the end of his sentence, causing you to stop all your movements and look at him.
His cheeks turn even redder, if that was even possible. He tries to cover it up with a cough that turns into a choke. This could not be going worse for him, so he thinks. That is, until you do the unexpected and laugh. A genuine laugh that Lando vows to try to elicit from you every chance he gets.
Even at 15, he knows there will never be a sound more beautiful than your laugh.
You don't say anything, but take the water from him and take a sip. You must admit, the water is quite refreshing.
"Thanks for the water," you say as you bring the half-drunk bottle down and wipe your mouth. You don't know why, but you offer him your half-eaten apple, and he chuckles.
Smooth, you think. Real smooth.
You want to bury yourself in the ground beneath you, but he takes it and takes a bite, returning the thanks.
Neither of you said much after that, just sat in a comfortable silence. One that neither of you was really expecting but didn't want to break.
That was the beginning of your friendship. Quite moments shared underneath trees. Little conversations on cars and tracks turned into conversations about school and growing up in a different world than most.
The two of you share a very similar dream of ending up in F1, and that has grown you even closer to one another. You would hide out in corners and under trees and watch replays of F1 races - both breaking down the different racers, tracks, and car setups. You shared a deeper understanding of the sport than most.
The annoyance you had once held for the boy turned into respect and a fondness you tried to swallow.
At the end of the season, Lando had become the F4 British Champion, and both he and your brother were on the road to F3.
In that final race of the season, Lando jumped down for the podium and immediately swept you up into his arms. You were surprised. Your dad was amused, and your brother was pissed.
Once the garages were cleared out and everyone was leaving to take a break before the work really began in Formula 3, John pulled Lando aside. Even with your little brother being 2 years younger, it resulted in Lando taking a punch to the face and your brother with a bruise to the stomach.
When you found the two of them, they were lying in the street. They were laughing about how this was both of their first fights and both of their lasts. You asked what they were fighting about, but neither of them said a word.
That winter was spent hanging out with Lando and his friend Max. Whether it was in a group or alone, Lando would try to monopolize your attention. Little did he know, you were trying to do the same.
The two of you started dating when he made his debut in Formula 3.
It was actually during the first race of the season. You were prepping John's car with the mechanics when you heard some chatter. Normally, you wouldn't be bothered, but you hear Lando's high-pitched voice mumbling something about needing to see you.
You make your way to the opening of the garage, where Lando is standing with one of John's mechanics, who fully believes Lando was there to check out the competition.
"Lan, you can't be here - you should be in your car," you say, pushing him towards his garage. John was already in his car, and so was everyone else, from your knowledge.
"Stop pushing me!" He says trying to stop, but is not doing a great job. Even at 15, he is smaller than most of the other guys - an insecurity he would never admit aloud.
"You need to go," you are now pushing his back like a little kid pushing something too big for them to move.
"I will, but I needed to talk to you first," he says, turning around and holding your arms to stop you from pushing him.
"Lando, we will talk after! You aren't going to make it for the race," you say. He ignores you.
"If I win this race, go out with me," he says too fast, you can barely make it out.
It shuts you up, and you freeze.
He looks a little flushed, and his boyish face is trying to stay neutral.
Lando, nervous as one could be - clears his throat and repeats himself.
"If..-when. When I win this race," his voice cracks, and you almost crack a smile. "When I win this race, I get to take you out on a date."
You are speechless. A million things running through your mind, but the only one you can hear is a little voice telling you to say yes. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Lando looks at you as if you are holding the win yourself.
In the distance, there are people yelling Lando's name to get in the car.
"You need to go, Lan," you whisper. His hands are still holding your arms. They ease when you don't respond to his statement.
He feels the hope in him dim as his hands drop from you, dropping his eyes - looking anywhere but you. He begins to turn and walk back to his car when you grab his arm.
His head whips up to look at you.
You nod, not trusting your voice as it had already failed you once.
Lando smiles from ear to ear. One of the goofiest grins you've seen from him.
He doesn't want to leave you, but the yells for him to get in the car only grow.
"Go," you say while giving his shoulder a little push.
"So bossy," he responds, smile never leaving his face.
You roll your eyes and brush him off, heading back to work.
Lando drives like a maniac during that race, finishing with a sizable gap to the driver in P2. His team celebrates the win, your team celebrates the podium, and you try to keep your head on, knowing that you will be going on a date with Lando.
The boy who hasn't quite grown into his body yet, limbs looking a little wonky. The boy who will sit with you for hours watching old races and arguing over who the best drivers are. The boy who knows how to make you smile even when you are anything but happy.
It's Lando, the boy next door on the track.
Little did you know that that was just the beginning.
Over the next few years, you watched Lando dominate in Formula 3, then Formula 2, finally making his way to Formula 1. Your brother only made it so far in Formula 2 and ended up driving the same time Lando's friend Max did.
You also had worked your way up, actually came into McLaren 6 months before Lando did - working with the front suspension mechanics. In 2018, you moved closer to MTC, Lando following you without question.
When he started talking about moving to Monaco, you didn't hesitate; you just let him know it would be smart to keep a house in Sheerwater, as both of you would need to be at MTC throughout the year. He kissed your head and told you how smart you were.
Over the years, you had learned more and more about cars and worked your way up to become the right-hand to the performance engineer. You were quite literally living your dream.
Your relationship had also grown over the years. Lando had become home in a way you never thought imaginable. Providing a comfort you never knew possible outside the small town your grew up in.
You and Lando had become the perfect pair, both on and off the track.
On the track, he had been improving season by season. He was working his way towards becoming the WDC, and both of you knew it was only a matter of time. You had been absorbing anything and everything you could. It had helped you move your way up within the team, which is a huge feat in a world full of men. Mark Temple had taken a liking to you and had opened every door that interested you. For the last year, you had been working alongside Will - Lando's race engineer.
Off the track, the two of you settled into Monaco. It was a great place to be, and you loved how simple life became. You and Lando had built a rhythm - off-weekend farmers markets trips, evening walks, discovering local coffee shops and restaurants. Even in the chaos of the season, when the two of you were in Monaco, nothing else mattered.
The media had their own views on your relationship, as it did everything.
It was split on you and Lando working so close to one another, but their comments never phased either of you. You had kept your relationship professional on track and decently private outside of that.
On one side, they argued that partners shouldn't work so closely with one another and that it would cause tension in the garage. When you were chosen to become a part of Oscar's garage, Mark sat you down and asked if it would be a problem. He saw a growth opportunity for you in McLaren's second seat and wanted you to be a part of it. You told him the truth - that when you and Lando walked into the garage, you both knew your priorities. Part of it felt full circle as it took you back to your Formula 4 days.
The other side thought you were the power couple of F1. This one made you chuckle because everyone on the grid knew that title belonged to Charles and Alex. And rightfully so.
Your favorite side of media was the one that would spotlight a woman in the garage at an F1 level. There had been a handful of women who had paved the way: Hannah Schmitz at Red Bull, Christina Williams at Mercedes, and Laura Mueller at Haas, to name a few. And now, you.
As time progressed, so did your relationship. During the 2024 season, is when Lando and you started talking about getting engaged. No doubts, just a matter of when. During summer break, the two of you went to a jeweler in Monaco to look at rings, but Lando's mom had already given him hers.
Everything was perfect.
But perfect isn't real.
There had been a shift in that last third of the 2024 season when Lando saw the WDC slipping away from him. He began to do something he had never done before - retreat from you.
It wasn't fast or all at once. But the decline was steep.
It came in the little things.
You had first noticed it in Brazil when Lando finished P6. It was so small you had thought you had been imagining it.
When the race completed and everything was being packed up, Lando would come and find you. It was never something the two of you had discussed as a routine, it had just become one. Even after some of Lando's worst finished and DNF's, he would find you.
That day, he didn't. You had finished packing everything up without a Lando in sight. It was odd, yes - but you didn't think too much about it.
When you were finished with everything you needed to do before leaving, you made your way to Lando's driver's room.
You give a quick knock before opening the door. It doesn't matter how many times Lando says you don't need to knock and can just walk right in; you still knock.
"Lan, you in here?" You ask as you open the door.
Lando is lying on his couch, eyes closed. He doesn't move when you call for him.
You walk in and set your bag down. You go to kiss his forehead when he flinches. It isn't major, but enough for both of you to realize.
"Sorry, love," he mumbles. He goes to lean closer to you. You brush your hand over his forehead and through his hair, kissing his forehead again.
He lets out a deep sigh.
"Today was shit," he says - eyes closed again, finally taking in your touch.
You don't say anything and let him breathe, sitting on the ground next to the couch.
"This whole weekend was shit," Lando says. You can hear the emotion in his voice. "I feel terrible for the sprint, the whole team order fucked Oscar and turned me into a media show. Then today, I started on pole and lost out to Russel at the start and made mistake after mistake."
You continue to run your hand through his curls.
One of his hands plays with the sleeve of your team shirt.
"I failed today," he whispers, and you lean in to kiss his shoulder.
"You didn't fail today," you say, knowing he won't believe it, but he'll try. "You had a bad weekend; it happens to every driver. And before you say anything else, I am not saying that to make you feel better because I know it won't. I am simply saying it because it makes you human and like everyone else on the grid."
He let out another deep breath, not knowing what he would do without you.
"I love you," Lando says, eyes meeting yours. "So much."
You give him a small smile.
"And I love you," you say, cupping his cheek. "Now, can we go home?"
Lando nods.
By the time you guys left the paddock, that weird feeling that had settled into the pit of your stomach had completely disappeared. But that was the first of many. Little pockets creating holes in your relationship without either of you realizing. A snag on a sweater that you don't notice until it becomes unrepairable.
The next race, he found you like normal. But that routine began to fade, alongside many others.
Over the final races of the season, you had seen a bigger shift in Lando. Pulling further and further away from you. That moment when he looked you in the eye in his driver's room and said 'I love you' felt like a lifetime ago, and it had only been a month.
When he finished 10th in Qatar, that pit turned into a sinkhole.
The two of you left separately after that race, retreating alone to the same hotel room. But only one of you returned. You’d texted Lando several times, even called him twice, but didn't get a response from either.
You slept alone that night. If you could call what you did sleeping.
When he finally did come back to the hotel room the next morning, he brushed past you without saying a word. You follow him into the bathroom, where you find him washing his face.
Leaning against the doorframe, you watch him. Wanting to say everything and nothing all at once. You settled on three little words.
"I missed you," you say softly.
Lando lets out a little chuckle. Not one that is endearing, one that carries a chill that surfaces your bones.
"How could you miss me when you were texting me every five minutes?" He says with a bite that will for sure leave a scar. He mumbles, "Fucking suffocating."
You're taken back. He continues getting ready, and you make the decision to retreat.
It is not often you take a step back; you never really feel like you need to. But this is new for Lando. In all the time you have known him, he has never spoken to you like this. Has never made you question your worth. Or question anything that came to him, really. You were too stunned to respond.
Heading to your luggage, you begin to pack your things. You try to shake it off, tell yourself that this weekend was particularly hard for him. It was, it really was, but you also know that doesn't give him or anyone the right to talk to you like he just did. You're in shock.
After zipping up your luggage, you debate whether you should tell him that you are going to head to the MTC. He is headed back to Monaco for a few days, and that was your original plan, but plans change.
You are about to head out when you call him.
"I am heading to MTC," you say. He is still in the bathroom. You get no response, and you hesitate for just a second.
"I love you," you say just above a whisper as you slip out the door. You don't know if he hears you, but you don't say it any louder. The door shuts, and you are on your way.
Lando is still in front of the sink when the door closes. His heart feels like it's going a mile a minute, yet he still doesn't feel a thing. He said something to you, but he doesn't remember what it was. What he does remember is that he heard you say you were going to your shared house in Sheerwater. That was not the plan; you were supposed to fly back to Monaco with him - spend a few days hidden in your home before the last race of the season. Lando would be lying if he said he wasn't excited for the time alone.
The next few days are a living hell for you.
You begin to overthink everything. Giving Lando space was your conclusion, but you missed him. You miss him even though you are mad as hell at him.
Your brother calls you shortly after you get home.
"Hiya bean," he says, and you can hear the smile on his face.
"Hey John," you say, trying to sound as normal as possible, but he sees right through it.
You feel his shift before he speaks again.
"I'm fine," you say too fast. "Work has been crazy."
"Don't lie to me," he says.
You swallow as you try desperately to hold back the tears that are already sliding down your cheeks.
John whispers, "Talk to me, please."
You don't even know where to start. When did it start? Was it really that night after the Brazil GP? Or had it begun before them?
The truth is, you don't really know.
Your mouth opens to try to explain what is going on, but nothing comes out. Seems to be a theme lately - very unlike you.
In the softest tone he can muster up, John asks, "Is it Lando?"
You nod as if he is standing right in front of you. He knows you're nodding.
"That fucker," John starts, and you finally find your voice.
"He is just having a hard time," you say, automatically defending him.
"I told you not to lie to me," John says through gritted teeth.
You end up telling him everything, from the pit in your stomach started to your last encounter. John listens to every word you say.
"I don't know what's happened. It's like I don't even know who he is anymore. I don't know what I've done," you say. You are now sitting on the ground, legs pulled up to your chest.
"You didn't do anything," John says. "This is all him."
"I want my Lando back," you sniffle, and John is boiling over with anger.
"I swear the next time I see him, I am sending him through a-" John is on one now.
"No," you say. "No. No. No. It is okay. This will all pass."
Your brother says your name, "You know I can't just let this go."
"Just let me figure this out, okay?" You say.
It takes you another 15 minutes to talk him out of getting on the next flight to Monaco, but you finally get through to him. The call finishes with you reassuring him that if things keep going this way, you'll tell him.
You spent the time in Sheerwater going over every little detail of the past season to see where you felt like you could have done something that maybe Lando's actions and words could be justifiable. You found nothing. Nothing that was even remotely close to justifying his actions.
When you get to Abu Dhabi, you have McLaren put you up in your own room. It isn't your favorite but feel like it is the only thing you can currently manage. With having your own space, you are able to avoid Lando.
Avoiding isn't the answer, but neither is confronting him before the last race of the season. So you wait.
It's raceday, and you are in Oscar's garage when you feel someone come up behind you. You don't think anything of it, continuing with your work. A few moments later, there's a light tap on your shoulder. Turning, you see Lando standing there like a kicked puppy.
You take your headset off and look at him. His hands are fiddling with something. He doesn't completely meet your gaze initially, but then raises his hand and finally looks at you.
It's an apple.
You stare at it, breathing deep to try to regulate your nervous system. It takes you a minute, but you take the apple.
"You haven't answered any of my calls," he says softly, so softly you almost miss it. Your eyebrows furrow.
"I've missed you," he says, and his eyes finally meet yours for longer than a glance. His words spark hope in you.
Your eyes stay locked on his, and you can see that he has no idea the pain and suffering you have been in since the last time you saw him. That hope dims.
Before you can say anything, you are being called to strategy.
"I have to go," you say.
"Come home with me after the race?" Lando asks before you turn to leave.
You pause and tell yourself to not overthink this right now. So you settle for a little smile and nod.
"Of course, Lan," you say, releasing a breath you have been holding for the last week.
He smiles and pulls you in, kissing the top of your head as your arms wrap around him. Your hand comes up to the back of his neck, giving it a little scratch before it comes down the curve of his neck, over his shoulder, then sweeping down his back to tap on his hip three little times. You have been hugging him like this for as long as he can remember; it's one of his favorite things.
You let him go and give him one last smile and nod before heading off to your meeting.
That race, Lando dominates.
His side of the garage is full of celebrations and excitement. Meanwhile, Oscar's side was a little more dim - finishing P10 was not the result anyone wanted. The car failed in more ways than anyone anticipated, which you know means more work for you during the break, but that can be a later problem.
You have more meetings than usual after a race due to all the complications, and don't end up packing up till well past midnight. Everyone is exhausted, including yourself.
Walking out, you peek into Lando's driver's room.
"He left a while ago," you hear. It comes in a soft tone.
Oscar's leaning against the wall across from you. He is showered and has his backpack on.
You nod, not trusting your words. You look away from Oscar and stare into the empty room, tears falling. You feel stupid, which is not easily achieved.
"You are welcome to fly back with Lily and me; we have plenty of room," Oscar says. He hasn't said anything these past few months, but he is quite observant. He has seen the way Lando has been treating you, neglecting you. You had thought you had hidden it well and that it was only behind closed doors, but no. Oscar had slowly been watching you fade away right in front of everyone's eyes.
"It's okay, I will just head back to the hotel and head out with Lando tomorrow," you say. Both you and Oscar know Lando's jet is already halfway to Monaco now. He always leaves right after a race.
Your driver gives you a soft look, and Lily peeks around the corner.
Your eyes meet hers. She gives you a small, knowing smile. Not one of sympathy but one understanding.
You nod, "Okay, ya. That would be great." Your voice doesn't sound like your own.
The ride back isn't as bad as you thought it would be. Neither of them presses you on the whole Lando situation. You end up sleeping for most of it, which helps even more.
When you land, you thank them.
Lily gives you a hug, squeezing you a little extra.
"We are here if you need anything, and I mean anything," Lily says and gives you one last squeeze before letting you go.
You head back to your apartment in Monaco, knowing Lando is likely still out and will remain out. When you get there, it hits you how long it has been since the last time you stayed here. Everything is pretty much the same, just some minor changes here and there.
Walking into your shared bedroom, you feel like a ghost. This, once used to hold such warmth, now gives you the chills.
You walk around and take in the space he's been living in. You end near the dresser and see a little velvet box sitting next to a few of his favorite watches. As if your heart beat any faster, it tries to.
Skimming the box, you pick it up and open it.
It's THE ring. His mom's ring. Well, sort of.
It is the stone from his mom's ring, but set in the band you had chosen in that jeweler's office a lifetime ago. It is truly stunning.
After staring at it for longer than you should have, you set it back exactly where you found it. If you had found it 6 months ago, you would be over the moon, but now? Now it is just a reminder of what used to be.
When you wake the next morning, you're still alone. You wait for Lando to return, but he doesn't.
You want to call him, text him, but his words from the last time stop you - suffocating.
After a week of partying, Lando returns to the apartment in Monco.
You are sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea - one of the only things you have been able to stomach these past few days.
He walks in and goes straight to the fridge, not saying a word to you. You watch him, not knowing how much of this back and forth you can take from the man.
Finally, you speak up. "Congrats on the win." Your voice sounds different, weak.
"Shit," Lando jumps and spills the drink he was holding. "When did you get here?"
"You're gone a week, and that is what you ask me?" You look at him.
"It's a valid question," he says. Guess he forgot all about the ask to go home with him after Abu Dhabi. If Lando were honest, he'd forgotten a lot about the last week.
"This is my home too."
Lando just nods. He goes to grab a towel to clean up the mess he made.
"How long are you planning on staying?" He asks. And you see his jaw flex - an indicator of his annoyance. You try not to think anything of it. You try not to think about how you had gone from being a joy to a burden.
"I thought it would be nice to spend winter break together," you say. "Like we planned." The second statement was quieter, unheard by the man in front of you.
He lets out a deep sigh, then pinches the bridge of his nose.
You want to bring up the apple and how he asked you to come home with him just a week ago, but that Lando seems long gone in this moment.
"I already made plans with Max; we leave later today," Lando says. You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat. Seems to be a skill you have developed recently.
"I thought you would want to relax, so I didn't bring it up," he says, then goes on about how it is going to be nonstop and not the kind of trip you would enjoy. You know he's just saying these things because he forgot about you while planning them.
"Lando," you say in a last-ditch effort. "What happened to us?"
He finally turns to look at you. Lando chooses to not see your tired eyes or how your clothes no longer fit like they used to. They swallow you a little more. He tells himself your changes are from the end of the season.
"We are fine," Lando says, "Everything is fine."
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. Your eyes close. You don't remember the last time he actually kissed you. It's been too long to remember.
You put on your best fake smile and nod.
Lando says he has to pack and leaves you to finish your tea.
He leaves without a goodbye, not that you ask him for one. You shouldn't have to, but then again, he shouldn't be leaving.
You have no idea how long he will be gone. You wrestle with trying to reach out, but figure it is useless. He hasn't responded before; why would he start now? Plus, with what Max posts on his stories, you can see that Lando is having the time of his life. So why would he want to hear from you?
You are a few days in when there is a knock on the door.
Dragging yourself to the door, you open it.
John is standing there. The second he sees your state, his heart breaks. What has happened to his older sister? The once so strong and independent girl in a garage full of boys and men, now looking sickenly unwell.
"John?" You ask, not believing it is him standing in front of you. "What are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here?" The anger builds in his voice, but it doesn't come into full fruition because seeing you in this state breaks him more than he anticipates. You wrap your arms around yourself. Before you know it, John has you wrapped in his arms.
For the first time, you let everything out. All the pain and suffering you have been carrying for who knows how long. It all comes out. Little do you know, John has to wipe the tears streaming down his face - not just yours.
When you finally calm down, you pass out from exhaustion, and your brother stays with you, holds you while you sleep. And you do sleep.
You wake to John talking on the phone with someone, but don't hear much of his conversation. He ends it when he sees you sit up on the couch.
"Who was that?" You ask with a yawn.
"It was mom and dad, they are making the trip here," he says. You are about to protest but he stops you.
"Bean," John uses the nickname he gave you when he was just 4, "You missed Christmas." You didn't miss Christmas; you had days before the holiday.
"No, I didn't," you protest.
"You did," he says softly. "It is December 27th. Mom has been trying to get a hold of you for days. They went to look for you in Sheerwater, and I came here. You had everyone worried sick."
The guilt of missing your Mom's favorite holiday sinks in.
"Don't you dare feel guilty for this, you are hurting, and no one has seen it, do not carry this as well. But Bean, you can't keep living like this. You are not you. You deserve so much more than this."
"He's all I know," you say softly. So softly, he barely hears it. You hate feeling weak, but right now you don't know how to feel anything else.
John shakes his head. You know he is right; you have been living without him for so long now.
Your parents arrive later that day. It is nice to have your family around, and it shows you aren't alone in this, even when you feel like you have been for so long.
Over the next few weeks, you make the hardest decision you have ever made.
With the help of your family, you packed up everything you owned from the Monaco apartment. It looks odd, closets being half empty. As your family packs your things, you take little moments to rearrange things to make it less noticeable. Not that Lando deserved that, but the more time that stands between now and the next time you see him, the better.
Once everything is packed up, you give the apartment one last look over the place. A place you once called home, now just another memory. You want to feel something, anything, in this moment. But you're just numb.
Once you leave, you send Lando one last message, then block his number.
You spend the rest of winter break at home with your family. You don't see it at first, but your mom ensures you are eating regularly. John takes it upon himself to spend time with you - it makes him nervous to leave you alone for too long. And then there's your dad. He is the only one who gets you out of the house. He'll take you out on walks. Sometimes the two of you talk, sometimes you two walk in silence. Eventually, you start to talk about the upcoming season - at least what you know about the upcoming season.
Going back to MTC was actually easier than you had expected. The time spent at home was life-giving and needed. It was the first step to bringing you back to who you were.
On the other side, Lando was slipping further and further into a life he had no control over. It has become one party after the next after the next. Each day blurred together, but it all felt so good, so he never felt like he needed to stop. Nothing was holding him back. Everything was better than ever.
While you were coming back to yourself, Lando was slipping further and further away from who he was.
When the season started, you did everything in your power to stay invisible to Lando and the new world he was living in. On race weekends, you made sure your schedule never overlapped with his. Any meetings you had to be in the same room with him, you always entered last to be unseen and left first to never be noticed. It had only taken you a couple of races for it to become clockwork for you. It was best for everyone.
Oscar was the only one to notice. He always noticed. He respected Lando on the track and from a racing standpoint, but when it came to his personal life, Oscar could never understand how someone could so seamlessly cut another out of their life.
Everything changed when Lando started bringing someone new to the paddock. A beautiful girl named Magui. A model that the media was saying Lando met in Monaco. They are saying he has been seen with her dating back to 2023 that was just surfacing now with her arrival. That was well before things started going south in your relationship. You had deleted all of your social media after that.
That first weekend she was there was one of the worst weekends of your life. Oscar had found you in a utility closet, on the floor, curled up in a ball.
Later that weekend, Oscar approached Lando.
"I see you brought someone new to the paddock," Oscar tries to say it casually, but it comes out with a little more bite than he anticipates.
"Yeah," Lando says with a smile. "I'll have to introduce you to her; she is pretty great."
Oscar has to bite his tongue to not curse out Lando right then and there.
"Actually, you know what would be great? Since Magui doesn't really know anyone and this is her first weekend, do you think you would introduce her to Lily?" Lando sounds so sincere in his ask.
Oscar scoffs, and Lando gives him a defensive look.
"Look, she left me," Lando says, referencing you. "I made the choice to move on."
This has Oscar breaking out into a full-on laugh.
"Right, right," Oscar says, "Yep, she left you." He mutters.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Landos' voice begins to rise.
Oscar shakes his head no. "You are insane if you believe that she left you. If you took two seconds to look around, you'd see."
Lando's blood began to boil and he felt his ears getting hot. He thinks Oscar is the one who is insane.
Oscar is done with this conversation. "No, I won't be introducing Lily."
Oscar walks away with an orange, not sparing Lando a second glance.
The tension between garages grows as the season progresses. It affects every single race weekend. The media team has spun it to look like there is just growing tension for the driver championship, but it is really too early in the season for that to be 100% belivable.
You see the toll it takes on Oscar and your team. It is the toll you have been feeling for almost a year now. You are causing more damage and you are done standing around watching it all crash and burn.
It leads you to Andrea Stella's office with a letter of resignation. You were planning on stepping away completely. It had all become too much, proving it was no good for you to be there on race weekends. This leads to a two hour long coversation resulting in you staying with the McLaren team, but ultimately stepping down from your dream job.
You immediately return to MTC. The rest of the season seems to cool down a little, enough for it to look like things are back to normal. You really hope they are.
It takes a minute to settle into not traveling on race weekends. You have noticed a decrease in your anxiety. Although you aren't in his garage anymore, Oscar calls you frequently to get your feedback on the weekend and how to improve in the next. It was nice to see how even though he wouldn't say it, he was still checking in.
There was one race weekend when Lily came and stayed with you. She couldn't make it to the full race weekend and had work she needed to do for school. So she came seeking company in you. While she worked on school, you worked on data.
The WDC comes down to the final race of the season. You don't want to go, but seeing Oscar's chance of winning slip through his fingers, you feel like it is the least you can do. That and the fact that you were asked to come back by Andrea. You didn't really have a choice, but in your mind, it was for Oscar.
You show up during qualifying. You didn't mean to end up in Oscar's garage, but one thing led to another, and you find yourself standing there with a tablet looking over his setup. You try to remain hidden from Lando's side of the garage, but you go to tell Oscar something at the exact moment Lando's head turns.
There's a small gap in the way the garages are set up, only big enough to see the head of the other driver. Lando looks over and sees you for the first time in months, almost a year.
Lando doesn't know it at first because it immediately feels like suffocation, but it's the first time he has felt alive since who knows when. His hands come up to his helmet - he needs to take it off, he needs air. He needs to get out of the car; he needs to see you.
There is a huge shift in Lando's brain, like he has woken up from a deep sleep. When he sees you, Magui isn't a thought. His only thought is of you and him under a tree with apples and telematry. It's the first time he has felt your absence.
What happened? He needs to know why you left. He begins to make his way out of his car, but he is being pushed back in as the beginning of Q3 begins. He barely hears his race engineer.
He looks back over, but you're gone. He tells himself that if he just finishes qualifying, he can get out of this car and find you. He has no other thoughts except that.
You don't hang around after you figure out Oscar's set-up. As you make your way out, a hand stops you. You look up to see Cisca.
"Hi," you say politely. It takes everything in you to not run. But she's not the one who hurt you. She looks at you with such sorrow that you have to repeat to yourself to not break. She pulls you into her arms and holds you tight.
"I am so sorry, sweetie," Cisca says after a while. You pull away from her, shaking your head. Before you can speak, she continues.
"I don't even recognize him; he has changed so much over this last year. It breaks my heart because I know I've raised him better."
"I know you did," you say. "Despite everything, I still remember the boy who found me under the trees all those years ago."
Cisca smiles. "I miss our boy."
Your heart breaks all over again, hearing Lando's mom say 'our' when it has been so long since he has actually been yours. But it shows you how you are not the only one that Lando has hurt in the process of becoming who he is today.
She brings your hands up with her own and kisses your fingers. As she does so, something catches your eye.
Your head tilts to look at the ring on her finger. There lies the ring you found on Lando's dresser in Monaco. It isn't on her ring finger, but she is wearing it, which means it is no longer on Lando's dresser in Monaco.
"Ahh yes," she says. "This."
Cisca doesn't say, but she took it back when Lando started bringing Magui around.
"I hope he is able to make use of it someday," you say, and you find yourself meaning it. Maybe your healing is progressing.
Cisca shakes her head no. "Oh no, this really belongs to one person, and I am afraid he broke that beyond repair."
You feel your eyes well with tears as the ache in your chest grows. You try to give her a smile but fail.
Cisca cups your cheeks, "You are a beautiful young lady. I hope you find the love you deserve someday."
She is practically in tears when she lets you go.
After qualityfing, Lando looks for you. He checks all over, asks everyone he sees. Everyone has the same answer: that they haven't seen you. It gets to a point where he is getting dragged out of the paddock and is foreced to retreat to his hotel.
Once he gets back to his room, he needs to understand. he opens his phone to the last message you sent him.
He stares at it and doesn't even remember looking at it in the first place - I'm sorry I wasn't enough.
Lando doesn't sleep that night, which is not what is needed the night before the final race of the season, where he could very well win his first WDC. Instead, he goes over every memory he has of you.
The first time he saw you - he can remember that with minimal effort. Your days in F4 together. You getting the first break into McLaren. Buying a home in Sheerwater and then another in Monaco. You finally getting your dream job, and him screaming it from the rooftops. Him taking you to the jeweler that Nico recommended to get his mom's old stone fitted to a band of your choice. You didn't know it back then, but he was so excited when his mom gave him her ring. He didn't have a single doubt about you and wanted to drop down on one knee right then and there.
For the first time, he remembers retreating from you. He doesn't remember every detail, but enough to see that although you are the one who left, he led you to the door.
The second Lando sees it, he breaks.
It all comes back to him at once. When he first started pulling away from you. He was so in his head about how bad he was doing on the track and the pressure he was under that he blocked everything that was non-essential out. He didn't realize until now that you were included. He remembers when you came to find him in his driver room after a particularly hard race because he didn't seek you out like he typically would.
His mind flashes back to how he started leaving right after races, not even thinking about waiting for you. How you would call or text him, and he would ignore every single one of them.
His heart sinks as a dull pain rises when he remembers calling you suffocating in some random hotel room after Qatar. You didn't even fight back, but why would you? He finally sees how he has so masterfully removed you from his life, so much so that you had lost the will to try.
A hand comes up to try and soothe the pain that is welling in his chest as he thinks about approaching you in Oscar's garage. He's asked you to go home with him, then proceeded to leave without you. He doesn't even know how you got home. It's like that moment never happened.
It isn't until he remembers how you looked the last time he saw you that tears begin to form in his eyes and his breathing gets shallow. You didn't look like yourself, and he had the audacity to say that everything was fine. It was far from fucking fine.
You had been there, by his side, for his entire career. And when things got tough, as they inevitably do, instead of turning to you like he always did, he turned away from you.
Oscar was right. He cut you out of his life.
Not only that, but he also brought someone else in. He met Magui sometime in 2023 when he was in Monaco, and you were in Sheerwater, had a group of mutual friends. Nothing ever happened then, but when he was on his bender, they reconnected, and Lando thought it was easy. She had her own life, he had his. It was easy.
Now he lies there, the night before the biggest race of his career, wishing you were next to him. Is that something he can even wish for anymore? Does he still hold that right after all he's done?
The next morning, Lando gets to the paddock early. Earlier than most of the team.
His hope is to see you. He knows you are always one of the first ones there on race day. When the team starts trickling in, and you are nowhere to be found, he starts to worry.
He sees Oscar walk in and head over to his driver room. Lando follows him.
He follows him in and closes the door.
"Lando? What are you doing here?" Oscar says, tone colder than Lando likes.
"Where is she?" Lando asks. He doesn't expand, he can't. His throat already feels like it is closing.
"Why would Magui be in here?" Oscar pushes, knowing that is not who he is referring to.
Lando inhales sharply. He doesn't feel like he can even say your name without breaking into a million little pieces.
Oscar takes one good look at Lando and can see the man has been through it. Not that he should care, but he tries.
"She'll be here for the race," Oscar says.
"I know, but she's usually the first one here," Lando's voice trails off.
Oscar sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He was not expecting to have this conversation with Lando, let alone before the last race of the season.
"She's no longer my race engineer," Oscar says softly. "Hasn't been for months."
"What do you mean?" Lando's beyond confused.
Oscar gives Lando a look.
"I am not doing this right now," Oscar retorts.
"Osc, please," Lando begs.
Oscar rubs his face and falls on the couch with a deep sigh. "She was going to quit altogether. She was fully ready to walk away completely, but Andrea talked her into staying. She just couldn't be in the garage anymore, so they worked out a deal where she works from MTC. She's still my team, just doing a lot of the remote development."
"But she has worked so hard to get here; this was the ultimate dream," Lando says - his voice began to rise. He was getting flustered.
"Being here was killing her, Lando," Oscar replies softly. "She became a shell of a person, trying to make herself so small to not be seen by you, that she just couldn't take it. Then you started bringing someone else around...She just couldn't."
Lando feels that ache in his chest begin to creep back in. His left hand comes up to rub his fist against it. Oscar didn't say it directly, but Lando knows - it was him who was killing her.
"This was her dream job," Lando whispers again.
"Lando, I need to get ready. You need to get ready," Oscar says as he stands.
"And she'll be here today?" Lando asks, ignoring Oscar's attempt to move on from this conversation.
Oscar nods.
The small gesture gives Lando a sliver of hope, not that he deserves it.
Lando preps for the race and heads into the garage. When he walks in, his head is on a swivel, eyes searching for you.
You do a good job of hiding, you should, considering you've done it for so long. Someone from Oscar's team seeks you out, needing some final input. You move to the monitors and check it out.
The second you're done, you begin to head back to your corner. You believe you're in the clear and glance up. Instant regret fills you as your eyes meet Lando's.
He looks at you like he did back when you were 15 - full of hope. Only this time, you can see the realization in his eyes.
You turn away before he can see the tears fall from your eyes. He doesn't deserve to see you break. You hate how he still has the power to make you break.
Just because he doesn't love you anymore doesn't mean you don't still love him.
You think you're fast enough but Lando catches the quickest glimpse of your tears.
Lando begins to take a step in your direction, the world around him falling away. Before he can get too far, there's a hand grabbing his arm and pulling him to his car.
"Two seconds, I need two seconds," Lando says, pulling away from the grasp he's in.
He runs after you.
You are get halway through McLaren hospitality when you hear your name. You hesitate but don't look. You can't look.
"I'm sor-" Lando begins, but he is already being pulled back to the garage.
He wants to fight everyone pulling him away from you, but he knows he has a job to finish.
Lando's only focus during the race is getting to the end. If he gets to the end, he can get out of this car and find you. He needs to find you.
58 laps later, Lando gets the radio message that he is the Driver's World Champion. For a moment, you fade. Lando embraces the fact that he has just achieved his dream.
When he gets out of the car, he is embraced by everyone under the sun. His whole team greets him, who are then followed by his parents. It's right before his mom's hands hit his face that he gets a glimpse of the ring, your ring.
The desire to find you rushes back to him.
Cisca's hold on his face softens when she sees the hope that fills her son's eyes.
"She's here, Mom," Lando says. It's like he can breathe for the first time.
"Oh, sweetie," Cisca says and rubs Lando's cheeks. The look in her eye is one of sympathy.
Lando's hope falters.
Cisca pulls her son into a hug.
"I messed up," Lando says through the tears.
To anyone looking, this looks like a sweet moment. But the two in the embrace, it's heartbreak.
"And I don't think I can fix it."
"My sweet boy," Cisca wipes the tears from Lando's cheeks.
"I broke her."
Before Cisca can respond, Magui has appeared and has her arms wrapped around Lando.
It takes him a second, but with all the cameras, he wraps his arms around her.
She is going on about how proud she is of him and how he is so deserving.
She pulls back only to put her hands on his face and pull him back in for a kiss.
When he breaks apart. He gives her a small smile. His sight shifts slightly past Magui to a familiar figure.
To you.
You are standing there, watching the moment. The moment the two of you had talked about endlessly. His ultimate dream.
Lando's hands drop from Magui, and he is about to make his way to you. Before he can, a hand comes up to the back of his neck, where his curls fall. Magui scratches his neck as she brings her hand down the side, over his shoulder, and down his back, only to give his hip a squeeze.
It seems way too intimate to him, and he wants to pull away. His eyes lock on you again. You are looking at the hand on his waist.
Lando's heart breaks once again.
He blinks and you're gone.
He's the Driver World Champion. He is living his dream.
He should be full of joy and celebrating to his heart's content.
But he can't, because all he feels is the loss of you.
Final Comms: Thanks for reading my first fic on my side quest account! I hope you enjoyed this (even if it did hurt your heart a little). Let me know your thoughts! And as always, thank you for your love and support 🤍
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