drs-and-daisies

HOLIDAY COLLECTION

DRS & Daisies December 2025 holiday collection | multiple drivers | daily fic event

OSCAR PIASTRI

Good Strategy, Wrong Try Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 hurt/comfort | health angst | protective Oscar After the Flag Falls post-race | tension | comfort The Fast and the Curious paddock | strategy brain | reader competence The Fast and the Curious – Part 2 Insecurity | reassurance | “you belong here” When No Meant Nothing hurt/comfort | aftermath | protective Massage and Reset stress relief | massage | soft care Two Lines pregnancy panic | self-isolation | choosing family Where You Fit family | insecurity | reassurance

LANDO NORRIS

Whisk Taker paddock chaos | baking | stress relief Under Watch protective | fear | reassurance Sugar, Don’t Panic anxiety comfort | sweets | caretaking Mystery Man meet-cute | protection | Monaco My Man on Willpower emotional neglect | realization | soft angst Championship Noise championship aftermath | emotional distance | reconciliation Emergency Funds budgeting burnout | being cared for | protective lando Where You Fit family | insecurity | reassurance My Fault: Lando | Bonus Scene

MAX VERSTAPPEN

Pedals & Podiums supportive Max | minor injury | caretaking Nothing I Do Is Enough qualifying angst | validation | emotional comfort Close Enough to Hurt post-season loss | vulnerability | healing Stupid Questions, Stupid Answers curiosity | teasing | soft reassurance Emergency Funds eldest daughter burnout | being cared for | protective max

CHARLES LECLERC

In Tune with You music | intimacy | softness A Moment of Jealousy jealousy | grovel | emotional spiral Massage and Reset stress relief | massage | soft care Where You Fit family | insecurity | reassurance

GEORGE RUSSELL

Under the Weather sickfic | stubborn reader | gentle care

MULTIPLE DRIVERS

The Nick Leister allegations had become one of those relationship jokes that refused to die.

Not because either of you actively kept it alive.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Every time the topic resurfaced, it happened accidentally. A movie recommendation. A Porsche. A particularly smug smile. Somehow the conversation always managed to circle back to the fact that you had spent an entire evening watching My Fault: London only to discover that the fictional British bad boy reminded you a deeply unfortunate amount of your very real British boyfriend.

Lando claimed to hate the comparison.

You knew better.

Anyone who truly hated something did not bring it up as often as he did.

Which was why you should have known the video was going to become a problem the second you saw it.

You were curled up on the couch with a coffee balanced precariously on your knee when it appeared on your feed. At first, you barely paid attention. The internet was full of clips of Lando. Interviews. Fan edits. Random paddock moments. Most of them blurred together after a while.

This one started with him shirtless.

For several completely reasonable seconds, that was the only information your brain absorbed.

Apparently the rest of the internet had moved on to something else.

The comments were absolute chaos.

Thousands of them.

Enough that curiosity eventually got the better of you.

You replayed the video.

This time your eyes followed the shirt as he pulled it over his head.

Then you read it.

Once. Twice.

And then a third time just to be certain.

Your coffee slowly lowered toward the table.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

The clip replayed.

Dark hair. Smug smile.

Entirely too comfortable in his own skin.

And now a shirt that was somehow managing to strengthen your argument instead of weaken it.

You stared at your phone for several seconds before reaching for the screenshot button.

One screenshot became two.

Two became three.

The third was probably excessive.

You sent it anyway.

The response arrived almost immediately, which was honestly suspicious in itself considering how long it usually took him to answer normal messages.

The typing bubble appeared.

Vanished.

Reappeared.

You could practically picture him opening the screenshots one after another and immediately realizing exactly where this was headed.

Lando: what

Lando: why have you sent me three identical screenshots

Your smile widened.

You: explain yourself

The pause that followed felt very telling.

Lando: oh no

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

You: oh yes

Lando: we’re not doing this again

You: the evidence keeps growing

Lando: there is no evidence

You: british

Lando: unbelievable

You: cars

Lando: stop

You: vegan?

The typing bubble disappeared for long enough that you knew he was offended.

Not genuinely offended.

Lando’s version of offended.

The theatrical kind.

The kind that usually preceded him becoming dramatically annoying for the next several hours.

Lando: shut up. you’re obsessed with me

You: says the man wearing that shirt

Another pause.

Long enough that you knew he’d lost the argument and was now trying to figure out how to redirect it.

Lando: for the last time

Lando: i am not nick leister

Your grin became impossible to contain.

You: i’m just saying

You: a certain fictional british guy would probably approve

The response came back so quickly it practically slammed into your phone.

Lando: OH MY GOD

You laughed outright.

The image of him reading that message somewhere across Monaco and immediately regretting every single Nick Leister joke he’d ever made was simply too good.

Lando: absolutely not

Lando: that’s where you’re taking this?

You: i’m simply observing similarities

Lando: #blocked

Lando: relationship over

You were still smiling when another message appeared.

Then another.

Then another.

Which, ironically, only proved your point.

People who were truly ending relationships generally stopped texting.

Lando: actually

Lando: i’ve made a decision

Immediately, you became suspicious.

There was a very specific tone to those words.

The same tone he used before announcing ridiculous race weekend bets or revealing plans he thought were hilarious and everyone else found mildly concerning.

You: that’s never a good sign

Lando: you’re no longer allowed to pick the car we drive

You frowned and sat up straighter.

You: excuse me?

Lando: consequences

You: for what exactly

Lando: for comparing me to fictional british men

You: sounds fake

The reply arrived almost instantly.

Like he’d been waiting.

Lando: next drive

Lando: we’re taking the jolly

The horror that swept through you was immediate.

Not exaggerated. Not dramatic. Real horror.

Six months ago, maybe even a year ago, you would’ve thought that sounded adorable.

Now all you could picture was sitting in that tiny wicker-seated beach car while several significantly more interesting vehicles remained parked in the garage.

Even worse, a very specific vehicle remained parked in the garage.

You: absolutely not

Lando: absolutely yes

You: lando

Lando: consequences

You groaned and dropped your head back against the couch.

The worst part was that he sounded genuinely committed to the bit.

You: but you literally just got the keys to the new mclaren

There was a noticeable pause.

Lando: and?

You stared at the screen in disbelief.

You: and???

You: you’re telling me you’d rather drive the jolly than the new mclaren

Lando: for this?

Lando: yes

The audacity. The betrayal.

The complete abuse of power.

You could practically see him grinning.

You: i take it back

You: all of it

You: every accusation

Lando: too late

You: i said you weren’t nick

Lando: interesting

You: you’re very handsome

Lando: go on

You: very unique

Lando: keep going

You: definitely not a fictional british car guy

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Lando: nice try

Lando: we’re still taking the jolly

A genuine sound of distress left you.

Because somehow the joke had stopped being about Nick Leister entirely and become about something much worse.

The fact that Lando had spent the last two years accidentally turning you into a car person.

You hadn’t noticed it happening.

Not at first.

It started with learning names, recognizing engine sounds, even having opinions.

Somewhere along the way, you’d crossed a line and never realized it.

Apparently Lando had.

You: i don’t even like the jolly

The response took longer this time.

Long enough that you knew he was enjoying himself.

When it arrived, it somehow felt worse than the threat.

Lando: wow

Lando: look at you

You immediately regretted sending it.

Lando: two years ago you called every porsche “the beetle looking one”

Heat immediately rushed to your face.

Lando: now you’re rejecting cars

Lando: based on performance

You hated how pleased he sounded.

You hated even more that he was right.

You: i’m not rejecting it

You: i’m simply saying if given the choice between the jolly and literally any other car

You: i would choose the other car

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Lando: i’m so proud of you

You groaned.

Actually groaned.

Right there on the couch.

Because somehow he’d turned your protest into a victory.

For him. Again.

A minute later another message appeared.

This one different, softer, even.

The teasing still there, but quieter underneath it.

Lando: i’ve created a monster

Your smile tugged back into place.

You could picture him so clearly.

The grin. The fondness hiding beneath it. The way he’d eventually tell this story to someone else like he’d personally taught you everything you knew.

You: this is your fault.

The pause this time felt thoughtful.

Lando: probably

A few seconds later another text arrived.

Lando: love you anyway

The smile that spread across your face came easier this time.

Warmer.

Because beneath all the teasing and the fake outrage and the months of Nick Leister jokes, this was always your favorite part.

The easy affection. The certainty.

The way he could spend twenty minutes being completely insufferable and then casually remind you how loved you were.

You: love you too

The response came almost instantly.

Lando: good

Lando: now get ready

You frowned.

You: why

The answer arrived immediately.

Lando: because i’m picking you up in twenty

Your stomach fluttered.

You: with what car

There was just enough delay to make you nervous.

Lando: the jolly

You: LANDO

You could practically hear him laughing.

The final message arrived a few seconds later.

Lando: you

Lando: me

Lando: the jolly

Lando: and a beautiful monaco sunset

A pause.

Then one last text.

Lando: try not to miss your fictional boyfriend too much

You stared at the screen for a second before dissolving into laughter.

Because the truly annoying part wasn’t that he’d won.

Despite the jolly, despite the teasing, despite the fact that he absolutely had access to faster and significantly cooler options, you were already reaching for your shoes.

The hotel room was exactly the same as every other hotel room Formula One had dragged you to over the last two years.

Not identical, necessarily. The artwork changed. The lamps changed. Sometimes the view was better, sometimes the bathroom lighting was offensive enough to feel personal, and sometimes the coffee machine required the kind of mechanical sympathy Lando insisted you did not possess.

But the feeling was always the same.

Temporary.

A space that belonged to nobody, filled with half-open suitcases and charging cables and the quiet evidence of a life lived in transit. Your makeup bag sat on the desk beside Lando’s sunglasses. One of his hoodies had been abandoned over the back of a chair. Your shoes were lined up near the door, his thrown somewhere vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe because apparently precision only mattered when he was driving at two hundred miles an hour.

The only thing that ever made these rooms feel remotely like home was him.

Unfortunately, Lando was currently downstairs.

Some sponsor dinner had been added to his schedule at the last minute, and because the words quick appearance in Formula One only applied when they were on track, you had been left alone with a blanket, a hotel room service menu, and far too much time to entertain yourself.

Which was how you ended up curled into the corner of the couch with Prime Video open on the television.

If anyone asked, you would deny everything.

The books. The movies. The edits.

The extremely inconvenient way romance content had taken over your entire algorithm during the last few weeks.

It had started innocently enough, as these things always did. One book recommendation had appeared on your feed. Then another. Then someone had posted a dramatic edit of a fictional man leaning against a car, and before you knew it, your phone seemed to believe you had no interests outside of emotionally intense men with sharp jawlines and questionable communication skills.

You had finished Off Campus two nights ago.

Then you had gone back and reread the scenes you liked best, which was not technically illegal but did feel like the kind of behavior that should be hidden from loved ones.

Especially from Lando.

Not because he would judge you in any cruel way. He wouldn’t. That was almost the problem. He would find it funny. He would find it fascinating. He would ask questions with that horrible little grin on his face, then remember every single detail forever and weaponize it at the worst possible time.

Lando forgot where he put his phone three times a day, but he never forgot anything that embarrassed you.

Never.

So, naturally, you had kept this particular guilty pleasure to yourself.

The plan for tonight had been simple. You would find something harmless to watch, eat snacks in bed, and pretend you were a person with normal hobbies.

Then you saw the thumbnail for My Fault: London.

You didn’t really know what it was about.

Not properly.

You had seen enough clips to know there was a girl, a boy, and a lot of tension. Beyond that, the details were fuzzy.

That made it safer, somehow.

It was just curiosity.

Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, and then you could move on with your life with the satisfaction of understanding one more internet obsession.

That had been the plan.

Unfortunately, nearly an hour later, you were still watching.

Worse, you were invested.

Worse than that, you had discovered a problem.

The problem was not the movie itself. The movie was doing exactly what it was supposed to do, which was be dramatic and addictive and just a little ridiculous in a way that made it impossible to stop watching.

The problem was Nick Leister.

More specifically, the increasingly irritating realization that Nick reminded you of someone.

At first, it had only been small things. The dark hair, maybe. The confidence. The way he seemed to stand in every room like he had already decided he belonged there, even if he had no intention of saying so out loud.

Then the details kept stacking up.

He’s British. Cocky. Car obsessed. Even a little far too smug for his own good.

The kind of man who could irritate you and attract you in the same breath, which you personally believed should be illegal.

You tried not to compare him to Lando.

Lando was not some mysterious fictional bad boy from a romance movie, no matter how much the internet liked to edit him in slow motion. He was the man who left socks in hotel bathrooms, got emotionally attached to hoodies, talked to you in weird voices when you were annoyed, and once spent fifteen minutes trying to convince you that a bowl of cereal counted as dinner because it had “all the important food groups if you believed hard enough.”

Still, every time Nick smirked at the screen, something in your brain betrayed you.

Every time he slid into a car with too much ease, you thought of Lando folding himself into something low and expensive, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absentmindedly against his thigh while he talked about cars in a way that made no sense to you and yet somehow always made you want to keep listening.

You were so busy being annoyed with yourself that you completely missed your phone lighting up beside you. Then again. Then a third time.

The hotel room door opened with a soft click.

You missed that too.

Lando stepped inside, shook a little rain from his curls, and paused near the door with two bottles of water tucked under one arm and a paper bag from the hotel shop hanging from his fingers. He took in the room in the space of a second, the abandoned blanket edge dragging on the floor, the glow of the television, you curled into the couch like you had been caught doing something you absolutely should not have been doing.

Except you had not noticed him yet.

Which, in retrospect, was the first mistake.

The second mistake was allowing the movie to continue playing.

The third was making a small, entirely involuntary sound at whatever happened on screen next.

Lando heard that. Of course he did.

You had learned over the last two years that your boyfriend could miss a call from his engineer, misplace his keycard, and walk past his own shoes without seeing them, but the second you reacted to something you were trying to hide, his awareness became devastatingly sharp.

The couch dipped beside you.A gasp tore out of you as you jolted upright, one hand clutching the blanket to your chest, your head snapping toward him so fast it was a miracle your neck survived.

Lando was already grinning.

The specific grin that had ended arguments, started arguments, gotten him kissed, gotten him shoved away, and occasionally saved him from consequences he absolutely deserved.

“Jesus, Lando.”

He laughed as he dropped the shop bag onto the coffee table and stretched his legs in front of him like he had every right in the world to sit there, which, annoyingly, he did.

“I texted you.”

His tone was light, but there was something deeply satisfied beneath it, as if your reaction had already confirmed his suspicion that whatever he had interrupted was worth investigating.

You looked toward your phone.

Three missed texts.

One asking if you wanted anything.

One asking if you were still awake.

One that simply said, Should I assume you’ve been kidnapped or are you just ignoring me romantically?

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back into the cushions, the scent of rain and cologne settling around you as he made himself comfortable. “Oh.”

You wanted to be normal about this. You truly did.

The problem was that Lando’s attention had already shifted toward the television.

The movie was still playing.Nick Leister was still on screen.

Because apparently the universe had decided this was the perfect moment for him to look especially smug.

Lando’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What are we watching?”

Nothing about the question should have been dangerous. It was casual, almost lazy, spoken by a man who had just come back from several hours of smiling politely at people and probably wanted nothing more than to switch his brain off beside you.

But you knew him too well.

You knew the angle of his head when something interested him. You knew the slight narrowing of his eyes when he was putting together a thought he had not yet decided to share. You knew the way his mouth softened right before it sharpened into teasing.

You reached for the remote.

Lando reached faster.

His fingers closed around it before yours could, and for one suspended second, the two of you simply looked at each other, his expression bright with victory and yours full of betrayal.

“It’s just a movie,” you said, already aware that you sounded too defensive.

“I can see that.”

“It’s not important.”

“That’s not usually what people say about things that aren’t important.”

You sank back into the couch with as much dignity as you could manage while wearing his hoodie and hiding beneath a blanket.

“It came up in recommendations.”

“Mm.”

You hated the little sound he made.

Lando was taking this information, placing it carefully in the part of his brain reserved for future torment, and you could do absolutely nothing to stop him.

For a few minutes, he watched in silence.

That was somehow worse than immediate teasing.

You sat stiffly beside him, aware of every point where your body almost touched his. His thigh was close enough to brush yours beneath the blanket. His arm rested along the back of the couch behind you. He smelled faintly like rain, expensive hotel soap, and the kind of evening you were glad you had skipped.

On screen, Nick moved through another scene with the kind of cinematic confidence that made your stomach twist because you could already feel Lando noticing things.

You did not look at him.

Looking would be an admission.

Instead, you stared at the television with the expression of someone who had never once had a thought in her life.

Lando’s attention drifted from the screen to you, then back again.

You felt it.

The slow assembly of evidence.

Then, beside you, he shifted.

Not much. Just enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The single syllable filled you with dread.

You closed your eyes. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I might not.”

“You absolutely are.”

The smile in his voice was unbearable.

For a moment he let you sit in the suspense, which was cruel of him and very on brand. Then he nodded toward the television, where Nick had appeared again, all dark hair and smug charm and British arrogance packaged into a romance movie frame.

“He’s British.”

You dropped your head back against the couch.

There it was.

The first clue.

“He is a British man.”

Lando’s mouth curved, slow and delighted.

“One British man you’re apparently very focused on.”

“I was focused on the plot.”

He looked back at the television just in time for Nick to do something that was absolutely not plot critical but was, unfortunately, very effective.

Lando’s silence became louder.

You could feel him turning toward you.

You kept your eyes forward.

If you did not acknowledge him, maybe he would disappear.

He did not.

“You’ve got a type.”

The smug satisfaction in his voice made your whole face heat.

“I date a British person.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not how types work.”

“It’s a strong sample size.”

You finally looked at him, mostly so he could witness the full force of your glare.

It did nothing.

If anything, it made him happier.

That was the trouble with Lando. He had spent years being loved by people who enjoyed him even when he was being insufferable, and unfortunately you had become one of them. He knew exactly how far to push. He knew when your annoyance was real and when it was the kind that meant you were two seconds away from hiding a smile.

This was the second kind.

He knew it.

You knew he knew it.

Which somehow made the whole thing worse.

The movie continued.

For a short while, you allowed yourself to believe the danger had passed.

That was foolish.

The danger had not passed.

On screen, a devilishly handsome Nick Leister climbed into a McLaren.

Lando sat forward so quickly the blanket shifted on your lap.

“Hang on.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my God.”

“That’s a McLaren.”

“I know.”

“That is literally a McLaren.”

“Yes, Lando, I can identify the brand of car you drive for a living.”

He turned toward you slowly, his face shifting from casual amusement into something far more focused.

It was almost funny how quickly the pieces clicked together.

You watched it happen.

British. Cocky. Car obsessed.

McLaren.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in accusation, but in fascination. The same look he got when he found out you had been pretending not to like one of his hoodies while wearing it three nights in a row. The same look he gave you when you claimed you were not tired, then fell asleep against him ten minutes later.

“Oh, this is interesting.”

“It is not.”

“It is very interesting.”

“Lando.”

He leaned back again, but now his attention was split evenly between you and the film, which somehow felt infinitely worse than when he had been watching the screen. His arm slid from the back of the couch around your shoulders, warm and familiar, and even though you considered resisting on principle, your body betrayed you by settling slightly closer.

He noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His thumb moved once against your shoulder, absentminded and affectionate, the way it always did when he was pleased with himself.

“So,” he said, far too casually, “let’s review.”

“No.”

“Your fictional man is British.”

“Lando.”

“ He’s driving a McLaren .”

“You also drive a McLaren. It’s not exactly rare in this household. Plus I’m pretty sure there was also a Mercedes.”

“Oh so he really is car obsessed.”

“You are proving nothing except that men in movies sometimes have hobbies.”

“He’s a little smug, don’t ya think?”

You turned to glare at him.

He looked delighted.

“Careful.”

“What? I didn’t say myself.”

“You were thinking about it.”

His grin widened.

“You think I’m smug?”

“I think you’re about to be single.”

He laughed then, a proper laugh, bright and warm and deeply irritating because it made it impossible to stay embarrassed in any clean, dramatic way. He tipped his head back against the couch and squeezed your shoulder, pulling you closer like he had no intention of letting you retreat from either the conversation or him.

The romantic tension on screen continued building, which was inconvenient because Lando was now fully alert.

You could feel the exact moment he stopped watching as a casual bystander and started watching as a man personally invested in discovering how embarrassing this could become for you. 

Nothing sexual even really happened. Not yet.

It was all glances and not so innocent touches and the kind of silence that romance movies stretched until it became its own language. You were painfully aware of Lando beside you, of the warmth of his arm, of the way he had gone just still enough to mean he was paying attention.

Then he made a quiet sound.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket.

“Don’t.”

He did not take his eyes off the screen.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a noise.”

“Am I not allowed to breathe?”

“Not like that.”

His mouth twitched.

He was enjoying this too much.

You could feel your own embarrassment climbing with every second, which was ridiculous because you were an adult woman in a long-term relationship with the man sitting beside you, and there was nothing inherently humiliating about watching a romance movie.

Except there was.

Because he knew.

Not everything, maybe, but enough.

He knew that you had been alone in a hotel room watching some fictional British car guy smirk his way through a plot you barely understood, and he knew that you had gotten caught so absorbed you missed three texts and the sound of him entering the room.

That was evidence. Damning evidence.

Lando turned his head slightly, studying the side of your face with the kind of open amusement that made you want to crawl beneath the couch.

“So this is what you do when I’m gone.”

“I watch movies?”

“You ignore me for fake British car boys.”

You pressed your lips together.

He saw the smile trying to break through.

His expression softened, not into less teasing, but into something warmer beneath it. A kind of quiet fondness that had developed gradually over the last two years, built from shared hotel rooms and airport lounges and mornings when neither of you knew what country you were in until someone checked the itinerary.

He was laughing at you, yes.

But gently. Lovingly.

In the way someone could only tease when they already knew where the soft spots were and had no intention of hurting them.

Now he was close, and warm, and smug, and watching a movie character who reminded you too much of him, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like embarrassment and more like being seen in a way you had not prepared for.

You shifted beneath the blanket.

Lando’s eyes dipped briefly to the movement.

Then returned to your face.

The smile changed.

Only slightly.

Enough.

“Oh,” he said again, quieter this time.

Your stomach flipped.

“No.”

He leaned a little closer.

“You like this.”

“I like many things.”

“This specifically.”

“It is a film. People are meant to like films.”

“Not what I meant.”

You grabbed the nearest cushion and pressed it against your face.

His laughter came immediately, muffled only when he tried to tug it away.

“Come on,” he said, voice warm with amusement. “I’m not judging.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m appreciating.”

“That’s worse.”

“It might be.”

When you finally lowered the cushion, he was watching you with that stupid, affectionate grin, the one that always made him look younger and softer and unfairly pleased with you. It was the expression he wore when you wore his Quadrant hoodie without asking. The one he had when you fell asleep during movies and insisted you had been watching. The one that said he had discovered something about you and would now be unbearable about it forever.

The movie, apparently sensing the exact moment it could do the most damage, chose then to escalate.

Lando’s attention snapped back to the screen.

His brows lifted.

For one blissful second, you thought he was merely processing the romantic tension.

Then the story context caught up with him.

His entire body went still. Not an amused sort of still.

Horrified still.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned toward you.

“Wait.”

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

“No.”

“Wait.”

“Lando, no.”

His voice rose slightly.

“Is that his sister?”

You had known this moment was coming eventually, but knowing did not prepare you for experiencing the full force of Lando Norris discovering a romance movie plot in real time.

You sat up quickly, the blanket sliding down your lap.

“Step sister.”

“That is not helping as much as you think it is.”

“They are not related.”

“They live in the same house.”

“They met after their parents got married.”

His expression shifted from horror to disbelief.

“After?”

“Yes.”

“As adults?”

“Yes.”

“From different countries?”

“Yes.”

“Never met before?”

“Correct.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

The silence stretched.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“You knew that very fast.”

You closed your mouth.

Opened it.

Closed it again.

Unfortunately, there was no good answer.

“It’s like the first 10 minutes of the movie you missed.”

Lando’s face transformed.

The horror did not disappear, exactly, but it became layered with something less offensive.

“This is insane.”

“It makes sense in context.”

“That is what people say when things do not make sense.”

“You weren’t even here for the beginning.”

“I feel like I got here for the important part.”

“You got here for the worst possible part.”

“Best possible part for me.”

He settled back into the couch again, still chuckling under his breath, and despite everything, despite the teasing and the horror and the fact that he would absolutely be bringing this up again, you found yourself relaxing against him.

That was another thing about Lando.

He could make embarrassment feel survivable.

He could walk straight into something you were trying to hide, poke at it until you wanted to smother him with a pillow, and somehow still make you feel less ashamed than you had before.

Maybe because he never made it feel serious.

Maybe because he liked discovering the weird little corners of your brain.

Maybe because, somewhere along the way, you had learned that his teasing was almost always just another form of affection.

For all his commentary, for all his dramatic horror at the plot, he did not ask to turn the movie off. He did not reach for his phone. He did not make you switch to something safer or easier or less embarrassing.

Instead, he tucked you closer into his side, stole a pretzel from your snack pilel, and kept watching.

And because Lando did not know how to be a passive viewer of anything, he became invested.

Annoyingly invested.

He asked questions.

He made predictions.

He argued with character decisions under his breath.

At one point he paused mid-snack to frown at the screen and mutter, “That is a terrible idea,” with enough seriousness that you had to hide your face in his shoulder to stop yourself from laughing.

The longer he watched, the softer the teasing became.

It turned into something domestic.

Something easy.

The kind of night you loved most with him, where the rest of the world narrowed down to the two of you tucked away from the paddock noise and cameras and schedules. His hand rested on your knee beneath the blanket, thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric as if he did not even realize he was doing it. Every so often, he glanced down at you, like he was checking whether you were still embarrassed or whether he could safely make another comment.

You always saw him check.

That was the thing people missed about Lando sometimes.

They saw the noise first.

The jokes. The chaos. The energy.

They did not always see the way he watched the people he loved, how carefully he learned their limits, how quickly he noticed when a joke had landed wrong or when your silence had shifted from comfortable to overwhelmed.

He had spent the first few months of your relationship pretending not to be careful because careful felt too vulnerable.

Now he was careful without hiding it as much.

Now he touched your knee under blankets in hotel rooms and let his thumb move in slow circles while pretending he was too focused on a movie to know exactly what he was doing.

By the time the credits rolled, the rain had softened against the windows and the city beyond the glass had blurred into streaks of light.

You expected immediate teasing.

You braced for it.

Lando, however, remained quiet for several seconds, staring at the screen with an expression that suggested he was still processing several things at once.

Then he looked down at you.

“You know,” he said, voice thoughtful, “I still think the step sibling thing is weird.”

You groaned and shoved at his chest.

His laughter returned instantly.

“But,” he continued, catching your hand before you could escape, “I understand the appeal.”

You froze.

That was worse. Far worse.

Because he said it softly, with a hint of amusement but also with enough warmth to make your face heat all over again.

“You understand the appeal,” you repeated carefully.

His grin came back slowly.

“Yes.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

He shifted, turning toward you more fully, one arm still around your shoulders, the other settling comfortably over your blanket-covered legs as though keeping you pinned in place without actually trapping you. His eyes moved over your face with open fondness, lingering on the warmth in your cheeks, the suspicious way you avoided looking directly at him.

“The appeal,” he said, like he was preparing a very serious presentation, “is obviously very simple.”

You already regretted letting him speak.

“I’m British,” he began.

“Lando.”

“I drive McLarens.”

“Please stop.”

“I might also be a little bit car obsessed.”

“I’m begging.”

“Some may say I’m confident.”

You pulled the blanket higher.

“Smug, even.”

“That part is not a compliment.”

“It is when you like it.”

“I do not like it.”

His eyes flicked over your face.

Your silence betrayed you.

The satisfaction that spread across his expression was unbearable.

He leaned slightly closer, voice lowering in that way he only used when he knew he had you cornered and was enjoying every second of it.

“And handsome.”

You gave him the flattest look you could manage.

“Interesting that you made that connection.”

You hated him.

You loved him.

The two feelings were frequently indistinguishable when he looked at you like that.

The laughter came gently this time, both of you sinking into it rather than breaking apart with it. He pressed his smile into your temple, and you let yourself lean into him because there was no point pretending you did not want to. Not after two years. Not after all the little ways you had become familiar to each other.

He knew how you took your coffee when you were tired versus when you were pretending not to be. He knew that you hated being teased in front of other people but secretly loved when he did it like this, tucked away where no one else could see. You knew he pretended to be offended when you misidentified his cars, even though he secretly enjoyed explaining them to you every time.

This was yours. This room.

This ridiculous movie.

This mortifying realization.

This man beside you, warm and far too pleased with the fact that a fictional British driver had somehow led you right back to him.

Eventually, the night started pulling at both of you.

Lando yawned first, though he denied it immediately when you pointed it out.

You turned off the television, and the room fell into a softer kind of darkness, lit only by the bathroom light and the glow of the city beyond the curtains. The hotel felt smaller without the movie playing. More intimate. The rain continued tapping at the glass, slow and steady, while the two of you moved through the familiar routine of getting ready for bed.

It was always strangely comforting, those small routines in unfamiliar places.

Lando plugged in both your phones because he insisted you were “a threat to battery percentages everywhere.” You gathered the snack wrappers from the coffee table while he wandered into the bathroom. He left the door open, because he always did when it was just the two of you, and you could see him in the mirror as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush.

There was something painfully domestic about it.

The kind of mundane intimacy you had not expected to love so much when you first started dating him.

In the beginning, everything had felt bigger. The races. The travel. The attention. The fact that he was Lando Norris and you were trying to learn what it meant to be loved by someone whose life seemed to move faster than everyone else’s.

But somewhere between the first year and the second, the grand gestures had become less important than this.

Sharing space. Stealing chargers. Falling asleep on planes.

Knowing when he needed quiet after a bad session.

Knowing when you needed him to make you laugh before your thoughts spiraled too far.

You were still thinking about that when you stepped into the bathroom beside him and reached for your own toothbrush.

Lando glanced at you through the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste, curls slightly damp and flattened in odd places from the hood he had worn earlier. He looked tired now, softer around the edges, the sponsor dinner version of him fading back into the version that belonged to you.

You should have let the night end there.

You should have brushed your teeth, crawled into bed, accepted that you had survived being caught watching your kind of guilty pleasure movie, and moved on.

Instead, your brain chose betrayal.

“Hey Lan,.”

Lando looked up.

“Hm?”

You kept your eyes on the sink.

“When we get home...”

The pause was small.

Not dramatic.

But after almost two years together, he knew your pauses the same way you knew his expressions.

His brushing slowed.

“Yeah?”

You focused very hard on putting toothpaste on your toothbrush, even though you had already done that.

“Do you think we could take the GT3 RS out?”

Lando’s toothbrush paused halfway to his mouth.

It wasn’t an immediate reaction. If anything, it was the complete stillness that gave him away. One second he had been rinsing toothpaste from the sink, and the next he was staring at you through the mirror with a look that suggested you had just spoken fluent Mandarin.

You immediately regretted opening your mouth.

“The GT3 RS?” he repeated.

There was nothing particularly dramatic about the question, but after nearly two years together, you knew exactly what that tone meant. It was the same tone he used whenever he was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t quite make sense.

“Maybe,” you mumbled.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

That was somehow worse than if he’d laughed.

“Interesting.”

“Lando.”

He set the toothbrush down carefully, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter. The amusement was already spreading across his face, impossible to stop now that he had found something to tease you about.

“I’ve spent years talking about cars around you,” he said. “Years. I’ve explained horsepower, suspension setups, engine notes. Do you know how many times you’ve voluntarily brought up one of my cars?”

You already knew where this was heading.

Unfortunately, so did he.

“The answer is zero, by the way.”

“That’s not true.”

“You called it the loud green one for six months.”

“Because it is loud and green.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, and suddenly you were reminded of exactly why this conversation had been a mistake. Because now he was looking at you with that stupid grin, the one that always appeared whenever he thought he had uncovered something.

“And now,” he continued, taking a step closer, “you’re requesting specific Porsches.”

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.

The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You weren’t about to tell him that.

You certainly weren’t about to tell him that somewhere between the movie, the cars, and a certain dark-haired British idiot sitting beside you for the last hour, the idea had simply sounded appealing.

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

The smile that spread across his face was pure satisfaction.

And judging by the way he looked ready to bring this up for the next decade, you had a feeling you were never going to hear the end of it.

“I just thought it might be nice,” you said, aiming for casual and landing nowhere near it.

“Nice.”

“Yes.”

“The GT3 RS.”

“Yes.”

He took another step toward you, close enough now that you could smell toothpaste and rain and him. The amusement in his face softened slightly as his hands found your waist, thumbs settling naturally against the fabric of your hoodie.

“You know,” he said, voice lowering just enough to make your stomach flip, “you could have just said you wanted me to drive you around.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You heavily implied it.”

“I asked about a car.”

“You asked about my car.”

“I asked about one of many cars.”

“You asked about the one that might even belong in your little romance movie.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Lando’s grin became devastating.

“There it is.”

“There is nothing.”

“That face says there is absolutely something.”

You tried to step away, but his hands tightened just enough to keep you there, gentle and warm and laughing before either of you made a sound.

The teasing could have embarrassed you if it belonged to anyone else.

From him, it only made you feel caught in the safest possible way.

Like he had found a secret you had been hiding and decided to hold it carefully instead of making it sharp.

His thumb brushed over your side once, slow and affectionate.

“You’re cute when you’re guilty.”

“I’m not guilty.”

“You missed three texts because of fake me.”

“He is not fake you.”

Lando looked deeply unconvinced.

“British.”

“Stop.”

“Dark hair.”

“Lando.”

“Cars.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Unfortunately, you did.

Terribly.

Obviously.

So much that it made your chest ache sometimes in small, inconvenient moments like this, when he was standing barefoot in a hotel bathroom with toothpaste at the corner of his mouth, looking at you like you were the best thing that had happened to him all day.

You reached up and wiped the toothpaste away with your thumb.

His expression softened.

Just a little.

Enough to make the teasing falter.

That was the thing about Lando. He could be unbearable for fifteen minutes straight, then look at you like that and make it impossible to remember why you had ever wanted him to stop.

The bathroom seemed quieter suddenly, the rain muffled behind the windows, the city distant beyond the room. His hands remained at your waist, and yours rested lightly against his chest, close enough to feel the steady beat beneath your palm.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then his mouth curved again, smaller this time.

“So when we get home,” he said, “you want a ride in the GT3 RS.”

You sighed.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

“No, no. I’m very supportive.”

“You are not.”

“I am. I’m thrilled. My girlfriend finally cares about cars.”

“I care about plenty of things.”

“Apparently fictional British men have done more for automotive enthusiasm than I ever could.”

You pressed your forehead against his chest to hide your laugh.

He wrapped his arms around you immediately, chin dropping to rest lightly on top of your head, his own laughter vibrating through him.

It should have been ridiculous.

It was ridiculous.

But it was also sweet in that strange, sideways way love often was.

Because maybe the movie had been a guilty pleasure.

Maybe the comparison had been embarrassing.

Maybe you would now have to endure months of Lando casually asking if you wanted to watch “your McLaren boyfriend film” whenever he felt annoying.

But the truth was, you had not fallen for Nick Leister.

You had fallen for Lando.

For the way he noticed your secrets and made them feel less heavy.

For the way he teased without cruelty.

For the way he came back to hotel rooms smelling like rain and still chose to sit beside you through the end of a movie he did not understand just because you were watching it.

For the way he touched you like affection was muscle memory.

For the way he could turn a humiliating moment into something you knew you would laugh about later.

When you finally pulled back, he was still smiling.

Not smug now.

Not exactly.

Something softer.

Something that belonged only to the two of you.

“I’ll take you,” he said.

Your face warmed again, though this time it was not entirely embarrassment.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned down, brushing his nose lightly against yours before kissing you once, soft and quick and full of laughter he had not quite let go of.

Then he pulled back just enough to ruin the moment.

“But if you ask me to repeat his lines while driving, I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

You shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back into the counter, laughing again.

And later, when the lights were finally off and the hotel room had gone dark around you, Lando pulled you into him beneath the blankets with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged.

You were almost asleep when his voice brushed against your hair.

“British, McLaren, cars,” he murmured.

“Go to sleep.”

“Just saying. Very on brand.”

“Lando.”

His arm tightened around your waist, his smile pressing against the back of your neck.

“Can’t believe I was replaced by a step sibling with a sports car.”

You groaned into the pillow.

He laughed quietly, holding you closer.

And despite yourself, despite the embarrassment still warming your cheeks and the absolute certainty that he would bring this up again, you smiled in the dark.

Because when you got home, he would take you out in the GT3 RS.

He would pretend it was all about the car.

You would pretend you had not asked because of the movie.

You decide to come to Australia on a Tuesday.

Not literally—your flight is on a Tuesday, your suitcase is zipped on a Tuesday, your life is paused on a Tuesday—but the decision itself happens on a Tuesday, in the quiet space between Oscar’s calendar and your hesitation.

It’s the off-season, he’d said, like it was nothing. Like the concept of an off-season didn’t still feel strange after months of you watching him live at a pace that never truly slows. Like the idea of him having time wasn’t something precious and delicate.

Come with me, he’d added, like it was obvious. Like the distance wasn’t enormous and the leap wasn’t emotional.

You’d laughed at first. A reflex. A way to soften the fact that the suggestion hit something tender.

Australia wasn’t just a trip. It wasn’t just sun and beaches and the novelty of hearing him say words in a thicker accent without the polished edges he wears in Europe. It wasn’t just the idea of being with him when he isn’t a driver for a while.

Australia meant family.

It meant seeing him in the place he came from, when he’s not carefully contained by schedules and expectations. It meant meeting his mum properly, meeting the sisters he talks about like they’re a force of nature, stepping into the house where his voice first learned what it sounds like to be safe.

You’d told yourself you were overthinking.

Oscar had looked at you, calm and steady, and said, “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?” you’d asked, even though you knew.

“The part where you try to find reasons not to do something you want.”

You’d opened your mouth to argue, and he’d just watched you. Patient. Unmoving. Like he knew you’d talk yourself out of it if he gave you too much room.

“I want you there,” he’d said, like it was the simplest truth. “Not for photos. Not for showing off. Just… for me. For us.”

He’d waited a beat, then added, softer, “And I think you’d like it. Even if it scares you.”

It had scared you.

That was the problem.

And maybe that’s why you eventually said yes.

Because you were tired of letting fear decide what you could have.

So you come to Australia for the off-season this year, half convinced it’ll feel like a holiday and half certain it’ll feel like stepping into a room you don’t know how to stand in.

On the flight, you can’t sleep properly.

You doze in uncomfortable bursts, waking with your neck stiff and your mouth dry, the cabin lights too bright, the air too cold. Oscar sleeps like he always does on planes: head tipped slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely, face calm in a way that makes you envy him.

At one point, you watch him for a long minute and think about how strange it is that he can exist so quietly in the middle of chaos. People shifting around you, announcements overhead, the low hum of engines that never stops.

You wonder if he learned that calm, or if he was raised into it.

Later, when you both shuffle toward the bathrooms with that sleep-deprived, cramped-flight gait, he catches you staring into space and nudges your shoulder gently.

“You alive?” he asks.

“Barely.”

He hums, amused. “Good. You can’t die yet. My mum would be annoyed. She’s already decided she likes you.”

Your stomach flips, half from nerves and half from the casualness with which he says it.

“She hasn’t met me.”

“She’s met me,” Oscar replies, deadpan. “And I won’t stop talking about you.”

You blink. “You do not.”

He looks at you like you’ve just accused him of something absurd. “I do.”

“Since when?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Since you.”

That should feel like a joke. It doesn’t. It lands heavy, warm, and a little terrifying.

You look away before your face can betray you.

Oscar nudges you again, softer this time. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say automatically.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then nods like he’ll accept that answer for now. It’s one of the things you love about him. He doesn’t force. He doesn’t press. He makes space.

Sometimes the space is what scares you, because it means you have to step into it yourself.

When the plane doors open in Australia, the air changes immediately.

Warm. Dense. Full of salt and something green and sharp, eucalyptus threaded through it like it belongs in the atmosphere. The light looks different too—brighter, less filtered, like the sky is closer.

Oscar steps out ahead of you and inhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

You look at him and watch his shoulders drop, just a fraction. Something unclenches. His accent rounds out without him noticing. His mouth quirks, small and private.

He looks younger here, even though nothing about him has changed. It’s just that he’s not braced. Not contained. Not on.

He’s home.

And your stomach does that quiet flip it does when you realize you’re about to meet someone in the place they were made.

Because Australia isn’t the scary part.

The scary part is the fact that this trip comes with an unspoken promise: you will see the full Oscar. The private one. The one that belongs to sunlight and long evenings and family arguments about what movie goes next.

And if you’re here for the full Oscar, you’re here for everything that shaped him.

Including the kind of love you’ve only ever watched from a distance.

By the time you’ve collected your bags, you’re running on a strange mix of jet lag and adrenaline. The terminal is busy, but it feels calmer than the ones back home. Even the voices sound different, softer around the edges, with that familiar Australian lilt that makes everything sound slightly more relaxed than it actually is.

Oscar wheels your suitcase without asking, because he always does things like that. Practical. Quietly protective. He walks beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world that you’re here with him, on his side of the planet, in his country.

Outside, the heat hits more fully, wrapping around your skin. Oscar squints toward the car park and then looks back at you.

“Welcome,” he says, almost amused, “to being slightly sweaty all the time.”

“You make it sound so glamorous.”

“It is glamorous,” he replies, dead serious. “Peak human existence. Sun. Beaches. Complaining. You’ll see.”

You laugh, and the sound is real. Oscar’s mouth curves slightly like he’s pleased he got that out of you.

On the drive, the city slides past in sun-bright blocks. The sky feels enormous. Oscar points things out occasionally, not with the energy of a tour guide, but with that quiet pride people have when they’re showing you a piece of their life.

“That’s the café Mum still goes to,” he says, nodding toward a corner spot with outdoor seating. “They still think I’m fourteen.”

“You look fourteen,” you say, eyeing him.

He glances at you, unimpressed. “Rude.”

“You said it first.”

He smirks. “I did not.”

You rest your hand on his thigh, feeling the warmth through his shorts.

“You’re different here,” you say lightly.

He looks at you briefly. “Different good or different concerning?”

“Different relaxed.”

He nods once. “Yeah. Probably.”

His hand stays on your knee for a moment, thumb moving in small, absent circles.

Your chest tightens quietly.

Relaxed Oscar means family Oscar.

Family Oscar means seeing him in the environment that built the parts of him you love: the steadiness, the restraint, the quiet care that shows up in his actions more than his words.

You’ve been with him long enough to know he loves you in the way he lives: consistent, practical, present.

But you’ve also been with him long enough to know that love like his doesn’t come from nowhere.

At a stoplight, he glances at you.

“Mum’s looking forward to seeing you,” he says.

Your stomach flips. “Is she?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s been asking.”

“Asking what?”

He shrugs. “If you’re eating properly. If you’ve recovered from the flight. If you like seafood. Normal mum stuff.”

Normal mum stuff.

He says it like everyone has that category.

You nod and look out the window, forcing your breathing to stay even.

The car turns down a quieter street lined with eucalyptus trees. Their shadows stretch across the pavement in long, lazy stripes. The houses are spaced out, sunlight spilling across lawns.

Oscar slows as he pulls into a driveway. The house sits back from the road slightly, framed by tidy hedges and a wide veranda. The paint is pale and sun-softened. The windows are open. You can hear music drifting out before the door even opens.

It looks lived in.

Loved in.

Your palms start sweating.

Oscar kills the engine and looks at you.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Jet lag.”

He tilts his head slightly. A small tell that means he’s not buying it.

He doesn’t push. He just reaches over and takes your hand, thumb rubbing once across your knuckles.

“You don’t have to impress anyone,” he says quietly. “They’re just… them.”

“And I’m just me,” you reply.

“Exactly.”

He lifts your hand and kisses your fingers, quick and grounding.

“Just be you,” he adds. “That’s what I like.”

You swallow.

He gets out of the car like he hasn’t just steadied your entire nervous system with one sentence.

You follow him up the driveway, heart thumping.

The front door opens before you can knock.

Nicole steps out with a warmth that isn’t loud but fills space anyway. She hugs Oscar first, pressing a kiss to his cheek, holding his face between her hands like she’s checking for damage.

“My love,” she says.

Oscar’s cheeks go faintly pink. “Mum.”

Nicole pulls back, eyes scanning him quickly—not critical, just confirming. He’s healthy. He’s here. He’s hers, still.

Then she turns to you.

Up close, her gaze is steady. Observant. Kind, but not soft in a fragile way. There’s something grounded about her. Something immovable.

“And you,” she says, stepping forward.

Her hug is firm and sure. Not performative. Not polite. It feels like she’s decided you’re welcome and that’s that.

“You made it,” she says, smiling. “Long flight.”

You laugh softly. “Very.”

Nicole’s smile shifts into something warmer. “He’s worth it.”

You glance at Oscar. He looks like he wants to disappear into the floor.

Nicole turns toward the house. “Come in. Shoes wherever. We’re casual.”

Inside, the house is cooler than the air outside, ceiling fans moving slowly. The living room is sunlit, wide windows spilling afternoon light across a couch that looks like it’s been lived on for years. There are framed photos along the hallway: childhood snapshots, family holidays, graduations, candid moments that were kept and displayed instead of hidden away.

There’s evidence of a life that was shared openly.

Oscar’s sisters appear from different directions like they’ve been waiting for their cue. It’s obvious immediately that each one has her own style, her own way of carrying herself. One looks like she stepped out of a magazine without trying, put together in a way that’s effortless and bold. Another is sun-kissed and easy, the kind of person who seems like she belongs outdoors more than in. Another feels young and free, moving through the room with an energy that makes you think she’s never apologized for taking up space.

They all hug Oscar with the kind of affection that doesn’t ask permission.

“You look too relaxed,” one of them says, inspecting him like quality control.

“You’ve been gone for ages,” another says, squeezing him hard.

The young-and-free one grins at you like she’s already decided you’re safe. “So you’re the one.”

Oscar sighs. “Please don’t start.”

They hug you too, easy and genuine. Not forced. Not formal. A hand on your shoulder, a grin, a quick compliment about your earrings.

You mumble thank you and try to keep your smile steady.

The thing that hits you isn’t just that they’re nice.

It’s that they’re nice without effort.

They don’t have to manage themselves to be kind. They don’t have to calculate how much warmth is allowed. They just… are.

And as you watch them shift around each other, you start noticing the similarities they share with Oscar. The blunt humor that softens with a grin. The quiet attentiveness. The way they notice who hasn’t spoken in a while. The steadiness in their voices, even when they tease.

It’s like Oscar’s best parts have echoes here.

And the thought settles slowly in your chest:

This didn’t happen by accident.

This is parenting.

This is Nicole.

Dinner unfolds in Nicole’s kitchen like choreography.

She moves confidently between the stove and the counter, tasting sauce with the edge of a spoon, wiping her hands on a tea towel tucked into her waistband. Her partner is there too, easy smile, stepping in and out of the kitchen naturally, adding a comment here, carrying a dish there. No awkwardness. No tension. Just a flow that suggests this household has learned how to be a household again.

Nicole directs gently.

“Oscar, set the table.” “Don’t steal food.” “Yes, you can have dessert later.” “And no, you can’t start without everyone.”

Oscar obeys without complaint. He grabs plates, sets cutlery with quiet efficiency. He reaches for things without asking where they are, like his body remembers this kitchen even after months away.

You hover at first, unsure where to stand.

Nicole notices within seconds.

“Come here,” she says, not loudly but firmly. “Taste this.”

She offers you a spoon like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You taste. It’s good. Comforting. The kind of food that feels like someone cared.

“It’s really good,” you say.

Nicole studies your face, as if measuring sincerity. Then she nods, satisfied.

“Good,” she says. “I trust you.”

Trust. Casual, given.

It makes your chest tighten for reasons you don’t fully understand.

Oscar glances at you, eyebrows lifting slightly like he’s pleased you’ve been pulled into the orbit.

One sister drifts into the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge without asking. Another leans on the counter, telling a story. Nicole listens fully while still stirring a pot, laughing at the right parts, asking follow-ups without making it about herself.

You watch how she holds the room.

Not by being loud.

By being steady.

By making people feel seen.

Oscar is quieter here than he is with friends, but softer. He says fewer words, but when he does speak, his voice carries that comfortable rhythm of someone who isn’t bracing.

He nudges you lightly with his elbow when he catches you watching too hard.

“Stop analyzing,” he murmurs.

“Not analyzing,” you whisper back.

He gives you a look that says sure.

Dinner is set on the long table in the dining room. Candles flicker low, casting warm light across plates and glasses. The windows are open, evening air moving gently through the space, carrying the faint scent of grass and warm wood.

The conversation starts easily.

They ask about your work, your hobbies, what you’ve been enjoying in Australia so far. They listen when you answer. Not the way people listen politely, waiting for their turn to speak. The way people listen when they actually care.

One sister talks about something she’s proud of, and Nicole says, “That’s fantastic. You’ve worked hard.”

The compliment is casual. Automatic. Pride spoken aloud like it’s normal.

Your fork pauses mid-air for half a second before you force it to keep moving.

Oscar tells a story about karting as a kid, about how he used to insist he could handle everything himself. Nicole snorts.

“He was stubborn,” she says. “Still is.”

Oscar looks offended. “I’m not stubborn.”

One of his sisters laughs. “He’s stubborn.”

Nicole’s partner adds, amused, “He’s stubborn.”

Oscar sighs, resigned. “Okay. I’m stubborn.”

The table laughs.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you like he wants you to laugh too. You do, because it’s funny, because it’s warm, because this is the version of him you don’t get often. The version who can be teased without defensiveness.

And then, inevitably, it happens.

It isn’t malicious. It isn’t invasive. It’s just a question asked by people who assume parents are a constant.

“What were you like growing up?” one sister asks.

You blink. “Quiet,” you say lightly.

“Quiet how?” another asks, genuinely curious.

You shrug. “Just… did my thing.”

Someone smiles. “Were you sporty? Creative? Did you have a hobby you were obsessed with?”

You start answering, something safe, something light, and it’s fine until the follow-up lands.

“Did your parents come to your stuff?” someone asks, matter-of-fact.

Your throat closes.

For a second, it feels like the room has shifted, like the air has changed density. Not because they’ve done anything wrong. Because your body remembers.

You keep your smile in place, because you’ve practiced it.

“They were busy,” you say softly. “So… sometimes.”

Nicole’s gaze lifts. It’s quick. Controlled. But it’s there.

She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t make a face. She doesn’t make the table go quiet.

But she notices.

You look down at your plate, heartbeat thumping.

Oscar doesn’t catch it right away. He’s mid-story, relaxed, teasing. He says something blunt, a little too sharp, and one sister flicks a napkin at him.

“Still working on emotional tact?” she says.

Oscar shrugs. “I’m efficient.”

Nicole gives him a look over her glass. “You can be efficient and kind.”

Oscar doesn’t argue. He just nods slightly. “I am kind.”

His sister snorts. “Sure.”

The table laughs again.

You laugh too, but the earlier question has lodged under your ribs and won’t leave.

Because you’re watching them all talk like themselves. Laugh like themselves. Disagree without fear. Be proud without restraint.

And you’re realizing, in a way you can’t un-know, that Oscar didn’t become who he is by accident.

Not the driver. Not the public figure.

The person.

The one who notices when you’re quiet. The one who steadies you with a hand on your knee. The one who stays calm when feelings get complicated because he believes calm can keep people safe.

That kind of person is shaped.

That kind of steadiness has roots.

And the roots are sitting around this table.

After dinner, they migrate to the living room like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The couch is wide and worn-in. Blankets folded over the back. A basket of snacks on the coffee table like it’s been prepared for this exact moment. The TV flickers on, Netflix menu bright in the dim room.

They argue about what movie goes next like it’s a sport.

“Not that one,” someone says immediately.

“We watched your choice last time,” another counters.

“That was months ago.”

Oscar’s partner—Nicole’s partner—laughs and throws his hands up. “You lot are impossible.”

Oscar sprawls on the rug at your feet, back against the couch, legs stretched out like he’s never had to worry about how he looks while existing. One sister perches on the armrest like she belongs there. Another curls into the corner with her legs tucked beneath her. The young-and-free one steals a handful of chips and then leans sideways into Oscar’s shoulder just to annoy him.

“You’re invading my space,” Oscar says, deadpan.

“You have plenty of space,” she replies.

“This is bullying,” he mutters.

Nicole sits in the center like a calm anchor, amused by the chaos. She isn’t trying to control it. She’s just there, holding the whole thing steady by existing.

You take the end of the couch at first.

Close enough to be included.

Far enough to feel peripheral.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re just tired. You tell yourself you’re enjoying it.

You are enjoying it.

That’s part of the problem.

The warmth feels too good. Too easy. It presses on the parts of you that learned not to expect warmth, and those parts start to ache.

Because everyone here seems so sure of who they are.

Not in a loud, performative way. In a grounded way. A secure way.

They tease each other without fear. They disagree without resentment. They laugh without holding back. They speak about their lives and their interests like they assume someone will care.

And you’re sitting there with your hands folded neatly, your laughter measured, your posture slightly tense, like you’re trying not to take up space.

Not because anyone asked you to.

Because you learned that was safer.

The movie finally gets chosen. The lights dim a little more. The opening scene starts. Someone throws a blanket across Oscar’s legs, and he doesn’t even look up, just adjusts it automatically.

The casual care in the room is constant.

A hand passing snacks without asking.

A shoulder leaned against another shoulder without hesitation.

A laugh that fills the space without apology.

Your chest tightens slowly.

You think about your own childhood living room. The silence. The way the TV filled space because no one knew how to talk. The way you learned to celebrate yourself quietly, alone, because expecting anyone else to care felt like setting yourself up.

You don’t want to ruin this for Oscar.

You don’t want him to have to manage your feelings on his break. You don’t want to be the girlfriend who makes a simple family movie night complicated.

So you keep it inside.

You keep smiling.

You keep being fine.

But your lungs feel like they’re running out of room.

When the debate about the next movie starts again halfway through—someone already planning what comes after—you take the moment. You stand quietly, slip down the hallway, and step outside.

The night air is warm and soft. The yard smells like grass and damp soil. Crickets hum steadily.

You breathe like you’ve been underwater.

You press your hands to the railing and stare into the dark.

You didn’t expect it to hit this hard.

You didn’t expect to feel like this.

You tell yourself you’ll go back in once you calm down.

The door opens softly behind you.

You expect Oscar.

It’s Nicole.

She closes the door gently, leaning back against it for a moment as if she’s anchoring herself before stepping toward you.

“I nearly sent him,” she says calmly. “But I thought I’d come instead.”

You wipe at your cheek quickly, surprised to find it damp.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

Nicole gives you a look that suggests she’s heard that word too many times from too many people who weren’t fine.

“He’s not always the best at reading when something’s heavy,” she says, not unkindly. “He tries. But he was blunt as a kid. Used to pick at his sisters until someone cried.”

You blink, half startled, half amused. “Really?”

Nicole nods, fondness softening her mouth. “Oh yes. We had many conversations about empathy.”

You huff a small laugh.

“He learned,” she continues. “But he still thinks staying calm fixes everything. He thinks if he’s steady enough, the people he loves won’t fall apart.”

Your throat tightens.

Because that’s exactly what he does with you.

Nicole studies you carefully, and there it is: the maternal steel. Not sharp, but firm. Like she won’t let you dodge.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

You hesitate. Your fingers curl tighter around the railing.

“It’s stupid,” you say quietly.

“It isn’t,” Nicole replies immediately.

You stare into the yard, the dark shapes of plants and fence lines blurred.

“They all just… know who they are,” you admit. “It’s obvious. The way each of them has their own style, their own personality, their own way of being. And yet it fits together. Like you raised them to be sure of themselves without being cruel.”

Nicole’s expression shifts into something like pride, but controlled.

“That was the goal,” she says quietly.

You swallow.

“It feels like watching something I missed,” you admit, voice thin. “Not because I want to take it from you. Not because I’m jealous. It’s just… I didn’t grow up with that kind of steadiness. My parents weren’t interested. Not really. In my hobbies, my accomplishments… any of it. I learned not to talk about things. It didn’t matter.”

Silence stretches, but it isn’t empty. The night hums around you. The muffled sound of the movie inside, laughter faint and distant.

Nicole’s jaw tightens slightly, controlled.

“That’s not because you weren’t worth showing up for,” she says, voice firm.

Your throat closes.

“Some people fail their children,” she continues, and the steel comes through now, protective and absolute. “That doesn’t make the child less. That doesn’t mean you were unworthy. It means they missed out.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it quickly, embarrassed.

Nicole doesn’t look away. She doesn’t soften into pity. She stays steady, like she’s holding the line for you when you can’t.

“You noticed what this house is,” she says. “That tells me you understand it. You value it.”

You blink, breath uneven.

“Oscar brought you here,” Nicole continues. “He doesn’t do things lightly. He doesn’t take people home unless he means it.”

Your chest tightens.

“Which means,” Nicole says, stepping closer just a fraction, “you’re mine now.”

You let out a wet laugh, startled. “That sounds threatening.”

“It is,” Nicole replies without missing a beat. “Not negotiable.”

You laugh again, half sob, half disbelief.

“You don’t get to hover on the edges in my house,” she adds. “You don’t get to sit politely and pretend you’re fine while you’re drowning. If you need air, you take it. If you need space, you ask. If you need someone to sit with you, you say so.”

Your lips tremble.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” you whisper.

Nicole’s expression softens slightly, but her voice stays firm. “You won’t ruin anything. You’re not a disruption. You’re not an inconvenience. And you will stop treating yourself like one.”

The sentence lands cleanly, decisive, like a rule she’s setting.

Nicole reaches out and places her hand on your shoulder. Not your face. Not your hands. Something grounding. Something steady. A claim without making it a scene.

“You are welcome here,” she says. “Do you understand me?”

You nod, throat tight.

“Good,” Nicole says, satisfied, like she’s just settled something permanent.

Then her mouth quirks, mischief sliding in like a relief valve.

“Also,” she adds, “I have M&Ms hidden in the pantry.”

You blink. “You do?”

“Special stash,” she nods. “My trick is dumping them into the popcorn.”

You laugh, surprised.

“Oscar hates it,” she continues, conspiratorial. “He claims it ruins the texture.”

“That sounds like him,” you admit.

Nicole smirks. “But I know you like chocolate. So he’ll have to suffer.”

The sentence hits you in the chest, warm and sharp.

She knows you like chocolate.

She noticed.

She opens the door and gestures inside.

“Come on,” she says. “We’ll make a bowl. And we won’t tell him until it’s too late.”

You follow her into the kitchen.

The lights are brighter here, the counters clean, the pantry door opening with a soft creak. Nicole reaches up to a high shelf and pulls down a bag of M&Ms like she’s revealing a family secret.

She pours popcorn into a big bowl and dumps the chocolate in with theatrical flair.

“Trust me,” she says. “This is superior.”

You smile, feeling something uncoil.

It’s not that the sadness disappears.

It’s that it’s being held.

When you walk back into the living room with the bowl, Oscar looks up immediately, suspicious.

“What have you done?” he asks.

Nicole sits down like a queen returning to her throne. “Improved it.”

Oscar squints at the bowl. “You didn’t.”

Nicole’s partner laughs. “She did.”

One sister cackles. “Classic.”

Oscar reaches into the bowl anyway, because he’s Oscar, and he can’t not test it. His fingers scoop up popcorn and chocolate together. He chews. His face does something between disgust and resignation.

“This is chaos,” he mutters.

Nicole looks pleased. “She likes chocolate.”

Oscar’s eyes flick to you. There’s something soft in them, something questioning and relieved all at once.

You shrug, smiling.

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll endure it.”

And the way he says it—mock put-upon, but gentle—makes your chest ache in a new way.

Not lonely.

Just full.

You sit beside Nicole this time, not at the edge. Your shoulder brushes hers. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t make a big deal of it. She just lets you be there.

Oscar stretches back against the couch again, and this time, you let your hand drift into his hair. He doesn’t flinch. He tilts into it slightly, like it’s natural.

He glances up at you after a few minutes, voice low so it doesn’t interrupt the movie.

“You good?” he asks.

You take a breath.

You feel the warmth of the room, the ease of it, the fact that you’re not bracing for it to be taken away.

You smile, and for once it’s not a mask.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

Oscar nods, trusting you. He doesn’t demand an explanation. He doesn’t push. He just reaches back and squeezes your ankle gently where it rests near him, a small check-in that feels like a promise.

Nicole catches your eye across the room and gives you a small, satisfied nod.

You don’t feel fixed.

You don’t feel suddenly unscarred.

But you don’t feel like you’re standing outside the window anymore, watching something you’ll never have.

You feel like someone opened the door and decided you were staying.

And when Oscar murmurs, barely audible, “You fit,” you believe him—not because you’ve suddenly become someone else, but because the people in this room aren’t asking you to earn your place.

You start getting ready too early.

Not because you’re excited. Not because you’re the kind of person who loves a long, slow pre-dinner routine. You start early because if you don’t, the anxiety will fill the empty space and take over, and you’ll end up standing by the door with your coat on and your eyes too bright, pretending this is easy.

It isn’t easy.

Not for the reasons anyone would guess.

You’re not worried Cisca and Adam will be cold, or rude, or judgmental. You’re not worried Lando’s brother will ask questions you can’t answer. You’re not even worried you’ll say the wrong thing and embarrass yourself.

You’re worried you’ll step into that house and feel like you’re standing in the wrong room.

You’re worried you’ll see exactly where Lando comes from and realize, in a way you can’t un-know, how different your foundations are.

You’re worried you’ll smile and laugh and do all the right things, and still feel like an extra chair they set out to be polite.

So you do the only thing you’ve ever been good at when you’re nervous.

You prepare.

You stand in front of your closet and stare at your clothes like they’re going to offer you a solution.

You pick a top, put it on, look in the mirror and immediately hate it. Too stiff. Too “I’m trying.” You change. You change again. The third outfit is softer, more you, but then you worry “more you” is the problem, because who even is you in a room full of easy warmth?

Your hands fidget while you do your hair, while you apply mascara, while you put on jewelry and then take it off because it feels like too much. You try lipstick, wipe it off, settle for gloss. You check your phone, even though you know there won’t be new messages.

There’s a small part of you that wants Lando to text something that makes this feel less heavy.

And there’s another part of you that wants him to never mention it at all, because if he names it, it becomes real.

Your phone buzzes anyway.

lando: outside lando: and before you say you’re not spiraling lando: you are spiraling

You huff a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your chest.

He knows you too well.

You stare at the message for a second, then type:

you: i’m not spiraling

A beat.

lando: liar lando: come here

You swallow around that familiar tightness and grab your coat.

The air outside is cold enough to clear your head for half a second, but Lando is there, leaning against the car, hoodie sleeves pushed up, keys spinning lazily around his finger like he has all the time in the world. The porch light catches him just enough for you to see the way his face changes when you step out.

Brightens. Softens. Like you’re something he’s proud to have.

“There she is,” he says, pushing off the car.

You try to smile like you feel normal. “Hi.”

He closes the distance in three steps and rests his hands at your waist. His thumbs brush lightly against your sides, grounding you without you asking.

“You’re nervous,” he says quietly.

“A little.”

“Why?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious. “They’re harmless. My family’s basically golden retrievers in human form.”

You manage a small laugh. “That’s not the scary part.”

His eyebrows lift. “No?”

“It feels important,” you admit.

He goes still for a second, the teasing dropping out of him like a switch flipped. He studies your face with that careful attention he always has when he’s trying to understand you, not just cheer you up.

Then he nods.

“Okay,” he says softly. “It is important.”

You don’t realize how badly you needed him to agree until your throat tightens.

He leans in and kisses you—quick, sweet, familiar. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“We’re going to go in together,” he murmurs. “And if you hate it, I’ll start a fire in the kitchen as a distraction.”

You snort, surprised by the ridiculousness of it. “You would not.”

“I absolutely would,” he says, dead serious. “For you? I’d burn the whole street down.”

You roll your eyes, but the anxiety loosens around the edges.

He opens the car door for you with exaggerated chivalry, then jogs around to his side, grinning like a menace. As he starts the engine, he glances at you again.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says gently. “Like… the actual thing.”

Your fingers twist in your lap automatically.

“I don’t know,” you say, because that’s easier than the truth.

Lando hums, unimpressed. “That’s a lie.”

You exhale slowly.

“I just…” You stare out the window. “You talk about them like they’re… everything. Like home. And I’ve never been good at home.”

The words come out quieter than you intend.

Lando’s grip on the steering wheel tightens for half a second, then loosens.

He doesn’t push you. He doesn’t demand details.

He just reaches over and rests his hand on your knee, warm and steady.

“Okay,” he says softly. “We’ll go slow.”

You look at him. “We’re literally going to a dinner.”

He glances at you and smirks. “Exactly. Slow. I can do slow. I’m very patient.”

“You are not patient.”

He gasps. “I am incredibly patient. I waited, like, ten whole minutes for you to come downstairs.”

You laugh, and it feels real this time.

He keeps talking on the drive, telling you ridiculous childhood stories as if he’s trying to paint the place for you in softer colors. He tells you about his mum crying when he learned to parallel park, about his dad filming it like it was a championship win, about his brother being insufferable and also secretly protective.

You listen, but you keep catching on one thing: the through-line of love. Loud, annoying, constant love.

It’s so normal to him that he doesn’t even realize he’s describing a miracle.

When you pull into the driveway, your breath catches without permission.

The house isn’t intimidating. It’s warm. Lights glow through the windows. You can see silhouettes moving inside. It looks lived in.

Loved in.

You stare at it like it might have an opinion about you.

Your fingers twist together in your lap again.

Lando turns the engine off but doesn’t reach for the door handle. He shifts in his seat and turns fully toward you.

He takes your hands.

He gently untangles your fingers, like he’s unraveling a knot he’s seen before.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe.”

You hadn’t realized you weren’t.

You inhale too fast. Exhale shakily.

“They’re just… a lot,” you admit. “It feels like I need to get it right.”

“It’s not a test,” he says quietly.

You look at him, unsure.

He lifts your joined hands and presses them flat against his chest, over his hoodie. You can feel his heartbeat. Steady. Even. Unshaken.

“You feel that?” he asks.

You nod.

“That’s not going anywhere,” he says. “No matter how loud it gets in there. No matter how many questions they ask. You’ve got me.”

Your throat tightens.

“They’re not judging you,” he continues. “They’re excited. They like when I’m happy. And I am. So they already want to like you.”

“What if I don’t fit?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

The words hang in the small space between you.

He smiles, not cocky, not playful. Just sure.

“You fit with me,” he says. “And I grew up in there. So logically, that means you fit in there too.”

A weak laugh escapes you.

“I’m serious,” he says, thumb brushing your knuckles. “You don’t have to be louder. You don’t have to be impressive. You don’t have to prove anything. Just be you. That’s the part I love. They’ll see it.”

The word love lands heavy and grounding.

He leans over and presses a slow kiss to your temple.

“And if at any point it’s too much, you squeeze my hand,” he murmurs. “I’ll know. We’ll step out. No drama.”

Your shoulders loosen slightly.

“Okay.”

He squeezes your hands once more.

“Ready?”

You swallow, then take a breath.

“Ready.”

The door opens before you can knock.

Cisca is there like she’s been waiting. She pulls Lando into a hug immediately, pressing a kiss to his cheek, smoothing his hair back like he’s still small enough to fit under her chin. Lando melts into it without hesitation, grinning, pretending to protest but never pulling away.

“Muuum,” he complains, but his voice is smiling. “I’m literally an adult.”

“You are not,” she says, and kisses his cheek again. “You’re still my baby.”

Lando groans dramatically. “This is what I mean. This is the trauma.”

“You have no trauma,” his brother calls from somewhere inside.

Lando shouts back, “I have immense trauma! I’m being assaulted!”

Cisca laughs and turns to you.

Her face lights up in that same open, easy way.

“There you are,” she says warmly, and she hugs you too.

It’s solid. Real. Not polite. Arms around you fully, cheek against your hair for a brief moment.

You stiffen for half a second before you can stop it. Then you force yourself to relax, to accept it. Her hug is warm, and it smells like vanilla and clean laundry and something comforting you can’t name.

When she pulls back, she keeps her hands on your arms like she doesn’t want to let you drift away.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you properly,” she says, eyes bright. “He’s talked about you nonstop.”

Lando makes a strangled noise. “Mum.”

“What?” she says, delighted. “You have.”

“I have not.”

His dad appears behind her with a smile that looks like it’s been lived in. “He has,” he says calmly. “He’s been insufferable.”

Lando throws his hands up. “This is slander. I’m being attacked in my own childhood home.”

His brother appears behind his dad and points at him. “Good.”

You laugh, surprised by how quick it comes out, and Lando’s eyes flick to you like he’s checking—did it land? did it help?—and when he sees the real laughter, his shoulders loosen.

The house is warm in that way that feels like someone cooked for hours. The air smells like food and spices and something sweet. There’s movement everywhere, people passing each other in the hallway without bumping, a hand on a shoulder in passing, laughter from the kitchen.

It’s loud.

Not loud like anger.

Loud like love that takes up space.

You follow them into the kitchen, and you see it immediately: the pieces of him, everywhere. Not just in looks, though there are echoes—his smile in his mum, his eyes in his dad—but in the smaller things. The mannerisms.

Cisca talks with her hands the way he does when he’s excited. His dad’s dry commentary is the same humor Lando uses when he’s pretending he doesn’t care. His brother’s teasing is the same type that makes Lando grin instead of flinch.

You watch Lando lean on the counter like he’s done it a thousand times. You watch him open a drawer without looking, pull out cutlery like muscle memory. You watch him instinctively take a dish from his mum’s hands when she turns away, like he’s been trained in the choreography of family.

He’s not performing here.

He’s just… home.

And you feel your chest tighten, not because it’s bad, but because it’s so perfectly him that it almost hurts.

Dinner is set up in the dining room, the table crowded with dishes that look like someone cared. Not fancy, just abundant. Like they wanted there to be enough. Like “enough” isn’t something they worry about.

You sit where you’re told, and Lando sits close enough that his knee brushes yours under the table. He taps your thigh once with his fingers, subtle. I’m here.

Conversation starts easily. You answer questions about your work, about where you grew up, about what you like to do. You laugh at the right moments. You do the thing you’re good at: being pleasant, being normal, being the version of yourself that doesn’t take up too much space.

And the entire time, you’re watching him.

He is made of comfort.

Not comfort like luxury, like money or status. Comfort like emotional safety. Like he grew up in a place where people said what they meant and meant what they said.

His dad tells a story about Lando as a kid insisting he could build something “better than IKEA” and then crying when it didn’t work.

“It didn’t work because you refused to read the instructions,” his brother says.

“I don’t read instructions,” Lando says, offended. “I feel the vibe.”

His mum laughs, reaches over, and fixes the collar of his shirt like it’s nothing. Lando lets her, rolling his eyes but leaning into it.

You swallow.

That tiny gesture lands heavier than it should.

It’s so casual. So normal. So safe.

He doesn’t tense. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t wonder if affection has conditions. He just receives it.

And something in you aches with the quiet realization of how foreign that feels.

At one point, Cisca turns to you gently. “Do you still see your family much, love?”

The question is kind. Normal. A question asked by people who assume family is a constant.

You hesitate just long enough for your throat to tighten.

“Not really,” you say lightly. “We’re not very close.”

Cisca nods with understanding, her expression soft. “Oh, that happens sometimes.”

She doesn’t push. She doesn’t pry. She doesn’t make it weird.

But your mind stays stuck on it anyway.

You look back at Lando, who is currently in an animated debate with his brother about a childhood board game incident that apparently left emotional scars.

“You literally cheated,” his brother insists.

“I did not cheat,” Lando says, placing a hand on his chest. “I was simply… ahead of my time.”

“You hid the pieces,” his dad says calmly.

“That’s called strategy,” Lando shoots back.

The table erupts in laughter again, and Lando throws his head back, laughing with them, not guarded, not careful, not braced.

And slowly, the realization builds in your chest like something heavy and undeniable.

He was shaped here.

Not into a driver. Not into a public figure. Not into someone successful.

Into who he is when no one is watching.

The way he notices when you’re quiet. The way he touches you gently without thinking. The way he makes jokes to soften sharp moments. The way he can be loud without feeling like it will cost him love.

Those parts were protected. Encouraged. Loved into existence.

And you feel small.

Not jealous.

Just… aware.

After dinner, his mum insists on games like it’s mandatory. The table is cleared in a flurry of teamwork, everyone moving around each other in a rhythm that’s practiced. Plates are stacked, cups gathered, leftovers covered without anyone needing to be told.

A board game appears from a cupboard like it’s sacred ritual.

Teams are formed loudly.

“You can’t put Lando and Dad together,” his brother protests. “That’s unfair.”

“I am a fair and noble competitor,” Lando insists, dramatically pointing at the board.

“You’re a menace,” his dad replies dryly.

Cisca leans toward you with a conspiratorial smile. “We get ridiculous.”

You smile back, but your chest is tight again.

The game starts. It’s loud and animated and full of playful accusations. Lando is competitive in the most Lando way—dramatic, mock-offended, insisting the rules are “vibes-based” until it benefits him, then suddenly he’s a lawyer arguing precedent.

“You cannot just change the rules mid-game!” he protests when his brother tries to adjust something.

“You changed them three rounds ago,” his brother shoots back.

“That was different. That was… innovation.”

His dad laughs, arm slung casually along the back of the couch behind Lando, and Lando leans into it without thinking. Cisca squeezes his knee when he pretends to sulk about losing a point.

They touch each other so easily.

Like it isn’t something you have to earn.

They all know this rhythm.

You don’t.

You sit on the edge of the couch, laughing when appropriate, but slowly the outsider feeling creeps in. You watch them lean toward each other. You watch them argue and laugh and resolve it without tension. You watch Lando in the middle of it, perfectly at ease, and the ache settles into something sharper.

It’s not jealousy.

It’s the disorienting feeling of realizing that love can be this simple for some people.

That affection can be casual.

That reassurance can be constant.

Your breath feels tight.

Your hands rest in your lap, still, like you’re trying to keep yourself contained.

Lando catches your eye mid-argument. His grin falters slightly. His gaze flicks over your face like he’s reading you.

You look away first.

You don’t want to be the reason the energy shifts. You don’t want to be the person who can’t handle a happy room.

So when they’re distracted arguing about a rule, you stand quietly and slip down the hallway.

Out the back door.

The night air hits your face like relief.

You breathe like you’ve been underwater.

For a second you just stand there, hands pressed to the railing, letting the cold settle your nerves. You hear muffled laughter from inside, the sound of the game continuing without you.

You tell yourself you’ll go back in once you calm down.

You tell yourself you just needed a minute.

The door opens behind you anyway.

“You can’t just vanish,” Lando says softly.

You close your eyes briefly before turning.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything,” you admit.

“Ruin what?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“You guys look so happy.”

He nods slowly. “We are.”

You swallow, looking past him at the warm light spilling from the doorway. “I can see how you were made,” you say, voice barely steady. “It’s everywhere in there. Your mum. Your dad. The way they look at you. That doesn’t just happen.”

He doesn’t joke.

He doesn’t try to lighten it.

He listens.

“And I didn’t have that,” you say quietly. “Not like that. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t encouraging. It was just… distant.”

The words feel heavier out here, with the cold air and the open sky.

“And watching it, it’s so good,” you whisper. “It’s perfect for you. It fits you. And I don’t know what that means for me.”

Lando steps closer.

“You think you’re not enough for it,” he says gently.

You don’t answer, because if you say yes, you’ll break open.

He cups your face in both hands, grounding you completely. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes like he’s catching the emotion before it falls.

“I am lucky,” he says firmly. “I know that. I had parents who showed up loudly. I had noise and reassurance and people who wouldn’t let me doubt myself for long.”

His voice is steady now. Serious in a way he rarely is.

“But what you had made you into someone who feels this,” he continues. “Someone who notices the way my mum looks at me. Someone who values it instead of assuming it.”

A tear slips down your cheek anyway.

“It made you strong,” he says. “It made you careful. It made you someone who doesn’t treat love like background noise.”

Your breath shakes.

“And I love that person,” he adds. “I love the way you think. The way you care. The way you try so hard to make sure everyone’s okay. That didn’t come from nowhere.”

You swallow hard.

“You belong in there,” he says quietly. “Not because you grew up the same way. But because you’re with me. And I choose you.”

Your shoulders tremble slightly.

“And they already adore you,” he continues, a small smile tugging at his mouth like he can’t help it. “Mum paused the game when you left. She’s planning girls versus boys and she specifically said she wants you on her team because you look ‘calm and strategic.’”

Despite everything, you let out a watery laugh.

“She did?”

“She did,” he says, nodding. “And if you don’t come back in, she might cry.”

You snort. “She will not.”

“She absolutely will,” he insists, dead serious. “She’s dramatic. I get it from her.”

You laugh again, and it cracks something open in your chest, easing the tightness.

He leans his forehead against yours, breath warm in the cold.

“You’re theirs now,” he murmurs. “Like it or not.”

You close your eyes.

“You don’t have to have grown up with this to deserve it,” he says softly. “You don’t have to earn it.”

His words settle into you like something tangible, something you can hold.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Come back in with me,” he whispers.

He laces your fingers together.

When you step inside again, the warmth hits you, but it feels different.

Not suffocating.

Just… present.

Cisca looks up immediately and beams.

“There she is!” she calls brightly. “Come on, love. Girls versus boys. We need you.”

She pats the couch beside her like it’s reserved.

Lando squeezes your hand once before letting go, giving you a look that says I’ve got you.

You sit.

And this time, when the laughter swells and Lando argues dramatically over a point he absolutely lost, you don’t feel like you’re watching from outside.

You start preparing for this day the way you prepare for everything that scares you.

Quietly. Thoroughly. Like if you learn enough, rehearse enough, anticipate enough, you can make your body forget it’s afraid.

Charles has been teaching you French in the gentlest ways for months. Not like a formal tutor, not like you’re a student who needs correcting, but like he’s letting you borrow pieces of his world. He’ll label things around the apartment in Monaco with a grin, tapping the countertop and saying le comptoir, tapping your shoulder and saying ma chérie like it’s vocabulary and affection all at once. He’ll quiz you while he cooks, amused when you remember something difficult and almost too proud when you don’t.

You’ve learned the basics. You can order coffee. You can say you’re tired, you can say thank you, you can apologize when you don’t understand. You can handle polite conversation if people speak slowly.

But you can’t keep up with family French.

The kind that’s spoken fast and overlapping, the kind where jokes are built on memories you don’t have, where the punchline is hidden inside cadence and shared history. The kind where three people talk at once and nobody thinks it’s rude because that’s just what love sounds like in that room.

When Charles tells you you’re going to his family’s house for dinner, you nod too quickly. You smile too brightly. You say, “I’m excited,” because you are.

You’re also terrified.

Not because you think they’ll be unkind. You’ve met them in smaller doses before. You’ve seen messages, heard phone calls, watched Charles soften into something younger when his mum says his name. You’ve even been in the same room as his brothers, long enough to know they’re not icy, not cruel.

The fear is quieter than that.

It’s the fear of not being able to speak.

Of being present but not participating.

Of being the person in the corner smiling like she’s listening when she’s actually drowning.

One night, a few days before the dinner, you say it out loud without meaning to.

“What if I just sit there like a decorative plant?” you ask, sprawled across his couch, French workbook open on your lap like a shield. “Like… you know those fancy ones people keep alive out of guilt.”

Charles looks up from his phone immediately, expression shifting from casual to attentive in one beat.

“You won’t,” he says.

“I might.”

“You won’t.” He says it softer this time, like he’s trying not to startle you. He sets his phone down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate, then let the truth slip out.

“They speak so fast,” you whisper. “And you always tell me I’m doing well, but I’m not… I’m not fluent. I’m not even close. What if I can’t get a word in? What if I can’t keep up and I just sit there like…” You gesture helplessly. “Like I don’t belong.”

Charles watches you for a long second. His eyes are steady, serious in a way that makes your chest tighten. Then he reaches out and takes your hands, prying your fingers apart like he’s un-knotting you.

“I will translate,” he says simply.

“You can’t translate everything,” you argue, but it’s weak.

“I will translate enough.”

“You’re going to get tired.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t.”

You swallow. “What if I say something wrong?”

A faint smile flickers. “You will.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

He lifts your hands to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, one by one, slow and grounding. “It is reassuring,” he says quietly. “Because you can be wrong and still be loved. You can be awkward and still be welcome.”

Your throat tightens at the word welcome.

He shifts closer, voice dropping into that calm, deliberate tone he uses when he wants your full attention. “Listen to me. My mum already adores you. My brothers will be loud. Arthur will be… Arthur.” He grimaces a little, fond and exasperated. “But they like you. And I will not let you sit there invisible.”

You stare at him.

He squeezes your hands. “I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he repeats, steady.

And you believe him.

You do.

But belief doesn’t stop your stomach from knotting the afternoon you’re standing in his Monaco apartment, watching him button his shirt and wondering how much of tonight will be you smiling too much and laughing too late.

Charles catches you staring and lifts an eyebrow. “You are thinking too loudly.”

“That’s not a thing,” you mutter.

“With you it is,” he says, and the corner of his mouth quirks. He comes closer, fixes a strand of hair that’s fallen near your face, and his fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. “We go together. We stay together. And if you feel lost, you look at me.”

You nod.

He kisses your forehead. “I will bring you back.”

The drive out of Monaco feels like slipping into a different pace.

The apartment is all clean lines and quiet luxury, the kind of calm Charles lives in when it’s just the two of you. The streets outside are narrow and bright, the air crisp with salt from the sea. As you leave the city, the scenery opens up, hills rolling, trees changing the light in flickers across the windshield.

Charles drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your knee. His thumb rubs small circles, absent and steady.

You watch the road and try not to think about everything that could go wrong.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Charles says after a few minutes, voice soft.

You keep your eyes forward. “Fine.”

He glances at you. Not convinced. “You say that like a reflex.”

“It is a reflex.”

He hums. “Then give me the real answer.”

You swallow. “I’m… nervous.”

Charles nods like that’s reasonable. “Okay.”

The simple acceptance almost makes you cry, which is ridiculous, so you blink hard and press your nails into your palm.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you admit quietly. “Like you have to translate the whole night. Like you have to—”

“You are not a burden,” he interrupts immediately, firm without being sharp. “You are my partner. This is not a job. This is just… us.”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes for a brief second.

“I want you there,” he says, and there’s something unshakeable in it. “I want you with me. Not hovering beside me. With me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I will include you,” he adds, softer now. “And if my brothers forget themselves, I will remind them.”

You let out a small laugh. “How?”

He gives you a faintly smug look. “I have methods.”

That helps, a little. You lean back in the seat and let yourself feel the warmth of his hand on your knee.

But as the road stretches on and the sun begins to dip, the nerves creep back in.

You’re not scared of them.

You’re scared of what it will feel like to watch the family that made him.

You’re scared you’ll see something you never had and it’ll open a hollow place inside you that you’ve kept closed on purpose.

His family’s house is beautiful in a way that feels lived-in rather than staged.

Light spills from the windows, warm and gold. You can smell something cooking as soon as you step out of the car. The air is cooler here, carrying the faint scent of greenery and the sea farther away.

Charles comes around to your side before you can overthink. He opens the door for you, offering his hand like a quiet invitation.

You take it.

His grip is warm and steady.

“Ready?” he asks.

You take one breath. “Ready.”

The front door opens before you can knock.

His mum appears like she’s been waiting for him to come home.

She says his name in French, fast and fond, and it makes Charles’ whole face soften. She cups his cheeks and kisses them, one side then the other, holding him like he’s still a teenager who just walked in from school.

You watch it happen and feel something twist in your chest.

Not jealousy.

Just that ache of recognition. That’s what love can look like when it’s effortless.

Then she turns to you.

Her smile shifts slightly, softer but no less bright. She steps forward and hugs you. It’s warm, firm, sure.

You catch only pieces of what she says, but Charles murmurs the translation into your ear.

“She says she’s happy you’re here,” he whispers. “And that she made too much food, as always.”

You laugh, relieved to have something easy to respond with. “Merci,” you say, and your accent is clumsy but sincere.

His mum’s eyes crinkle, pleased, and she replies slowly, like she’s giving you time. You understand enough to nod.

Inside, the house feels alive.

Not chaotic, exactly. Just full. Warmth from the kitchen. Voices in the next room. The soft clink of plates. Someone laughing as they argue about something trivial.

Charles keeps his hand at your lower back as you step in, guiding without pushing.

And then you see it.

The hallway is lined with photographs.

Not curated, not perfect. Real ones. Childhood snapshots. Holidays. School events. Candid moments captured without anyone looking ready.

And there, near the center, is a photo that stops you in your tracks.

Charles and his brothers.

They’re younger. Sunburnt. Hair messy. One of them has his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders in a way that looks both annoying and protective. Charles is grinning, eyes half-squinted, trying to look unimpressed while clearly loving it. Another brother is making a face behind them, tongue out, mid-laugh.

It’s a picture of relationship.

Of history.

Of being built alongside someone else.

Your throat tightens.

Charles notices you’ve paused. He follows your gaze, then smiles faintly.

“Ah,” he says quietly. “That one.”

You don’t look away. “You look… happy.”

He glances at the photo like it’s both embarrassing and precious. “I was happy.”

His mum says something behind you, noticing too, and laughs softly. Charles replies quickly in French, and you catch your name.

He translates under his breath. “She says Arthur was impossible. Always stealing my food.”

You smile, but it’s small.

Because the photo is doing something to you you weren’t ready for.

You grew up as an only child.

Your childhood photos are you alone. You at birthdays with adults behind you. You holding a cake, smiling too wide, trying to look like that was enough. You and your parents in posed pictures where their hands are on your shoulders but their eyes are already somewhere else.

You don’t have siblings in the background making faces. You don’t have someone’s arm around you like it’s natural. You don’t have proof of a built-in bond.

Charles’ hand squeezes your waist gently, a silent question: you okay?

You nod, because the words aren’t there yet.

“Come,” his mum says, gesturing toward the living room.

Charles leans closer. “We have time. Breathe.”

You inhale slowly and follow.

The pre-dinner hour is its own kind of chaos.

Not loud like shouting. Loud like overlapping conversation, like three people speaking at once and no one being offended. His brothers arrive in a burst of energy. Kisses on cheeks. Teasing immediately.

Arthur is exactly as advertised.

He walks in talking, already mid-story, French spilling out fast enough that you catch only Charles and something that sounds like a complaint. He hugs Charles with that casual brotherly force that’s half affection, half challenge.

Then he turns to you and greets you in French so quickly you blink.

You manage, “Bonjour,” and then you laugh awkwardly.

Arthur grins like he’s delighted. He says something to Charles, and Charles replies with a resigned groan.

Charles translates quietly. “He says he will speak slowly for you. He is lying.”

You snort, surprised, and Arthur looks pleased even though he probably didn’t understand the English.

Lorenzo arrives a moment later, calmer, quieter, eyes observant. His greeting is warm but measured. He hugs Charles, kisses his mum’s cheek, then looks at you and smiles in a way that feels steady rather than performative.

He says something in French, slower this time.

You catch your name. You catch bienvenue.

Charles murmurs, “He says welcome. Truly welcome.”

It’s such a small thing, but your chest tightens anyway.

You follow them into the kitchen, because the kitchen is where everyone ends up. His mum is finishing dishes, moving with effortless competence. Someone is slicing bread. Someone is stealing olives. Charles gets scolded in French for reaching for something before dinner.

You try to help because you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

His mum hands you a bowl and says something slowly, pointing toward the counter. You catch maybe half of it, but you get the gist: put these here.

You do, grateful to have a task.

Arthur says something that makes everyone laugh. You smile a second late.

Charles leans in. “He said the bread is better than his last relationship.”

You choke on a laugh, and Charles’ eyes brighten like he’s relieved you’re laughing.

You catch yourself studying him again. How relaxed he looks here. How he slips into French without thinking. How his shoulders loosen around his brothers, how his face becomes more expressive. It’s still Charles, but it’s a Charles that feels… rooted.

You’re trying. You really are.

You keep up for a while, nodding, smiling, answering in small phrases. When someone addresses you in French, Charles translates quickly. When you respond in English, he repeats it in French with ease.

It’s manageable.

Until conversation starts overlapping.

His mum asks Charles something at the same time Arthur teases him about a childhood story, and Lorenzo adds a dry comment that makes his mum laugh. Charles answers all of them, switching topics so fast you feel your brain lag behind.

You sit at the edge of the kitchen island, hands folded, trying not to look lost.

Charles glances at you, eyes flicking over your face. He reaches back and squeezes your knee gently under the counter.

You breathe.

It’s okay, you tell yourself. This is normal. This is family.

But normal doesn’t mean easy.

Dinner is set beautifully.

Candles. Real plates. The table set like this matters. Balcony doors open to let in cool evening air. The view outside is darkening, Monaco lights glittering in the distance like someone scattered stars across the coastline.

You sit between Charles and his mum. He places your napkin in your lap without thinking, the small domestic gesture making your heart do something stupid.

Conversation starts slow.

French, but slower. His mum is deliberate when she speaks to you. Lorenzo sometimes switches into English, careful and considerate. Arthur tries English too, though it comes out in bursts and then he forgets and returns to French mid-sentence.

Charles translates constantly at first.

“Arthur says you look nice.” “My mum is asking if you liked the drive.” “Lorenzo wants to know what you think of Monaco tonight.”

You answer, and Charles repeats your answers in French, and for a little while it feels like you’re in it.

Then the wine pours. The table relaxes. The family rhythm picks up speed.

French starts moving faster again, and you start falling behind in tiny ways.

A joke lands and everyone laughs. You smile a beat late.

Arthur leans across the table, saying something to Charles with animated intensity. Charles responds, eyebrows raised, voice sharper now. Lorenzo laughs softly, and his mum sighs like she’s heard this before.

You can’t follow the words.

You follow tone, body language, expression.

Arthur is teasing, but he’s intense.

Charles is laughing, but he’s defending himself.

His mum is exasperated, but fond.

Lorenzo is amused, but watching.

It’s playful, you tell yourself.

But your body doesn’t know how to relax when voices rise.

Not because you fear conflict. Because you grew up in silence. Raised voices were never playful. Raised voices meant something was wrong.

You try to breathe through it. You watch Charles’ face carefully, searching for cues. He doesn’t look angry. He looks… engaged. Alive.

Arthur says something and points his fork for emphasis. Charles fires back, quick and sharp. His mum scolds them in French, and Arthur responds dramatically like he’s the victim.

You catch only fragments. Toujours. Arthur. Charles. Non.

Your chest tightens.

Someone asks you something in French.

You freeze.

You heard the question, but you didn’t understand it. You catch maybe one word that sounds like famille and your stomach drops.

The table pauses slightly, waiting.

Charles is mid-argument, eyes on Arthur. He doesn’t notice you’ve gone still.

You look down, heart pounding.

“Pardon?” you manage, voice small.

They repeat it slower, smiling kindly, but it doesn’t help enough.

You piece together what you can and answer in broken French, stumbling through verb endings.

There’s polite laughter. Gentle. Encouraging.

Your cheeks burn anyway.

Because you can’t tell if they’re laughing at the mistake or simply laughing because it’s charming.

You hate that you can’t tell.

You hate that you have to guess.

Charles finally notices your face and leans toward you. “What did they ask?” he murmurs in English, voice low.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, because you don’t want to pull him out of the moment.

He frowns slightly. “You are red.”

“I’m fine.”

He looks like he wants to push, but Arthur says something again, and Charles’ attention snaps back automatically.

The argument shifts into something sillier, you can tell by the laughter, by the way his mum rolls her eyes.

But you’re stuck on the moment you didn’t understand.

Stuck on the feeling of being too slow, too quiet, too far behind.

And then it hits you harder than you expect.

You’re an only child.

You’ve never sat at a table like this.

No siblings bickering over childhood memories. No joking arguments that end in laughter. No quick, chaotic love that takes up space and doesn’t apologize.

Your dinner table growing up was quiet. Controlled. Polite. Conversation was careful, and the safest thing you could do was not take up too much space.

You learned to speak only when spoken to.

You learned to keep your tone even.

You learned to translate yourself into something palatable.

Now you’re sitting at a table where no one is translating themselves.

They just are.

And you are trying so hard not to look like you don’t belong, that you feel like you’re disappearing.

Arthur says something that makes everyone laugh loudly. Charles laughs too, head tipped back, eyes bright. His mum laughs, hand covering her mouth. Lorenzo smirks.

You laugh a half second late, quietly.

Charles’ eyes flick to you, then away again.

And that’s when you realize you can’t keep doing this without air.

After dinner, they move into the living room, the argument already forgotten in that family way where conflict doesn’t linger.

Someone suggests a movie. Someone else vetoes immediately. Arthur scrolls through options too fast, complaining in French about everyone’s taste. His mum insists on something classic. Lorenzo says something dry that makes Charles laugh.

You sit near Charles, but not close enough to feel anchored. The couch is deep and comfortable, the kind people sink into without thinking. A blanket is tossed across the back. The room is dimmer now, lit by lamps and the glow of the TV menu.

They’re arguing about what to watch next, French overlapping, voices rising and falling in rapid cadence.

You can’t get a word in even if you wanted to.

Not because they’re excluding you. Because they’re in motion. Because their shared language moves too fast for you to join without disrupting it.

And you don’t want to disrupt it.

You don’t want Charles to feel like he has to manage you in the middle of his family rhythm. You don’t want to be the reason the room slows down.

So you keep quiet.

You smile.

You watch Charles laugh at something Arthur says. You watch Lorenzo nudge him with his foot like a brotherly gesture. You watch his mum call him by a childhood nickname and Charles groan dramatically, which makes everyone laugh.

You watch all of it and feel something settle heavy in your chest.

If this is what built him… what built you?

You know what built you.

Silence.

Distance.

Parents who were present on paper but absent in the ways that mattered.

You were built from learning how to be alone without looking lonely.

You were built from being careful.

You were built from making yourself small.

And now you’re sitting in the middle of a family that takes up space like love is allowed to be loud, and you don’t know how to exist in it.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t want to cry in their living room.

You don’t want to be dramatic.

You just need air.

So when the debate about the movie peaks—Arthur insisting on something ridiculous, his mum refusing, Charles getting pulled into the argument because Arthur won’t let him stay neutral—you slip away.

Quietly.

Down the hallway.

Out to the balcony.

Monaco at night is absurd.

The lights along the coast glitter like a necklace. The sea below is dark and endless, reflecting little shards of gold. The air is cooler, brushing against your overheated skin like relief.

You grip the railing with both hands and breathe.

Your chest feels tight, like you’ve been holding your breath for hours.

You didn’t want to feel this way.

You didn’t want to make it about you.

But you also can’t ignore it.

Not when it feels like you’re standing in the wrong language, in the wrong rhythm, in the wrong life.

Footsteps approach behind you.

Not rushed. Not heavy.

You don’t turn right away because you’re bracing for the wrong person.

The balcony door slides open, and the sound of the living room spills out for a second before the door closes again.

“Hey,” Charles says softly.

You close your eyes briefly.

He steps closer, stopping beside you, not crowding. The kind of closeness that asks permission without words.

“I was looking for you,” he says.

You nod, still staring at the sea. “Just needed air.”

Charles is quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Lorenzo noticed.”

You blink, surprised. “He did?”

Charles exhales softly, something like guilt in the sound. “He told Arthur to stop. He told me to come.”

You finally turn your head a little. “What did he say?”

Charles’ mouth quirks faintly. “He said, in French, that I am being stupid.”

Despite everything, a weak laugh escapes you.

Charles looks relieved to hear it, but the relief doesn’t last. His gaze shifts back to serious, careful.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

“Nothing,” you say automatically.

He shakes his head once, slow. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t understand,” you admit finally.

His eyebrows knit together.

“At dinner,” you continue. “In the living room. I felt like… like I couldn’t catch up. I didn’t know when to speak. I didn’t know what they were laughing about half the time. I didn’t know if you and Arthur were joking or—” You stop, throat tight. “And when they asked me something, I froze. I didn’t understand the question. And I felt… stupid.”

Charles steps closer immediately.

“You are not stupid,” he says, firm.

“It felt like it,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. Not at you. At himself.

“I should have translated more,” he says quietly.

“You got caught up,” you reply, because it’s true.

“That is not an excuse,” he says.

You look at him, and your voice comes out softer than you mean. “You promised.”

His eyes close briefly.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

The silence stretches. The sea hums below. The distant noise of the city is barely there.

You inhale slowly, trying to steady yourself.

“I’m an only child,” you say suddenly, because it’s the core of it and you can’t keep circling.

Charles’ eyes open, focused on you fully.

“I didn’t grow up with this,” you continue. “The loud teasing. The arguing that ends in laughter. The way everyone talks over each other like it’s normal. My house was quiet. My parents were… distant. Everything was polite. Controlled.”

Charles listens without interrupting, expression open and intent.

“And tonight,” you say, voice trembling slightly, “I kept thinking… you belong there so naturally. You’re built for it. You know the words. You know the rhythm. You know how to fight and laugh at the same time.”

You swallow.

“And I don’t.”

Charles shifts closer until you can feel the warmth of him beside you, like a steady line.

“And not understanding the language,” you whisper, “just made it worse. Because if I can’t even understand what they’re saying, how am I supposed to belong in the place that made you?”

The words hang between you like something fragile.

Charles goes still.

Not because he doesn’t know what to say.

Because he understands exactly what you’re really asking.

You stare out at the sea again, voice smaller now. “If this is what built you… what built me?”

A beat of silence.

Then Charles reaches up and cups your face gently, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he’s catching the emotion before it falls.

“What built you,” he says quietly, “built someone I love.”

Your breath shakes.

“It built someone careful,” he continues. “Someone who notices. Someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t take kindness for granted.”

A tear slips down your cheek anyway.

Charles wipes it away with his thumb, expression steady.

“It built someone who tried to learn my language,” he says, voice thickening slightly. “Not because you had to. Because you wanted to meet me where I am.”

You shake your head faintly. “I’m not good enough at it.”

“You are learning,” he says firmly. “And you are brave for trying.”

He leans his forehead against yours, the contact warm and grounding.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “I told you I would not let you feel invisible. And tonight I let myself get distracted.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you murmur.

“I still did it,” he insists softly. “You were worried about this. You told me, and I promised you. And I…” He exhales, frustrated at himself. “Arthur knows how to pull me in. He always has. It is stupid, and I should have stopped.”

You blink, surprised by the rawness in his voice.

Charles pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes dark and earnest.

“You belong,” he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s placing the words in your hands. “Not because you understand every word. Not because you can argue with Arthur in French. Not because you grew up like I did.”

He pauses, gaze holding yours.

“You belong because you are with me,” he says. “Because I choose you. Because you are my family.”

Your throat tightens again.

“And I’m sorry,” he adds, softer, “for making you feel like you had to earn that.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Charles reaches for your hands, lacing his fingers through yours like a promise.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

He switches fully into English, careful, clear, no chance for misunderstanding.

“I will include you,” he says. “I will translate everything if I have to. I will tell them to slow down. I will speak English. I will stop the conversation if it leaves you behind.”

You blink rapidly.

“I don’t want to be the reason everything changes,” you whisper.

“You are not ruining anything,” he says immediately. “You are not a disruption. You are not a burden.”

The words land with a firmness that makes your chest ache.

“My family can be loud,” he continues. “They can be too much. They forget themselves. But they are kind. And if they understand you are uncomfortable, they will adjust.”

You shake your head slightly. “I don’t want to ask for that.”

Charles lifts your hands and kisses your knuckles, the same grounding gesture he always uses when you start to fold inward.

“Then I will ask,” he says simply.

You stare at him.

“I promised you,” he adds, voice low. “And I will keep my promise.”

You hesitate, then admit the part that’s been sitting like a stone in your chest.

“Seeing that photo,” you say quietly, nodding toward the hallway inside even though you can’t see it from here. “You and your brothers. You looked so… connected.”

Charles’ expression softens.

“You don’t have that,” he says gently, not a question.

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what it feels like to have someone built into your life like that. Someone who shares your childhood. Someone who argues with you and still loves you in the same breath.”

Charles watches you, and his eyes look almost pained.

“You think that means you don’t fit,” he says.

You don’t answer, because yes.

Charles exhales and brings your hands to his chest, pressing them against his heart the way Lando would, except Charles does it like a vow.

“Listen,” he says. “I had brothers. Yes. I had that chaos. That built parts of me.”

He pauses.

“But what built you built parts I love,” he continues. “The way you’re gentle. The way you’re patient. The way you think before you speak. The way you care about being kind.”

Your breath catches.

“And if you did not have siblings,” he says softly, “then you get mine now.”

You blink, startled.

He looks completely serious.

“Arthur will drive you crazy,” he adds, deadpan.

A laugh slips out of you despite everything.

Charles’ mouth quirks. “Lorenzo will pretend he does not care, but he will. My mum will spoil you. And I will translate until you can understand every silly argument and every stupid joke.”

He leans closer again, forehead touching yours.

“You do not have to become us,” he murmurs. “We make space for you.”

The sentence hits something deep in you. Space. Not requirement. Not condition. Space.

You close your eyes, letting his steadiness settle through you.

Charles kisses your temple, slow.

“I would choose you,” he whispers, “in every language.”

Your throat tightens, but this time it feels like warmth, not panic.

You take one shaky breath and nod.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Charles squeezes your hands. “Okay.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing the emotion.

“Do you want to go back in?” he asks.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes.”

He gives you a small smile. “Good.”

Then, softer, “And if you feel lost again, you squeeze my hand. I will stop everything.”

You nod again, more confident this time.

Charles opens the balcony door and lets you step through first.

Inside, the atmosphere has shifted.

Not dramatically. Not like everyone is staring. But quieter around the edges, like someone turned the volume down slightly.

Lorenzo is seated near the couch, posture relaxed, but his eyes flick to you the moment you enter. He doesn’t smile widely. He just nods once, small and steady. A silent acknowledgment: I saw you.

Arthur is mid-scroll on the TV menu, but his energy has changed, less sharp. He glances over, then looks away, suddenly interested in not looking guilty.

His mum stands up from her chair as soon as she sees you, expression warm. She says something in French, slower than before. You catch pieces. You catch your name.

Charles leans toward you, whispering. “She says she is happy you are back. She asks if you want tea.”

You swallow and manage, “Oui, merci.”

His mum’s face brightens like you’ve given her a gift, and she nods, pleased.

Arthur clears his throat and says, awkwardly in English, “Sorry. We are… loud.”

You blink, surprised by the effort.

You smile. “I noticed.”

Arthur huffs a laugh, relief in it. “Yes. It’s genetic.”

Charles shoots him a look. Arthur raises his hands like he’s innocent.

Lorenzo says something in French, dry, and Charles translates with a small smile. “He says Arthur is loud, but he is also stupid.”

Arthur splutters. “He—he cannot say that to her.”

Lorenzo just shrugs, unbothered, and says something else that makes his mum laugh.

The laughter is softer now. More careful. Not forced. Just… adjusted.

You sit down, and Charles immediately takes your hand, fingers interlaced, like an anchor.

They start debating the movie again, but this time, Charles pauses to translate more often. Not just punchlines, but context. He leans into your ear, voice low, warm.

“Arthur wants an action movie.” “My mum says no, because it is too late.” “Lorenzo says Arthur has terrible taste.” “Arthur says Lorenzo has no joy.”

You smile, laughing when you actually understand, not when you’re guessing.

His mum returns with tea and sets it near you with a small pat to your shoulder, a gesture so maternal it makes your chest ache.

You catch her eyes. She smiles, steady and reassuring, and says something slow enough that you understand without Charles.

Tu es bienvenue ici.

You are welcome here.

Your throat tightens again, but this time you don’t look away.

The movie finally starts. The room settles. Arthur complains quietly about the choice. Lorenzo tells him to shut up in French. His mum shushes them. Charles kisses your knuckles absentmindedly like he’s reminding you he’s here.

Halfway through the film, Arthur mutters something about the plot and Charles responds under his breath, and suddenly they’re bickering again, but softer. Less consuming. Charles doesn’t get pulled under this time.

He stays with you.

His thumb rubs slow circles on the back of your hand, steady as a heartbeat.

You let yourself sink into the couch.

You let yourself be there.

And when you glance at the hallway again, at that photo of Charles and his brothers, you feel the ache shift.

It’s still there, the grief for what you didn’t have.

But it’s accompanied now by something else.

A quiet, steady truth.

You may not have grown up with siblings.

But you’re not alone in this room.

You’re not a visitor hovering at the edges.

You’re someone they’re making space for.

Charles leans close, whispering, “You okay?”

You smile.

It’s small, but it’s real.

“Yes,” you whisper back.

Charles’ shoulders loosen like he’s been waiting for that answer all night.

He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, so softly you almost miss it, “See? You fit.”

And for the first time since you walked in, you believe him.

Not because the French suddenly became easy.

Not because you magically turned into someone who can keep up with family chaos.

But because Charles kept his promise.

Because Lorenzo noticed.

Because his mum slowed down.

Because the room made space.