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ⓘ one morning, Lando decided to speak only in British slang and found it way too entertaining when you had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
feat. lando norris x fem!reader ⨾ established relationship, british slang, humor, teasing, fluff, 831 wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
It started on a completely normal morning.
You were half-awake, sitting at the kitchen table in one of Lando’s hoodies, hair a mess, still trying to wake up.
Lando walked in looking far too pleased for 8 a.m.—and he hated mornings.
“Morning,” you mumbled.
“All right, love?” he replied casually.
You frowned slightly but didn’t think much of it. “Yeah… tired.”
He nodded like it was obvious. “Yeah, you look a bit knackered.”
You blinked slowly. “I look a bit what?”
“Knackered,” he repeated, as if it was the most normal word in the world.
“I don’t know what that means. Do I look sick?”
“No, baby. Just tired. Fancy a cuppa?”
You stared at him, still half-asleep, his words feeling like a foreign language.
“Genuinely, what are you saying?” you asked, looking at him in confusion.
Lando had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too much.
“Nothing complicated,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Just asking if you want tea.”
“Then say tea,” you muttered.
“I did.”
“No, you said… cuppa.”
“That is tea.”
You stared at him. Properly stared. “Did you hit your head?”
He tilted his head, still fighting his grin. “Nah, I’m sound.”
You squinted. “You’re… sound?”
“Yeah. Fine. All good.”
“…That’s not a real sentence. You are not a musical instrument, Lando.”
That did it.
Lando broke.
A laugh slipped out before he could stop it, and he quickly turned his face away like the counter was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“I’m not a musical instrument,” he repeated, still laughing under his breath. “You’re killing me.”
“You’re the one speaking in riddles,” you said, pointing at him accusingly. “First knackered, then cuppa, now… I’m sound? What’s next, are you going to tell me you’re chuffed about the kettle?”
He turned back, eyebrows raised. “Actually, yeah. The kettle’s class.”
You blinked. Slowly.
“I’m going back to bed.”
“No, wait—” he said quickly, stepping closer, but the grin on his face ruined any seriousness. “I’m only joking.”
Your eyes narrowed. “So you are making things up.”
“Not making them up,” he corrected. “Just… British-ing them up.”
“British-ing them up,” you repeated flatly.
He nodded proudly.
You sighed. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“…I strongly dislike you.” You said, mocking his accent.
“Bit dramatic, that.”
You grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing properly now, completely unbothered.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said.
“Yeah,” he admitted, setting the pillow aside. “Bit of fun, innit.”
You pointed at him again. “Don’t.”
He leaned in slightly, voice softer but still teasing. “Fancy a brew, then?”
You froze.
“…A brew is tea, isn’t it?” You were guessing, or you heard it somewhere before, you weren’t really sure.
He smiled like he’d just won something.
“Finally!”
“Just because I guessed one word doesn’t mean you’ll speak British. We speak English in this household, babe,” you warned him.
Lando pressed a hand to his chest like you’d deeply offended him.
“English?” he repeated. “I am speaking English.”
“No, you’re speaking British.”
“I remember how you told me my British accent is hot.”
“Two years ago.”
He gasped. Properly dramatic.
“So now it’s expired?”
“Yes.”
“Like milk?”
You pointed at him. “Exactly like milk.”
A few minutes later, you were in the kitchen making coffee for both of you. Not tea. You had trauma now.
You turned slightly toward the couch where Lando was sprawled, watching TV like he hadn’t just mentally destabilised your entire morning.
“Want some biscuits, baby?” you called out.
Silence.
Then—
Lando slowly turned his head.
“Biscuits?” he repeated, a grin already spreading across his face.
You froze.
“I meant cookies,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “Don’t think much of it.”
“I’d love to fancy a cuppa with biscuits, darlin’,” Lando said with a smug little smile, clearly enjoying himself way too much.
You stared at him for a second.
Then you pointed a spoon in his direction.
“I hate you.”
Lando laughed, pushing himself off the couch and walking over, still grinning like he’d just won a race.
“No you don’t,” he said softly, taking the spoon from your hand before you could accidentally weaponise it further.
You tried to stay annoyed. You really did.
But then he bumped his shoulder lightly against yours, voice dropping into something gentler.
“You’re just upset you’re losing the British language battle.”
“There is no battle.”
“There is now.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
Lando noticed immediately.
“Oh, look, she’s smiling,” he whispered. “That means I win.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And you love me.”
A pause.
“…Unfortunately.”
He laughed, pulling you into him before you could protest, arms wrapping around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. In fact, it was.
“Fancy that cuppa anyway?” he murmured against your hair.
Warning(s); Fluff, kissing, edited but not really.
Summary; An afternoon spent in Dean's bed.
Word Count; 2.2k
Author’s Note; Don't really have thing for blondes, but he pulls it off so well, so of course I had to write for him 😄. Another short fic, sorry for that, still trying to get back into the groove of writing. I do plan to write more for Dean, maybe Logan and Tucker too, so if you have any fic requests, you can send those through my inbox 🤍. Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
The sun filters through Dean's half-closed blinds in strips of gold, painting bars of light across the rumpled sheets and your bare legs tangled with his. It's that particular kind of day that feels suspended in time, when the whole day stretches ahead with no obligations, no places to be, nothing demanding your attention except the slow, pleasant pull of sleep and the warmth of Dean's mouth finding yours again.
You're not sure what time it is anymore. Late afternoon, maybe? You'd both been awake earlier, properly awake, when you'd first arrived at the house around eleven. There'd been the usual chaos downstairs, Tucker making breakfast for what appeared to be half the hockey team, Garrett playing some sort of video game, Logan sprawled on the couch complaining about a paper he hadn't started. Dean had intercepted you at the door, his hand slipping into yours with easy familiarity, leading you upstairs before anyone could rope either of you into whatever plans were being formed.
That had been hours ago now. Or maybe just one hour. Time feels elastic up here in Dean's room, where the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the lazy rhythm you've fallen into. Kissing, dozing, waking up to kiss some more. There's no urgency to any of it, no clear destination. Just this slow, meandering afternoon that keeps pulling you both under and back up again like a gentle tide.
Dean's hand is tracing patterns on your lower back, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His shirt, actually, one you'd pulled on earlier when you'd gotten too warm in your hoodie. The fabric is soft and worn, smells like him, like laundry detergent and something woodsy that might be cologne or might just be Dean. His touch is relaxed, mapping out the curve of your spine with the kind of attention that makes your breath catch even though you're half asleep.
"You awake?" he murmurs against your temple.
"Mm," you hum, which isn't really an answer but is all you can manage right now.
You feel him smile against your skin, and then his mouth is trailing down to your jaw, pressing lazy kisses there that make you shift closer to him instinctively. Your leg slides between his, and his hand moves from your back to your hip, fingers spreading wide against bare skin where your shorts have ridden up.
This has been the pattern for the past hour, maybe longer. Drowsy kissing that builds into something deeper, more heated, hands starting to wander with clear intent, before one of you pulls back and you both drift off again into a light doze. Then you wake up. Sometimes five minutes later, sometimes twenty, and it starts all over again, this comfortable cycle that neither of you seems particularly motivated to break.
It's different from your usual dynamic. Usually when you're in Dean's bed there's a clear trajectory, a straightforward progression from point A to point B. This thing between you started as purely physical, after all, built on a little chemistry and the convenience and easy attraction that doesn't require much discussion. But lately, and especially today, there's been this softness creeping in. This willingness to just exist together without any particular agenda, to be close for the sake of being close rather than as a means to an end.
You're not examining it too closely. That feels dangerous, like putting a name to something might change it into something else entirely. So instead you just let yourself sink into it, into the warmth of Dean's body against yours and the pleasant weight of his arm around your waist and the way his breath hitches slightly when you kiss the corner of his mouth.
"C'mere," he says quietly, even though you're already as close as two people can reasonably be while still technically clothed.
But you understand what he means. You shift upward slightly, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The kiss is slow and deep, the kind that makes your toes press into the mattress and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, like he's got all the time in the world to explore your mouth, to figure out exactly what makes you sigh against him like that.
Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands that are messy from sleep and from you running your hands through them repeatedly. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when you tug gently, and you feel the vibration of it against your lips. His hand slides from your jaw down to your neck, thumb brushing over your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing heavier, and Dean's eyes are clouded when they meet yours. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he leans in and presses a softer kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth again.
"I like you," he says against your lips, affectionate, and uncomplicated.
"Yeah?," you let out a hum before responding, your voice coming out raspier than you intended.
"Yeah," he admits easily, his hand sliding back down to your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your ribcage.
The house is quiet around you, that particular mid afternoon lull when everyone's off doing their own thing. You can hear faint sounds from outside, someone's music playing a few houses down, a car passing on the street, but inside it's just the two of you and the soft whir of the ceiling fan above the bed. The sheets are a disaster, half kicked off, pillows everywhere except where they're supposed to be. Dean's room always looks lived-in, comfortable in its chaos, but right now it looks particularly messy in a way that makes you smile.
Dean catches the smile, his own lips curving up in response. "What?"
"Nothing," you say, but you're still smiling. "This is just nice."
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, or pleasure, before he's kissing you again, harder this time, with more intent. His hand slides under your shirt properly now, palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into the touch without thinking. The kiss deepens, grows more urgent, and you can feel the shift happening again, that slow build of heat that's been simmering all afternoon starting to intensify.
You roll onto your back and Dean follows, his body covering yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. This position is familiar, well practiced by now, but it still sends a thrill through you when his hips settle between your thighs. He's kissing down your neck now, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp, and his hand is sliding higher under your shirt.
"Dean," you breathe, and your hands find his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under your palms as he moves.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his expression full of intensity. "Yeah?"
You're not sure what you were going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But before you can figure it out, he's kissing you again, stealing whatever words you might have found. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close, and he makes that sound again, that low rumble of approval that you've learned means you're doing something he likes.
The afternoon stretches on, golden and hazy, and you lose yourself in it. In him. In the way his hands know exactly where to touch you, the way his mouth finds all the places that make you forget your own name. There's a languidness to it all, even as things intensify, a sense that you've got all the time in the world to figure each other out.
Eventually, though, the heat peaks and then subsides, leaving you both breathing hard, skin flushed, completely tangled together. Dean's face is buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and your fingers are still in his hair, gentler now, just touching because you can. The room feels warmer than it did before, or maybe that's just the two of you.
"Jesus," Dean mutters into your shoulder, and you feel him smile against your skin.
You hum in agreement, too content to form actual words. Your body feels heavy, satisfied, and already you can feel sleep trying to pull you under again. Dean shifts slightly, enough to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression that makes your chest feel tight.
"You good?" he asks quietly.
"So good," you confirm, and you mean it in about a thousand different ways.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then carefully extracts himself from you, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him. You end up tucked against his chest, his arm around you, your leg thrown over his hip in a tangle of limbs that should probably be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. The sheets are even more of a disaster now, but neither of you makes any move to fix them.
"We should probably get up at some point," you say, but you make no effort to move.
"Probably," Dean agrees, also not moving. His hand is back to tracing patterns on your skin, slow circles and figure eights that make your eyes drift closed. "Eventually."
"What time is it?"
He stretches slightly to glance at his phone on the nightstand, then settles back. "Like three thirty."
Three thirty. You've been up here for four and a half hours, just existing in this bubble you've created. It should feel like too long, maybe, like you should be bored or restless or ready to do something else. But instead it just feels natural, like this is exactly where you're supposed to be on an afternoon with nowhere else to be.
"The guys are gonna give you so much shit when we finally go downstairs," you observe.
Dean snorts. "They give me shit regardless. It's like their primary function."
"Fair point."
The fan continues its rotation above you, and outside the window you can hear what sounds like kids playing in a yard somewhere nearby. Normal sounds, the world continuing on while you're suspended here in this room that smells like Dean and sex and easygoing afternoons. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you let them close, pressing your face into Dean's chest.
"You falling asleep again?" he asks, and you can hear the amusement in his voice.
"Maybe," you mumble against his shirt. "You're comfortable."
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "Sleep if you want. I'll wake you up in a bit."
It's such a simple statement, but it settles something in your chest anyway. The casualness of it, the ease. The implicit promise that he's content to just stay here with you, that this doesn't have to be anything more complicated than what it is right now. Two people who like each other, who are good together, who've found something that works.
You let yourself drift, lulled by the steady rhythm of Dean's breathing and the warmth of his body against yours. Sleep comes easy, pulling you under like a whisper. The last thing you're aware of is Dean's fingers still tracing those absent patterns on your back, and the thought that you could get very used to this.
When you wake up again, the light in the room has shifted, the sun lower now, the strips of gold across the bed turned to amber. Dean is still beside you, still holding you, but he's awake. You can tell by the change in his breathing, the way his hand is moving gently along your back.
"Hey," you say quietly, your voice rough with sleep.
"Hey yourself," he replies, and there's something warm in his tone that makes you smile.
You tilt your head back to look at him, and find him already looking at you. His hair is an absolute mess, his t-shirt wrinkled, and there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks perfect.
"We really destroyed your bed," you observe.
He glances around at the chaos of sheets and pillows, then back at you with a grin. "Worth it."
You laugh, the sound disrupting the quiet in the room, and lean up to kiss him, just because you want to. When you pull back, Dean is smiling, and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face with careful fingers.
"You hungry?" he asks. "We could order something. Or go downstairs and see if Tuck made too much food again."
"In a bit," you say, settling back against his chest. "Don’t wanna move."
"Mhm," Dean agrees quietly, his arms wrapping around you again. "Me either."
And so you stay, wrapped up in each other as the afternoon fades into early evening, in no particular rush to return to the real world. This thing between you might still be undefined, might still exist in some gray area between casual and serious, but right now, in this moment, it feels good.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it at least a little bit (: - Honey
Fluffy list 1, number 5 with Crosby for the summer please
list no.1, fluff prompt no.5: being overly protective of the other
sidney claims he’s not protective—at least, not in that macho, loud, peacocky way.
which yeah—he’s not the type to puff his chest out or start arguments for no reason, and he would never think about making a scene for the fun of it. honestly, at his age, and with the quiet sort of confidence he carries naturally, sidney has long since figured out that the scariest kind of protectiveness is the kind that stays calm.
instead of calling it protective, sidney claims he’s just careful with you. always wants to make you feel safe and happy and at ease. which, ding ding ding babe! that’s called protection.
it’s the subtle things that you noticed first, way back when you guys started seeing one other. like the way his hand automatically settles against the small of your back whenever you walk through crowded places, fingers spread wide and steady like he’s guiding you without thinking about it.
the way he always walks closest to traffic, and how he never fails at unconsciously positioning himself between you and anyone acting even remotely off. doesn’t matter if it’s just at the grocery store between the cereal and bread isles, or at the fanciest hockey event.
take the beginning of this past season for example—you’re halfway through crossing a hotel lobby after one of his charity dinners when a small crowd starts drifting too close, people trying to stop sidney for pictures and autographs, which you can’t blame them. but sidney automatically gets intense and grabby with you.
not rough. never rough. but always immediate.
his fingers lace through yours before he gently tugs you behind him, shielding your body with his without even interrupting the conversation he’s having. he signs two jerseys, smiles politely, says something kind to a little kid waiting nearby—but his thumb keeps rubbing across your knuckles the entire time.
a way to make you feel calm, while also sending a message to anyone who would ever dare to say something. or do something.
he gets even worse when you’re sick. borderline unbearable—seriously, if you didn’t love him you’d probably strangle him.
the first time you get the flu while living together, sidney turns into something between an over concerned husband and a personal bodyguard.
you wake up sweaty and miserable around three in the morning, only to find him already awake beside you, one hand pressed lightly against your forehead checking your temperature with a cute little furrow between his brows—and god, you’re not even suprised by it.
“jesus,” he mutters softly when you shift under the covers, instinctively turning towards him. “you’re burning up.”
you groan weakly, throat scratchy. “sid, go back to sleep.”
and that fucker just snorts, like you’re the one being ridiculous right now. “not happening.”
that three days of the flue becomes a blur of warm blankets he insists on running through the dryer so there warm and ‘smell like comfort,’ whatever that means. medicine schedules, your stanley cup constantly topped up, and sidney coddling you so intensely that it’s ridiculous.
and then there’s the most simple moments. the ones that show your age gap the most. not in a bad way, just in a way that shows how different you two are. he’s older, you’re younger. he’s more experienced with life, you still collect stuffed animals. and he’s definitely cautious, and you’re like…totally not.
sidney’s spent years learning how quickly things can go wrong, and now that he has you, that caution wraps around everything. like, you’ll straight up, no hesitation climb onto the kitchen counter to reach something from a high shelf and immediately hear, “hey—careful.”
or jokingly and with the sole purpose of winding him up, you’ll mention walking home alone after class and he’s already clearing his schedule so he can be in a position to pick you up. and if he can’t? you already knows he’s calling malkin or letang do it.
and of course you tease him for it constantly.
“sid, I am fully capable of surviving on my own.”
“I know you are,” he hums every time, followed by a tender kiss against your temple that just makes you vibrate.
but his hand still settles on your knee beneath restaurant tables. he still waits up when you’re out late. still pulls you a little closer against his side anytime the sidewalks get too crowded.
and sure, maybe it’s excessive or a little ridiculous. but secretly you love it. because how could you not?
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Summary- After a bad breakup you build your walls super high and promise yourself you'll never fall in love again, however when a world champion f1 driver steals your heart you are stuck between fight and flight mode...
Notes- Lowkey obsessed with writing lando fics about olivia rodrigo songs at the moment and as soon as I heard this song I knew I needed to write something!
The thing about heartbreak is that it doesn't just break your heart. It breaks your ability to trust that you're not fundamentally too much, too loud, too emotional, too everything for anyone to love properly.
Your ex made sure of that. And he made sure everyone knew it, too.
The breakup wasn't just private tears and blocked numbers. It was public statements, carefully worded Instagram stories that painted you as "intense" and "overwhelming," think pieces from people who'd never met you about whether you were "stable enough" for a relationship in the public eye. Your anxiety, which you'd worked so hard to manage, became a spectacle. Proof that you were broken.
So you did what any reasonable person would do: you retreated. You stopped going out. Stopped posting. Stopped trying to convince anyone—including yourself—that you were okay.
That's where Pietra finds you on a Friday night in late March, curled up on your couch in joggers and an oversized hoodie, mindlessly scrolling through your phone even though you know it'll only make you feel worse.
"Absolutely not," she says, standing in your doorway with her hands on her hips. She's got that look—the one that means she's not asking, she's telling. "You're not doing this tonight."
"Doing what?" you ask, not looking up.
"This." She gestures at all of you. "The hiding. The spiraling. The convincing yourself you're better off alone."
"I am better off alone," you mutter. "Clearly."
Pietra crosses the room and plucks your phone out of your hands. "You're coming out with me and Max tonight. There's this gay night at a club in Shoreditch—good music, good energy, zero judgment. You're going to remember what it feels like to just exist without performing for anyone."
"P, I don't think—"
"I'm not asking." Her voice softens. "Babe, I love you. But you've been disappearing for weeks and I'm not going to watch you convince yourself you deserved what he did. You didn't. And you're not going to find that out by hiding in here."
So that's how you end up in the back of an Uber forty minutes later, wearing the one dress Pietra pulled from the back of your closet that still makes you feel a little bit like yourself. Your heart's hammering with anxiety, but Pietra's hand is warm in yours, and she keeps squeezing it every time you start to spiral.
"Just a few hours," she promises. "If you hate it, we'll leave. But I think you need this."
The venue is exactly what she promised—dimmed lights, pulsing music, a crowd that's here to dance and laugh and be themselves without apology. It's been so long since you've been somewhere that didn't feel like a performance, somewhere you didn't have to worry about who was watching or what they'd say about you later.
You're standing near the bar, letting the music sink into your bones, when you feel it.
That pull. That awareness of being seen.
You turn, and that's when you see him.
He's across the room, leaning against a pillar with a drink in his hand, and he's looking right at you. Not the way your ex used to look at you—cataloging your flaws, deciding if you were worth the effort. This is different. Warm. Curious. Like he's seeing something he didn't expect to find but is really glad he did.
Lando Norris.
You know who he is, obviously. Pietra's mentioned him before—he's mates with Max, part of that whole F1 world that always felt distant and untouchable. But right now, in this moment, he's just a guy with bright eyes and a soft smile, and he's walking toward you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Hi," he says when he reaches you, and his voice is warm, a little bit unsure in a way that immediately puts you at ease. "I'm Lando."
"I know," you say, then immediately want to cringe. "Sorry, that sounded—Pietra's mentioned you. I'm—"
"I know who you are too," he says gently, and there's no judgment in it. No pity. Just acknowledgment. "Can I buy you a drink?"
You should say no. You should protect yourself, keep your walls up, not let anyone close enough to hurt you again.
But there's something about the way he's looking at you—like you're not a headline or a cautionary tale, just a person he'd like to know—that makes you say yes.
You talk for hours.
Not about your ex, not about his career, not about any of the noise that usually surrounds both of you. He asks you about the book you're reading, the playlist you've been obsessed with lately, the trip you took to Scotland last summer. He listens—really listens—leaning in close so he can hear you over the music, his eyes never leaving your face.
"You're easy to talk to," you say at one point, surprised by how true it is.
"You're easy to listen to, love," he says, and the nickname lands soft and sweet, like he's been calling you that forever.
When Pietra finally finds you near closing time, she takes one look at you and Lando—sitting close on a worn velvet couch, your legs angled toward him, his hand resting casually near your knee—and grins.
"I'm getting a separate Uber," she announces. "You two look busy."
"P—" you start, but Lando's already pulling out his phone.
"I'll make sure she gets home safe," he promises, and Pietra nods, satisfied.
He does. He rides with you all the way to your flat in Clapham, even though it's completely out of his way, and when you reach your building, he walks you to your door.
"Can I see you again?" he asks, hands in his pockets, looking almost nervous.
"Yeah," you say, and you mean it. "I'd really like that."
He texts you before you even make it inside.
Lando: Had a really good time tonight, darling. Sleep well x
You fall asleep with your phone in your hand and a smile on your face for the first time in months.
The next few weeks feel like stepping out of a storm into sunlight.
Lando texts you first, every time. Good morning messages with little updates about his day, random thoughts he wants to share, questions about yours. He remembers everything—that you take your coffee with oat milk, that you're anxious about an upcoming work presentation, that your favorite film is Pride and Prejudice and you've seen it at least thirty times.
Your dates are quiet, private. Coffee at a tucked-away café in Notting Hill where no one looks twice at either of you. Walks along the South Bank at dusk. Nights at his apartment in Woking, where he cooks you dinner (badly, but enthusiastically) and you end up ordering takeaway and watching old race highlights while he explains the technical details you don't understand.
He never makes you feel like you're too much.
When you ramble about something you're passionate about, he doesn't cut you off or look bored—he asks follow-up questions, leans in closer, smiles like he could listen to you talk forever.
When you're quiet, lost in your own head, he doesn't demand explanations. He just reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, murmurs, "I've got you, baby."
The nicknames become constant. Love. Darling. Baby. Sweetheart. Lovely. Each one lands like a small reassurance, a reminder that he sees you and likes what he sees.
"You're different than I expected," you tell him one night, curled up on his couch with your head on his shoulder.
"Yeah?" He's playing with your hair absently, fingers gentle. "How so?"
"I don't know. I thought you'd be... more. Louder. More intense."
He laughs softly. "I can be. But I don't have to be. Not with you." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I like this. Just us. No noise."
"Me too," you whisper.
And you do. God, you do.
For the first time since your breakup, you feel like you can breathe. Like maybe you're not fundamentally broken. Like maybe you're exactly enough.
Lando feels like the cure.
It lasts eight perfect weeks.
Then the photos surface.
You're at the Monaco Grand Prix—your first time in the paddock, your first time being part of Lando's world publicly. You'd been nervous, but he'd been so reassuring, his hand steady in yours, introducing you to people with obvious pride.
"This is my girlfriend," he'd said, over and over, and each time it made your chest warm.
But someone had been watching. Someone with a camera.
By Sunday night, the photos are everywhere. You and Lando walking through the paddock, his arm around your waist. You laughing at something he said, his eyes soft on your face. You kissing his cheek before he got in the car.
The headlines write themselves.
Lando Norris Goes Public with New Girlfriend
Who Is Lando's Mystery Woman?
Lando Norris Dating Again After Split from Ex
And then, inevitably:
Is She Stable Enough? Lando's New Girlfriend's Messy Public Breakup Raises Questions
You're lying in bed in your hotel room when you see that one. Lando's at a team debrief, and you'd promised yourself you wouldn't look, wouldn't go searching for what people were saying.
But you do.
You always do.
The comments are worse than the headlines.
She's way too much for him. Did you see how clingy she was in those photos?
Isn't she the one who had that public meltdown with her ex? Red flag.
He could do so much better. She looks unstable.
Give it three months before she's crying on Instagram about how he broke her heart too.
She's using him for attention. So obvious.
Your hands are shaking. Your chest is tight. You can't breathe properly.
You know these comments don't matter. You know they're from strangers who don't know you, who are projecting their own issues onto pixels on a screen.
But they sound so much like the voice in your own head.
The one that says you're too much. Too broken. Too damaged to be loved properly.
When Lando gets back to the room an hour later, you're still staring at your phone, tears streaming silently down your face.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" He's across the room in seconds, kneeling in front of you, hands cupping your face. "Baby, talk to me."
"They hate me," you whisper.
"Who hates you?"
"Everyone. They're saying—they're saying I'm using you, that I'm unstable, that you should—" Your voice breaks. "That you should leave before I ruin your life too."
His jaw tightens. "Let me see."
"Lando—"
"Let me see," he says again, firmer, and you hand over your phone with shaking hands.
You watch his face as he scrolls, watch the anger flash in his eyes, the way his grip on your phone tightens.
"This is bullshit," he says finally, setting it aside. "All of it. You know that, right?"
"But what if they're right?" The words tumble out before you can stop them. "What if I am too much? What if I do ruin everything?"
"You're not. You won't." He pulls you into his arms, holds you tight against his chest. "Listen to me, love. Those people don't know you. They don't know us. They're just noise."
"But—"
"No." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your face. "You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not going to ruin anything. I'm with you because I want to be. Because you're brilliant and funny and kind and I'm completely gone for you. Okay?"
You want to believe him. You do.
But the voice in your head is so much louder.
It gets worse.
Every day, there's something new. A think piece about whether you're "good for Lando's image." A Twitter thread comparing you to his ex-girlfriend, listing all the ways she was better. A TikTok analyzing your body language in the paddock, claiming you look "possessive" and "insecure."
You stop posting on social media. You stop looking at the tags. But it doesn't matter—the anxiety has already taken root.
You start pulling away.
Not all at once. Just little things. Taking longer to respond to Lando's texts. Making excuses when he asks you to come to races. Convincing yourself that he's better off without you there, without the scrutiny and speculation that follows you everywhere now.
"You're being quiet, lovely," Lando says one night over FaceTime. He's in his hotel room in Barcelona, and you're back in London. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Nothing," you lie. "Just tired."
"Baby." His voice is gentle but firm. "Talk to me."
"I'm fine, Lando. Really."
But you're not fine.
You're obsessively reading every comment, every article, every Reddit thread. You're comparing yourself to his ex, to other WAGs, to every woman who's ever been photographed with him. You're cataloging every flaw, every reason why he should leave.
You stop eating properly. You're not sleeping. You're having panic attacks in the middle of the night, convinced that you're destroying his career, that everyone's right about you.
Pietra notices first.
"You've lost weight," she says bluntly when she comes over one afternoon. "And you look like you haven't slept in days. What's going on?"
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." She sits down next to you, takes your hand. "This is about the comments, isn't it?"
You don't answer, which is answer enough.
"Babe, you have to stop reading that stuff. It's poison."
"But what if they're right?" Your voice cracks. "What if I'm ruining his life? What if he's just too nice to admit it?"
"Have you talked to Lando about this?"
"I can't." The tears start falling. "I can't put this on him. He has enough to deal with."
"So you're just going to suffer alone and push him away instead?"
"It's better than dragging him down with me."
Pietra looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the worry in her eyes. "You're spiraling. And I don't know how to help you if you won't let anyone in."
But you can't let anyone in. Because letting people in means they'll see how broken you really are, and then they'll leave. They always leave.
The fight happens on a Tuesday night.
Lando's back in London for a few days before the next race, and he shows up at your flat unannounced because you've been dodging his calls.
"We need to talk," he says when you open the door, and his face is serious in a way you've never seen before.
"About what?"
"About the fact that you've been pulling away for weeks and won't tell me why." He steps inside, closes the door behind him. "About the fact that you're clearly not okay and you won't let me help."
"I'm fine—"
"Stop saying that!" His voice rises, and you flinch. He notices, and his expression softens immediately. "Sorry. I'm sorry, love. But you're not fine. I can see it. Pietra can see it. Everyone can see it except apparently you."
"I don't want to talk about this."
"Well, I do." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Because I'm watching you disappear and I don't know how to stop it. I don't know what to do."
"You can't do anything!" The words burst out of you, sharp and desperate. "Don't you get it? This is who I am. I'm anxious and broken and too much, and eventually you're going to realize that and leave, so why don't we just—why don't we just end this now before it gets worse?"
The silence that follows is deafening.
"Is that what you think?" Lando's voice is quiet, almost hurt. "That I'm going to leave?"
"Everyone does." You're crying now, can't stop the tears. "My ex was right. I'm too intense, too emotional, too—"
"Your ex was a fucking idiot who didn't deserve you." Lando crosses the room, tries to reach for you, but you step back.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to fix this. You can't fix this. You can't fix me."
"I'm not trying to fix you!" He's getting frustrated again, you can hear it. "I'm trying to be here for you, but you won't let me. You won't talk to me, you won't tell me what's going on in your head—"
"Because what's going on in my head is that I'm ruining your life!" You're shouting now, all the fear and anxiety and self-loathing pouring out. "Every day there's another article about how I'm not good enough for you, how I'm damaged goods, how you should leave before I destroy your career. And they're right, Lando. They're right."
"They're not—"
"Yes, they are!" Your voice breaks. "You deserve someone stable. Someone who doesn't have panic attacks over Twitter comments. Someone who doesn't come with all this baggage and drama. Someone better."
"I don't want someone better." His voice is raw. "I want you."
"Well, maybe you shouldn't." The words feel like they're being ripped out of you. "Maybe you should go. Maybe we should just—we should end this before I hurt you too."
"You're not going to hurt me—"
"I already am!" You're sobbing now, can barely get the words out. "Can't you see that? I'm pulling you into my mess, and it's only going to get worse. So please. Please just go."
"Baby—"
"Go, Lando." You can't look at him. "Please. Just go."
The silence stretches out, painful and heavy.
Then you hear him move toward the door. Hear it open.
"I love you," he says quietly. "I know you don't believe that right now. But I do."
The door closes behind him.
And you collapse.
The week that follows is the worst of your life.
You don't eat. You barely sleep. You don't answer calls or texts—not from Lando, not from Pietra, not from anyone.
You just exist in the darkness of your flat and your own mind, convinced that you've done the right thing. That you've saved Lando from the inevitable disaster of being with you.
But it doesn't feel like relief.
It feels like drowning.
You spend hours scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Reading his old texts. Torturing yourself with memories of how safe you felt in his arms, how seen you felt when he looked at you.
The voice in your head is relentless.
You ruined it. You pushed away the best thing that ever happened to you. You're too broken to be loved. He's better off without you. Everyone is better off without you.
On day seven, Pietra uses her spare key to let herself into your flat.
She finds you on the couch, unwashed, surrounded by takeaway containers you haven't touched, staring blankly at the TV that isn't even on.
"Oh, babe," she breathes, and the concern in her voice almost breaks you.
"I'm fine," you say automatically.
"No, you're really not." She sits down next to you, takes in your appearance with worried eyes. "Have you eaten anything today?"
You don't answer.
"This week?"
Still nothing.
"Right." She pulls out her phone with shaking hands. "I'm calling Lando."
"No—" You try to grab the phone, but you're too slow, too exhausted.
"Yes," she says firmly. "Because I love you, and I'm scared, and you need help that I can't give you."
You hear her step into the other room, hear the low murmur of her voice. You should care. You should stop her.
But you're so tired.
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at your door.
You know who it is before Pietra opens it.
Lando steps inside, and the look on his face when he sees you—concern and love and barely contained panic—almost destroys you.
"Hi, baby," he says softly, and his voice cracks on the nickname.
You can't speak. Can't move. Can only stare at him as he crosses the room and kneels in front of you, the same way he did that night in Monaco.
"I'm going to give you two some space," Pietra says quietly, and then she's gone, and it's just you and Lando and all the broken pieces between you.
"I'm sorry," you whisper finally. "I'm so sorry."
"Shh, no." He reaches for your hands, and you let him take them. "You don't have to apologize, love."
"I pushed you away. I said terrible things. I—"
"You were scared." His thumbs stroke over your knuckles. "You were hurting, and you were scared, and you thought you were protecting me. I get it."
"I thought—" Your voice breaks. "I thought you'd be better off without me."
"Well, you were wrong." He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you almost believe him. "I've been miserable this week. Couldn't focus on anything. Kept checking my phone every five minutes hoping you'd text. Max had to physically take it away from me during the strategy meeting."
Despite everything, you let out a wet laugh.
"There she is," he murmurs, and the tenderness in his voice breaks something open in your chest.
The tears come then. Really come. Great, heaving sobs that you've been holding back for days, weeks, maybe months. All the fear and anxiety and self-loathing pouring out of you in waves.
Lando doesn't hesitate. He pulls you off the couch and into his arms, holding you so tight you can barely breathe, and you cling to him like he's the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning.
"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, baby. Let it out."
So you do. You cry into his chest, your hands fisted in his shirt, and he just holds you. Rocks you gently. Presses kiss after kiss to the top of your head.
"I'm sorry," you sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Stop apologizing." His voice is firm but so gentle. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
"I'm such a mess—"
"You're not a mess. You're hurting. There's a difference."
"Everyone was right about me—"
"No." He pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, and you realize he's crying too. "Everyone was wrong. So fucking wrong, darling. You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not unstable or dramatic or any of the other bullshit they said about you."
"But—"
"Listen to me." His voice is fierce now, almost desperate. "You are kind. You are brilliant. You are funny and thoughtful and you make me laugh harder than anyone I've ever met. You remember the little things. You listen when I talk about racing even though half of it probably bores you. You make me feel seen in a way I've never felt before."
The tears are still falling, but you're listening. Really listening.
"Your anxiety doesn't make you broken," he continues, his thumbs wiping away your tears even as his own fall. "It makes you human. And the fact that you're dealing with all this shit—the comments, the pressure, the constant scrutiny—and you're still here, still trying, still fighting? That makes you the strongest person I know."
"I don't feel strong," you whisper.
"I know, love. I know." He presses his forehead to yours. "But you are. And I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from all of it. I'm sorry I let it get this bad."
"It's not your fault—"
"And it's not yours either." He pulls back to look at you again. "None of this is your fault. Not the comments, not the articles, not the way your brain tries to convince you you're not enough. None of it."
"I don't know how to stop believing it," you admit, and it feels like the most honest thing you've said in weeks.
"Then let me believe it for both of us," he says simply. "Until you can believe it yourself. Let me remind you every single day that you're good enough. That you're more than enough. That I'm not going anywhere."
"You promise?"
"I promise, baby. I love you. I'm completely, stupidly in love with you, and nothing—not the comments, not the pressure, not your anxiety—is going to change that."
You break again, but this time it feels different. Like something cracking open to let the light in.
He holds you through it, whispering reassurances into your hair, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, the top of your head. Over and over, like he's trying to kiss the pain away.
"Come on, lovely," he murmurs eventually. "Let's get you to bed."
You don't have the energy to argue. You let him guide you to your bedroom, let him help you out of the clothes you've been wearing for two days, let him pull one of his old hoodies over your head.
The smell of him—familiar and safe—makes you want to cry all over again.
He climbs into bed behind you, pulls you back against his chest, and wraps his arms around you completely. One arm around your waist, the other coming up so his hand can rest over your heart.
"I've got you," he murmurs into your neck. "You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
You lace your fingers through his, hold on tight.
"I love you," you whisper. "I'm sorry I didn't say it before. I'm sorry I—"
"Shh." Another kiss to your temple. "I know, darling. I know."
You fall asleep like that, wrapped in him, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck.
For the first time in a week, you feel like you can breathe.
You wake up to sunlight streaming through your curtains and the smell of tea.
For a moment, you panic—thinking you dreamed it, that Lando isn't really here, that you're still alone in your spiral.
Then you hear movement in the kitchen, and your heart settles.
He's still here.
You find him a few minutes later, standing at your stove in joggers and the t-shirt he wore last night, making tea and toast like he's done it a thousand times.
"Morning, lovely," he says when he sees you, and his smile is soft and warm and everything you don't deserve but desperately need.
"You stayed," you say, and your voice is still rough from crying.
"Of course I stayed." He crosses to you, cups your face gently. "I told you I wasn't going anywhere."
He kisses your forehead, slow and tender, and you close your eyes against the feeling.
"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get some food in you."
You manage half a piece of toast and some tea, and he doesn't push for more. Just sits next to you at the counter, his hand resting on your thigh, his thumb drawing absent circles.
"We should talk," you say eventually. "About everything."
"We will," he agrees. "But not right now. Right now, you just need to rest."
"Lando—"
"Please, baby." He turns to look at you, and his eyes are so earnest. "Let me take care of you today. We'll figure out the rest later."
So you do.
You let him guide you to the couch, let him pull you into his side, let him wrap a blanket around both of you. He puts on Pride and Prejudice—your comfort film, the one you mentioned once in passing months ago—and you settle against his chest.
His fingers find your hair, running through it slowly, gently, the same way he did that first night at his apartment. His other hand holds yours, their fingers intertwined on his stomach.
Every few minutes, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your forehead. Your temple. Like he's trying to make up for the week you spent apart, trying to remind you that he's here and he's real and he's not leaving.
"I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't talk to me," he says quietly during one of the film's quieter moments. "I should have—I should have checked in more. Should have made sure you knew you could tell me when things got bad."
"It's not your fault," you say. "I'm the one who shut down. Who pushed you away."
"We both could have done better." He kisses your head again. "But we're going to do better now. Yeah?"
"Yeah," you whisper.
"I mean it, love. We're going to figure this out together. Better boundaries with social media. Maybe you talk to someone—a therapist who specializes in anxiety. I'll do better at protecting you from the worst of it. We'll make it work."
"What if it's not enough?" The fear creeps back in. "What if I spiral again?"
"Then I'll be there." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll be there every single time, baby. For as long as you'll let me."
You tilt your head up to look at him, and the expression on his face—open and honest and full of love—makes your chest ache.
"I don't deserve you," you whisper.
"Yes, you do." He leans down, presses a soft kiss to your lips. "You deserve everything good, darling. And I'm going to spend however long it takes convincing you of that."
You kiss him again, deeper this time, trying to pour everything you can't say into it. Thank you. I'm sorry. I love you. I'll try.
When you pull back, he's smiling, and he tugs you closer, tucking your head under his chin.
"Rest, lovely," he murmurs. "I've got you."
So you do. You let yourself relax into him, let the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his arms and the gentle pressure of his kisses lull you into something that feels almost like peace.
It's not a miracle cure.
The anxiety doesn't disappear overnight. The comments don't stop. The pressure of being in the public eye doesn't magically become easier.
But Lando keeps his promise.
He's there for every wobble, every moment when the voice in your head gets too loud. He reminds you to eat, to sleep, to step away from your phone when the comments get too vicious. He holds you through panic attacks and celebrates the small victories—the days when you can scroll past the hate without it destroying you, the moments when you can believe, even just a little bit, that you're enough.
You start seeing a therapist. You set boundaries with social media. You learn to recognize when you're spiraling and actually ask for help instead of trying to handle it alone.
And Lando? He's patient through all of it. Never makes you feel like a burden. Never acts like your anxiety is an inconvenience.
He just loves you. Steadily. Unconditionally. With a thousand small gestures and soft words and gentle touches that slowly, slowly start to rewrite the narrative in your head.
Three months after that terrible week, you're back in the paddock for the British Grand Prix. You're nervous—the last time you were here, it triggered the worst spiral of your life.
But Lando's hand is steady in yours, and when you start to panic, he pulls you aside, cups your face, and looks at you with those steady eyes.
"You've got this, baby," he says firmly. "And if you don't, I've got you. Either way, we're okay."
And somehow, you believe him.
You make it through the day. Through the cameras and the questions and the inevitable comments that pop up online later. And when you start to spiral that night in the hotel, Lando's already there, pulling you into his arms, pressing kisses to your hair, reminding you of all the things you can't quite believe yet but are learning to.
"I'm proud of you," he murmurs into your hair. "So fucking proud, lovely."
"I couldn't do this without you," you admit.
"Yes, you could," he says. "You're stronger than you think. But you don't have to do it without me. Not anymore."
That night, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you realize something.
Lando was never the cure for your heartbreak. He was never supposed to fix you or make the pain disappear.
But he gave you something better: a safe place to heal. A steady presence that didn't waver when things got hard. A love that didn't demand you be perfect or put-together or anything other than exactly who you are.
And maybe that's the real cure. Not the rush of new love that makes you forget your pain, but the steady, patient, unconditional love that holds you while you learn to heal yourself.
"I love you," you whisper into the darkness.
"I love you too, darling," he murmurs back, pressing another kiss to your head. "Always."
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you believe that maybe, just maybe, you're going to be okay.
Not because someone fixed you.
But because someone loved you enough to stay while you learned to fix yourself.
subtle acknowledgement in group settings - a slight eyebrow raise, nod, and always looking at the other to find them already watching from fluff list 2 with maybe natemac? :)))
this isn’t a cry for help or anything! pls don’t worry abt me i’m okay, i was just thinking kind of heavy about myself while writing and it ended up making this… art really does thrive in the worst of moments LMAOOO
social phobia (self-indulgent), very briefly and subtly mentioned self harm, angsty at first then it turns fluffy
A dinner hall like this felt like a place you’d never belong in. It was one of the nicest buildings you’ve stepped into. Hanging silk tapestries over the walls, marble floors and golden-plated napkin rounds.
The space was crowded with a thick cloud of noise, laughter and mutual enjoyment blending into one loud haze that didn’t even falter even when you managed to escape to the bathroom. The lights were too bright, and your dress was too tight yet somehow still loose and slinky. It didn’t fit the way you wanted it to. You felt like you didn’t fit in either, not with these people, not the way you should be.
Charity dinners weren’t really your thing. Not that you were against charity; you just hated the expectation. Nate slipped away from you moments after arriving, caught up with catching up with distant associates. It left you alone, vulnerable. You doubted he meant to, but no matter the purpose, his disappearance still harboured a sick sense of solitude.
You turn the sink tap until water spills out of it. The chill bites at your hands; the skin surrounding your fingertips burns as you had spent half the evening picking at them to distract yourself. The pale-coloured clutch sits atop the space before the mirror starts. It glares at you; your phone is half dead; unopened lip gloss haunts you.
What a mistake you’ve made, showing up tonight like you even had the ability to put a face on and pretend. It was pointless even trying most days, but you did today anyway. Why?
The half-dead phone buzzes once; you blink back the tears that form. It’s Nathan; of course it’s Nathan. He’s asking where you are; you don’t have it in you to tell him the truth. You don’t answer him at all; instead, you place the device screen down on the side of the sink again. It makes a sound again, another message. Then it’s quiet for a moment, and you're left to your thoughts again. You sniffle, and it starts ringing. He’s calling you now, likely growing worried over your silence.
“Hello?” You choke out, the phone stays on the surface; it would feel far too intimate to have his voice in your ear, so you put it on speaker.
“Where are you? Are you okay?” Nate asks; you can hear the way he’s panicking through the crackly microphone. Something warm pools in your gut. It feels nice to have someone worry about you every once and a while.
“I’m in the bathroom, just freshening up.”
You already know he doesn’t believe you by how quiet he turns. It’s muffled, but you can hear a pop of champagne followed by cheering in the background. Your heart turns cold as you start to feel like a burden again.
“Do you need me?”
Is it that obvious? Your sheer inability to do anything in a public setting without freaking out? Nate has always known; he knew before it had got bad and during the worst of it. The most heartbreaking part of it all was he knew when it was getting better and when it ended up bad all over again. He never turned his back on you, though; maybe that's why you don’t feel as bad putting it all on him.
"Maybe," you say, oh so quietly he probably can’t even hear it. He does, though; you listen in as the volume on his side of the call goes quieter. He’s stepped away now; his footsteps ring out in the empty hall leading to the communal restrooms. The call stays active the whole time; neither of you says anything, just breathes together in an undertone.
When you unlock and open the bathroom door, he stands only a pace away. His white shirt is crumpled, his tie undone and messy around his neck. You spent a good five minutes trying to tie that thing before leaving the house. He looks worried, eyebrows creased, lips pursed into that thoughtful hold that makes you worried in turn.
It’s not overwhelming the way he walks you back into the small bathroom; he doesn’t crowd you into the wall. Instead, he just steps gently like you're a prey animal. Slow, so slow it hardly breaks the silent atmosphere. He locks the door behind him, and it feels like a breath of fresh air as opposed to a forced containment. He presses down on his own phone screen and ends the call and finishes by placing it on top of yours on the sink.
“I’m sorry, Nate,” you mutter, your back coming up flush with the edge of the hand dryer. “I didn’t want to take you out of the party.”
“Not even a party. It’s fine, anyway; I was waiting for the chance to get out of there.”
You smile, even laughing quietly under your breath. He warms at the sight, the previous concern melting into a gentle calm. His hand brushes over yours faintly. It happens carefully, allowing you full control over the space. You can’t stop yourself from wrapping around him, arms circling over his shoulders. He’s good like that, the best for you even when you can’t do it alone anymore.
A total of seven minutes pass before you psych yourself up enough to leave the bathroom. Nathan’s with you the whole time; he doesn’t say much, but you know his mind is running rampant with praises and soft encouragement.
He tries not to abandon you again for the rest of the night, arm circled around your waist as people more or less talk at him instead of to him. But it just happens once without either of you having the chance to do anything about it. He’s pulled away from you like the tide, and in his absence you're joined by others. Other WAGs, ones that don’t know, ones that do and don’t make a scene because of it.
Despite your physical distance, his eyes never really leave you for long. He’s with his teammates, but his focus is stuck on you. A drink is in your hands by now, something sweet and unforgettable. You tilt the glass towards him, and he raises a brow. It’s a foreign, silent sharing of mutual understanding. His head nods once, and then you finally feel comfortable to pitch in to the conversations around you.
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Warning(s); None. Lots of fluff. Not really edited, though, so apologies for any mistakes
Summary; You and Dean take your three year old son, Addison-Maxwell, skating for the first time.
Word Count; 2.6k
Author’s Note; I had fun writing this, I think it's so cute! Would love to expand this universe with other chapters, so if you have anything you'd like to see, please let me know (: Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
The rink is empty on Sunday mornings, which is exactly why Dean arranged for the three of you to come at this hour. Addison's been vibrating with excitement since you told him yesterday that today was finally the day. Now, at eight thirty, he's sitting on the bench in front of the boards while Dean kneels in front of him, lacing up the tiny skates that had been wrapped under the Christmas tree two weeks ago.
"Tight, Daddy?" Addison asks, watching Dean's hands work with the laces.
"Not too tight," Dean assures him. "Just right. Can you wiggle your toes for me?"
Addison scrunches up his face in concentration, and his little feet shift in the skates. "I wiggle them!"
"Good job, buddy," Dean says, and he finishes with the second skate before sitting back on his heels. "How do they feel?"
"Good," Addison announces. Then, with the unshakeable confidence of a three-year-old, "I'm gonna skate fast like you, Daddy."
"We're going to start slow," Dean corrects gently. "Remember what we talked about? First you learn to stand, then walk, then glide."
"Then fast," Addison insists.
"Then fast," Dean agrees, exchanging an amused look with you over Addison's head.
You're already in your own skates, having laced them up while Dean helped Addison. It's been a while since you've been on ice, not since before Addison was born, really. Dean still skates regularly, both for his own practice and to demonstrate things for his youth team, but you've had less reason to. Still, it comes back quickly, muscle memory kicking in as you stand and test your balance.
"Mama's ready!" Addison observes, pointing at you.
"Mama is ready," you confirm. "Are you ready, Addy?"
"Ready!" he says seriously, in that way three-year-olds have of making everything sound intensely important.
Dean helps Addison stand, keeping a firm grip on his hands. Addison wobbles immediately, his ankles trying to bend inward, and Dean's there to steady him. "Keep your feet flat, buddy. Don't let your ankles do this," he demonstrates the wobble, "keep them straight like this."
Addison's face scrunches up again with concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he tries to control his ankles. It's an expression you've seen on Dean's face a hundred times, usually when he's focused on reviewing game footage or planning practice drills. Your son looks so much like his father it's almost comical: the same blonde hair that never quite behaves, the same determined set to his jaw when he's working on something, the same green eyes that can shift from serious to mischievous in seconds.
"Good," Dean says. "That's really good. Now we're going to walk to the ice, okay? Just like regular walking, but I'm holding your hands."
"Okay, Daddy."
The walk from the locker room to the rink entrance is slow and careful, Addison taking exaggerated steps while Dean walks backward in front of him, keeping hold of both his hands. You follow behind with your phone, already recording because you know you'll want to remember this.
The rink is pristine, the ice freshly zambonied and gleaming under the overhead lights. It's cold enough that you can see your breath, and Addison notices immediately. Dean’s rink was one of the colder ones you’d been in.
"Mama, look! Smoke!" he exclaims, breathing out dramatically and watching the cloud of condensation.
"That's your breath in the cold air," you explain. "Pretty cool, right?"
"So cool," Addison agrees, and then he's distracted by the ice in front of him. "That's where we skate?"
"That's where we skate," Dean confirms. "You ready to go on?"
Addison nods enthusiastically, but when Dean guides him to step onto the ice, he freezes. His little hands grip Dean's tighter, and his eyes go wide.
"It's slippery," he announces, like this is a revelation.
"It is slippery," Dean agrees. "That's what makes skating fun. But Daddy's got you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall."
"Promise?"
"I promise," Dean says. "Do you trust me?"
Addison considers this with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster, then nods. "Yeah!"
Your chest squeezes at that, at the complete faith in your son's voice. You step onto the ice yourself, skating a slow circle to warm up while Dean helps Addison get his bearings. The first few minutes are tentative, Addison barely lifting his feet, essentially just standing on the ice while Dean holds him steady.
"Okay, now we're going to try moving," Dean says. "Just slide one foot forward, like this. See? Then the other foot."
"Slide," Addison repeats, and he attempts to move his right foot forward. It goes too far and too fast, and he yelps, but Dean's grip keeps him upright.
"That's okay," Dean says immediately. "That was good. You moved! Let's try again, but smaller. Just a little slide."
You skate closer, phone still recording, watching as Dean patiently guides Addison through the basics. It's slow going. Addison's legs keep wanting to do different things, his ankles still trying to bend inward despite his concentration. But Dean's patience is endless, his voice calm and encouraging even when Addison gets frustrated.
"I can't do it," Addison says after a few minutes, his lower lip starting to tremble.
"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're already doing it. You're standing on ice, and you've moved forward. That's skating, buddy."
"But not fast."
"Fast comes later," Dean reminds him. "Uncle Nicky wasn't fast his first day on skates. Daddy wasn't fast, either."
"You weren't?" Addison looks skeptical.
"Nope," Dean says. "I fell down a lot my first time. Way more than you."
This seems to mollify Addison somewhat. The idea that his father, who he thinks can do anything, also struggled at first makes him willing to try again.
"Can Mama skate with us?" Addison asks, looking over at you.
"Sure can," you say, gliding over to them. "Want me on your other side?"
Addison nods, and you take position on his left while Dean stays on his right. Together, you both hold one of Addison's hands, and slowly, the three of you begin moving across the ice. Addison's still wobbly, his feet sliding unpredictably, but with both of you there he's more confident.
"Look, I'm skating!" he announces proudly.
"You are," you agree, smiling at Dean over Addison's head. "You're doing such a good job, baby."
"I'm not a baby, Mama," Addison corrects with the indignation of a three-year-old who's been told he's a big boy now. "I'm three. That's big."
"You're right, I'm sorry," you say seriously. "You're a big boy who's learning to skate."
"Yeah," Addison agrees, satisfied.
You make several slow circuits around the rink like this, Addison between you and Dean, his little legs working hard to keep up. He talks the entire time, a constant stream of consciousness that includes observations about the ice ("it's so white, Daddy"), questions about skating ("when I go fast?"), and random non sequiturs about his life ("my friend Lucas has a dog and it's big").
"You're doing so good, Addy," Dean says after the third lap. "Do you want to try something new?"
"What something?"
"Do you want to try gliding? That means you push with your feet and then you slide."
"Slide is fun," Addison declares.
"Sliding is very fun," Dean agrees. "Okay, so we're going to push with this foot, like this, and slide. Then push with the other foot, and slide."
Dean demonstrates, and you mirror him on Addison's other side. Addison watches intently, then tries to copy the movement. His first attempt is more of a shuffle than a glide, but Dean praises him anyway.
"Perfect! Good job, buddy. Let's do it again."
It takes a few more tries, but slowly, Addison starts to get the rhythm of it. Push, glide. Push, glide. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, but there's definite progress. And more importantly, he's smiling, that wide unreserved smile that shows his dimples and makes his eyes crinkle just like Dean's do.
"Mama, take picture!" Addison demands suddenly. "I'm skating!"
You've been taking periodic photos and videos throughout, but you stop to take a proper photo of them, then a selfie of Addison between you and Dean, all three of you on the ice. Dean makes a goofy face that makes Addison giggle, and you capture that too, the pure joy of this moment.
"Can I try by myself?" Addison asks after another few minutes.
Your immediate instinct is to say no, that it's too soon, that he'll fall. But Dean catches your eye and gives you a small nod, and you trust his judgment on this. He knows what he's doing.
"You can try," Dean says. "But we're going to be right next to you, okay? So if you start to fall, we'll catch you."
"Okay, Daddy."
Dean slowly releases Addison's hand, and you do the same on your side. Addison stands there for a moment, arms out for balance like a tiny tightrope walker. His face is a mask of concentration, and you hold your breath.
Then, very carefully, he lifts one foot and slides it forward. Then the other. He's doing it. He's actually skating on his own, even if it's only for a few feet before his balance wobbles and Dean has to catch him.
"Did you see?" Addison asks excitedly, looking between you and Dean. "I did it by myself!"
"You did!" you confirm, your voice a little thick because your baby, your three-year-old, is skating. "That was great, Addy."
"I'm just like Daddy," Addison beams proudly.
"You are," Dean agrees, and there's something soft in his expression as he looks at your son. "You're doing so good, buddy. I'm really proud of you."
"Can we do more?"
You spend another twenty minutes on the ice, watching as Addison gets incrementally more confident. He falls a few times, despite Dean and you being right there, but he bounces back immediately each time, that resilient way small children have of not dwelling on failures. By the end of the hour, he's able to move several feet on his own before needing to be caught, and he's absolutely beaming with pride.
"Okay, buddy," Dean says eventually. "I think that's enough for today. Your legs are probably getting tired."
"I'm not tired," Addison protests automatically, even though you can see he's starting to flag.
"Maybe not," Dean says diplomatically. "But the ice needs a break. We'll come back another day, okay?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Maybe not tomorrow," you interject. "But soon. We can practice every week."
"Every week," Addison repeats, nodding like this is a binding contract. "And then I go fast."
"Then you'll go fast," Dean agrees.
Getting Addison off the ice and on the bench isis easier than getting him on was. He's tired now, even if he won't admit it, and he lets Dean carry him to the bench. While Dean unlaces Addison's skates, you pull out your phone to review the photos and videos you took.
"Look at this one," you say, showing Dean a photo of him and Addison on the ice together, both of them with matching expressions of concentration.
Dean smiles, that soft smile he reserves for moments like this. "Send that to my mom. She'll love it."
"Already planning to," you say. "Your dad's going to be so excited that Addy's started skating."
"He's been asking about it every time we talk," Dean admits. "I think he was starting to worry we weren't going to do it."
"Well, now he's done it," you say, looking at your son who's chattering to Dean about how he's going to be the fastest skater ever. "Our little hockey player."
"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he'll decide he hates it next week. He's three. Attention span of a goldfish."
"Fair point."
But watching Addison animatedly describe his skating experience to Dean, his little hands gesturing wildly as he recounts how he "had so much fun, daddy! The most fun!" you have a feeling this is going to stick. He's got the Di Laurentis hockey gene, that love of ice and speed and competition that runs through Dean's family.
Later, after you've gotten Addison changed back into his regular shoes and Dean's packed up the skates, the three of you head out to the parking lot. Addison's holding both of your hands, swinging between you with each step, still talking about skating.
"When we come back, I'm gonna go faster," he announces. "And I'm gonna... gonna do the spinny thing. What's the spinny thing called, Daddy?"
"A spin?" Dean suggests. "Or maybe you mean a hockey stop?"
"Hockey stop!" Addison repeats enthusiastically. "I'm gonna do a hockey stop."
"That's pretty advanced," Dean says. "But we can work on it."
"I can do it," Addison insists with the boundless confidence of a three-year-old who just learned to shuffle forward on ice. "I skate good, daddy."
"You are really good," you agree, squeezing his little hand. "Daddy was impressed, weren't you, Daddy?"
"Very impressed," Dean confirms. "You're going to be better than me someday."
"I wanna be the best," Addison says matter-of-factly, and you and Dean both laugh.
In the car on the way home, Addison falls asleep within five minutes, exhausted from the physical exertion and the excitement. You glance back at him in his car seat, his head tilted to the side, his mouth slightly open, and your heart squeezes.
"He did really well," you say to Dean.
"He did," Dean agrees. "Better than I expected, honestly. His balance was pretty good for a first timer."
"He gets that from you."
"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he's just naturally gifted. Either way, I'm claiming credit."
You laugh softly, not wanting to wake Addison. "Of course you are."
Dean reaches over and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Thanks for doing this. I know you were worried it was too soon."
"I was," you admit. "But you were right. He was ready. And he loved it."
"He did," Dean says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "My kid on skates. That's... that's pretty cool."
"Your kid who looks exactly like you, acts exactly like you, and now skates like you," you tease. "I had no genetic input whatsoever, apparently."
"You gave him his stubbornness," Dean offers. "That's all you."
"Excuse me?"
"In the best way," Dean amends quickly, grinning. "His determination. His refusal to give up even when things are hard. That's you."
That mollifies you somewhat, and you settle back in your seat, watching the city slide past the windows. When you get home, Dean carries a still-sleeping Addison upstairs while you grab the bag with the skates. Inside the apartment, Dean lays Addison on the couch rather than in his bed, knowing he'll probably wake up soon anyway.
You sit on the coffee table across from the couch, just watching your son sleep, and Dean joins you, his arm coming around your shoulders.
"Think he'll remember this when he's older?" you ask quietly.
"Maybe not consciously," Dean says. "But it'll be there somewhere. First time on ice. First time skating with his dad."
"And his mom," you add.
"And his mom," Dean agrees. "Who, for the record, looked very good out there. Maybe we should go skating more often. Just the two of us."
"Is this your way of asking me on a date?"
"Maybe," Dean says. "Would you say yes?"
"Obviously," you say, leaning into him. "Though finding a babysitter might be tough, considering Addison’s a velcro kid."
"We'll figure it out," Dean says, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Addison stirs on the couch, his eyes blinking open slowly. When he sees you both watching him, he smiles, sleepy and content.
"Mama? Daddy?" he says. "Can we go skating again?"
"Soon, buddy," Dean promises. "Really soon."
“Yay," Addison says, and he closes his eyes again.
You and Dean exchange an amused look. He's definitely a Di Laurentis.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it 🤍. -Honey
THIS WAS SO CUTE!!! ohmygosh we need more of this verse asap because it’s absolutely everything and i’m truly a puddle after reading this, it was adorable 🥹
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