Sunflower.

His mother had casually mentioned you were entertaining suitors this afternoon, and he simply asked for an address, much to his mother's pure glee. He had been right - your status didn't matter. The fact that he had shown even an ounce of interest in someone had made his mother over the moon, and his father start spouting about heirs to the Verstappen line. 

He had ignored his father entirely for the morning, and instead arrived at your uncle's house to little fanfare. There were no other suitors, to his surprise, or even Zak. He was escorted through an empty hall to an empty drawing room, each sparsely decorated and further proving your low status, not that it came as any surprise. Entering the room, Max found you sat in another drab little green dress, caught up in a little book. 

"Oh, heavens." A man says, and Max's head snaps to the other side of the drawing room, where your uncle scrambles to rise from his seat. "Your grace, this is a most unexpected surprise! I'll have someone fetch for tea, and biscuits, and-" 

"It's quite alright," Max says, shutting your uncle down, and he watches you try to suppress a smile behind your book. "That won't be necessary." 

"Oh, but I insist!" And with that, the servant that escorted him is sent off in search of tea and biscuits and probably a whole luncheon if Max isn't careful. "Please, sit. I have heard that you've met-" 

Max takes a seat across from you, and cuts off your uncle again. "I simply returned a dropped glove." 

"Which was most kind." You answer, shutting your book and resting it on the table. The Unwed's Guide to Courtship, how fitting. "So what do we owe the honour of your visit?" 

"I realized," Max begins as rehearsed in his mirror this morning, "That upon returning your glove, I did not know you, which was quite a surprise. If you'll forgive my bluntness, every unmarried person has been thrown at me this season, so it was a pleasant surprise to meet someone who had not." 

"Of course," Your uncle answers for you, "We'd know better than to waste such an important's man's time as yourself, your grace." 

Max waves a hand at the thought. "Still, I thought I would return your kindness with one of my own. An introduction." 

"You are too kind, your Grace!" Then, without giving you a chance, without any prompting, your uncle introduces himself and you in perhaps the longest and most boring introduction ever given. It's a novel of every family tie, his business and his sponsorship of you this season, how proficient you are with needlework, and every fifth word or so you open your mouth to add something, but your uncle continues, and raised well, you don't have the guts to interject. Max doesn't either, though the man doesn't give him any chance to even try.

Finally, only when the maid arrives with tea and a tray of biscuits does the poor man take a breath, practically gasping for air.

"How...thorough, sir." Max tries to say sincerely, and he watches you pull a face to contain your laughter. Maybe your patience came from having to put up with the man. "And what of you?" He says, fully turning his attention to you. "Any details your uncle may have missed?" 

"Oh, my uncle was quite thorough." You echo, and you both reach for the same chocolate biscuit at the same time, fingers grazing over the plate. You're quick to withdraw, and he has a feeling you're not used to human touch. Then again, Max and other men were free to indulge in touch, bare touch, whenever they pleased. You were forced to wear gloves and keep your distance, which, as Max considers it, must be a nightmare. Surely you have desires too. "It seems he missed my love of chocolate." 

"You and I both." Max picks up the biscuit and breaks it in two, and extends one half to you. "So we can share. Do you like animals?" 

"I've always enjoyed pets, though we had few growing up. I assume, from your racing, that you're quite fond of them?" You accept the other half and rest it on your saucer beside your tea, instead opting to take a drink.

"Horses are wonderful, often better companionship than humans. I'm also partial to cats." Part of the reason for this visit, after all, was to actually introduce the two of you in an acceptable manner. Well, it was also so that the servants could talk and everyone would know he was here this afternoon, but that was for the ruse. If you were to go through with this, he should at least know some things about you.

His response catches you off guard, quickly swallowing the contents of your cup to lower it. "Cats?" 

"I have three. They are good for catching mice, and are not as loud or demanding as dogs." You laugh softly, an almost rehearsed sound. He wonders what the real version sounds like. 

"And their names?" Oh. 

Well, that's slightly more embarrassing to say. "Sassy, Ji-" 

"Sassy?" You halt the cup below your lips in shock, and Max shrugs softly, trying his best not to blush as you watch him. 

"Named after one of the pubs." Another polite laugh bubbles out of you, and Max can't help but chuckle along, watching any proper conversation dissolve in front of you. "What, do you have better name ideas?" 

"I'm not sure I could do better than Sassy." You quip, leaning back to hide behind your teacup. "Perhaps Prince? or King?" 

"Why?" 

"Well, it does seem they rule over you." Max poorly timed a sip from his own drink as he snorts into his teacup, probably not the most distinguished thing for him to do. You clamp a hand over your mouth as you laugh, truly laugh, and as your uncle frantically grabs napkins, reminding Max that the man is, in fact, still there. 

He accepts one of the napkins, wiping his mouth as he grins at you. He wasn't sure the last time a suitor offered good conversation, or at least good laughter. True laughter. It might be a fake marriage, but at least you could be friends throughout it. "Your uncle failed to describe your wit, or good humour." 

"I am lucky to have many talents, your grace." Of which it seems humility is not one. 

"Though few suitors, it seems." Max finally points out, gesturing to the empty room. It was probably best to tackle the whole 'Zak' issue with your uncle, who also seemed to have forgotten the man. 

"Sir Zak Brown has shown considerable interest in me this season. I was brought from the Southern Alps to see if I may be a good match for him." You explain, and your uncle is quick to jump into the conversation. 

"As well as to search for other matches, should they arise." Max finally turns his full attention to your uncle, who immediately straightens himself. "Sir Zak Brown is most gracious to us, though as I'm sure you're aware, a bit...unorthodox, in certain regards." 

Unorthodox is putting it slightly, Max thinks. "It seems a...unique match, the two of you."

"He is not quite the same conversationalist as you are." You say, finally eating the biscuit he broke in half, gently brushing the crumbs that fall off your dress, and he decides that your wardrobe will be the first thing that goes when you marry. Hell, he'll let you go as wild as you like with a seamstress if it means getting you out of those sordid colours. "Though, as I am sure you are aware, he is far too busy with the racing season for conversation these days." 

Zak had bought his way into the racing circuit in Monaco, sponsoring two of the younger racers, Lando and Oscar, from far-flung corners of the world. They had talent, he would give them that, but it would take time for them to really find their place here. "Well, I too am busy this season, but I find it important to make time for the things that matter." 

You duck your head, a soft blush across your cheeks, and you really are quite the actress. "You are too kind, your grace." 

"Please," He finally says, tired of his title. "Call me Max." 

"Oh." You look up, a soft sort of confusion at the sudden casualness between the two of you. So what if Max moved fast? Fast was what he was good at. "Of course, Max." 

"You are a sight to behold this season, your grace." Your uncle continues on, clapping his hands together once. "I mean, with four championships under your belt, you certainly are the best on the track." 

"Have you been able to attend any races this season?" Max says as he turns to you, the perfect way to get you two seen together in public, without really having to do much on his end. 

You shake your head, gently setting down your teacup. "From the stands? I'm afraid we haven't, no."

"Well, I will get you two tickets for this weekend, as my guests. I am sure you will enjoy it." 

"I will enjoy seeing you win." You respond, and Max can't help the grin that stretches across his face. 

-

"This arrived for you." Your uncle says, handing off a rather large box. You stare at it in confusion, trying to think what it could possibly be. There was no one of worth back home to send you anything, no good friends nearby for this sort of parcel. You take it and find it wrapped in soft, pink ribbon, a little notecard stuck under the bow. 

Something to wear to my race. 

Max. 

He was not a sentimental man by any means, but the note was still sweet. You carefully undo the ribbon, opening the box to reveal the softest blue dress, embroidered with little flowers, and your breath catches. It was the finest dress you had ever owned, likely far more expensive than anything else in your wardrobe, and he wanted you to wear it to a horse race? 

You turn to look at your uncle, who studies Max's card in his hands. "You seem to have made a good impression on the Duke." He says softly, turning to you. "You ought to keep it that way." 

-

"So," Charles says, dismounting his horse. "I hear you made a stop at the Renault house?" 

"Renault?" He echoes, turning to look at the man in confusion. 

"The rumours are you have been quite taken by his ward." Oh, that. 

Well, at least his outing had worked. Already his mother was drawing up plans for luncheons, his father for world domination. Once again, he did not really listen to his father and tried to keep his mother as happy as he could. Today was step three of his plan to convince people that the two of you were in the early stages of courtship, and that when you did inevitably marry and go your separate ways, people would not question it. "It is courting season." 

"But you do not court," Charles states rather bluntly. "You have terrorized most women in the city, god, the country! But the plain Renault caught your attention?" 

"Plain Renault?" Max questions, though he understands it perfectly well. There was nothing about you that was particularly special. Your style was dated, your beauty fair, your options limited. For a Duke to take interest was almost unheard of, but he supposes in other ways, you were special. You could make him laugh, and you enjoyed his schemes, and unlike most people, you did not annoy him. That was your crowning achievement, really. "Perhaps we see beauty in different ways." 

"Beauty? I-" Charles glances up and the words die on his tongue, and Max's eyes follow, where he is equally rendered speechless. 

You arrived, wearing the dress he had ordered for you. He had sent servants around to every different modiste in the hopes that one of them would have your measurements, and luckily, one did. He hadn't put much thought into the gown, just something simple but elegant, in a light blue colour to offset his own navy regalia. 

But you looked like a different person, almost.

You looked like you belonged. Your hair was twisted up like everyone else's, likely adorned with flowers the same way. You looked perfect and proper and easily caught the eye of those around you, and from this distance, he could tell you were not used to it, as you kept turning your head to look at the aisles as you came to take your seat in the front row. 

With all the new shine and spectacle, however, you still carried yourself with the same air. You might have dressed like you belonged, but you had no confidence in your step, though it was a little lighter. You likely still thought of yourself as the 'Plain Renault', while everyone else was starting to see what Max was supposed to see. "-I stand corrected." 

"If you'll excuse me." Max trod over to make it known that you were here to see him, and you rise from your seat to rest against the railing. Smiling down at him like that, it might have been attractive to him, if Max were any other man. But this was a game, and you were not his, and so you simply looked nice in a dress he had made for you that fit every curve like a glove.

"I must thank you for your generosity," You say, voice raised to be heard in the little distance between you. It toes the line between honesty and flattery, which Max will accept.

"No need for thanks. Seeing you like that is thanks enough. You look..." And, if Max were any other man, he'd have had a word to use, but he comes up entirely short. 

"Exquisite," Charles says from beside him, having joined the conversation, and Max shoots him a soft glare. "Max was telling me earlier of your beauty." 

You look slowly from Charles to Max, one eyebrow raised, a smug little smile growing on your face. "Oh?" 

"We see beauty in different ways." Max settles for with a matching grin. "I find beauty in intellect, good humour. It is a benefit, then, that you also have natural beauty."

Charles slowly turns to look at Max in shock, and Max is well aware that, if anyone else heard what he just said, it probably would end up a headline somewhere. Max was not one for compliments, or for courting, or any of this, really. That admission might as well have been a proposal in itself. "You flatter me, your grace." 

"I pride myself on honesty." Which, technically, is not a lie. 

The two of you planning a fake marriage also wasn't a lie, either. "As any good man should." 

"Do I have your bet for a win this afternoon?" Max asks, entirely ignoring Charles's dumbfounded face. 

"It would be foolish to bet on another. I hope you do not take that as an insult, Sir Leclerc." 

"Hm?" Charles hums before he finally clues back into the conversation. "My apologies, I was too distracted by Max's sudden bravado. You were saying?" 

"Best of luck with your race, gentlemen." With that, Max rides off, and Charles is still hot on his tail. Sure, it was out of the ordinary, but was it so hard to believe that Max had a heart? He was human, unlike what others thought. He had emotions and feelings, he could play nice.

Charles, however, doesn't seem to accept that. "They've replaced you with a civilized twin." He spouts, finally in stride with Max. "I once heard you refer to marriage as a fool's deal." Well, now that Charles mentions it, maybe it was a little out of character for Max to suddenly be head over heels for you. Especially because it was you. 

His type were a little more...scandalous than most cared for.

"Perhaps love has made me a fool?" Max answers, and Charles looks as if he might explode.

"Love! You've gone to what, one suitor's afternoon tea, and now you think you're in love? Are you cursed, man? Bewitched?" Max laughs, tilting his head back in the sun, and when he looks your way, he finds you still leaning on the edge, watching him. It stops him for a moment, seeing all the eyes of the crowd on you, and of yours on him. It was nice, he thinks, to only have one person staring at him, though it seems he's brushed his fame off onto you. 

Maybe he was playing his cards too early, Max decides as he looks away. He can't say love so soon. He has to rein it in, make it believable. "A joke, Charles." He settles on, and Charles lets out a low sigh. "I am simply entertaining the idea for my parents' sake." 

"Well, you're a good match," Charles says as they ready themselves at the start line. "Anyone could see that. What does Zak think?" 

"Zak does not know." With that, the officials weave their way through the horses, helping them to their positions, and he leaves Charles with yet another flabbergasted look on his face. 

-

You had been to a few races this season, for Zak's sake, and each time was a whole affair, of him wanting you by the sidelines with him in the dirt, kept away from those high up in the stands. He had wanted you to see him in action, not his racers. So, this was the first time you had seats yourself, and the first time you had taken such an outing in a dress like this. You had gotten more compliments while getting to your seat than you had all season, and having been seen talking to Max, you were now the small star of attention to those around you, which your uncle adored. 

He chatted with the other men, telling all about Max's visit to your home, how polite he was, how taken he seemed with you. Max truly was a good actor, convincing so many that his growing affection for you was real. You'd like to think you were also a good actor for your part, though certain things were real. It was hard not to flush under his attention, though you were well aware it was all fake. 

Max races, and you find yourself on the edge of your seat, watching him lead the pack, the close calls, the tight race between him and another man named George. But, as most had predicted, there was no question of who would win. Max easily takes the race, and you find yourself cheering in a most unbecoming manner, but that does not matter now. Max was to be your husband, and fake or not, it would be good to have someone like that win. 

"He is quite the racer." Your uncle says next to you, gently nudging your shoulder. "And I am sure he would make quite the husband." 

"He has only invited us for a race, not for my hand in marriage." A shadow falls over you, and for a moment, you think it might be Zak. It forms a pit in your stomach, slowly turning to look, luckily only to find one of the race's attendants. 

"Excuse me, but Duke Verstappen has invited you to join him on the green, with the other guests for celebrations." With a grin, your uncle rises, gesturing for you to follow. 

"Well, it might not be far off!" He says as you make your way to the field, and the crowd parts to let you through, all eagerly watching to see what you'll do. 

It was a strange sort of feeling, being watched. You'd never drawn attention before, let alone a whole crowd, but it seems every person stops to watch as you approach Max. He rips off his helmet, shaking out his sweaty hair as he glances at you, and it seems he notices your discomfort. "Did you not enjoy the race?" He asks, seeming genuine. 

"You were most impressive, your grace." You soothe, instead trying to secretly gesture to the rest of the crowd. "I am just not used to the attention, is all." 

"Ah," Max says, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid that is common, with me." 

"Admiring your racing skills, I'm sure?" You quip, and Max flashes a short grin. No, the crowds who watched him were typically waiting for him to snap, or say something inappropriate. You might not have been in Monaco long, but you'd learned enough about Max and his reputation.

"Well, of course." Then, Max shoulders out of his racing jacket, and you find another reason why people stare at him. 

For all the chaos that surrounds him and the marriage mart, beyond being a wealthy Duke, he also is quite an attractive man. Racing jacket tossed aside, he's still sweat-soaked, white undershirt sticking to his muscles rather nicely, and you give yourself only a moment to look before your gaze drifts. Maybe it was a little ego-boost, too, that he wanted to marry you. Even if it was all a game, he was certainly a prized husband. 

Unfortunately, as your gaze drifts, your eyes find Zak, eagerly making his way across the pitch to you. "I did not know you were in attendance, my dear." He says, trying to seem at ease, but you know what that smile means. "You should have joined me on the field." 

"We were offered tickets for the stands. It would have been improper to turn down such a gift." You respond sweetly, but Zak doesn't seem to hear it. 

"Quite the race, for the boys. You know, my training has really helped Lando recently. It's all mindset, I say." You hum along, and Zak finally turns his sights on Max. "You did well out there too, your grace. I see you've met?" 

"Yes, we have," Max answers, though not in the best tone. "With you so busy this season, I thought perhaps I could offer additional company." 

"Too kind, your grace, but not necessary. I am sure you are a busy man, too." 

"Nonsense," Max answers quickly, "It's my pleasure, really." 

Zak slowly drags his gaze from Max to you, and you watch something twinkle in his eye. "I am not sure it is the best company to keep, anyway. Is it true that you and George almost came to blows this morning?" 

Now would normally be the time when your uncle interjects for you about polite conversational topics, but as you turn to look at him, you find that he's disappeared and is instead examining one of the nearby horses, oblivious. "Gossip, Zak, which I'm sure you know all about. I could say the same about your company. Aren't you a bit...old to court someone so young?" 

"Not when my dear is so mature for their age. Besides, what do you know about courtship? I thought you only took lovers." Max's jaw shifts as one of his attendants arrives with a bottle of water, and he takes the time to sip it slowly, offering a cold stare over the bottle at Zak. 

If there was ever a time to cut the tension, it would be now. "Both of you have been good company." You settle on, and both men turn to look at you, as if forgetting you were part of this. "And exchanging rumours rather than facts seems improper, considering the good nature of this event. I prefer honesty, anyway." Max's little phrase slips through before you can stop it, and he sends a smirk your way that does something to your heart you don't want to think about.

"Of course, my apologies," Zak says, insincerely. "The stress of the races often gets to us. Did you enjoy the race?" 

"Quite. It was good to watch from the stands." You keep yourself from adding 'for once'.

"I saw you cheering along," Max says, voice dropping a tone. "Quite a nice view to finish a race with." 

"A better view would be to look for your own fans, cheering you on, not mine." Zak replies coolly, looking over at you with his own grin, like it was your own inside joke. 

You don't think before you speak next. "I was cheering for the fastest racer, Sir Brown. The McLaren boys felt short, this race. I am sure with your help on their...mindset, that they will improve soon." 

"I-" Zak stops himself short, snapping to look at you. He cannot say a word, however, because of present company, and because it's the truth. Max makes a strange sort of noise into his water bottle, and you find yourself wondering if he has a bit of a choking problem, considering the whole teacup issue from the other day. 

"Thank you for your support," Max says, recovering with a little bow. "Perhaps I should have you at more races, a good luck charm." 

"Not that you need good luck." You respond, "You seem to do quite well for yourself." 

"Exactly," Zak says, reaching out to place a hand on your elbow and direct you away from Max. His grip is tight, not quite enough to hurt, but it might soon as his fingers dig in. "The Duke is quite fine on his own, so we best leave him." 

You turn to look at Max for intervention, who does nothing but simply nod at you and Zak. It's a small shock, as you stare at him in confusion. He would just leave you? With Zak? After all that? You're not sure what his plan is, but that would end rather poorly. However, before you can question Max's motives further, your uncle appears from the crowd with four glasses. "Ah! Seems I haven't missed the festivities yet." He extends a glass to you, Zak, and Max, beaming from ear to ear. "Good show, gentlemen! Most impressive on all ends, especially you, your grace. You must be a horse whisperer." 

"Something of the sort," Max says, taking a swig. You sip on your own and find it some alcoholic concoction, and decide to let yourself remain sober for this. "Sir Brown was just talking about his strategies, with Sir Norris and Piastri." 

"Good boys! I can see them succeeding, but they need more experience." Your uncle says, turning to Zak. "Don't you think?" 

"It's all mindset, if you ask me. If they are confident like winners, they will win. Max here has no issue with mindset. Confidence, ego, whatever it may be." Zak's hand finally slips from your arm to down his drink in one go. "Are we still on for that promenade this Tuesday?" 

"I'm afraid not, Sir Brown." You whip your head to look at your uncle, unaware that either your plans had changed, or he had entirely wiped your schedule for Max. 

Either way, you're not complaining. "Oh? Has something arisen?" 

"You see, the Leclerc's are hosting their annual floral ball that evening, which we have just been invited to. The promenade would cut into the travel time. I'm sure you understand." You turn to look at Max, who has a knowing smile on his face. Sir Leclerc must have extended the invitation considering you and Max's impending courtship, or perhaps at Max's request. 

"Of course. I would hate to impose on such an event." Zak answers evenly and turns to look over his shoulder. "Hm? It seems Lord Leclerc is calling for you again." 

"Oh, the invitation! How forgetful of me. One moment." Your uncle disappears, and with the crowd dissipating, Zak uses this as his opportunity to rear around and look at you.

This was the only part you were dreading of your and Max's agreement. Zak would not take kindly to this, and whatever fit he threw, you needed to get out the other side of it clean. "How strange. That ball is typically to help those needing courtship, and yet we are-" 

"Not really courting, Sir Brown." You answer rather plainly, taking a sip of your drink to steel your nerves. His face rises into a shade of red you'd never seen before, and you take a step to the side, only to bump right into Max, who takes a step away himself so you don't collide further. "You have been most kind, but-" 

"We made an agreement. I think you forget your place, my dear, and who brought you here." Zak's voice drops, his scowl turning to Max. "Not to be rude, but this dalliance is nothing more than-than spite on the Duke's behalf, I'm sure of it. Has his money and fame really blinded you so severely?" 

"Any expense made on your behalf I can happily reimburse," Max answers for you, and Zak's fury deepens. "And my interest has nothing to do with spite, I can assure you." 

Zak reaches for your arm again, and Max's hand darts out to swat it away. "Why you-" He calms himself for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Are you serious with your intentions then, Max? To court and marry someone so beneath your station?" 

"I intend to court and marry someone who matches my needs, regardless of rank, and you seem awfully demeaning for someone supposedly courting." He turns to look at you and offers an arm. "I apologize; it seems the heat of the race has gotten to Sir Brown. Might I escort you to your uncle?" 

"Please." Your hand gently loops the inside of Max's bicep, and it is solid under your touch in a way you didn't know a man's arm could be. 

"Very well," Zak states, stepping aside. "I look forward to seeing you marry, and when Max abandons you like every whore he's bedded, best of luck finding another suitor." 

Max's arm tensely dramatically, and you're sure if not for you on his arm, Max would've punched Zak. "You'll regret that, Sir Brown. Good day." 

Well, you suppose, it's over. Zak got whatever he wanted to say in, though it didn't sting as much as you're sure he'd hoped it would. It wasn't anything you hadn't already thought of, or already had been told. You were below Max in every form. It wasn't some cutting remark, just simple truth. And, if you weren't so sure about this ruse, you would be worried about Max abandoning you, but you both had more in this than just marriage. 

Finally, once out of Zak's earshot, Max's muscles relax as he lets out a breath. "How you put up with him without strangling him, I have no idea. You're far braver than me." He whispers, and you can't help but laugh at the thought. Braver than a duke might be pushing it, you're sure. Max smiles down softly, nudging your shoulder with his. "You're welcome for saving you from that, by the way." He gently pats your hand before letting it drop, and strangely, you mourn the loss. "And he is so not invited to the wedding." 

You see, when Max joined the military, it was not to gain some title or rank - the Verstappens were mighty enough - but to escape his damned house and family, to get on a horse, and to do something with his life.

Afterwards, he would return to his fellow men, continue racing horses, and live a perfectly content life as a single man.

But, unfortunately, he was quite good in the military, and following his brief reprieve home filled with gambling, drinking, and general debauchery, he was gifted the title of Duke.

So, now every damned mother in Monaco wanted him to marry their daughter, and his family was more than happy to drag him along to every ball and outing to get him to settle down, or to host their own. At least, at his own estate, Max knew how to avoid the crowds.

Slipping out into the back garden was easy enough, with a small band playing on the grass, the soft music mixing with the spring breeze. Someone called for him, but he did his best to pretend that he did not hear and headed straight for the hedge maze. It had been a safe haven since his childhood, as few had managed to figure out the path to the little garden that lay in the centre, and few were willing to take the time on a night like tonight to do so. 

After all, every unmarried person was too busy trying to find a partner, and every married person was trying to help the unmarried in their life. That left children, who were not allowed at events this late, and the elderly, who did not care to attend events this late. So, if Max's calculations were correct, it would be only him, in his little garden, and if his father demanded to know where he was, he would just say the yard, and he wouldn't be lying. 

Only, as Max rounds the final corner to get to his little paradise, he finds that his calculations were not correct, because someone stands in his little garden, staring up at the carved statue some poor gardener had to drag in here years ago. You did not hear his approach, or if you did, you did your best to pretend that you did not hear. From the back of your head, Max cannot match you to anyone he knows, but then again, who knows others by the back of their heads? 

Before he can make his leave, or try to stay, you turn, glancing over your shoulder as you startle, frozen in his gaze. You were not anyone he knew from the front of your head, either, and in your silence, he realized how wrong it was for you to be here, alone, and for him to be here with you. The last thing he needed was gossip to spread about your virtue and his role in defiling it. "My apologies, your grace." You say softly, offering a little curtesy. Despite him not knowing you, you obviously knew him.

Then again, every damned woman in this city seemed to. 

"What for?" He asks, and watches your head rise in confusion. 

"For the intrusion? Of your garden?" Oh, that. 

Max sets himself down on the bench with a shrug. "It's a garden, it's meant to be enjoyed. Besides, you actually managed to find your way to the centre, so you have every right to be here." 

"I take it not many do?" Oh, it was an unfortunately long list, the amount of people who got lost in this hedge maze. Staggering, really. 

"No, no, not many do." He lets himself examine you, eyes slowly dragging over your figure, to try and determine who you are. "I don't believe we've met." 

"No, your grace." Polite, for starters. But then again, most people use his title when they try to suck up to him. "I'm from the Southern Alps." 

"Southern Alps?" He questions before he can help himself. "You're a far way from home." 

You were likely sent here to find a match, maybe drag yourself into a house of somewhat higher standing. You were dressed the part, though not to the same standard as some. Your dress was a season or two old, a drab sort of purple colour that did absolutely nothing for you. His eyes finally return to your face, and you take his outburst in stride with a soft smile. "I'm being hosted for the season by my uncle, and Sir Zak Brown." 

"You must be a Brown, then." Zak didn't really talk about family, but then again, Max couldn't really stand the man. No wonder he didn't know you, and no wonder you'd never been introduced.

"Ah, no." You state somewhat awkwardly, looking at him as if desperate for him to understand something unsaid. 

You were hosted by Zak, but you weren't a familial relation? Then, something strange clicks into his mind. Zak is a bachelor this season, and as an American, a man of new wealth, he held no power besides his money. Marrying someone young from a somewhat statused family would help in that regard, and he cannot help the horror that dawns over his face. "You are-Surely not!" 

"I'm afraid so." You let slip, before clenching your fists and letting out a soft sigh. "That was impolite of me. I am very lucky for Sir Brown's support for my family." 

"Lucky? He's old enough to be your father. Grandfather, maybe." It's a disgusting thought, the two of you together. "How much is he paying for you?" 

It's an improper thing to ask, but it's the truth. Zak was paying for a nice, young bride, and you were suffering the consequences. You chew on your lip for a moment, as if considering telling him the actual number, before you steel yourself again. "Enough." Max leans back slowly, hoping that by seeming uninterested, he could learn more. After a beat, you look to the sky and let out a soft breath. "Considerably less than what he charges for some of his steeds, or so I've heard."  

"Sounds like him," Max answers with a snort. You might as well be another horse for the man. "So you are betrothed?" 

"No." Oh. That Zak could be patient surprised him. "Sir Brown wants to do things traditionally, for me." 

"How kind." Max deadpans. "And what about you?" 

"What about me?" This cannot be your first choice.

Zak is no one's first choice. "What do you want?" 

"A good match, who can provide for me and my family. I could not ask for more." Oh, so they trained you. 

Max rises from his bench, and you startle again, and he wonders if that was a common thing with you. You stare up at him, and Max is struck by the thought that you were so utterly plain. Not in any bad way, but he was so used to the splendour and chaos of high society that you, haloed by moonlight and in a dress that probably cost less than one of his nice ties, were a new thing to behold. "That's a lie." 

"It's a truth." Well, you got him there. 

"And if money were not a concern? Or your family?" He watches the thought immediately rise in you, and you turn away as if to force the thought away. "What would you want?" 

"If I may speak freely?" Max snorts, wandering over to the statue to look up at it, as you once had. 

"If I may speak freely, there is no need for formality. I'd much prefer honesty." People stopped being honest when they wanted something from you, and it seemed like everyone did nowadays. 

He turns to look back at you, and finds you still not looking at him, staring down into the dirt. "I would live in a cottage." Admittedly, not where he was expecting this to go. "It would be on the water, surrounded by nature." Your head rises, but your eyes close, as if slipping away into a fantasy you'd had for quite some time. "And I would have a maid, to take care of the cleaning, and a cook, to prepare me food, but that would be it. I would spend my days by the water or reading by a window, and if I got bored I could talk to my maid, or play chess against my cook, and perhaps befriend a dog or a bear or something if I were truly bored." 

It was the sort of fantasy he didn't expect from you, or from anyone in this sort of society. They wanted riches and servants and respect, but you wanted a little house on a lake with a dog, or he supposes a bear, and nothing more. Your eyes finally open, turning to look at him, and he finds that he can see right through you. Every emotion, every thought is plain to see. 

This is not the life you want, but it's the life you're supposed to. "I think I'd just like to be left alone." You finally settle on, and Max can't help but offer a smile in return. 

"You and I are similar, in that regard." God, what he wouldn't give for solitude. "A nice house in the country with a nice farm for my horses." That sparks something in you, a little smile that pulls at your lips. If there was anything Max was known for, it was racing. Where he didn't connect with people, he connected with horses on the racetrack or on the battlefield. The whole reason he was a Duke was because of it, anyway. "I would spend my afternoon at the race tracks, or gambling, or doing whatever I please without a gaggle of mothers and daughters chasing after my hand in marriage. I would drink what I want and say what I want and do what I want. What a shame," He says, flopping back down onto the bench, "That despite status or money, we cannot have what we want." 

"I am sure we will find solitudes in our lives." You say, but Max didn't really register it, because a rather cruel thought came to mind. 

You both want to be left alone. That would make a good match for a marriage. After all, Max could find a beach house to fulfill your wishes, hell, he could give you his family's, and with you on the coast, he would be left to do what he wants. He could give your family whatever funds they need, and he could fuck with Zak, which really is just a highlight on top of all this. "However," Max says, fully cutting you off as he sits up, "I have a lake house." 

"Excuse me?" He looks up at you, and decides that marrying you would be agreeable. You are the only person who hasn't thrown themselves at him, you've made good conversation, you solved his maze, you've been honest. Sure, he made rash decisions, but this one he thinks has merit. 

"Our wants in life are to be left alone, yet marriage forbids it. What if we were to marry each other?" Slowly, you turn to look down at him, true befuddlement written across your face. 

"Have you gone mad?" You whisper harshly, and Max can only shrug in response. 

It's not the first time someone has asked him that, and he's sure not the last. All that being said, there's logic to his plan, and he knows you can see it too. "I always have been." 

"You are a duke. I-I am not remotely close to your status," You begin, walking away from him and then back toward him somewhat frantically, as if trying to convince yourself to marry him. Or, perhaps, you're trying to convince yourself not to. "What would people think?" 

"My family would be thrilled I found anyone at all, actually." Sure, it's not the status match anyone would expect, but they would think you're lucky and he's stupid, which they already think, so not much would change on his end. 

"I could not be a duchess." Max tilts his head to study you and decides you are exactly the type of person who should be a duchess. Not in it for the title and money, but...well, not love, but like, for the right reasons. Well, if getting married to leave each other alone can be considered a 'right' reason.

"You'd only be adopting the title, but I see this as a business agreement. We marry, and live the rest of our lives in peace, separate from each other. We can work out the finer details later." If you wanted children, you could just take a lover, and he'd do the same. Sure, you might have to make occasional appearances, but it was the best future Max had pictured for himself in a while. It was far better than forcing some poor girl to marry him, who might throw themselves at him and get hurt trying, or forsaking his family to keep himself sane. For you, it saved you from Zak, from being a spinster, or whatever life might await back home. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer Zak?" 

"Oh, Zak." It seems you had entirely forgotten the man, and Max doesn't blame you. "He would be furious." 

"It would be fantastic. And I can assure you, any anger from Zak would come to me, not you." 

Slowly, you extend a hand, and Max shakes it, sealing a deal no one could ever expect to be made. "You promise you're being serious?" 

"I told you, I prefer being honest." He rises from the bench, dusts off his jacket, and begins to outline the plan to make this believable. "Now, my beloved, we should be getting back to the festivities." 

-

You had heard from enough sources how mad Duke Verstappen was, but tonight proves it. This has to be some joke, that he's messing with you, but for some bizarre reason, you believe him. Maybe it's his own proclaimed desire for honesty, or the way you made easy conversation like lifelong friends and not strangers. Either way, you can't contain the thrill the future brings, eyes flickering around the crowd to try to spot him. 

He had sent you ahead to avoid any rumours spreading about your time together in the garden, so you're left to make conversation with Zak without meeting his eye, doing everything you can think of to keep off his advances for once. "Perhaps I should get us something to drink?" He says, gesturing towards the tower of champagne flutes, and you're not sure you could stomach the alcohol, or at least keep your evening wth the Duke from spilling out of you. 

"Perhaps the punch?" You say instead, trying to feign illness and not excitement. "I feel off, tonight." 

"I could tell. I'll be right back." Zak is quick to the table, but in the gap he leaves, the Duke takes his chance to fill, appearing at the balcony doors and immediately drawing attention to himself. He is masterful in his way of dodging people and requests to dance, and you force yourself to look away, not sure if you could stand this ruse. You were a terrible liar, anyway, and your mind fills with whatever the Duke might have planned, and you're stuck with your heart pounding in your chest. 

Zak returns with the punch as you peel off your gloves, needing to feel the cold glass in hand to keep you from sinking. However, one of the gloves tumbles to the floor, and the Duke materializes before you, bending down to pick it up, and the whole world stills. 

It's not your heart deceiving you either; the whole room genuinely freezes, watching with bated breath as the Duke picks up the glove and gently extends it. "You dropped this." He says in a baritone that would make half the ladies in here swoon, but, dumbfounded, you simply take the glove from him with your best, practiced smile. 

"Thank you, your grace." You answer, and the Duke smiles down at you, and then promptly walks out of the ballroom. 

The moment he's gone, the room explodes into movement and chatter and, most of all, eyes on you. The Duke was a man who was hard to tie down, who had a reputation for vulgarity and a disregard for social life, so one simple act, of him bending to pick up your glove, and god forbid, smiling? 

He might've already proposed. "That was...unlike Max." 

Max. 

His name was Max. "How so?" You say, pretending like it was news to you. "He was just being polite." 

"Exactly." Zak answers, voice tight as he thrusts the punch into your hand. It was a good deal, you think, marrying each other for your own freedom, but if it messed with Zak in the process?

Then you were all the more for it. 

It started subtly at first.

You were at the airport, waiting for him to land after the gala celebrating his championship. You’d brought a small welcome-home sign, just a playful, silly little thing with confetti printed on it. You’d even packed his favorite snacks for the car ride. You were grinning when he walked through the gate—but when he saw you, the smile was polite, distracted, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, dragging his suitcase behind him. He kissed your cheek lightly, but it felt… forced. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s fine,” you said, trying to ignore the pang in your chest. You’d gotten used to little disappointments in your relationship over the past week, but this one felt sharper.

The drive home was quiet. Not the comfortable, playful silence you were used to. Not the joking about teammates, the teasing about interviews, the laughter over inside jokes. It was just… still. You tried to engage him, asking about the gala, the podium celebrations, even the parties afterward. He answered, but clipped, distracted, already scrolling through his phone as if the conversation was secondary.

“Lando… are you even listening?” you finally asked, a small edge of frustration creeping into your voice.

He glanced at you, half-annoyed, half-surprised. “Of course I am. I’m just tired, okay? It’s been a long night.”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to breathe. You understood fatigue—he’d just won the championship, the media, the parties, the fans—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. That the man who used to laugh at your terrible puns, who once ran into the rain just to bring you an umbrella, who held your hand like the world would end if he didn’t—wasn’t entirely here anymore.

The next days didn’t get easier.

Text messages went unanswered for hours. When he finally did reply, it was short, almost dismissive. Dinners you’d planned together were either canceled or cut short. When you brought up plans—plans for the two of you, not the press or the team—he sighed, rolling his eyes at what you once thought were silly requests.

“What’s going on, Lando?” you asked one evening, standing in the doorway of his apartment as he finished a phone call. “You’re… different. Since the championship, it’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

He looked at you, expression hard. “Different how? I’m the same. I’m busy, okay? You know how this season was—everything’s been nonstop.”

“No, it’s not that,” you said softly, almost pleading. “I can handle busy. I’ve always handled busy. But you… you don’t even try with me anymore. With everyone else you’re still… you. Charming, funny, present. With me… you’re…” You faltered, words catching in your throat. “You’re distant. And it hurts, Lando. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I feel like you… don’t care about me anymore.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. A few seconds of silence stretched between you. Then, coldly, he said:

“I’m just tired, okay? Don’t make it about us. Everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

That night, you lay awake, listening to the faint sounds of his phone notifications, imagining him laughing with friends, charming everyone who wasn’t you. And in that silence, one thought echoed over and over: he hasn’t changed for anyone else… only for me.

Winter break was supposed to be yours.

No flights to catch. No debriefs. No early mornings in the paddock or late nights in simulators. Just the two of you, finally breathing in the quiet that the season never allowed.

Instead, it felt like you were sharing space with a ghost.

The first party happened three days after the gala. A sponsor’s winter celebration in Monaco—twinkling lights strung across balconies, champagne flowing, soft music mixing with laughter. You’d worn a dress you knew he liked, something soft and familiar, something that used to make his eyes linger.

When you walked in together, hands barely brushing, people lit up when they saw him.

“Lando!”

“Champion!”

“Over here!”

He slipped from your side almost instantly.

You watched from the edge of the room as he became the version of him everyone loved. Laughing loud, pulling people into half-hugs, charming waitstaff, leaning in close when someone told a joke. At one point, a girl—model, maybe, or influencer—touched his arm when she laughed. He didn’t move away. He smiled, wide and easy, like he didn’t have a girlfriend standing ten feet away watching every second of it.

When you finally crossed the room to him, he barely noticed.

“Lan,” you said, touching his sleeve.

He glanced down, surprised. “Oh—hey. You having fun?”

You stared at him for a second. “I thought we came together.”

He frowned slightly, like you’d said something confusing. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. I just ran into some people. Relax.”

Relax.

You stepped back, nodding, swallowing the lump in your throat.

At home, he didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t mention the party. Didn’t notice when you changed into pajamas and curled up on the opposite side of the bed, facing away from him.

The next day was more of the same.

He went out with friends. You stayed in. He posted pictures—laughing over coffee in crowded cafés, tagging people you barely knew. In every photo, he looked like the Lando you fell in love with. Just not with you.

That night, you finally tried again.

You found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone.

“Can we talk?” you asked softly.

He sighed like you’d asked him to do a chore. “About what now?”

You flinched.

“About us,” you said. “Because I feel like I’m losing you, and I don’t even know why.”

He rolled his eyes, setting his phone down. “You’re being dramatic. Nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” you said, your voice breaking despite yourself. “You don’t look at me anymore. You don’t talk to me. You don’t touch me. You don’t—”

“I’m tired, okay?” he cut in, sharper now. “I’ve had a long season. I just won a championship. Can I not just exist for five minutes without it turning into a relationship talk?”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“I’ve been existing alone in this relationship for weeks, Lando.”

That made him look up.

There was something in your voice—something small and broken and honest—that gave him pause. But only for a second.

He exhaled, rubbing his face. “I’m going on this ski trip with the boys in two days. I don’t want to fight before I leave.”

You stared at him.

“So you’d rather pretend everything’s fine and just… leave?”

“It’s a break,” he said. “We both need space.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky. “You already have all the space you want. I’m just living in it.”

The argument didn’t explode that night. It simmered. The next day, it boiled over.

You were in the living room when he came back from lunch with friends, still laughing about something someone said. The door closed behind him, and the sound of his laughter faded like a switch had been flipped.

You stood up. “Why do you do that?” you asked.

“Do what?” he replied, distracted, tossing his jacket aside.

“Why are you warm with everyone else and cold with me?” you demanded. “Why do you treat strangers better than the person who’s been here for you through every race, every loss, every moment you doubted yourself?”

He stopped. Slowly, he turned to face you.

“Maybe because you’re always on my back,” he snapped. “Everyone else lets me breathe. You just… don’t.”

That one hurt. You felt it in your chest, sharp and deep.

“I’m on your back?” you repeated. “I’m asking you to care.”

“I do care,” he said, defensive now. “But I’m not going to sit here and be made to feel like a bad guy because you’re insecure.”

Insecure.

You felt tears sting your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall.

“I don’t recognize you,” you whispered. “The man I fell in love with wouldn’t talk to me like this.”

He scoffed. “Maybe you fell in love with a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.”

The room went silent. That was the moment it almost ended.

Your voice was quiet when you spoke again. “So what am I to you now, Lando? Because it doesn’t feel like I’m your girlfriend. It feels like I’m just… something you keep around when it’s convenient.”

He didn’t answer right away. And that hesitation? That pause? That was louder than any words.

You grabbed your jacket, hands shaking. “I can’t do this right now. I need air.” You walked out before he could stop you.

When you came back later, the apartment was dark. His suitcase was open on the bed. You stood in the doorway, watching him fold clothes, realizing he was leaving with everything unresolved. With you standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you could come back from.

He didn’t look up when he said, “We’ll talk when I get back.”

But you weren’t sure there would be anything left to talk about.

•

The mountains were loud with laughter.

Snow crunched under boots, music spilled from speakers on the chalet balcony, and someone was always opening another bottle of something expensive and unnecessary. The boys’ trip was supposed to be exactly what Lando needed—no pressure, no expectations, no relationship talks waiting in the kitchen when he came home.

And for the first few hours, it worked. He skied until his legs burned. He laughed until his face hurt. He let himself forget. But forgetting only worked when he was moving.

At night, when the chalet went quiet and everyone disappeared into their rooms, the silence followed him like a shadow. He lay in bed scrolling through his phone, thumb hovering over your name, not opening the last message he’d sent.

We’ll talk when I’m back.

That’s what he’d said.

He didn’t like how final it sounded now.

The second day, someone asked the question. It was casual. Harmless. The kind of thing people asked because they cared.

“So,” one of the guys said over breakfast, coffee steaming between his hands, “how’s she doing? You two good?”

Lando didn’t even think. “Yeah,” he replied easily. “She’s fine. We’re good.” The lie slid out of his mouth so smoothly it scared him.

There was a beat of silence after. Not because anyone didn’t believe him—but because he did. For a second.

Then the image of you standing in the doorway, watching him pack, flashed in his head. Your voice: It feels like I’m just something you keep around when it’s convenient.

His chest tightened. He pushed his chair back, standing abruptly. “I need some air.”

Outside, the cold hit his face like a slap. He leaned against the railing, breath fogging in front of him, and for the first time all trip, he didn’t reach for distraction. He reached for you.

His thumbs hovered over the screen before he typed.

I shouldn’t have left like that.

He deleted it.

I miss you.

Deleted.

Finally, he sent something simple. Honest.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. Can we talk when I’m back? Please.

The message delivered. Read. No reply.

The hours stretched. Then the day. He checked his phone more than he checked the slopes. More than he checked the time. Every buzz made his heart jump, only to fall again when it wasn’t you.

The third day, he tried again.

Are you okay?

Nothing.

By the fourth day, the guys noticed.

“You good, mate?” someone asked when Lando sat quietly while everyone else argued over music.

“Yeah,” he said automatically. But this time, nobody believed him.

Back in Monaco, the apartment felt too big.

You walked from room to room, touching things like you were memorizing them. His hoodie on the back of a chair. The mug he always used. The photo on the shelf from a summer that felt like another lifetime.

You packed slowly. Not because you weren’t sure. But because you were. Every folded shirt felt like a decision you couldn’t take back.

When you left the spare key with the building manager, your hands were steady. Your heart wasn’t.

The last day of the trip came too fast.

Lando was dragging his suitcase through the chalet hallway, already halfway home in his head, already rehearsing what he’d say when he saw you. He was thinking about apologies. About promises. About how he’d hold you and tell you he didn’t mean any of it.

Then his phone buzzed. A number he gets texts from once a year to say the least.

Hi, this is the building manager from Monaco. Just letting you know your partner stopped by earlier and left the spare key with me. You can pick it up when you return.

He stopped walking. The hallway noise faded. The laughter. The music. The world.

Your partner. Not girlfriend. Not her name. Just a formality.

His grip on the suitcase tightened until his knuckles went white.

You hadn’t just gone out. You’d left.

The space he asked for suddenly felt like a door slamming shut instead of something he could step back through. His chest burned, sharp and panicked and real. He texted you immediately, hands shaking.

Where are you?

Please. Don’t do this.

I’m coming home. I’ll be there in a few hours. Just wait.

No reply.

He looked up at the mountains through the window—beautiful, distant, completely wrong.

For the first time since the championship, since the parties, since the attention and the noise, there was only one thing he wanted… To be back in Monaco. To be back in front of you. To stop you from becoming something he used to have.

The flight feels too slow. Every minute in the air is another minute you’re gone.

Lando doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t watch anything. He stares at the back of the seat in front of him like if he looks hard enough, he can bend time, fold the distance, make himself land faster.

He checks his phone every few seconds. No new messages.

When the plane touches down in Nice, he’s out of his seat before the seatbelt sign turns off. He skips the driver, skips the usual routine. He takes a car himself, leg bouncing the entire ride back to Monaco, watching the city lights blur past the window like something he’s about to lose forever.

The building lobby is quiet when he walks in. Too quiet. The elevator ride feels like a countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

The doors slide open.

He fumbles with his keys, hands still cold from the trip, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. He tells himself you’re probably just out. Coffee. A walk. Anything.

He unlocks the door.

The apartment is dark. Not cozy-dark. Not end-of-day-dark. Empty-dark. The kind that echoes.

“Baby, I’m home,” he calls softly, like he’s scared of scaring you away if you’s there. Nothing answers.

He flips on the light. The first thing he notices isn’t what’s missing. It’s what’s left.

Your shoes aren’t by the door anymore. The small plant you always insisted on keeping alive by the window is gone. The throw blanket you liked to steal off the couch is folded neatly on the armrest instead of tangled where you usually left it.

The place looks… curated.

Like someone took their time deciding what parts of themselves to remove.

Lando drops his suitcase by the door and walks in slowly, like the apartment might collapse if he moves too fast.

The bedroom is worse. Your side of the closet is half-empty. Not messy. Not rushed. Just… gone. Your skincare on the bathroom counter is missing. Your toothbrush cup holds only his now. The drawer you used for your jewelry is open, hollow.

His chest tightens with every step.

He finds the note on the kitchen counter. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just a single piece of paper, folded once. He unfolds it with hands that don’t feel like his own.

I needed to leave before I started hoping again.

Please don’t come looking for me.

That’s it. No signature. No goodbye.

His knees hit the edge of the couch when he sits down without realizing he’s doing it.

This is it.

This is what he asked for when he said he needed space. Only now, the space isn’t something he can close.

He runs a hand through his hair, breath shaky, and for the first time since everything started changing, since the championship and the attention and the ego and the distance—

He lets himself feel it. The way he stopped asking about your days. The way he checked his phone for fans before he checked it for you. The way he flirted in rooms you weren’t in and came home cold to the one place he was supposed to be warm.

The way you tried. And tried. And eventually stopped.

He stands up and walks through the apartment like he’s walking through memories.

The spot in the kitchen where you used to sit on the counter while he cooked. The balcony where you’d stand wrapped in his hoodie, complaining about the cold. The couch where you’d fall asleep on him during late-night movies he pretended not to like. It’s all still there. You aren’t.

His phone buzzes in his hand. Not you. A message from Max:

You back yet? Everything okay?

Lando stares at it for a long time before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch. He doesn’t have the energy to lie anymore.

He sinks down on the floor instead, back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

“What did I do…” he whispers to the empty room.

He pulls his knees to his chest like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like he can disappear into the space you left behind.

For the first time, it hits him: You didn’t leave because you were angry. You left because you were tired. Tired of being the only one holding on.

His phone lights up again. This time, it’s him who types.

I’m home.

The apartment’s empty.

I know I don’t deserve it, but please tell me where you are. I need to see you.

He sends it. The message delivers. No reply.

The night settles in around him, thick and quiet. And for the first time since the world started cheering his name louder than yours, he realizes something terrifying:

Winning everything else meant nothing if he lost you.

•

The house feels too big.

Lando notices it the second he walks in, suitcase rolling behind him, the familiar smell of pine and cinnamon hitting him like a memory instead of a comfort. Christmas lights glow along the staircase. Music hums softly from the kitchen. His mum’s laugh carries down the hall.

It should feel like home. Instead, it feels like a place where you’re missing.

His mum hugs him tight the moment she sees him. His dad claps him on the back. His siblings pull him into the kind of chaos that usually makes him grin without thinking.

This time, he forces it.

He makes it through the first hour on autopilot. Helps carry in boxes of decorations. Pretends to be invested in an argument about where the tree should go. Laughs at a joke he doesn’t actually hear.

And then it comes.

“So,” his mum says casually, setting down a tray of mugs, “when is she getting here?”

The room stills in that soft, unintentional way families do when they care. Lando’s chest tightens.

His sister looks up from the couch. “Yeah, she said she might fly in a little later this year, right?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“She’s… not coming,” he finally says.

The words feel heavier than they should.

His mum frowns gently. “Not at all?”

“Not anytime soon,” he adds, because somehow that hurts less than saying never.

His dad clears his throat. “Everything okay between you two?”

Lando nods too fast. “Yeah. Just… busy. She’s got things to sort out.” Another half truth he doesn’t have the energy to take back.

They don’t push. They never do. But the way his mum watches him for the rest of the evening—like she knows there’s something he’s not saying—makes it worse.

Dinner is loud. Warm. Full of stories and clinking glasses and the kind of love that fills a room. Lando feels like he’s standing just outside of it. Every empty chair feels like you.

Later that night, when the house finally quiets, when everyone drifts off to wrap last-minute gifts or call old friends, Lando slips upstairs to the room he’s had since he was a teenager.

It hasn’t changed much.

The same posters. The same shelf of old trophies and random things he never threw away. The same window looking out over the street where Christmas lights glow softly in the dark.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out his phone.

Your name is still at the top of his messages. Unread. Unanswered. He scrolls back instead.

Photos of you in this same house last year, wearing his mum’s oversized Christmas jumper, laughing in the kitchen while flour covered your hands. A video of you and his sister trying—and failing—to sing along to a carol. A blurry selfie of the two of you on the couch, tangled up in blankets, half asleep.

His throat closes. He types.

Merry Christmas Eve.

I hope you’re okay. I miss you.

He stares at the screen for a long time before hitting send. The message goes through. No reply. He sets the phone down on the bed like it might burn him if he holds it too long.

That’s when it finally hits again. Not the anger. Not the regret. The absence.

The idea that tomorrow morning, when everyone wakes up and gathers around the tree, when there’s laughter and wrapping paper and too much food and too many pictures— You won’t be there. Not because of distance. Because of him.

Lando presses his palms into his eyes, trying to hold it together. It doesn’t work.

The first sob slips out of him, quiet and broken, like he’s ashamed to let anyone hear it. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders shaking as the weight of the last few weeks crashes down all at once.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to the empty room. To you. To the version of himself that didn’t see this coming.

He cries until his chest hurts, until his eyes burn, until the room feels smaller around him.

Outside, someone laughs in the distance. A car drives by with music playing. The world keeps going.

Inside, Lando sits on the edge of his childhood bed on Christmas Eve, realizing that for the first time in a long time— He doesn’t feel like he’s won anything at all.

•

Christmas morning is supposed to feel light. Lando tries to let it.

The house smells like coffee and sugar and something warm baking in the oven. Wrapping paper is already scattered across the living room floor. His mum hands him a mug with a soft smile. His dad is arguing with one of his siblings about who gets to sit closest to the tree.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost works.

He sits on the floor with everyone else, back against the couch, a box in his hands. He laughs when one of his sisters hands him something ridiculous. He pretends he’s not checking his phone every few minutes.

Still nothing from you.

Then the doorbell rings. Everyone looks up at once.

“I’ll get it,” his mum says, already standing.

Lando doesn’t think anything of it. Just a neighbor. A late delivery. Someone dropping off food. He’s halfway through opening a gift when he hears his mum’s voice change. Not loud. Not angry. Just… careful.

“Hello.”

There’s another voice in the hallway. A man’s voice. Firm. Controlled. Too controlled. Lando recognizes it before he even stands up. His stomach drops.

Your brother steps into the living room holding a large bag in one hand and a box in the other, both wrapped in familiar paper—paper Lando recognizes because he watched you buy it months ago, because you always said his family deserved “the nice wrapping, not the cheap one.”

The room goes silent.

His mum looks between your brother and her son, confused. “Oh—uh. You’re… you’re y/n’s brother, right?”

He nods politely. “Yeah. Hi. I just came to drop these off. She asked me to.”

Lando stands without realizing he’s doing it.

“Where is she?” he asks. It comes out genuine. Soft. Hopeful in a way he hasn’t let himself be in days.

Your brother looks at him. Really looks at him. And whatever he sees on Lando’s face doesn’t soften him. It hardens him.

“She’s not coming,” he says flatly.

Lando swallows. “I just meant—how is she? Is she okay?”

That’s when it shifts. Your brother lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“Okay?” he repeats. “You really have the nerve to ask me that?”

Lando’s dad stands up slowly. “Hey. Let’s all just—”

“No,” your brother cuts in, turning fully toward Lando now. “Actually, no. I’ve been holding this in for weeks, and I’m not doing it anymore.”

The air in the room goes tight.

Lando opens his mouth. “Look, I know I messed up, but—”

“You messed up?” your brother snaps. “You didn’t forget her birthday. You didn’t say something stupid in a fight. You tore her apart and then acted like she was the problem for breaking.”

His mum steps forward, hand over her mouth. “What are you talking about?”

Your brother doesn’t take his eyes off Lando.

“You want to know why she’s not here?” he says. “Because she spent nights crying on my couch, wondering how someone who claimed to love her could make her feel that small. Because she started apologizing for existing in your life. Because she kept asking me what she did wrong when the only thing she did was love you.”

Lando’s chest starts to burn. “That’s not—” he tries.

“Shut up,” your brother says, sharp and final. “You don’t get to talk over this.”

The room is completely still now.

Your brother sets the gifts down on the coffee table. “She bought these before everything went to hell. She still wanted your family to have a good Christmas. That’s the kind of person she is. Even after what you did to her.”

Lando’s mum presses a hand to her chest. “Lando… is this true?”

He can’t answer.

Your brother steps closer.

“You know what the worst part was?” he continues. “She didn’t even get angry at first. She just kept making excuses for you. ‘He’s stressed.’ ‘He’s busy.’ ‘He doesn’t mean it.’ She protected you while you were breaking her.”

Lando’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Don’t what?” your brother fires back. “Don’t tell the truth in front of your family? Because that’s what this is. Truth.”

His dad finally speaks, voice low. “Son… why didn’t you tell us any of this?”

Lando looks at the floor. That answer is enough.

Your brother exhales sharply. “I came here to drop off gifts. But I’m also here to say this, and I don’t care who hears it.” He looks Lando dead in the eye. “Stay away from her.”

The words land like a slap.

“You don’t get to come back into her life just because you finally realized what you lost. You don’t get to break someone and then miss them when they stop bleeding.”

Lando steps forward without thinking. “I love her.”

Your brother moves too. For a split second, it looks like it might turn into something physical. Lando’s dad and brother step between them immediately, hands out, voices raised.

“Enough. Enough.”

Your brother doesn’t resist. He just laughs, bitter.

“Love?” he says. “If that’s what you call it, I’d hate to see what you call hate.” He points at Lando. “If you contact her again, if you show up, if you try to pull her back into this—then you go through me first. I don’t care if you’re a world champion. I don’t care how many people cheer your name. To me, you’re just the guy who hurt my sister. And I will not let you do it twice.”

Silence crashes down around the room.

Lando’s mum is crying now, quietly, hand over her mouth. His dad looks like he’s been punched in the chest. His siblings stare at him like they’re seeing something they didn’t know was there.

Your brother picks up his jacket.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, not kindly, not cruelly—just empty. Then he turns and walks out.

The door closes behind him. No one speaks.

Lando stands in the middle of the living room, surrounded by torn wrapping paper, unopened gifts, and the weight of a truth he can’t escape anymore.

His mum finally breaks the silence.

“Lando,” she says softly, “why didn’t you tell us?”

He tries to answer. Nothing comes out. He sinks down onto the couch instead, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

The gifts you bought sit on the table between them all.

A quiet reminder.

Of what he had.

Of what he lost.

Of what he broke with his own hands.

Later, when everyone drifts away, when the house grows quiet again, Lando picks up one of the bags you left behind.

Inside is a small box with his mum’s name on it, written in your handwriting. Careful. Familiar. He presses his thumb over the letters and closes his eyes.

And just like that, it’s done.

Not with a fight. Not with a goodbye.

YOU DIDN’T SLEEP, not really. The sheets cling to your body, humid with last night's sweat and the smell of him still heavy on your skin. You lie flat on your back, unable to stop remembering the feeling of his fingers inside you, the scrape of his jaw against your neck, the tight clamp of his palm over your mouth. The way he told you to be quiet, like you were a misbehaving kid, when all you wanted was to scream for more.

You're disgusted with yourself. With him. With how easily you gave in, and with how desperately you want to do it again.

You squeeze your legs together, feeling the leftover ache, the rawness where his thick fingers had worked you against the kitchen counter. You press your fingers to your mouth, like you can still taste him there. You should hate this, and maybe you do, but it doesn't matter because you know you'll do it again the second he lets you.

You never thought the crush would survive puberty, let alone make it through to this—whatever this is. You always assumed it was some dumb, childish phase, a byproduct of your mum leaving young and Lando stepping in to help your dad raise you when things got bad. He'd been your hero, you used to dream about him rescuing you from shit, but not like this. 

You wonder if he came last night, after he left you wrecked and gasping against the counter. The way he'd looked—eyes gone black, lips parted, a vein in his neck jumping every time you moaned—there's no way he didn't. You imagine him in the dark, lying on the guest bed, jacking off to the thought of you, probably hating himself for it just as much as you hate yourself. Probably thinking of you on your knees, mouth wide, eyes wide, so eager to please.

It's wrong. Of course it's wrong. He's your dad's best mate for fuck's sake. Your dad would kill him, kill you both if he knew. But you don't care, not really. The more you try to convince yourself it's a mistake, a one-time thing, the more your body betrays you, slicking up just at the thought of him pinning you to the kitchen counter again.

You curl up tighter, shoving a pillow between your legs, hating how much you need to press against it, to grind against it. You think of the way his cock felt in your hand, the way he was so strong around you. The memory hits so hard you whimper, breath catching in your throat. You want it. You want him. Not a gentleman. You want him to go against every moral he has so you can see that look on his face again.

There's no way he'll let it happen. Not after last night. He'll be distant, cold, probably won't even look you in the eye. He's not that kind of man, you know he isn't, but that's what makes you want it more. To see him lose control. You start plotting. You know you shouldn't, but you do. You imagine ways to make it happen, to push him over the edge. Maybe you wait until your dad goes out for the night, maybe you walk in on Lando in the shower, maybe you just sit on his lap and dare him to say no. Maybe you just wait until the next time you're alone together in the kitchen and see how long it takes for him to put his hand up your shirt again. The possibilities make your stomach twist, but you can't stop thinking about them.

He wants it, you know he does, and you'll make sure he gets it, no matter how many times he tries to be the better person. You want to ruin him. You want to ruin yourself, too. You want it to be so filthy neither of you can ever go back.

You roll over and stare at the clock on your phone. It's not even seven. The house is quiet. You wonder if Lando's awake, if he's downstairs drinking coffee, if he's thinking about last night the way you are. You imagine him standing at the window, mug in hand, watching the light change across the garden, trying to pretend he didn't almost fuck his best friend's daughter on the kitchen counter just hours ago. Trying to pretend he's better than you.

꩜

It’s just after eight when you finally hear someone moving in the kitchen—your dad probably, thumping around in his slippers, whistling tunelessly as he pours his first coffee. You count five, then ten minutes, the dread swelling inside you like a blister, before you work up the nerve to go down. You don’t want to face Lando. You need to see him so fucking bad.

You brace yourself on the way to the kitchen, hands sweaty on the banister. You try to look casula, but your legs feel unsteady, as if you’re learning to walk for the first time.

Your dad is at the table, nose in the sports pages, but there’s no sign of Lando. You hesitate for half a second—maybe he’s in the lounge, maybe he left early to run or something, maybe he’s hiding in his room, avoiding you the same way you’re avoiding him.

“Morning, pet,” your dad says, without looking up. “Sleep all right?”

You nod, grab a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water just to have something to do. “Where’s Lando?”

You try to keep it breezy. You fail.

Your dad folds the paper down, glances up. “Gone.”

A bolt of panic so sharp you nearly drop the glass. Gone? Just like that? Not a word, not a text, not even a goodbye? You feel the blood drain from your face, your pulse roaring so loud you can barely hear yourself speak.

The word “gone” loops through your head, ricochetting around until it drowns out everything else. You move to the window, peek through the blinds. His car isn’t in the driveway. It’s really, truly gone.

You cycle through every emotion in the catalogue: shame, disgust, guilt, then—strangely, cruelly—betrayal. How could he just leave? After what happened last night, after the things he said and did? Was it that bad? Were you that revolting? Was it the panties, was it how desperate you sounded, was it the look in your eyes when you begged him to just do it, please?

You pick at a crumb, hating yourself more with every second that ticks by. You should have known better. 

“Oh,” you manage, voice too thin. “Guess the leak’s fixed then?”

Your dad gives you a strange look. “He just went to the shops. You okay, love?”

Your heart restarts, stumbling in your chest. He’s coming back. He’s coming back. He’s not gone.

“Yeah,” you say, voice cracking a little. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep great.”

You force a smile, then excuse yourself, glass of water in hand, and make for the stairs. You pause at the landing, waiting for the relief to set in. It doesn’t. Instead, you just feel emptier than before, like every part of you that mattered has been wrung out and left to dry.

꩜

You spend the next hour on autopilot, scrolling your phone, trying to keep your mind clean. It doesn’t work. Even in the shower, the hot water pounding your scalp, you can still feel his hand, his breath, the ragged whisper of your own name in his voice.

You’ve barely towelled off and thrown on some clothes when you hear the familiar rumble of Lando’s car. For a split second, you think about hiding—diving under the covers and refusing to come out until tomorrow. But of course you don’t.

He’s in the kitchen, placing a greasy paper bag on the table. You can smell the coffee before you see it. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a dew of sweat at his hairline. He’s in running shorts and a clingy tech shirt, the kind that makes every muscle stand out, and he’s smiling at your dad, telling some story about a sheep blocking the high street.

You stand in the doorway, trying to read his face, to see even a flicker of guilt or awkwardness, but he just looks… normal. Better than normal. Like he’s slept a full eight hours and isn’t about to implode from sexual frustration.

“Oi, kid,” he says, voice light. “Come try these, they’re the closest thing to Paris you’ll get in this dump.”

You step forward, heart thudding. Your hands shake a little as you reach for the coffee. You can’t meet his eyes. Not even for a second. Your skin prickles all over, remembering the way his mouth had found your throat, the way he’d grunted against your ear when he came close to losing control.

Your dad is oblivious. He tears open the bag, piling croissants onto plates. “She thought you’d fucked off back to London,” he says, mouth half full.

For a beat, Lando looks at you strangely, but it’s covered up with a grin. “Nah, you’re stuck with me.”

You force a laugh, but it comes out wrong. You sip your coffee, hands wrapped tight around the mug to hide how you’re trembling.

For the next half hour, it’s like being in a parallel universe. Lando is easy, charming. He’s not nervous. He doesn’t stutter, doesn’t fumble a single thing. You try to catch him out—try to lock eyes, make him remember—but he’s too good. When he looks at you, it’s with the same fondness he’s always had. No edge. No heat.

It drives you insane.

After breakfast, your dad heads out to “deal with the garden,” leaving you and Lando alone with the mess. He doesn’t say anything, just starts clearing the table, humming tunelessly under his breath.

You move to help, but your body feels ten sizes too small for itself. The silence is huge chasm, and you don’t know if you should break it or fill it or just let it hang. You steal a glance at him. He’s rinsing the plates, forearms corded, the vein in his hands so visible it makes you think of last night all over again.

Last night, he’d wanted you. No question. You’d seen the wreck of his face, the way his cock strained against his shorts, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only thing left in the world worth sinning for. But this morning, it’s gone. As if he’s wiped it away, compartmentalised you back into the “just a kid” box where you apparently belong.

You dry the plates, hands moving without thinking. He glances up and catches your eye. For a split second, you think you see something flicker there—regret, desire, something that’s not just gentle teasing. But then he grins, easy and bright, and you have the sudden urge to throw the plate in your hand at the wall.

You put the last cup in the rack and turn to face him, nerves shot. “You’re really good at pretending, you know.”

He stills, just a beat, then starts wiping the counter. “Pretending what?”

“That last night didn’t happen.”

He sighs, slow and soft. He leans forward, bracing both hands on the countertop, and for the first time all morning, you see the strain at the corner of his mouth. “What do you want me to do, kid?” he says, voice so low you almost miss it. “I can’t—”

“You can’t what?”

He looks at you, finally. And there it is, the hunger, buried deep but alive. “I can’t be what you want,” he says, voice rough. “Not here. Not now.”

“Not ever?” You step closer, so close you can smell the salt on his skin. 

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose. “No.”

“But you want to.”

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

꩜

Sunday is long and slow, the hours stretching sticky and golden from one window to the next. You spend the afternoon outside, stretched on a sunbed, daring him to come out and say something, to let even a hint of last night flicker across his face. But Lando never does. He spends the day in the garage. He avoids your eyes, avoids you, doesn’t say a word unless he absolutely has to.

When the match starts up in the late afternoon, Lando settles in on the couch with your dad, beer in one hand, remote in the other, acting like he’s never been more at home. When you pass through, he barely even glances up, but you catch the sharp twitch of his jaw, the way his leg bounces, the way he grips the can tight enough to leave a dent. You hover in the kitchen, restless, hands never still, thinking of nothing but what you heard that morning—“I can’t be what you want.”

You spend the evening in your room, scrolling mindlessly, the volume on your phone turned low. You listen for footsteps, for the sound of him in the hallway, but he never comes. Not once.

You try to distract yourself, to imagine a world where you’re normal, where you don’t want the one man who’s completely, absolutely off-limits. It doesn’t work. Every time you close your eyes, you see the way his face changed when he finally, finally touched you, the way he looked at you like you were precious and dangerous all at once.

The house gets quiet by midnight. You hear your dad’s bedroom door close, Lando walking up the stairs. You wait. Count the minutes. You picture Lando in the guest room, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, refusing to let himself think about you.

You spend a full hour reading the same paragraph of a book, not one word sticking. Eventually you give up and just let yourself think about him, about what he’d do if you called his bluff. What would it take to push him over the edge? You in his lap? You crawling into his bed? What if you just lay there, legs open, and begged? Would he finally snap, or would he just keep punishing you with that hot-cold whiplash, calling you “kid” like it could still put out the fire between you?

You think it’s just almost one when you hear it. So faint you almost miss it: a quiet, strangled groan, the kind a person makes when they’re trying not to make any noise at all. You freeze, ears pricked, heart stuttering in your chest.

Another moan, barely more than a breath. It’s coming from down the hallway.

Lando’s room.

Your heart thuds like you’ve just been yanked out of a nightmare, then it clicks. Oh. Oh. Your skin prickles all over. He’s jacking off. Is he thinking of you?

You hate yourself for how instantly, how violently, your cunt responds. You’re suddenly shamefully wet, the ache in your core flaring to life so abruptly you’re dizzy with it. You wonder if he’s thinking about your mouth, or your tits, or the way your cunt squeezed around his fingers. You picture him flat on his back, hand wrapped around that huge cock, panting and sweating and maybe even whispering your name into the darkness.

It would be so easy to ignore it. To roll over, clamp a pillow over your head, pretend you didn’t hear a thing. To let him have his shame in peace. But you don’t. You can’t. You lie there, perfectly still, straining to catch every sound. When you hear another groan—this one a little softer, almost a whine—you slide a hand under your shorts and between your thighs, like your body’s decided for you. You’re so wet you can feel it slick and sticky on your fingers, can’t help but rub slow, desperate circles over your swollen clit while you listen to Lando’s muffled sounds in the dark.

It’s so wrong you almost want to cry, but you can’t stop. You imagine his cock, him pumping it, fist moving hard and fast. You imagine him cumming, chest shuddering, jaw locked in that same feral grimace he’d made when he was buried inside you up to the knuckles. You imagine what he looks like right now: head tipped back, the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. Is he rough with himself, or slow and patient? Which hand does he use? 

The thought nearly makes you cum on the spot. You want him to grunt your name through clenched teeth, barely holding himself back. You want him to know, and hate, and want you just as badly as you want him.

Another sound. A louder one. You stifle a whimper in your pillow and keep going, fingers moving faster now, hips twitching. You picture Lando’s head thrown back, sweat glistening at his throat, his hand fisting his cock in the same steady rhythm you’re using on your clit.

Then it happens.

Your name.

It’s just a gasp, barely audible, but it hits you like a freight train. You snap your eyes open, sheet tangled around your legs, and freeze. Did he actually say it? Or are you so far gone you’re just hallucinating now? You stop moving, just to listen, but the silence is absolute.

You should feel dirty. You do, a little. But mostly you just feel electrified, every nerve on fire. You’re soaked, the throb in your clit so fierce you can barely think. You know you should stop. But you do the opposite.

Like some sleepwalking freak, you slide off the bed, legs shaky, and tiptoe across the room. The floorboards creak. You pause, listening for any hint that you’ve been caught, but the only thing you hear is your own breathing and, faintly, another groan from the end of the hall.

You pad across the hallway, every step slow and careful. When you reach his door, you hesitate, hand hovering inches from the wood.

You shouldn’t do this. This is just disgusting—it's wrong on so many levels. There’s still time to turn back, to crawl into your bed and pretend this never happened.

But you can’t.

You press your ear to the door and listen.

At first, it’s just more of the same low, broken noises. A grunt, a wet slap, the shifting of fabric.  But then it gets worse. Or better. Depends on how you define those words at one in the morning, standing outside your dad’s best mate’s door with your own hand already lingering between your thighs.

Your knees nearly buckle. You want to run away, hide, but you can’t. You need to see it. You need to see him lose control.

Your cunt throbs, like it’s being called to attention. You hate yourself for it. Hate the way your hand finds its way down, automatic, your fingers sliding over the soaked cotton of your panties. 

You rub hard and quick, bracing your free hand against the wood so you don’t slide to the floor. You picture what he looks like right now—the size of his cock, the weight of it, the way it would feel if he just pulled you into his bed and fucked you until you blacked out.

You can’t help it. You whimper, almost silent, but even that feels like a scream. You mash your mouth to your arm, desperate not to make a noise, and grind your palm into your clit so hard your legs tremble.

You squeeze your eyes shut and imagine it—his fingers wrapped tight around himself, thumb running over the swollen tip, the whole length of him throbbing with need. You wonder what he’d do if you walked in there right now, if you just dropped to your knees and begged.

Your hips rock into your hand, desperate for friction. You can feel yourself clenching, can feel your whole body heating up in a way that’s almost painful.

You hold yourself back, just a little, because you want to time it right. So you can cum at the same time as him, hear him lose it, know what it sounds like when he finally lets go.

He’s close. You can tell. The rhythm gets sloppy, his breath goes uneven, the noises from the bed sharper and more frantic. You’re so lost in it that you barely notice your own hand braced against the door, or the way your body rocks forward with every desperate circle of your fingers.

You slump forward. The door gives.

It’s so fucking cliche. It shouldn’t happen in real life, but here it is: the latch clicks, the wood swings wide, and you stumble into the room, hand still jammed in your panties, bare legs quivering, face bright red and eyes huge with shock.

He’s right there.

Lando’s sitting up, back against the headboard, hand wrapped tight around his cock. It’s even bigger than you imagined—long and flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along the shaft, the head gleaming with pre-cum that shines in the moonlight. He freezes, mouth open, eyes wide and shell-shocked as he stares at you. His breath comes in hot little pants.

It’s the noise he makes—a rough, animal sound, halfway between a bark and a groan, like he’s just been punched in the ribs. Lando bolts upright, eyes wild, the flush across his cheeks brighter than you’ve ever seen. The hand that was working his cock seizes up mid-stroke, and for a full second, he looks like he might actually die of shock.

Your hand is still in your panties.

A bright, electric shame slams into your chest. You squeak—actually squeak—and yank it out like you’ve been caught cheating on a test, face burning so hot you think you might faint. 

You’re both silent for a second, just staring at each other.

You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to drop to your knees and crawl across the floor to him.

“Shit,” you blurt, voice so high and breathy it sounds like someone else. “Sorry. I—sorry.”

He lets go of his cock, as if that might make any of this less insane, less obscene. It bounces up against his stomach, thick and leaking, and you can’t stop staring at it. You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you just clutch the hem of your shirt and twist it tight, knuckles white.

Lando’s face goes through about six emotions in three seconds: shock, then horror, then something you can only call hunger. But mostly, he just looks like he wants to die.

“Fuck,” he says, barely a whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You don’t run. You don’t even close the door. You just stand there, eyes glued to his lap, watching the way his cock twitches, the way a pearl of pre forms at the tip and rolls down the shaft.

You’re mortified, tears springing up in your eyes before you can stop them. You backpedal, words tumbling over each other. “I was just—I thought you were—fuck, I don’t know—”

He looks at you like you’re something dangerous. Like you could wreck him, if he lets you. You can only watch as he tries to cover himself with the edge of the blanket. It does nothing. His cock is too big, too hard, and it tents the fabric in a way that makes your knees buckle. Your own cunt clenches, desperate, and you make a small, involuntary sound of disappointment when he pulls the blanket up higher.

He notices.

He laughs, and it’s the bleakest, most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. “Jesus, kid. What are you even doing?”

You should leave. You should. But your body’s already in motion. You step forward.

“Are you thinking of me?” you ask, so quietly you almost don’t hear it yourself.

He looks at you like you’ve just asked him to murder someone. “Fuck. Don’t—don’t do this,” but it’s not angry, not even close.

You take another step, and another, until you’re at the foot of his bed. “Were you thinking of me?” you ask again, louder this time, voice trembling.

You stare at each other, both panting, both burning, and then Lando rips the blanket aside, fist wrapping around his cock again, pumping it slow, like he’s daring you to look away.

You don’t. You just watch, mouth open, hand creeping down your thigh, over the front of your shorts, pressing flat to your cunt.

He groans, eyes flicking down to your hand. “You—fuck. You want me to—?”

You nod, unable to say anything else.

He strokes himself slow, watching your every reaction. “Come here,” he rasps, and the words hit you like a physical force.

You go, barefoot, knees wobbling, looking down at him. He doesn’t let go, just pumps it once, twice, as if showing you what to do.

You sink to your knees, unable to look away. All you can do is watch, frozen in place by your own filthy desire.

He strokes himself faster, his other hand braced on his thigh, knuckles white. His chest is heaving, sweat shining at his collarbones.

Your mouth opens before your brain can catch up. “Please,” you whisper. The word is so thin it could break. “I need… I can’t…” You trail off, ashamed, but it comes out again anyway: “Please. I need you to touch me.”

His head drops, like he’s trying to shield himself from the sight of you. “You don’t,” he says, voice a strangled rasp. “You think you do, but you don’t.”

“You don’t know what I want. You don’t know what I’ve been thinking about—” Your voice hitches. You can’t say the rest.

But he does. He sees it in your eyes, in the way your knees press together, the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin. He puts a hand up, palm out in a motion to stop you, but you press into it anyway, rubbing your cheek against his thumb like a cat in heat, desperate for attention.

“Tell me to stop,” he says almost bitterly, his eyes dark and earnest. “Tell me I shouldn’t.”

You shake your head again, wild. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Jesus christ,” he mutters. “You’re killing me, kid.”

The word should hurt, but it just makes you want to prove you’re not a kid. Not anymore.

You reach out, fingers trembling, and wrap your hand around his cock. It’s hot and velvety, and he lets out a strangled noise, hips jerking. You grin, proud and stupid.

You stroke him, twisting your wrist at the top, letting your thumb flick over the slit. His head drops back, jaw clenched, and he pants, “Fuck, just like that.”

You could suck him off right now, let him cum all over your face. You’d take it gratefully, say thank you after.

He’s close, you can tell. His hips twitch, his breathing goes ragged, and his hand covers yours, squeezing it tight around the shaft. “Gonna cum,” he warns, voice wrecked.

You release your grip on his cock, rising off your knees to stand before him. He looks up at you conflicted, eyes tracing down your body. 

“Lando,” you whisper, needy and breathless. “I’m so wet, I—fuck, please—”

His eyes screw shut like he doesn’t want to hear it, chest rising and falling erratically. 

“Are you gonna stop me?” you whisper, eyes wide.

He shakes his head, and in the next second you’re in his lap, his cock pressed hot against your thigh, mouth on his, hands everywhere. 

“Condom?” He manages, voice rough. You shake your head frantically, you can’t go back, not now. 

“Just pull out,” you beg. He searches your face for a moment, eyes full of something undecipherable as he leans down. His lips are soft but rough, hungry, his tongue greedy as it finds yours. He cups your face with both hands, fingers sliding into your hair, tugging until your head tips back and he can bite down on your throat.

You’re grinding against him, desperate, pressed to his bare thigh. He slides his hand up your shirt, palm hot and rough, and finds your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you gasp.

“You’re so fucking disgusting,” he hisses against your neck. “Such a nasty little girl. Standing outside my fucking door and rubbing that pretty cunt.”

You whine, nodding your head in delirious agreement as you roll your hips down onto his leg, smearing slick onto his skin.

He pulls your sopping panties and shorts down, rough, not bothering with delicacy, just wanting you bare as fast as possible. You’re straddling him now, nothing between you but air, his cock hot and twitching against your cunt. You can see the hunger on his face when he glances down.

He grips himself, lines it up, but doesn’t push in. Not yet. He just teases, rubbing the head against your clit, smearing you both with your wetness. You nearly cry, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water.

“Beg for it,” he says, and you do.

“Please, Lando. Please fuck me—need it.”

That’s it. That’s all he needs.

He grabs your hips, strong enough to bruise, and pulls you down, impaling you on his cock in one long, devastating thrust.

You scream, and it’s immediately clamped with Lando’s hand over your mouth, just like in the kitchen. “Quiet,” he snaps. “You don’t want your dad to hear, do you?”

You shake your head, whimpering against his palm, grinding down until you’re seated all the way, stuffed so full you can barely think. He fucks you like he wants to erase every man who came before him. He bounces you on his cock, hips slamming up into you, your cunt stretching obscenely around him. There’s nothing gentle or special about it, not this big moment you had thought it’d be, nothing sweet like the way you’d imagined an older man fucking you right. No warmth to sink into, just his rough hands digging into your hips like he owns them, that detached, mean look on his face as he watches you fall apart. You’re limp in his grip, letting him fuck you up and down his cock like you’re nothing, tits bouncing. You mewl, fingers scrabbling weakly at his shoulder. You thought this would be different—warmer, more like surrender and submission, than this raw, brutal taking.

“What’s wrong with you, huh?” he rasps. “Where’s that shy little girl from last night who wanted me to put her in her place?”

Your cunt spasms at his words, shame rising as you get closer.

Lando chuckles at your reaction. “Because all I have now is some pathetic slut who begged me to fuck her like a bitch in heat.”

“I’m not—”

He cuts you off with a glare, “thought you wanted someone to take care of you, to tell you what to do. “

God, you did want that—craved it like air, not just sex, but safety. Care. Something more. Ever since those hazy nights when your dad was passed out in his own vomit, when your mum had left, and Lando would show up, all steady and strong and constant, scooping you up like you were something precious.

“I do!” you moan tragically, cumming embarrassingly fast, back arching as your thighs tremble around him. You collapse into him, and he flips you onto your back, thrusting twice before pulling out and finishing on your stomach and tits, biting your shoulder to keep from yelling, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

His body stills against yours, no tenderness in the aftermath, no hand smoothing over you, no murmured reassurance. It’s so different to how you imagined it—none of that comfort or care you thought was promised. The air feels colder already. You lie there, heart still racing, waiting for the warmth to come back and realising it won’t. Gone is the man from yesterday who knew what you craved, sweet and caring in the cruelest way. Now… he's just indifferent.

You both lie there for a moment, and you brace yourself for his next words, for him to grow cold and kick you out of his room.

“We can’t ever do this again,” he says, voice smooth. Definitive.

You curl tighter into his side, sliding a hand around his arm. “D’you regret it?”

Lando stiffens at your touch and laughs, soft and bitter. “Course I fucking do.”

Your grip loosens, and you sit up, pulling away from him. Hot, ugly shame fills you as you realise how pathetic you’ve actually been. Leaving your panties out, throwing yourself on him, trying to seduce a man old enough to be your dad—you’re nineteen for god’s sake. What the hell are you doing?

His cum has gone tacky on your skin, drying in places, and you feel so fucking filthy you can’t breathe. Tears sting hot behind your eyes. You need a shower—need to burn the shame off, let the water scald you, scrub until your skin is raw. Until you’re clean. If that’s even something that’s possible.

You stand on legs that feel unsteady. He watches as you drag your panties back up your thighs, eyes no longer filled with heat and desire, but hollow and emotionless. They’re damp, cold, clinging in a way that makes your stomach turn. You resist the urge to peel them off and leave them there, evidence you don’t want to carry with you.

You turn toward the door. Behind you, the mattress shifts. He rolls onto his side, facing the wall, already gone from you.

“Close the door,” he says. His voice is flat. Empty. Like this part is already over.

You do. The click sounds louder than it should. Final.

You got what you wanted, but it doesn’t feel nearly as sweet. It just feels like something you’ll be trying to wash off for a long time.

sorry

You've learned to compartmentalize. It's a skill that's served you well—on set when actors are having meltdowns, when studio executives are demanding impossible revisions, and especially now, standing in the elevator of Lando's Monaco apartment building with two energetic three-year-olds who've just consumed their body weight in airplane snacks.

"Mummy, I need to wee," Mila announces, tugging on your sleeve with the urgency only toddlers can muster.

"We're almost there, baby," you say, adjusting your grip on the car seat you're carrying while simultaneously preventing your son from pressing every button on the elevator panel. "Thiago, hands to yourself."

"But Mummy, buttons!" Thiago argues, his green-blue eyes—so much like his father's—sparkling with mischief.

God, your heart aches.

The elevator dings on the penthouse level, and you usher both children out, their little suitcases rolling behind them. You'd packed them yourself this morning in your London flat before the flight to Nice—five days' worth of clothes, their favorite stuffed animals, Mila's collection of hair clips that she insists on wearing all at once, and Thiago's toy cars that he lines up in precise rows just like the ones he sees on his father's YouTube videos.

You knock on the apartment door, already hearing the chaos of tiny feet running toward it from inside.

"DADDY!" both children shriek in unison before the door even opens.

When it does, Lando's there in joggers and a Loewe hoodie—looking off-duty, relaxed, his hair messy in that way that used to make you want to run your fingers through it. Now you just notice it objectively, the way you'd note good cinematography in someone else's film.

"There they are!" He crouches down immediately, and both kids barrel into him with the force of small cannonballs. "I missed you guys so much. Was the flight okay?"

"Thiago kicked the seat in front of him for an hour," you say, stepping inside and setting down the car seat. "And Mila charmed the flight attendant into giving her three cookie packets."

"That's my girl," Lando says, scooping Mila up and blowing a raspberry on her cheek. She squeals with delight.

You're pulling their suitcases inside when you notice a makeup bag on the console table by the door. Not yours, you'd recognize your own things. This one is Louis Vuitton, with a small charm dangling from the zipper. Your eyes track almost involuntarily around the open-plan space. There's a women's cardigan draped over the back of the sofa.

Something in your chest tightens, and you refuse to open that Pandora box right now.

"Mummy, I still need to wee!" Mila insists, and you snap back to attention.

"Right, sorry, baby. Lando, can I—"

"Yeah, of course, you know where it is," he says, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's noticed you noticing.

You take Mila to the bathroom, helping her with her leggings while she chatters about the clouds she saw from the plane and how Thiago stole her crisps. You're on autopilot, making the appropriate listening noises while your brain is doing something you really wish it wouldn't.

He's seeing someone. Of course he's fucking seeing someone. You've been divorced for eighteen months, you've both moved on, you're both co-parenting successfully, splitting time between London and Monaco, managing schedules around race weekends and film shoots. You're adults about this.

You're fine.

Mila finishes and insists on washing her hands herself, which means water ends up everywhere, and by the time you emerge back into the living room, Lando has Thiago on his shoulders and they're doing a lap of the apartment while your son shouts, "Faster, Daddy! Like a race car!"

"Careful," you say automatically, because Thiago has already had one trip to A&E this year from climbing where he shouldn't, and you're not keen on a repeat.

"I've got him," Lando says, and he does—his hands are secure on Thiago's legs, and he's being cautious despite the running. "So, I'll bring them back Wednesday afternoon? That still works?"

"Wednesday's perfect. I've got a production meeting Thursday morning, so that's—yeah, that's good." You're pulling out the folder from your bag—the one where you keep their schedules, dietary requirements, emergency contacts. It's color-coded because you're that kind of person. "Mila's been having nightmares about sharks, so she's been wanting her nightlight on extra bright. And Thiago needs to practice his letters, he keeps writing his 'S' backwards."

"Like his dad," Lando says with a grin, taking the folder. "I still do that sometimes."

"I know," you say, and there's too much familiarity in those two words, too much history. You clear your throat. "Right. So. I should—"

"Mummy, don't go!" Mila appears at your side, attaching herself to your leg like a barnacle.

"Baby, you're going to have so much fun with Daddy," you say, crouching down to her level. She's got your dark hair but his eyes, and the combination is devastating. "And I'll see you in five days. That's not so long."

"But what if I miss you?" Her bottom lip wobbles.

"Then Daddy will video call me, and we can talk," you say, smoothing her hair back. "And you can tell me all about what you've been doing. Okay?"

She nods, but she's not happy about it. Thiago, meanwhile, has discovered his suitcase and is trying to open it, clearly having forgotten something crucial.

"Go on," Lando says softly. "I've got them. You'll miss your meeting."

You don't have a meeting. You finished your current project last month, and you're between films right now, taking a rare break. But he doesn't need to know that, doesn't need to know that you're going back to your London flat to sit in your editing suite and work on your passion project, the script you've been writing for two years that no one's seen yet.

You kiss both children goodbye—Mila clings, Thiago is already distracted by the toys he can see in his bedroom—and you're almost at the door when you glance back.

Lando's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The afternoon light is streaming through the windows, catching in his hair, and for just a second you remember what it felt like to be married to him, to share this space, to be a family.

Then Mila tugs on his hand, demanding his attention, and the moment breaks.

"Text me when they're settled," you say.

"Always do," he replies.

You let yourself out, and you're in the elevator before you let your shoulders drop, before you let yourself feel the weight of that makeup bag, the evidence of someone else in the space that used to be partly yours.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from your agent about a Netflix show you're set to direct.

Work. You can focus on work. You're good at that. You've built a career on being able to compartmentalize, to separate the professional from the personal, to direct complex narratives while keeping your own feelings locked away behind the camera.

The elevator reaches the ground floor, and you step out into the Monaco sunshine, your sunglasses already in place.

You're fine. You're absolutely fucking fine.

Three hours later, you're supposed to be reviewing notes from your last production, but instead you're staring at your phone, at the text thread with Lando.

You open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You stare at the photo for longer than you should. At your daughter in your ex-husband's apartment, in a room you helped decorate before everything fell apart. The walls are still the soft blue you'd chosen together, and you can see the corner of the elephant painting you'd bought from a gallery in London when you were seven months pregnant and nesting hard.

You miss the life you had—the one where you'd come home from set and he'd come home from the racing, and you'd have dinner together as a family. You miss the mundane intimacy of it, the way he'd do the washing up while you gave the kids their bath, the way you'd collapse on the sofa together after they were asleep and he'd put his head in your lap while you both scrolled through your phones in comfortable silence.

You miss your family being whole.

You set your phone face-down on your desk and press your palms against your eyes. This is what you don't tell anyone—not your therapist, not your best friend, not your sister who keeps trying to set you up with eligible men in the film industry. You can't bring yourself to date. You've tried, once, a nice producer who took you to dinner at Sketch and was perfectly charming and utterly wrong because his eyes weren't green-blue and he didn't make terrible jokes and your children don't have his features carved into their faces.

Mila asks for Lando constantly. "Where's Daddy?" at least five times a day, even when she knows the answer. Thiago has started making this little sound in the back of his throat when he's playing with his cars—a sound that's unmistakably mimicking an engine, one he learned from watching his father's videos. They look so much like him it physically hurts sometimes.

The divorce nearly destroyed you. Not just emotionally, though that was bad enough, those first few months when the babies were so small and needy and you were trying to navigate separating your life from someone you'd built everything with. But publicly, it was a nightmare.

You're not just successful; you're award-winning, Academy-nominated at twenty-seven, with a career that includes box office hits and critically acclaimed independent films. The press had a field day. You'd left a premiere for your latest film and been swarmed by paparazzi outside your London home, all of them shouting questions about Lando, about the split, about whether you'd cheated (you hadn't), whether he'd cheated (he hadn't), why you were throwing away your perfect family.

Someone had gotten a photo of you crying in your car after dropping the twins at Lando's place, and it had been on the cover of three tabloids with increasingly invasive headlines. You'd had to hire additional security. You'd stopped going out unless absolutely necessary.

The UK doesn't have the same paparazzi laws as France or Monaco, and they'd taken full advantage.

Your phone buzzes again.

You go to the bathroom and fix your face—wash away the evidence of the tears you didn't realize you'd been crying, put on a bit of concealer, force a smile. When you FaceTime, both kids need to see Mummy being happy, being fine.

The call comes through, and suddenly your screen is filled with Thiago's face, so close to the camera that all you can see is his nose.

"Mummy!" he shrieks.

"Hi, baby! Back up a bit so I can see you properly."

Lando's voice in the background, "Thiago, mate, you have to hold it further away."

The camera pulls back, and then you can see both of them—Thiago in Lando's lap, Mila tucked against his side, all three of them squeezed together on what you recognize as the sofa in the living room. Your sofa, the one you'd picked out together.

"Mummy, Daddy made pasta but it was yucky," Mila announces.

"Oi, it was not yucky," Lando protests. "You ate three bowls."

"It was a little yucky," Thiago confirms, and you can't help but laugh.

"Traitors," Lando mutters, but he's smiling. "I'm getting better at cooking, for the record."

"I'm sure you are," you say, and your voice is softer than you intend.

You talk to the kids for fifteen minutes—about their day, about the books Lando bought, about the cars Thiago wants to show you in elaborate detail. Mila tells you she misses you but she's being a big girl about it. Thiago says he loves you approximately seven times.

And through it all, Lando is there, keeping them in frame, redirecting their attention when they get distracted, and occasionally catching your eye with this look that makes your chest tight.

When you hang up, your flat feels too quiet. Too empty and you want to rip your heart out so the aching stops.

Wednesday arrives faster than you expect and slower than you want—time doing that strange thing it does when you're both dreading something and desperate for it. You've been in your Monaco home since Monday, the one you bought six months after the divorce when it became clear that splitting time between London and Monaco wasn't just a temporary arrangement.

It's in Fontvieille, deliberately on the opposite side of Monaco from Lando's place, with a view of the port and enough space for the kids to have their own rooms. You'd decorated it yourself, making sure everything was perfect, soft colors, lots of natural light, a media room where you can work, a garden where the kids can play.

It's beautiful. It's also lonely as hell.

You're in your editing suite reviewing footage when your phone buzzes.

You spend the next hour trying not to spiral about what he might want to discuss. Is he moving? Is he getting serious with whoever owns that makeup bag? Is he going to ask to change the custody arrangement?

At 2:03, you hear the car pull up, and then the sound of the gate opening. You're at the door before they can ring, and suddenly both kids are there, launching themselves at you with the force of tiny missiles.

"Mummy!" Mila shrieks, and you're crouching down, pulling them both into your arms, breathing in the scent of their hair, feeling the weight of them solid and real against you.

"I missed you so much," you murmur into Mila's hair. "Did you have fun with Daddy?"

"We went to the marina and saw big boats," Thiago announces. "And Daddy let me have ice cream twice!"

"Did he now?" You glance up at Lando, who has the decency to look sheepish.

"It was a good week," he says with a shrug, and god, he looks good. He's in jeans and a navy blue polo, and he's got a tan from being outside with the kids, and you hate that you notice, hate that it still affects you.

"Go on inside," you tell the kids. "Your toys are exactly where you left them."

They don't need to be told twice, racing past you into the house, already arguing about who gets to play with what first. You stand, and suddenly it's just you and Lando on your doorstep, and the silence stretches awkward and heavy between you.

"You wanted to talk?" you prompt.

"Yeah, um—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Can I come in? Or we can talk out here, whatever you're comfortable with."

"Come in," you say, stepping aside.

He follows you through to the living room, and you can't help but notice the way he moves through your space carefully, like he's not sure he's allowed to be here, which is ridiculous because he's been here dozens of times for pickups and drop-offs. You can hear the kids playing in Thiago's room, their voices carrying through the open door.

"Coffee?" you offer, because you need something to do with your hands.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

You move to the kitchen, and he follows, settling onto one of the bar stools while you work the espresso machine—the nice one you'd splurged on because if you're going to be awake at 4am working, you're going to have good coffee.

"So," you say, your back to him while the machine hums. "What's up?"

"The Monaco Grand Prix is in two weeks," he says, and you can hear him shifting behind you. "And I wanted to ask if you'd bring the kids. To the race."

You freeze, your hand pausing over the cups.

"Thiago's obsessed with cars," Lando continues. "And Mila keeps asking to see Daddy's work. And I just—I think they'd love it. The garage, the cars, all of it. But I wanted to check with you first."

You turn around, leaning against the counter. "Lando—"

"I know it's a lot," he says quickly. "I know Monaco is crazy during race weekend, and there's media everywhere, and it's not exactly kid-friendly. But I'd make sure they're taken care of. They'd have ear protection, someone with them at all times, access to the motorhome if they need a break. And—and I'd really like them to see what I do. Properly."

You study him. There's something in his expression, something almost vulnerable. "This is about Thiago, isn't it? You want him to fall in love with it."

"Is that so wrong?" He's defensive now. "He's my son. This is my life. I want to share it with him."

"He's three, Lando."

"I was three when I started karting."

"I know," you say quietly, and you do. You know his whole history, how his dad recognized the talent early, how racing isn't just what Lando does but who he is at his core. "I just—"

"It's one race," he says. "Just—try it. If they hate it, if it's too much, we'll leave. But I think they'd love it."

"I'll think about it," you say finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You turn back to the espresso machine, pouring the shots. "Let me check my schedule. Make sure I don't have anything that weekend."

You both know you don't have anything that weekend, but he doesn't call you on it, just accepts the cup of coffee you hand him with a quiet "Thanks."

He takes a sip, and his eyebrows rise. "This is really good."

"I've had time to practice," you say, and you mean it to sound light, but it comes out sad instead.

The silence that follows is heavy with all the things neither of you are saying. You're both nursing your coffee, not quite looking at each other, and you're acutely aware that this is the longest you've been alone together since the divorce papers were signed.

"How's filming going?" he asks finally. "Claire mentioned you're developing something new."

"You talk to Claire?" You can't keep the surprise out of your voice.

"She calls sometimes," he says with a shrug. "Checks in. Makes sure I'm not—I don't know, falling apart or whatever she says."

Your agent calls your ex-husband to check on him. That's, you don't know what to do with that information.

"It's going well," you say. "It's a limited series for Netflix. Still in early development, but I'm excited about it."

"That's great," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "You're brilliant at what you do. They're lucky to have you."

The compliment sits warm in your chest, and you hate how much you've missed this—missed him being proud of you, being in your corner.

"How's the season going?" you ask, because fair is fair.

"Good. Car's quick. We're P1 in the championship, which is—yeah. It's good." He's downplaying it. You've been following the season despite yourself, watching race highlights on YouTube at 2am when you can't sleep, and you know McLaren is having their best season in years. "Lots of pressure, but good pressure."

"You always did work well under pressure," you murmur.

His eyes meet yours, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch. "Yeah. Well. Some kinds of pressure are easier than others."

You don't ask what he means. You're not sure you want to know.

From down the hall, you hear a crash, followed by Mila's voice, "It wasn't me!"

"I should—" You both say it at the same time, both moving toward the sound.

But it's just Thiago's car tower falling over, both kids already rebuilding it, and they barely glance up when you appear in the doorway. You and Lando stand there, watching them play, and the domesticity of it hurts.

This is what you gave up. These moments. This family.

"I should go," Lando says quietly. "Let you get them settled."

"Right. Yeah."

You walk him to the door, and he crouches down to say goodbye to the kids, both of them clinging to him, making him promise to FaceTime tomorrow. When he stands, he's closer than you expected, close enough that you can smell his cologne—the same one he's always worn, the one you used to steal his hoodies for because they smelled like him.

"Think about the race?" he says.

"I will."

"Okay." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but then thinks better of it. "I'll text you the details. Just in case."

"Okay."

He leaves, and you close the door behind him, leaning against it for a long moment. From Thiago's room, you hear Mila call out, "Mummy! Come play with us!"

"Coming, baby," you call back.

But you stand there for another moment, your hand on the door handle, thinking about makeup bag and the way Lando had looked at you in your kitchen, and wondering when exactly your life became so complicated.

You're standing outside the Circuit de Monaco at 8:47am on race day Sunday, and you're having what might generously be called a crisis.

"We can still leave," your sister Margot says from the driver's seat of your Range Rover. She's flown in from London specifically for this—moral support and twin-wrangling—and she's looking at you with that expression that says she thinks this is a terrible idea but she loves you too much to say it out loud.

"Mummy, why aren't we going?" Mila asks from her car seat, already wearing her little papaya dress that matches her brother's McLaren shirt.

"We're going, baby," you say, taking a breath. "Just—just give Mummy one second."

The problem is this: you've kept the twins out of the public eye since birth. Completely, deliberately, ruthlessly private. No photos, no social media, no confirmation beyond a simple statement when they were born. The press knows you have children with Lando—the pregnancy had been impossible to hide—but they've never seen them. You'd both agreed on that, one of the few things you'd managed to agree on toward the end of your marriage.

And now you're about to walk through those gates with two three-year-olds who look exactly like their Formula 1 driver father, and the entire world is going to lose its collective mind.

"You don't have to do this," Margot says quietly. "Lando would understand if you changed your mind."

But you'd promised. You'd promised Thiago, who's been talking about nothing but race cars for a week. You'd promised Mila, who wants to see where Daddy works. You'd promised Lando, who'd looked at you with those eyes and asked if you'd come.

"No, we're doing this," you say, and you sound more certain than you feel. "We're just—we're going in."

Your phone buzzes and it's Lando.

You look at yourself in the visor mirror one more time. The white linen dress with navy embroidered flowers—elegant, understated, appropriate for Monaco in May. Your hair is down in loose waves, you have your favorite pair of Celine sunnies, and you look like someone who has her life together.

You look like a fucking lie.

"Right," you say, mostly to yourself. "Let's do this."

Margot drives to the VIP entrance, and even that is chaos—security, credentials being checked, people everywhere. You can see cameras already tracking your car, photographers recognizing your license plate. By the time you've parked and gotten the kids out of their car seats, there's a small crowd forming.

"Mummy, why are people taking pictures?" Thiago asks, and there's uncertainty in his voice.

"Because Mummy makes movies, remember?" you say, crouching down to his level. "And some people like to take pictures. But you just hold my hand and stay close, okay?"

"Okay," he says, but he's pressed against your leg now, suddenly shy.

Mila is less concerned, more interested in her dress and whether it's twirling properly. Margot has her hand, and you've got Thiago, and together you start walking toward the entrance.

The photographers notice immediately.

"Is that—"

"Oh my god, are those her kids?"

"She brought the children!"

"That's definitely Lando's son, look at him—"

The cameras explode into action. Clicking, shouting, people calling your name, asking you to look, asking about the kids, asking if you and Lando are back together. It's overwhelming and invasive and exactly what you'd been afraid of.

Thiago makes a small noise and buries his face against your leg. You bend down immediately, scooping him up even though he's getting too big for it, and he wraps his arms around your neck.

"It's okay, baby," you murmur into his hair. "We're almost inside. You're safe."

Margot has Mila, who's less scared and more confused about why everyone's so excited. Security is moving people back, creating a path, and you can see Lando now, he's appeared at the entrance in his race suit, his face shifting from casual to concerned the moment he sees the crowd.

He moves fast, closing the distance between you, and suddenly he's there, his hand on your back, his body between you and the photographers.

"Alright, that's enough," he says, and his voice has that edge it gets when he's not messing around. "Come on, let them through."

He guides you inside, one hand still on your back, and the moment you're past security, the noise dims. You set Thiago down carefully, and Lando immediately crouches in front of him.

"You okay, mate?" he asks gently. "That was a bit mad, wasn't it?"

Thiago nods, his face still pressed against your leg.

"They just wanted to take pictures of your mum because she's brilliant," Lando says. "But we're safe now. No more cameras, I promise."

"No more?" Thiago asks, his voice small.

"Not where we're going," Lando confirms. "The garage is a no-photo zone for them. It's just going to be the team, and they're all really nice, and they've been so excited to meet you."

He looks up at you then, and there's something in his expression, his brow furrows and he opens his mouth briefly before closing it again.

After a brief pause, he says quietly. "I'm sorry, I should have arranged better security."

"It's fine," you say, even though your heart is still racing. "We're fine."

Margot appears with Mila, who's now asking approximately twelve questions about why people wanted pictures and whether she's famous now.

"Margot," Lando says, standing. "Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it."

"Someone has to keep this disaster show running," Margot says, but she's smiling. She'd always liked Lando, even after the divorce. "Now, are you going to show us this fancy garage or what?"

The walk through the paddock is different with Lando beside you. People still look, still take photos, but they keep a respectful distance. Thiago relaxes enough to walk on his own, holding Lando's hand, and Mila is fascinated by everything—the colors, the people, the energy of it all.

You pass the Ferrari hospitality, and a woman calls out, "Good luck today, Lando!" You recognize her, one of the other drivers' girlfriends, you think. Then her eyes land on you and the children, and her expression shifts to delighted surprise. "Oh my god, you brought them! They're gorgeous!"

More people notice. More drivers, team personnel, WAGs. Everyone's respectful but curious, and you can feel the attention like a physical weight. The twins are absorbing it all with the adaptability of children, but you're hyperaware of every look, every whispered conversation.

The McLaren garage is a relief, it's climate controlled, organized, and as promised, no media allowed inside. The team is there, and they light up when they see the kids.

Oscar Piastri is the first to approach, crouching down to the twins' level. "Hey there," he says with that easy Australian charm. "I'm Oscar. I drive the other papaya car. You must be Thiago and Mila."

"How do you know our names?" Mila asks suspiciously.

"Your dad talks about you constantly," Oscar says, grinning up at Lando. "Like, all the time. We know everything about you."

"Oscar," Lando says, a warning in his voice, but he's smiling.

The team comes over to introduce themselves—engineers, mechanics, strategists. Everyone is kind and patient, and Thiago's shyness starts to fade when one of the mechanics shows him the steering wheel, explaining all the buttons in terms a three-year-old can understand.

Mila is more interested in the screens, asking what all the numbers mean. Andrea, Lando's trainer, fields her questions with impressive patience.

You stand back with Margot, watching it all unfold. Watching Lando with the kids, introducing them to his world, the pride evident in every gesture. Watching the team embrace them, understanding how much this means to their driver.

"He's good with them," Margot observes quietly.

"He always was," you say, and there's too much emotion in your voice.

Lando glances over, catching your eye, and something passes between you. Then Zak Brown appears, impeccably dressed as always, and he makes a beeline for you.

"You made it," he says, pulling you into a brief hug. "I have to say, when Lando mentioned you might come, I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't delusional."

"Zak," Lando protests from across the garage.

"But I'm glad you're here," Zak continues, ignoring him. "The kids too. This—" he gestures around, "—this is important. Family's important."

The word sits heavy between you. Family. Like you still are one, like you haven't spent eighteen months learning how to be separate people.

The morning passes in a blur. The twins are fascinated by everything, asking endless questions that the team fields with patience and enthusiasm. Thiago is obsessed with the car, running his small hands over the carbon fiber with reverent care. Mila has decided she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, a declaration that makes Lando's face do something complicated.

Around 11:30, Lando has to start his pre-race routine. He crouches down to the twins, explaining that he needs to get ready but they'll be able to watch everything.

"Will you be scared in the car?" Mila asks, touching his face with her small hand.

"Maybe a little bit," Lando admits. "But being a little bit scared means you're doing something brave, right? That's what Mummy always says."

He glances up at you when he says it, and you're hit with the memory of telling him that, years ago, when you were still together and he was nervous about a particular race. You'd been lying in bed, his head on your chest, and you'd run your fingers through his hair and told him that fear was just proof that what he was doing mattered.

"You'll be the bravest," Thiago declares with absolute certainty.

"Thanks, bub," Lando says, pulling both kids into a hug. "You two be good for Mummy and Auntie Margot, yeah? And I'll see you after."

He stands, and his eyes meet yours again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing them. For being here. It—yeah. Thank you."

"Win for them," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended.

Something flashes in his expression, and you realize it's a deep desire, a want to do well for his kids. "Yeah," he says. "I will."

Then he's being pulled away for final preparations, and you're being guided to where you'll watch the race, a prime spot in the garage with a clear view of the monitors and the pit lane. Margot has the kids, keeping them entertained, while you try to calm your racing heart.

The cars line up on the grid—Lando's in P4, having had a strong qualifying—and suddenly it's real. You're about to watch your ex-husband race through the streets of Monaco, one of the most dangerous circuits in the world, while your children watch.

"Mummy, I can't see," Thiago complains, and you lift him up, settling him on your hip despite the fact that he's getting too big for it.

The start is chaos. Cars flooding through Sainte Dévote, inches apart, the sound overwhelming even with the ear protection. Your heart is in your throat, your hand gripping Margot's arm, and you're watching Lando's car, tracking every movement.

He makes a brilliant move on the first lap, overtaking into P3. The garage erupts, and Thiago is bouncing in your arms, shouting, "Go Daddy go!"

The race unfolds with the particular tension of Monaco—every corner mattering, no room for error. Lando is driving aggressively but smart, defending his position, looking for opportunities. On lap 23, he makes another move, diving up the inside into Portier, and suddenly he's P2.

"Is Daddy winning?" Mila asks, tugging on your dress.

"Almost, baby," you manage, your voice tight. "He's in second place."

With fifteen laps to go, the leader makes a mistake—just a small one, running slightly wide at Rascasse—and Lando is there. He's through, taking the lead, and the garage explodes into celebration. You're not breathing properly. You're watching every corner, every braking zone, willing him to be safe, to be fast, to make it to the end.

Ten laps. Five laps. Three laps.

"Come on," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're praying or pleading. "Come on, Lando."

Final lap. He's through Sainte Dévote, through Massenet, through Casino, and he's going to win. He's going to win Monaco.

He crosses the line, and the garage detonates.

People are screaming, hugging each other, jumping up and down. Thiago is shrieking, "DADDY WON! DADDY WON!" and Mila is clapping and laughing, and you—

You're crying. Properly crying, tears streaming down your face, and you don't even care that people can see, that there are cameras in the garage catching this. Lando just won Monaco, and your children are here to see it, and everything you've been holding back for eighteen months is suddenly right there on the surface.

Margot takes Thiago from you, understanding without words that you need a moment. You press your hands to your face, trying to get yourself under control, but it's impossible.

Because you remember. You remember every late night conversation about this race, how it was the one he wanted more than any other, how winning Monaco would mean everything. You remember being his partner through the disappointments, through the near-misses, through every year he didn't quite get there.

And now he has, and you're not his partner anymore, and it hurts in a way you can't articulate.

The team is moving toward parc fermé, and someone's guiding you and Margot and the kids down, toward where Lando will be after he gets out of the car. The twins are vibrating with excitement, both of them talking over each other about how fast Daddy was, how he won, how he's the best.

You can see him now—climbing out of the car, standing on top of it, arms raised in victory. The crowd is roaring, and he's taking it all in, this moment he's worked his entire life for.

Then he takes off his helmet, and he's looking around, scanning the crowd, and—

His eyes find yours.

Everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the celebration. It's just him looking at you, and the expression on his face is so raw, so open, that you can't breathe.

He's off the car, moving through the crowd, and people are trying to stop him—media, team members, officials—but he's single-minded. He's walking straight toward you, and your heart is hammering, and the twins are shouting for him, and—

He reaches you. His race suit is soaked with sweat, his hair is matted from his helmet, and he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

He looks at you for one more second, and then he's scooping up both kids, one under each arm, spinning them around while they scream with delight. When he sets them down, he's grinning so wide it must hurt.

"Did you see Daddy's race?" he asks them.

"You were SO FAST," Thiago shouts.

"You won!" Mila adds, like he might have forgotten.

"I did," he says, and his eyes drift back to you. "I really did."

Someone's calling him—he needs to go to the cooldown room, then the podium, then media. But he hesitates, looking at you like he's afraid if he leaves, you'll disappear.

"Go," you say softly. "We'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He nods, pressing quick kisses to both kids' heads, and then he's being pulled away into the chaos of post-race procedures. You watch him go, your heart doing complicated things, and Margot's hand finds yours.

"You okay?" she asks quietly.

"No," you admit. "Not even a little bit."

Because you just remembered what it felt like to be his, to share his victories, to be the person he looked for in the crowd, and you're not sure you can forget again.

The podium ceremony is a blur of champagne and national anthems and Lando standing on the top step looking like every dream he's ever had just came true. The twins are mesmerized, Mila by the champagne spray ("Mummy, why are they spraying it?"), Thiago by the trophy that's nearly as big as he is.

You're standing with Margot and the McLaren team, and you can't stop watching him. The way he holds the trophy, the way he sprays champagne with Oscar who's finished P3, the way he keeps looking down at where you are with the kids like he needs to confirm you're still there.

When he finally makes it back down, he's drenched and grinning and has to do approximately seventeen million media obligations. You take the twins back to the hospitality suite, where they're given McLaren merchandise and more snacks than they need, and you try very hard not to fall apart.

"That was mental," Margot says, watching as Mila explains the race to her stuffed elephant in elaborate detail. "The cameras, the attention, all of it. You okay?"

"Fine," you lie.

"You're a terrible liar," she says. "You always have been."

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the message for a long moment. You'd planned to drive back separately, to give him space to celebrate with his team, to maintain that careful distance you've both been keeping.

But he's asking. He's asking for more time.

It's another forty-five minutes before he's finally free, showered, changed into McLaren team wear, looking exhausted and elated in equal measure. The twins have hit that overtired phase where everything is either hilarious or devastating, and you're running on fumes.

"Ready to go home?" Lando asks, and there's something in the way he says 'home' that makes your chest tight.

"Please," you say. "Before they have complete meltdowns."

The car is waiting outside, a massive black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and enough space for all of you plus Margot. Lando's security team has already loaded his things, and there's a car seat situation happening that involves one of the team members and a lot of frustrated muttering about British versus European safety standards.

You're gathering the kids' things when you realize the crowd outside has grown. Significantly.

"There's a lot of people out there," you say to Lando, keeping your voice low so the twins don't hear.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. "It's been building all day. They know about—" He gestures vaguely between you. "About you being here. The kids."

"Right." Your stomach drops. "We'll just be quick, then."

"Security's going to create a path," he says. "Just stay close to me, okay? I'll have Mila, you've got Thiago, Margot's got the bags."

It's a military operation, basically. You scoop up Thiago, who's starting to get whiny, and Lando gets Mila, and Margot has approximately seventeen bags of kids' things and McLaren merchandise. Security opens the door, and the wall of sound hits you immediately.

There have to be at least two hundred people outside the barriers. fans with phones out, photographers, people shouting questions and congratulations. The security team creates a corridor, but it's narrow, and the noise is overwhelming.

"LANDO! Lando, over here!"

"Congratulations on the win!"

"Is that your son? Oh my god, he looks just like you!"

"Are you back together? Are you and—"

Thiago buries his face in your neck, his small body tense against yours. You hold him tighter, one hand on his back, trying to shield him from the cameras while moving as quickly as you can toward the Escalade.

"Lando, can you confirm you're back together?"

"When did you reconcile?"

"How long have you been seeing each other again?"

You can see the car now, just ten more feet. Lando's ahead of you, his body angled to protect Mila from the worst of the crowd. The security team is doing their best, but phones are being thrust over the barriers, cameras flashing, voices overlapping into incomprehensible noise.

"Are those your children? Can we get a photo?"

"Just one picture! Please!"

"Mummy," Thiago whimpers against your neck. "Too loud."

"I know, baby," you murmur. "Almost there."

Lando reaches the car first, carefully depositing Mila inside before turning back. He's at your side immediately, his hand on your lower back, creating a barrier between you and the crowd with his body.

"I've got you," he says quietly, and then you're at the car, and he's helping you get Thiago in while Margot throws bags into the boot.

Someone shouts, "Does this mean you're back together? For the kids?"

Another voice, "Are you giving your marriage another shot?"

You're climbing into the back seat, and Lando's right behind you, pulling the door shut, and suddenly it's quiet. Or quieter, at least, the voices are muffled now, the tinted windows providing a barrier.

"Jesus," Margot says from the front passenger seat. "That was intense."

"Sorry," Lando says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. "I should have arranged for you to leave earlier, before it got that bad."

"It's fine," you say, but your hands are shaking slightly as you buckle Thiago into his car seat. Mila's already strapped in on the other side, looking tired but okay.

The driver pulls away from the circuit, and you can still see camera flashes through the windows, phones tracking the car as you leave. It takes a full five minutes before the crowd thins, before you're out of the immediate chaos and onto the streets of Monaco.

The car is quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the air conditioning. Lando's sitting next to you in the back, there's a row of seats in the middle where Margot is, and then the back row where you and Lando have ended up, the twins in their car seats between you.

Thiago's eyes are already drooping, the combination of excitement and exhaustion catching up with him. Mila's fighting it, but you can see her losing the battle.

"That was a big day," you say softly, stroking Thiago's hair.

"Daddy won," he mumbles, his eyes closing.

"He did," you confirm. "Daddy won."

Within ten minutes, both kids are out cold, their heads lolling in their car seats in that boneless way children sleep. You carefully adjust Thiago's head so he's not at a weird angle, and when you look up, you catch Lando doing the same for Mila.

Your eyes meet for a brief second before you both look away.

The silence stretches. Margot's got her AirPods in up front, deliberately giving you space. The driver has the privacy screen up slightly. It's just you and Lando and two sleeping children and everything you're not saying.

You watch Monaco slide by through the tinted windows, the harbor with its absurd yachts, the narrow streets, the buildings stacked impossibly up the hillside. It's beautiful and familiar and feels nothing like home.

You're thinking about what happens now. Whether you go straight to your place in Fontvieille or to his place in Larvotto. Whether you say goodbye in the car or walk the kids up. Whether this is the end of today or the beginning of something you're not ready to name.

You're thinking about the crowd outside the circuit, the questions they were shouting, the assumption that you're back together. The photos that are probably already online—you and Lando and the twins, looking for all the world like a family.

You're thinking about—

His hand finds your knee.

Not in a deliberate way, not like he's making a move. It's almost unconscious, the way his hand just settles there on your bare knee, his palm warm through the thin linen of your dress. Like his body has forgotten you're not his anymore, like muscle memory has overridden conscious thought.

You freeze. You should move away, should say something, should maintain that boundary you've both been so careful about.

But you don't.

You sit there, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and you don't move.

Lando's looking out the window, his face turned away from you, and you can't tell if he's realized what he's done. His thumb isn't moving, isn't stroking or caressing, it's just there, this point of contact that feels monumental and terrifying and like the most natural thing in the world.

The car turns onto the coast road, the Mediterranean spreading blue and endless to your right. The late afternoon sun is turning everything golden, and you're acutely aware of every point where your body exists, the seat beneath you, the air conditioning on your skin, and especially, overwhelmingly, his hand on your knee.

Your heart is doing something complicated. Your brain is screaming at you to move, to break this moment before it becomes something you can't take back. But your body has other ideas, staying perfectly still, afraid that any movement will make him realize and pull away.

You can see his reflection in the window, the line of his jaw, the way he's frowning slightly at something only he can see. His race suit is unzipped at the top, and you can see the edge of his team shirt, papaya orange against his tan skin. He looks tired, the adrenaline of the race finally wearing off, and there's something vulnerable about seeing him like this, in the liminal space between public victory and private reality.

The car slows for a turn, and his hand shifts slightly on your knee, his fingers spreading fractionally wider, and it feels like every nerve ending in your body has relocated to that one point of contact.

This is dangerous. This is the opposite of the careful distance you've maintained. This is—

"Which home, Mr. Norris?" the driver asks, and the moment shatters.

Lando's hand disappears from your knee like he's been burned. He sits forward, putting space between you, and you can see the back of his neck has gone slightly red.

"Um," you say, and your voice comes out rough. You clear your throat. "Mine, please. Fontvieille."

"Actually," Lando says, and he's still not looking at you. "Could you drop me first? Larvotto. Then take them on to Fontvieille."

"Of course," the driver says.

The rest of the drive passes in painful silence. Lando's looking out his window, you're looking out yours, and there's about three feet of space between you that might as well be three miles. Margot's still deliberately oblivious in the front, and the twins are still sleeping, unaware of the tension radiating through the car.

When you pull up to Lando's building, he's out of the car almost before it stops moving.

"I'll—I'll text you about next week," he says, leaning back in to grab his bag. "About the schedule."

"Okay," you manage.

He looks at the twins, both still asleep, and something crosses his face—longing, regret, something you can't name. "Thanks for today. For bringing them. For being there."

"Yeah," you say. "Of course."

He straightens up, closes the door, and then he's gone, disappearing into his building without looking back.

The car pulls away, and you feel the absence of his hand like a physical thing—the place on your knee where it had been suddenly cold.

The rest of the drive to your place is quiet. Margot takes out her AirPods as you pull up to your building.

"You okay?" she asks, turning to look at you. "You've been really quiet."

"Just tired," you say, which isn't a lie but isn't the whole truth either.

She gives you a look that says she doesn't quite believe you but isn't going to push. "It was a huge day."

"Yeah," you agree. "It was."

You carry Thiago inside—he barely stirs—and Margot gets Mila, and you get them both into their beds without fully waking them. You stand in the doorway of Mila's room for a long moment, watching her sleep in her papaya dress with champagne still stuck in her hair, and you think about Lando's hand on your knee, and you think about the way he couldn't look at you when he left, and you think about how you're supposed to go back to normal after today.

You tell yourself a lot of things that you don't believe. Margot finds you an hour later, still sitting on the floor outside Mila's room, your phone in your hand.

"Come on," she says gently, pulling you up. "Let's get you some wine and a terrible reality show. You look like you need it."

"I can't do this," you say quietly as she guides you to the living room. "I can't—Margot, I can't keep doing this."

"What happened?" she asks, settling you on the sofa and heading to your wine fridge. "In the car, something happened. You both got all weird."

You're quiet for a long moment, accepting the glass of wine she pours. "He put his hand on my knee," you finally say. "For like fifteen minutes. And it just fucking sat there. And we both pretended it wasn't happening."

"Oh, babe," Margot says, sitting next to you.

"And the worst part is, I didn't want him to move it," you continue, and your voice cracks. "I wanted him to keep it there. I wanted—god, Margot, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," she says firmly. "You're in love with your ex-husband. That's not wrong, it's just complicated."

"We're divorced," you say. "We're divorced for a reason. We couldn't make it work."

"I know," she says. "But that doesn't mean you stopped loving him."

You take a long drink of wine, and you don't say anything, because what is there to say? She's right, and you both know it, and acknowledging it out loud feels like opening a door you've been desperately trying to keep closed.

The apartment is too quiet.

You've been sitting in your living room for the past two hours, working on script revisions for the Netflix series, but you've read the same page seventeen times and haven't absorbed a single word. Your laptop screen has gone dark three times from inactivity.

The twins left this morning. Your parents had picked them up at 6am for their annual trip to Greece, two weeks on Crete in the villa your dad rents every summer. Mila had been vibrating with excitement, chattering about the beach and the boat and whether she'd see dolphins. Thiago had clutched his stuffed car and asked approximately forty times if you were sure Mummy would be okay without them.

"I'll be fine, baby," you'd told him, crouching down to his level in the pre-dawn darkness. "Mummy has lots of work to do. You're going to have so much fun with Grandma and Grandpa."

He'd hugged you so tight your ribs hurt, and you'd breathed in the scent of his hair—still that little-kid smell of apple shampoo and something indefinably him—and you'd wanted to call the whole thing off, to keep them here, to not spend two weeks alone in this too-big apartment.

But your parents had been planning this for months, and the kids needed time with them, and you needed—

You don't know what you need.

You abandon the laptop and walk to the window. Your apartment in Fontvieille has a view of the port, and you can see yachts glittering in the late June sun. It's beautiful and expensive and exactly what you'd wanted when you bought it.

It's also profoundly lonely.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You check it reflexively, hoping for—you're not sure what. A text from your parents saying the kids arrived safely, maybe, even though they won't land for another hour.

Lando's been doing well. Really well. Three wins so far this season—Monaco, Barcelona, and Silverstone. The championship battle is tight, and McLaren is genuinely in the fight, and every interview he does, he's glowing with this focused energy that you remember from the early days of your relationship, when everything felt possible.

You've been texting about the kids, of course. Quick, functional messages about schedules and dietary requirements and Thiago's newest obsession with dinosaurs. Nothing personal. Nothing that acknowledges what happened in the car after Monaco, his hand on your knee, the way you both pretended it meant nothing.

You haven't seen him in person since then. The twins have been doing their time with him in between his race weekends, but you've arranged for your assistant to do the drop-offs and pick-ups. Clean, professional, maintaining boundaries.

You've been fine.

Except you're not fine. You're the opposite of fine. You're sitting in your apartment on a Friday evening in June with nothing to do and no one to do it with, and you're twenty-seven years old, and you're successful and wealthy and have everything you ever wanted professionally, and you're so fucking lonely you could scream.

You take in a deep breath and take a good look around your apartment. The kids' toys are still scattered in Thiago's room. Mila's hair clips are on the bathroom counter. There's a drawing of a race car stuck to your fridge with a magnet, Thiago's careful three-year-old scrawl spelling out "DADDY" in orange crayon.

You need to get out of here.

You'd bought the Porsche three weeks ago, right after Monaco. A 911 GT3 RS in white with a black interior, absurdly fast and completely impractical for Monaco's narrow streets. Your financial advisor had sent you a very polite email questioning the purchase. Your therapist would probably have questions about the timing and what you were trying to compensate for.

But god, it's beautiful.

It's sitting in your garage, and you grab the keys without thinking, without planning, just needing to move, to drive, to do something other than sit in your apartment thinking about everything you're trying not to think about.

The car roars to life, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. You pull out onto the street, and Monaco spreads out around you—the evening golden hour making everything look like a postcard. You don't have a destination in mind. You're just driving, following the coast road, letting the car eat up the curves.

You pass the casino, the hotel where you'd stayed when you first started dating Lando, back when everything was new and exciting and uncomplicated. You pass the harbor where you'd had your rehearsal dinner, back when you thought marriage was going to be forever. You pass the turnoff for the hospital where the twins were born, where Lando had cried holding Mila for the first time, his hands shaking with the weight of her.

You're not crying. You're just driving.

Except you're not just driving anymore. You're taking turns you know by heart, following a route you've driven hundreds of times, and you don't realize where you're going until you're pulling into the garage of a building in Larvotto, until you're putting the car in park and staring at the familiar concrete walls.

Lando's building.

Lando's garage.

What the fuck are you doing?

You should leave. You should reverse out of here and drive home and pour yourself a large glass of wine and go to bed and pretend this never happened.

But you're already out of the car. You're already walking to the lift. You're already pressing the button and watching the numbers climb.

You're standing in front of the keypad next to his door, and your hand is hovering over it, and this is insane. This is the opposite of maintaining boundaries. This is—

You punch in the code. Your birthday. The code he'd set when you moved in together, before the wedding, before the twins, before everything fell apart. The code he's never changed, apparently, because the lock actually clicks open.

The apartment is warmly lit, not dark like you'd expected. You can hear music playing softly from somewhere inside, something you don't recognize. Your heart is hammering as you step inside, and you're about to call out, to announce yourself, when you freeze.

Lando's in the kitchen.

Shirtless.

He's got his back to you, wearing only grey joggers that sit low on his hips, and he's doing something at the counter, chopping vegetables, you think, though your brain has mostly short-circuited. His shoulders move as he works, muscles shifting under tan skin, and you can see the curve of his spine, the lines of his back that you used to trace with your fingers.

You must make a sound—a sharp intake of breath, or maybe your keys jingle, or maybe he just senses someone's there—because he turns around.

His eyes go wide when he sees you. The knife in his hand freezes mid-air.

"What—" he starts, and his face cycles through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. Shock, confusion, something that might be hope, and then—

Fear. He looks so utterly fucking scared.

"I—" you begin, but your voice dies in your throat.

Because you hear it. The sound of a woman's voice from down the hall, from where the bedrooms are. Light, slightly accented, calling out, "Babe, did you open the wine yet? I can't find the—"

"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec," Lando calls back, not taking his eyes off you.

But his voice has changed. It's gone tight, careful, and the fear in his expression intensifies when he sees your face, when he watches you process what you've just heard.

Babe.

You take a step backward. Your hand fumbles behind you for the doorframe, for something solid to hold onto.

"Wait," Lando says, and he's moving toward you now, the knife forgotten on the counter. "Just—wait, please—"

But you're already taking another step back. And another. Your vision is doing something strange, tunneling, and you can't seem to get enough air into your lungs.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, and he's still approaching, hands slightly raised like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were coming, I would have—"

Another step back and your spine hits the wall of the entryway.

"Please," he says, and his voice cracks. "Please just let me explain. It's not—it's not what you think. It's not serious, we've only been—"

"Stop," you manage, and the word comes out strangled. "Just stop."

He freezes a few feet away from you, and you can see it all on his face, the panic, the guilt, the desperate need to fix this. He looks like he's watching something precious shatter in slow motion and he's powerless to stop it.

"How did you get in?" he asks, and it's such a stupid question that you almost laugh.

"The code," you say and your voice sounds almost robotic. "It's still my birthday."

Something crosses his fac, "Yeah, I never changed it."

"I noticed."

The silence stretches and you can still hear the music still playing from the kitchen, soft and jazzy and it feels so fucking obscene given the circumstances. You can also hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"I'm sorry," Lando says again, and this time his voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't want, I never wanted you to find out like this."

"Find out what?" you ask, even though you know, even though it's obvious. "That you're seeing someone? That you've moved on?"

"It's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "It's nothing. It doesn't mean anything."

"Then why is she here?" The question comes out sharper than you intended. "Why is she in your apartment calling you babe and —" You can't finish the sentence. Can't say out loud because it'll make it true, it'll make it real.

"Because I'm trying," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I'm trying to move on, to be, to be bloody normal. To date people and not—"

He stops abruptly, like he's said too much.

"Not what?" you press, even though you're not sure you want to hear the answer.

"Not spend every fucking day missing you," he says, and the words come out rough, almost angry. "Not look for you in every room I walk into. Not check my phone hoping you've texted about something other than the kids' schedules. Not—" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I'm trying not to be in love with my ex-wife, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

The air leaves your lungs.

"Lando—"

"No, you know what? No." He's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, like he can't contain the energy suddenly coursing through him. "You don't get to show up here unannounced and look at me like that. You don't get to—" He stops, turning to face you. "We're divorced. You divorced me."

"We divorced each other," you correct, but your voice is weak.

"And I respected that," he continues, like he hasn't heard you. "I gave you space. I kept my distance. I did the whole fucking co-parenting thing exactly how you wanted. I didn't push, didn't ask for more and yeah, I started seeing someone, because I'm trying to—to figure out how to be a person who isn't completely fucking in love with someone I can't have."

Your back is still pressed against the wall, and you're staring at him, and every word he's saying is landing like a physical blow.

"I'm sorry I came," you say quietly. "I shouldn't have. I didn't—I wasn't thinking."

"Why did you?" he asks, and he's closer now, just a few feet away. "Why did you come here?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I don't have a better one," you say, and your voice cracks. "The kids are gone and my apartment was too quiet and I was driving and I just, I ended up here. I'm sorry."

He's looking at you like he's trying to read something in your face, like he's searching for an answer you're not giving him.

"You can't do this," he says finally, and his voice has gone quiet again. "You can't just show up here and look at me like, like you're hurt that I'm trying to move on. That's not fair."

"I know," you whisper. "I know it's not fair. You're allowed to see people. You're allowed to have someone here. I have no right to be upset about it."

"But you are," he says. "You are upset."

You don't answer, because what's the point? He can see it written all over your face.

"She's nice," he says after a moment, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. "She's really sweet. She doesn't have, there's no history, no baggage. It's just easy."

"That's good," you manage. "You deserve easy."

From down the hall, you hear movement. A door opening. You have a feeling she's going to come looking for him, and you cannot be here when she does. You push off from the wall, moving toward the door.

"I have to go," you say.

"Don't," he says immediately. "Please, just, can we talk about this? Properly?"

"There's nothing to talk about," you say, and you're fumbling with the door handle now, desperate to leave before she appears, before this gets any worse. "You're seeing someone. That's, that's really fucking good. That's what we're supposed to be doing. Moving on, being normal."

"Are you?" he asks. "Moving on?"

You finally get the door open.

"I'm trying," you say, which is the truth and also a complete lie.

"That's not what I asked."

You can't look at him anymore. If you look at him, you're going to fall apart completely, and you can't do that here, not now, not with someone waiting for him in the other room.

"I'm sorry I came," you say again. "I won't, it won't happen again. I'll change my number from the emergency contacts, use my assistant for drop-offs. I'll stay out of your way."

"That's not what I want," he says, and his voice is strained.

"What do you want, Lando?" you ask, finally meeting his eyes. "Because I can't figure out what you want from me."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. For a long moment, he just stares at you, and you can see him wrestling with something, trying to decide what to say.

"I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't fucking know anymore."

The honesty of it hurts more than any lie could.

"Okay," you say softly. "Okay."

You step into the hallway, and this time he doesn't try to stop you. You can feel him watching as you walk to the lift, as you press the button with shaking hands. The doors open immediately—a small mercy—and you step inside.

Just before the doors close, you glance back.

He's still standing in his doorway, shirtless and barefoot and looking completely devastated. And you realize that this—this moment right here—this is the actual end. Not the divorce papers, not the separation of your belongings, not the carefully negotiated custody schedule.

This. The moment when you both finally accept that you're not going to find your way back to each other.

The lift doors close, and you slide down to the floor, your legs giving out.

You sit there as the lift descends, hugging your knees to your chest, and you let yourself cry in a way you haven't let yourself cry since the divorce was finalized. Raw, gasping sobs that echo in the small metal box.

The wall is mocking you. It absolutely, 100, gazillion percent is.

You're standing in what will eventually be a playroom in your house in France, staring at the half-painted pale blue surface like it's personally offended you. Which, at this point, it basically fucking has. You've been at this for two hours, and somehow there are still patches you've missed, drip marks you need to fix, and that one corner near the ceiling that you can't quite reach even with the ladder.

The house is chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Your parents arrived yesterday with the twins, who've spent the morning "helping" by getting into everything they possibly could. There are birthday decorations scattered across the dining room table—papaya orange and white, because Thiago had very specific opinions about the color scheme. Mila had insisted on butterflies, so there are approximately seven hundred butterfly stickers that will need to be strategically placed tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The twins' fourth birthday party.

Which means Lando will be here. Today.

Your stomach flips in the way it's been doing for three months now, ever since that night in his apartment. Ever since you walked in on him with someone else and realized that the divorce might be final on paper, but emotionally you're still completely wrecked.

You haven't seen him since. Not in person. Your assistant Claudia has been handling all the drop-offs and pick-ups, and you've perfected the art of being "unavoidably detained" on set whenever he texts about wanting to talk. The twins FaceTime him regularly, and you make yourself scarce during those calls, letting your parents or Claudia supervise.

Professional. Cordial. Completely fucking falling apart.

Your phone buzzes on the drop cloth. You already know what it is before you look.

You stare at the message, then glance at your watch. 2:37pm. You have less than half an hour to finish this wall, shower off the paint you've somehow gotten in your hair, and transform into a version of yourself that can handle being in the same room as your ex-husband without falling apart.

It's not a no, but it's not a yes. It's the same answer you've been giving for three months.

You set the phone down and attack the wall with renewed vigor, like if you just paint fast enough, hard enough, you can somehow paint over the image that's been burned into your brain, Lando shirtless in his kitchen, a woman's voice calling him 'babe,' the look on his face when he said he was trying his hardest to not fuckingbe in love with you.

You're so focused on the wall that you don't hear the commotion downstairs at first. Then Thiago's voice cuts through, shrieking at a pitch that could shatter glass: "DADDY!"

Your hand slips. You leave a long paint streak across the wall that you'll have to fix.

You can hear the thunder of small feet on stairs, excited voices overlapping, and then Lando's voice, warm and bright and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache.

"There they are! Did you get taller? You definitely got taller."

"We're four !" Mila announces, like this is breaking news.

"Almost four," Lando corrects. "Still got one more day of being three. Are you ready for your party?"

"Mummy's painting the playroom!" Thiago says. "It's blue like the sky!"

"Is she? Can I see?"

"NO!" Both twins say it simultaneously, and you can hear the grin in Lando's voice when he responds.

"No? Why not?"

"Because," Mila says with four-year-old logic, "it not finished. You have to wait."

"Okay. Very professional gig you have going on here."

You hear your mother's voice then, greeting Lando warmly. Your parents never stopped liking him after the divorce, which is both comforting and terrible. Your dad appears in the doorway of the playroom a moment later.

"Lando's here," he says, like you couldn't hear the commotion. "Kids are giving him the full tour. We've got maybe five minutes before they drag him up here despite their promise about the reveal."

"Great," you mutter, trying to fix the paint streak you made.

"You know," your dad says carefully, "you can't avoid him all weekend. It's a small house."

"I'm not avoiding him. I'm painting."

"Right and you just happened to schedule painting for the exact time he was arriving."

You don't dignify that with a response.

Your dad sighs. "Sweetheart, I don't know what happened between you two, but—"

"Dad. Please. Not now."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay. But you should know, the kids have been talking about how Daddy needs to stay here, not at a hotel. They've got a whole campaign planned."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

"Apparently Thiago has decided that families should be together for birthdays, and Mila has prepared arguments. I'm just warning you."

He disappears back downstairs, and you're left standing there with a paint roller in your hand, trying to process this new information.

The kids want Lando to stay here. In your house. For three days.

You can't. You absolutely cannot have him staying under the same roof, sleeping down the hall, being domestic and present and—

"Mummy!" Thiago bursts into the room, Lando right behind him. "Daddy's here and he brought presents but we can't open them until tomorrow but he said they're really good and—"

You turn around on your ladder, paint roller still in hand, and there he is. Lando. In your house in France. Wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that fits him unfairly well, his hair slightly longer than the last time you saw him, and he's looking up at you with an expression you can't quite read, refuse to read.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you manage, acutely aware that you're covered in paint, wearing your oldest clothes, and probably have blue streaks in your hair.

"The wall looks good," he offers.

"It's not finished."

"Right. Yeah. I can see that."

The silence stretches awkward and terrible between you. Thiago is oblivious, chattering about something, but Mila is watching both of you with those too-perceptive three-year old eyes that somehow miss nothing.

"We'll let you finish," Lando says finally. "I just wanted to, yeah. I'm here. If you need anything."

"I'm fine," you say, turning back to the wall.

You hear them leave, Thiago's voice fading as they go back downstairs, and you attack the wall with renewed intensity.

Dinner is a special kind of torture.

Your mother has made her famous coq au vin, and everyone's gathered around the long table in your dining room, your parents, Lando's parents, Cisca and Flo who flew in this morning, the twins, Lando, and you at the opposite end of the table because you're apparently twelve years old and can't handle sitting next to your ex-husband.

The twins are in high spirits, positioned between their Norris grandparents, talking over each other about their party tomorrow, about the games you've planned, about the cake that's being delivered in the morning.

You're pushing food around your plate, hyperaware of Lando's presence three seats down, of the way he laughs at something your dad says, of how natural he looks here, surrounded by both families like this is normal, like you all do this regularly instead of it being the first time since the divorce that everyone's been in the same room.

Cisca keeps catching your eye with this look that's too knowing, too hopeful. You focus very intently on your wine.

"This is delicious," Adam says to your mother, and she beams at him. Lando's dad has always been easy with compliments, warm in a way that made you feel immediately welcomed into their family all those years ago.

"I'm so glad we could all be here," Cisca says, looking around the table. "Together, and as a family."

The emphasis on 'family' is not subtle. You resist the urge to drain your wine glass.

"It's important," your mother agrees. "The children need to see everyone together, especially for important occasions."

"Exactly," Cisca says, and she's definitely looking at you and Lando now. "Family is everything."

Flo catches your eye and mouths 'sorry' with an eyeroll. At least someone at this table understands that this is excruciating.

"Daddy," Mila says suddenly, in that tone that means she's been planning this. "Where are you sleeping?"

Here it comes.

The entire table goes quiet. Even your mother stops mid-bite.

"At a hotel, baby girl," Lando says carefully. "Not far from here. Maybe fifteen minutes."

"But why?" Thiago asks, his face crumpling. "Why can't you stay here?"

"Because—" Lando glances at you, and you keep your eyes on your plate. "Because Mummy's house is for you and Mummy, and Daddy has his own place."

"But it's our birthday," Mila says, and her bottom lip is starting to wobble in that way that means tears are imminent. "And families should be together for birthdays."

You can feel multiple sets of eyes on you. Cisca's particularly intense.

"Bug, we'll be together," Lando says gently. "I'll be here all day tomorrow. The whole party, and I'm not going anywhere."

"But you'll leave at night," Thiago says, and now he's tearing up too. "You always leave at night."

Your dad was right, they've prepared arguments. Probably with help from their Norris grandmother, judging by the expression on Cisca's face.

"This house has so many rooms," Mila continues, gaining confidence. "Grandma and Grandad are in the blue room, and Nana and Papa are in the yellow room, and Aunt Flo is in the pink room, and we're in our room, and there's still the guest room that nobody's using, and—"

"Mila," you say quietly. "Daddy's already booked a hotel."

"But he could unbwook it!" she insists, turning those devastating eyes on you. The eyes she got from Lando, which is really unfair because you can't say no to those eyes. "Please, Mummy? Please can Daddy stay here? Just for our birthday?"

Thiago is fully crying now, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. "I want Daddy to stay," he says, his voice small and breaking. "I want us to be together."

You feel like you're being ambushed. By your four-year-olds. In front of both sets of parents and Lando's sister.

Lando looks physically pained. "Mate, don't cry. It's okay—"

"It's not okay!" Thiago says, louder now, working himself up into a proper tantrum. "You always leave! You always go away! And I want—I want—"

He can't finish because he's sobbing now, and Mila is crying too, and you feel like the worst person in the world. Across the table, Cisca is watching you with an expression that's part sympathy, part gentle pressure.

Your eyes meet Lando's. He looks as wrecked as you feel, and there's a question in his expression, it's your house, your call, but if you say no, he'll be the one who has to comfort two heartbroken children.

You can feel everyone waiting. Your parents, his parents, Flo. All of them carefully not saying anything, but the silence is loaded.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Okay. He can stay."

Both twins stop crying immediately, their tears shutting off like taps.

"Really?" Mila asks, her face transforming.

"Really," you confirm, even though every self-preservation instinct you have is screaming at you. "But Daddy has to be okay with it too."

Six pairs of adult eyes and two pairs of children's eyes turn to Lando. He's very carefully not looking at anyone except you.

"Yeah," he says finally, his voice quiet. "Yeah, if Mummy says it's okay, then I'll stay."

The twins erupt into cheers, and just like that, the crisis is averted. They're back to being excited, chattering about how Daddy can read bedtime stories and be there when they wake up on their birthday.

Under the table, you feel your mother squeeze your hand. When you glance at her, she gives you a soft smile that says 'you're doing the right thing,' but you're not sure she's right.

Cisca looks like Christmas came early. Adam is wisely staying out of it, focused on his food. Flo mouths 'you okay?' and you give her the smallest shake of your head.

Three days. Lando is going to be staying in your house for three days.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Fucking splendid actually.

"Can we play a game after dinner?" Thiago asks, tears completely forgotten. "All of us? Together?"

"That sounds lovely," Cisca says, before you can come up with an excuse. "What game were you thinking?"

And somehow you end up agreeing to a family game night, because apparently you've completely lost control of your life.

After dinner, you escape back to the playroom while the grandparents settle the twins in for the game they insisted on. You need to finish this wall, need something to focus on that isn't the fact that Lando is going to be sleeping down the hall for the next three nights, that you can hear his laughter drifting up from downstairs mixed with the children's giggles.

You're up on the ladder, trying to reach that impossible corner, when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Need help?"

You don't turn around. "I've got it."

"That corner's been driving you crazy for hours," Lando says, and you can hear him moving closer. "I've been watching you try to reach it."

"You've been watching me?"

"The twins pointed it out earlier," he says. "Said you kept saying bad words under your breath."

Despite yourself, you almost smile. "I didn't say bad words."

"Thiago said you said 'bloody hell' seventeen times."

"That's not a bad word."

"It is when you're three and you repeat it at dinner," he says, and now he's right below your ladder. "Come on. Let me help."

For a few minutes, you ignore him, continuing to stretch for that corner, your arm aching from the angle. You can feel him standing there, waiting, and the silence stretches heavy between you.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About earlier. The whole hotel thing. I tried to tell Mum not to—"

"It's fine," you cut him off, still not looking at him.

"It's not fine. You shouldn't have been put in that position."

"Lando—"

"And I know this is weird, me staying here, but I promise I'll stay out of your way. You won't even know I'm—"

"Can you just hold the paint bucket?" you ask, your voice sharp with agitation. "Please. So I can reach this goddamn spot."

He's quiet for a second, then you hear him move. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

He climbs up a few rungs on the other side of the ladder, taking the paint bucket from your hand, holding it steady so you can dip the roller properly. You stretch again, and finally—finally—you can reach the corner.

"Little to the left," you mutter, leaning further.

"You've got it," he says, and his voice is encouraging in that way that makes your chest ache with familiarity.

You're stretching, focusing on getting the paint smooth, when your foot shifts slightly on the rung. Just a little. Just enough.

"Careful—" Lando starts.

But it's too late. Your foot slips, your weight shifts wrong, and suddenly you're falling, paint roller in hand, and—

Lando tries to catch you while also holding the paint bucket, which is a disaster waiting to happen. What actually occurs is you crash into him with the full force of gravity, the paint bucket goes flying, and you both go down hard, hitting the drop cloth with a thud that knocks the air from your lungs.

Paint goes everywhere. All over you, all over him, all over the drop cloth. The bucket rolls away, leaving a trail of pale blue across the floor.

For a second, you just lie there on top of him, winded and disoriented. Then you register the position you're in—straddling his hips, your hands pressed against his chest, his hands on your waist where they'd tried to catch you.

You're both covered in paint. It's in your hair, on your face, soaking through your clothes. Lando's black t-shirt is now streaked with blue, and there's a paint smear across his jaw, and—

You look down at him, and he's looking up at you, and those fucking eyes, green and blue and so familiar it hurts, are wide and startled and too close.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Are you?"

"Yeah."

Neither of you move. His hands are still on your waist, your hands are still on his chest, and you can feel his heart hammering under your palm, matching the frantic pace of your own.

The playroom door is open. You can hear voices downstairs—the twins laughing, someone's phone ringing, the normal sounds of family. Anyone could walk up here and see you like this.

You should move. You should get up, put distance between you, go back to the careful boundaries you've been maintaining.

But you don't.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For, for everything. For that night, for not telling you I was seeing someone, for—"

"Don't," you say, and your voice comes out shakey. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I hurt you."

"You're allowed to move on, Lando. We're divorced. You're allowed to—"

"I'm not with her anymore," he interrupts. "I ended it. That same night, after you left."

The breath leaves your lungs. "What?"

"I couldn't do it," he says, and there's something raw in his voice. "I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't be with someone when all I could think about was you showing up at my apartment, the look on your face when you heard her voice. Couldn't—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "I tried. I really tried to move on. But I can't. I don't know how."

You're staring at him, paint-covered and beautiful and saying things that are rearranging your entire understanding of the last three months.

"Lando—"

"I'm still in love with you," he says, and it comes out almost desperate. "I know I shouldn't be. I know we're divorced for a reason, that we couldn't make it work, that wanting it isn't enough. But I can't stop. I've tried, and I can't."

Your hands are shaking against his chest. Downstairs, you hear Flo call out something about finding the twins' favorite game.

"You can't say things like that," you whisper.

"Why not? It's true."

"Because—" Your voice breaks. "Because we already failed once. Because we have kids to think about. Because if we try again and it doesn't work—"

"What if it does work?" he asks, and one of his hands comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a streak of paint on your cheek. "What if we're different now? What if we learned from our mistakes?"

"What if we make new ones?"

"Then we make new ones," he says. "Together."

You can hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone's coming. You're looking at those eyes, at the paint in his hair, at the way he's looking at you like you're everything, and something in you just, breaks.

So, fuck it, you think.

You kiss him.

The kiss detonates between you like something long-buried finally clawing its way out. Paint smears wet against your skin as his mouth opens under yours, a low sound rumbling in his chest, hands sliding up your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

You feel his breath hitch when your hips sink down against him, nothing explicit yet, nothing obscene, just the kind of contact that sets every nerve in your body humming like an electrical wire about to snap.

He murmurs your name into your mouth, almost a plea, almost a warning, fingers threading into your hair, paint-slick and trembling. The footsteps on the stairs fade again—whoever it was turned back—and the silence that follows feels thick, charged, obscene in its own way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathes, voice uneven, forehead pressed to yours.

Your heartbeat hammers against him. “Lando…”

His hands slide down your back, slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of white paint across your shirt. He studies you like you’re a storm he wants to step directly into, one palm flattening against the small of your back and pulling you flush to him, bodies fitting together with a familiarity that shouldn’t still exist but does, violently.

“I’m not letting you run from me this time,” he whispers, low enough that only your pulse can hear it. “Not after this.”

Your fingers curl into the front of his ruined shirt, dragging him up into another kiss that’s messy, needy, paint-tasting and breath-stealing. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, not touching anything he shouldn’t, but close, close enough that your breath stutters in your throat and your whole body leans into him like gravity’s been rewritten.

The air between you vibrates with what you want to do. What he’s clearly seconds from doing. What you’ve both been starving for.

His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he’s relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your pulse.

You don’t. You can’t.

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he’s anchoring himself. Like you’re the thing that keeps him steady.

“Then don’t say it,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop me.”

A door downstairs clicks, someone moving through the hallway, and you both freeze, not pulling apart, just breathing each other in, pressed tight, hearts slamming in sync.

The kiss churns through you like molten metal, blistering, clinging, reshaping the very structure of your bones as Lando drags your mouth open beneath his with the kind of hunger only a man who’s spent eighteen months pretending he didn’t need you could ever possess. His hands grip your waist hard enough that your breath shatters against his tongue, paint slick beneath your fingers as you clutch at his shoulders, bodies sliding together in a mess of color, need, and three months of biting back everything that’s burning through you now.

The floor is cold beneath him but his body is fire, every inch of him tense, straining up into you like he’s seconds from snapping. Your thighs bracket his hips, paint dripping from your knees onto the wood floor in slow pale rivers while his fingers dig into you like he can feel your heartbeat in the tips of them.

“Lando—” It comes out wrecked, scraped raw, not a protest in sight.

He kisses you harder, a low desperate growl vibrating up through his chest, rumbling against your ribs as his thumb strokes the underside of your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts everything else about the way he’s holding you. You feel the faintest tremor in his grip, and it does something catastrophic to your breath, because Lando Norris never shakes, never falters, never cracks.

Except under you.

“You have no idea,” he mutters against your lips, every word a ragged exhale, “how many nights I’ve wanted you like this how fucking impossible it’s been.”

Your hips move without thought, a slow involuntary grind down against him, your bodies aligning with obscene, devastating precision. The noise he makes is guttural, punched out of him as his head falls back against the floor with a muted thud, throat exposed, pulse hammering visibly.

A soft choked sound slips from his throat, and his grip on your hips tightens, fingers sliding under your shirt to the bare skin of your waist, paint smearing across you in pale streaks as his thumbs glide upward. Your breath seizes, spine arching instinctively when he skims just beneath your ribs, his fingertips tracing reverent slow lines that make your body bow toward him like he’s a magnet and you’re made of iron filings desperate to cling.

He breathes, your name unraveling in his mouth. Your nails rake through the paint in his hair, streaking more white into the messy curls as his hands finally—finally—slide fully beneath your shirt, palms scorching against your waist, your stomach, your ribs. His touch is almost worshipful, slow enough to be sensual, hungry enough to be maddening.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, but this time his voice betrays him—he doesn’t want you to. Not even a little.

You lean down, lips brushing his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“No.”

His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he's relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against your pulse.

You don't. You can't.

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he's anchoring himself. Like you're the thing that keeps him steady.

"Then don't say it," he murmurs. "Don't stop me."

Your fingers find the hem of his paint-soaked shirt, tugging upward. He helps, sitting up just enough to pull it over his head before his mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, less careful. His hands slide under your shirt, your painting clothes, ratty and old and now ruined with blue streaks—and his palms are warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

You arch into the touch, a broken sound catching in your throat, and he swallows it with another kiss.

"We can't—" you try, even as your hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under your touch. "Lando, everyone's downstairs—"

"I know," he says against your mouth, and his hand slides higher, cupping you through your bra. "I know, but I—"

He doesn't finish. He just kisses you again, rolling you both so you're beneath him on the paint-splattered drop cloth, his weight pressing you down in a way that makes you feel safe and desperate and like you might fly apart if he stops touching you.

Your shirt comes off. Then your bra, his fingers surprisingly steady on the clasp despite the urgency in every other movement. He pulls back just enough to look at you, sprawled beneath him, paint-streaked and breathing hard, and something in his expression shifts.

"You're so beautiful," he says, quiet and wrecked. "You're so—"

You pull him back down, unable to hear it, unable to let him say things that will make this more than what it is—physical, necessary, the release of three months of tension. But he's kissing you softer now, more intentional, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the hollow of your throat, and lower.

His tongue traces your collarbone, teeth grazing gently, and your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly when he finds that spot that makes your back arch off the floor.

"Still sensitive here," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Shut up," you manage, but it comes out breathy, unconvincing.

He's taking his time now, despite the awareness that you're both on borrowed minutes, that someone could come looking for you. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to the button of your paint-covered jeans.

"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing.

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."

The jeans come off, awkward on the drop cloth, and you'd laugh at the ridiculousness of it—stripping on the floor of an unfinished playroom, covered in paint, your entire family downstairs—but then his hand is between your thighs, and laughter is the furthest thing from your mind.

"Oh," you gasp, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.

"Still so responsive," he murmurs, and his fingers move in a way that suggests muscle memory, that suggests he knows exactly what you need. "Still so perfect."

You want to tell him to stop talking, stop saying things that make this complicated, but then he's shifting lower, pressing kisses down your stomach, and your brain empties of everything except the sensation of his mouth, his hands, the way he's touching you like you're something precious even as the urgency builds between you.

When he finally—finally—presses his mouth where you need him most, you have to bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. Your hand flies to your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair, and he's working you with the kind of focused attention that makes your thighs shake, makes heat coil tight and tighter in your core.

"Lando—" you gasp against your palm. "I'm going to—"

"I know," he says against you. "Let go. I've got you, baby."

And you do, falling apart with his name caught behind your teeth, your whole body tensing and releasing as he works you through it, gentle now, almost tender.

When you can breathe again, think again, he's kissing his way back up your body, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you.

"Your turn," you manage, your hand already moving to the button of his jeans.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you interrupt, and you push at his shoulder until he's on his back, until you're straddling him again, working his jeans and boxer briefs down his hips.

He's hard and perfect and familiar, and when you wrap your hand around him, his head falls back against the drop cloth with a muttered curse.

"Missed this," he groans as you stroke him slowly. "Missed you. Missed—fuck—"

You kiss him to stop the words, to keep this physical, uncomplicated. Your hand moves faster, and his hips are rocking up into your grip, and you can feel how close he is in the tension of his muscles, the raggedness of his breathing.

"Wait," he gasps, his hand catching your wrist. "Wait, I want—can we—"

He doesn't have to finish. You know what he's asking.

"Do you have—"

"Wallet," he manages. "Back pocket."

You find it, find the condom tucked inside, and he takes it from you with shaking hands, rolling it on while you watch, and then you're guiding him to your entrance, sinking down slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation.

"Oh god," you breathe, your hands braced on his chest. "Oh—"

"I know," he says, and his hands grip your hips, helping you move. "I know."

It's familiar and new all at once. The rhythm you find is instinctive, your bodies remembering even as everything else has changed. His hands guide you, pulling you down as he thrusts up, and the angle makes you see stars.

"Look at me," he says, and you do. Those eyes—green and blue and devastated—are fixed on your face, watching every reaction, every small change in expression. "Don't look away."

You couldn't if you tried. You're riding him on the floor of your playroom, both still streaked with paint, and you're looking into the eyes of the man you've loved for years, the man you've tried and failed to stop loving, and it's too much and not enough all at once.

"I love you," he says, and you should stop him, should tell him not to say it, but you're too close, too far gone. "I never stopped loving you."

"Lando—" It comes out broken.

"You don't have to say it back," he says, and one hand comes up to cup your face. "Just—let me say it. Let me—"

You kiss him, hard and desperate, and you're moving faster now, chasing that release, feeling it build at the base of your spine. His hand slides between you, finding where you need him, and that's all it takes.

You come apart again, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound, and he follows seconds later, your name a whispered prayer against your hair.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You're collapsed on his chest, both breathing hard, sticky with paint and sweat. His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

"We should—" you start.

"I know," he says quietly.

But neither of you move. Not yet. You just lie there in the wreckage of your self-control, in the paint and the late afternoon light, and you let yourself have this moment before reality comes crashing back.

Before you have to face your family downstairs, before you have to explain why you took so long, before you have to figure out what the hell this means.

For now, you just breathe, and you try not to think about how right it feels to be in his arms again.

You separate slowly, reluctantly, the cool air of the playroom a shock after the heat of his body. Neither of you speak as you pull on your paint-ruined clothes, there's no saving them, but you need something to wear to get to the bathroom.

Lando stands, running a hand through his hair and leaving new blue streaks. "I'll use the guest bathroom," he says quietly. "You take the main one."

"Okay," you manage, your voice still rough.

He looks like he wants to say something else—something about what just happened, about what it means, but footsteps sound on the stairs. You both freeze.

"Just me!" Flo calls out before appearing in the doorway. She takes one look at you both—disheveled, paint-covered, definitely not looking like two people who just cleaned up a painting accident—and her eyebrows raise. "Right. So. Everyone's wondering what's taking so long."

"We spilled paint everywhere," you say, too quickly. "It was, there was a lot of paint."

"I can see that," Flo says, fighting a smile. "Mum's getting impatient about the game. You might want to shower quickly."

"We're going," Lando says, and you can hear the embarrassment in his voice.

Flo steps aside to let you both pass, and as you walk by, she whispers, "Your lips are swollen."

Your hand flies to your mouth, and she just grins.

The shower is both too long and not long enough. You stand under the hot water, washing blue paint from your hair, your skin, and you try not to think about what just happened. Try not to think about the way he said 'I love you' or the way your body responded to him like no time had passed at all.

Try not to think about the fact that you just had sex with your ex-husband on the floor of your playroom while both your families were downstairs.

When you finally emerge, dressed in clean clothes, soft lounge pants and an oversized jumper, you can hear the game in full swing downstairs. Laughter, the twins' excited voices, someone groaning about losing.

You take a breath and head down.

Everyone's gathered in the living room, your parents, Lando's parents, Flo, and the twins who are bouncing with energy despite it being nearly bedtime. Lando's there too, showered and changed into fresh clothes, his hair still damp. He glances up when you enter, and something passes between you before you both look away.

"Finally!" Mila shouts. "Mummy, you took forever!"

"Sorry, baby," you say, settling onto the floor next to where she's set up what appears to be a very complicated game involving cards and toy cars. "There was a lot of paint to wash off."

"You should be more careful," Thiago says seriously, and Adam laughs.

"Yes, you should," Cisca agrees, but she's looking between you and Lando with that expression again, the one that says she knows something's different and she's pleased about it.

The game is chaotic and makes absolutely no sense, but the twins are delighted, and you try to focus on that instead of the fact that you're hyperaware of Lando across the room, of every time his eyes drift to you, of the way Flo keeps smirking.

By the time bedtime rolls around, both twins are overtired and fighting it. They want a story, then another story, then water, then Mila can't find her specific stuffed elephant, and Thiago needs to line up his cars just right next to his bed.

"I'll do it," Lando offers when you're on the third story request. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine," you start, but he's already settling between both beds, and the twins are delighted to have Daddy reading to them in Mummy's house.

You retreat to the hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to his voice drift out—doing different character voices, making the twins giggle even as their responses get slower, drowsier. Your mother passes by, pausing to kiss your cheek.

"It's good to see you both here," she says quietly. "Together, finally. Even if it's complicated."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just nod.

By the time Lando emerges, closing the door softly behind him, both twins are finally asleep. He looks tired, softer around the edges, and when his eyes meet yours in the dim hallway, you see the question there.

"We should talk," you say quietly.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We should."

You lead him downstairs to the kitchen, away from where your parents and his are still chatting in the living room. The room is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of conversation.

"So," you start, then stop. What are you supposed to say? 'Thanks for the orgasm, let's pretend it didn't happen and go back to co-parenting'?

"I meant what I said," Lando says, leaning against the counter. "Earlier. I'm still in love with you. That wasn't, it wasn't just something I said in the moment."

Your heart does something complicated. "Lando—"

"I know you're scared," he continues. "I'm scared too. We fucked it up once already, and doing it again with the kids involved—I know the stakes are higher. But I can't—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I can't keep pretending I'm okay with how things are. I can't keep dropping the kids off and leaving. I can't keep seeing you and not being able to touch you, talk to you properly. It's killing me."

You're gripping the counter behind you. "What are you asking?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I just know I want more than this. More than scheduled drop-offs and texts about the kids. I want—" He stops, looking at you with those devastating eyes. "I want to try again. If you do."

The words hang in the air between you. This is the moment. You could say no, could protect yourself, could keep the boundaries you've so carefully maintained.

Or you could jump.

"I'm terrified," you whisper.

"Me too."

"What if we fail again?"

"What if we don't?"

It's the same question from earlier, but this time you're not covered in paint, not lost in the heat of the moment. This time you have to decide with a clear head.

"I don't know how to do this," you admit. "How to be with you again. How to trust that it won't fall apart."

"We figure it out," he says, and he takes a step closer. "Together. We take it slow. We talk about the shit we didn't talk about last time. We do therapy if we need to. We—we try, actually fucking try."

You look at him—at this man you've loved for so long, the father of your children, the person who still knows you better than anyone—and you think about the alternative. More years of this ache, of pretending you're fine, of being alone.

"Okay," you hear yourself say.

His eyes widen. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, and your voice is steadier now. "But slow. Really slow. And we don't tell the kids until we're sure. I won't, I can't have them hoping for something that might not work out."

"Agreed," he says immediately. "Whatever you need. Whatever makes you feel safe."

The relief on his face is palpable, and before you can second-guess yourself, he's crossing the space between you, pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. You wrap your arms around his waist and let yourself have this—his warmth, his solidity, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"We should probably go to bed," you murmur against his chest. "Long day tomorrow."

"Yeah," he agrees, but neither of you move for a long moment.

When you finally separate and head upstairs, you pause outside the guest room where he'll be sleeping.

"Goodnight," he says softly.

"Goodnight."

You're in your own room for approximately twenty minutes before you accept that you're not going to sleep. You're just lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him down the hall. Thinking about how your bed feels too big, too empty.

Thinking about how you don't want to be alone tonight.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're padding down the hallway in bare feet, your heart hammering. You knock softly on his door.

It opens almost immediately, like he wasn't sleeping either. He's in joggers and a t-shirt, his hair messy, and when he sees you, confusion and hope war on his face.

"Can I—" you start, then stop. This is ridiculous. You're twenty-seven years old. "Can I sleep here? With you? I just, I don't want to be alone."

His expression softens into something that makes your chest ache. "Yeah," he says, stepping aside. "Yeah, of course."

The guest room is smaller than yours, the bed a double instead of a queen, but when you slip under the covers and he slides in beside you, it doesn't feel cramped. It feels right.

He doesn't try anything, just opens his arms in invitation, and you curl into his side like you've done a thousand times before. His arm comes around you, holding you close, and you can feel the tension drain from your body.

"This okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," you whisper. "This is perfect."

His lips press against your hair, not a kiss, exactly, just a gesture of affection, and his thumb traces slow circles on your shoulder.

"I missed this," he murmurs. "Just sleeping next to you. Waking up and you're there."

"Me too," you admit.

You lie there in the dark, listening to his breathing even out, feeling more settled than you have in eighteen months. Tomorrow you'll have to navigate the twins' birthday, both families watching you with knowing eyes, the complexity of whatever this new thing between you is.

But tonight, you just let yourself be held and for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep feeling like maybe—just maybe—everything might actually be okay.

back, an arm draped over your waist, breath soft against your neck. For a disoriented moment, you forget where you are, when you are—and then it all comes rushing back.

Lando's guest room. His bed. You asking to sleep here.

The early morning light is filtering through the curtains, pale and gentle, and you can tell by the quality of it that it's early, probably not even seven yet. The house is silent. No sounds of the twins stirring, no footsteps from your parents' room.

Just you and Lando, tangled together like you used to be.

His arm tightens slightly around your waist, and you realize he's awake. You can feel it in the way his breathing has changed, no longer the deep rhythm of sleep.

"Hi," he murmurs against your neck, his voice rough and low.

"Hi," you whisper back.

Neither of you move for a long moment. You're acutely aware of every point of contact—his chest against your back, his legs tucked behind yours, his hand splayed across your stomach. It's intimate and familiar and terrifying all at once.

"What time is it?" you ask quietly.

"Early," he says. "Sun's barely up."

You shift slightly, turning in his arms so you're facing him. His hair is messy from sleep, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and his eyes are soft and unguarded in the early morning light. He looks younger like this, vulnerable, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, his hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Better than I have in months," you admit.

Something in his expression shifts, relief and tenderness and something deeper. "Me too."

The silence stretches between you, but it's not awkward. It's heavy with all the things you're both feeling, all the things you said last night and all the things you didn't say. His thumb traces your cheekbone, a feather-light touch that makes you shiver.

"We should probably talk more," you say. "About what this means. About how we do this."

"We should," he agrees, but his eyes are on your lips now, and you can feel the energy between you shifting, warming.

"Lando—"

"I know," he says softly. "We should talk. We should make a plan. We should be sensible and careful and—"

You kiss him.

It's different from yesterday in the playroom. Less desperate, less urgent. This is slow and deliberate, a choice you're making with a clear head in the soft morning light. His hand cups your face as he kisses you back, gentle and reverent, like he's savoring it.

"We really should talk," you murmur against his lips, even as you press closer.

"Later," he says, and his hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. "We can talk later."

"Someone could come looking for us—"

"The twins won't be up for at least another hour," he says, and now he's kissing down your jaw, your neck, finding that spot that makes your breath catch. "Your parents sleep late. Mine too."

"Very optimistic of you," you manage, but your fingers are already threading through his hair, your leg hooking over his hip.

"I'm an optimist," he says against your collarbone, and you can feel him smiling.

His hand slides under your sleep shirt and his palm is warm against your ribs. You arch into the touch, a quiet sound escaping you, and he swallows it with another kiss.

"We have to be quiet," you whisper.

"I know."

"Really quiet."

"I know," he repeats, and his hand moves higher, cupping your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks. "I'll be good. Promise."

Your shirt comes off slowly, carefully, and then his follows. The covers pool around your waist as he rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is familiar and perfect and everything you didn't know you needed.

"Hi," he says again, looking down at you with eyes that are dark and soft and full of love.

"Hi," you breathe, and you pull him down for another kiss.

He's taking his time, relearning you in the gentle morning light, pressing kisses to places he used to know by heart. Your shoulder, the curve of your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and making you gasp. The soft skin of your stomach, your hip bone. Every touch is deliberate, worshipful, like he's trying to memorize you all over again.

When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep pants, he pauses, looking up at you in question.

"Yes," you whisper.

They slide down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then he's kissing his way back up, your ankle, your calf, the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep from making noise.

His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, and he groans softly. "Missed this," he murmurs. "Missed tasting you."

His tongue parts you slowly, a long, deliberate stroke that makes your hips jerk off the bed. His hands hold you steady as he works you with his mouth—slow circles around your clit, then lower, his tongue pressing inside you while his nose brushes that sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Lando," you gasp against your palm, and he hums against you, the vibration making you shake.

He's in no rush, alternating between his tongue and his fingers, sliding two inside you while his mouth focuses on your clit. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and you have to bite down on your knuckle to stay quiet.

"So perfect," he whispers against you. "So fucking perfect for me."

The praise combined with the pressure of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, it's too much. You're climbing higher, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and when he adds a third finger, stretching you, you come apart with his name caught silently behind your teeth.

He works you through it gently, then kisses his way back up your body, giving you time to catch your breath. When he reaches your mouth, you kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips, on his tongue.

"Your turn," you say, but when you reach for his joggers, he catches your hand.

"I need—" his voice is rough, strained. "I need to be inside you. Please."

"Yeah," you breathe, and you help him push his joggers and boxer briefs down.

He's hard and flushed, a bead of moisture at the tip, and when he settles between your thighs, you can feel him hot and heavy against you.

"Wait," you say, and he freezes immediately, pulling back to look at you with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just—" You meet his eyes. "We don't have anything. A condom."

Understanding dawns on his face.

"I'm still on the pill," you say quietly. "And I haven't—there hasn't been anyone since—"

"Me neither," he says quickly. "No one. Just, just that one time, and we used protection, and I got tested after, and—" He's rambling, nervous. "But only if you want to. We can stop, we can—"

"I want to," you interrupt. "I want to feel you. All of you."

His eyes darken, and he dips his head to kiss you again, deep and consuming. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you whisper against his mouth. "Please."

He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance, and you both inhale sharply at the first contact, skin on skin, nothing between you. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch is perfect, the fullness overwhelming.

"Oh god," you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Oh—"

"I know," he gasps, and he's trembling with the effort of going slow. "I know, baby. You feel, fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated inside you, he stops, both of you adjusting to the sensation. His forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Okay?" he asks.

"So okay," you manage. "Move. Please move."

He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and the drag of him against your walls makes you both moan quietly. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, just as deliberate, and it's perfect and devastating and too much and not enough all at once.

"Look at me," he says softly, and you do.

Those eyes—green and blue and devastating—are locked on yours, and there's so much emotion in them that it makes your chest tight. Love and want and hope and fear all mixed together.

"I love you," he says, his hips rolling in a steady, deep rhythm. "I never stopped. Even when I tried, even when I thought I should, I couldn't."

Your eyes are burning, tears threatening at the corners. He's moving inside you, steady and deep, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch with every thrust, and it's too much—the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way he's looking at you like you're everything.

"I love you too," you whisper, and saying it out loud feels like jumping off a cliff. "I'm terrified, but I love you."

His hands tighten on your face, pulling you into a kiss that's somehow both tender and desperate. He's moving faster now, deeper, and you wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him impossibly deeper.

"God, you're so tight," he groans against your mouth. "So perfect. Made for me."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building at the base of your spine, spreading through your limbs.

"I'm close," you gasp. "Lando, I'm—"

"I know, I can feel you," he says, and his rhythm is getting erratic, losing the steady pace. "Come for me. Want to feel you come on my cock."

The words combined with the pressure on your clit, the stretch and fullness of him inside you, it pushes you over the edge. You come with your hand pressed over your mouth, your whole body tensing and releasing, clenching around him in waves.

"Fuck," he gasps, and his hips stutter. "Where—where do you want—"

"Inside," you manage through the aftershocks. "Come inside me."

He makes a broken sound and buries himself deep, his whole body going rigid as he comes. You can feel him pulsing inside you, the warmth of him, and something about it feels monumental—this intimacy you haven't shared in so long, this vulnerability, this trust.

He collapses onto you carefully, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. His face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his lips pressing soft kisses to your pulse point.

"That was—" he starts, then just laughs softly. "Yeah."

"Yeah," you agree, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is so tender it makes your heart ache. "I meant it," he says quietly. "About trying again. About doing this right."

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

"I'm scared," he admits.

"Me too."

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear you didn't realize had fallen. "But we're going to try anyway?"

"Yeah," you say, tilting your head up to kiss him softly. "We're going to try anyway."

He kisses you back, sweet and gentle, and you can feel him softening inside you. He pulls out slowly, and you both wince slightly at the sensitivity. He reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning you up with tender care before dealing with himself.

Then he's pulling you back into his arms, tucking you against his chest, and you settle there with your ear over his heart, listening to it beat steady and strong.

"We should probably get up soon," you murmur. "Before the twins wake up."

"Five more minutes," he says, his arms tightening around you.

"Lando—"

"Please. Just five more minutes."

You smile against his skin. "Okay. Five more minutes."

You both know you'll stay longer than that. You'll stay here wrapped up in each other until you hear the first sounds of the house waking, until reality creeps back in and you have to face what comes next.

But right now, in this quiet moment, it's just the two of you. And for the first time in eighteen months, you let yourself believe that maybe this time will be different.