With Oliver’s wedding only four days away, the lie had grown teeth. The whole Norris family would be there—parents, siblings, cousins, and probably a handful of distant relatives who still pinched his cheeks and called him “Lando-bear.” 

Every single one of them would be bringing a plus one.

Everyone except Lando.

It had been a running joke in the Norris family for as long as he could remember. His parents loved bragging about their children’s accomplishments, his siblings took every opportunity to tease him about his chaotic (and scandalous) dating life, and somehow every family gathering—birthdays, holidays, even Sunday lunches—ended with the same question: why Lando never seemed to have a serious girlfriend.

Usually he brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, some half‑hearted joke about being too busy or too picky. It never bothered him enough to do anything about it.

But this time, when the question came up again—“So, Lando, are you bringing anyone to the wedding?”—something in his brain simply… snapped. Short‑circuited. Went offline.

And before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice answering.

Yes.

Yes, he was bringing someone.

Not just anyone, either. He’d doubled down, told them he had a normal, stable girlfriend. Someone grounded. Someone real. Someone who absolutely did not exist.

Now there were less than four days until Oliver’s wedding.

And Lando Norris still didn’t have a girlfriend.

Lando sat at the table in his apartment, staring at the wall like it might suddenly offer him a miracle. His brain was running laps, trying to find a way out of the mess he’d created, but every possible solution felt dumber than the one before it.

There had to be something.

Some kind of brilliant, last‑minute, save‑your-own-ass idea.

Except… nothing he came up with even came close.

For a brief, unhinged moment, he wondered if he could convince Oscar to throw on a wig and pretend to be his date. 

Yeah. No. Absolutely not. Oscar’s girlfriend would murder him before they even reached the venue.

He let out a long, miserable groan and dragged both hands down his face.

Okay. New idea.

Maybe he could just tell his family that his girlfriend—his very real, very fictional girlfriend—had suddenly fallen ill and couldn’t make it. That sounded believable enough… in theory.

But in practice? His mum would immediately start asking for her address so she could send homemade soup. His sisters would demand details. His dad would suggest rescheduling the introduction for the next family gathering.

Which meant he’d still be trapped in the same problem, just with more lies stacked on top of the original one.

And the truth was painfully simple: girlfriends were not something you could conjure out of thin air, no matter how desperately you needed one. Not even when you were the Lando Norris.

He slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling now, wishing the universe would hand him a solution.

Or a person.

Preferably both.

But then—

Yes.

God, yes.

The idea hit him so hard he actually sat up straighter, eyes going wide, lighting up like someone had plugged him directly into a power outlet. It was brilliant. Completely ridiculous. Potentially life‑saving. And, most importantly… actually possible.

Because as he sat there, staring at the blank stretch of wall in front of him, he finally remembered who lived on the other side of it.

You.

You, with your soft smile and your quiet kindness. You, who he wasn’t close to—not really. You weren’t friends, you weren’t even acquaintances. You were neighbors in the most literal sense. Sometimes you shared an elevator. Sometimes you exchanged a polite “hi.” Sometimes you held the door for him when his hands were full.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing meaningful. Nothing that suggested you were about to become the answer to the stupidest problem he’d ever created.

And yet… in the middle of his panic, you suddenly seemed like the perfect solution.

Of course, that led him straight into the next problem—one he faced every time he stumbled onto an actually good idea: how the hell was he supposed to ask you? What if you laughed? What if you slammed the door in his face? What if you said no and he had to return to his table, sit back down, and accept that he was still girlfriend‑less with a wedding in four days?

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

What were his other options? Post an Instagram story asking for volunteers? Hold open auditions in his living room? Pray someone magically appeared on his doorstep?

No. Obviously not.

You were the only choice he had.

And now he just had to hope you didn’t think he was completely insane.

Lando paced his apartment for a grand total of three and a half minutes before reaching a very scientific conclusion: pacing solved absolutely nothing. All it did was make him more aware of how sweaty his palms were and how loudly his heart was trying to escape his chest.

So the next step became painfully, horrifyingly clear. He had to go ask you. In person. At your door. With his whole panicked, malfunctioning self on display.

He grabbed his keys like they might give him courage and muttered under his breath, “This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing terrifying happening here.” It sounded unconvincing even to him.

By the time he reached your door, whatever flimsy confidence he’d managed to build had dissolved completely, leaving him standing there like a man about to face a firing squad. He knocked once. Then twice. Then, because he was Lando and panic was his brand, he knocked three more times in a frantic burst.

“Too much. Too much,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and praying the universe would show him mercy.

The door opened.

And there you were—looking perfectly normal, perfectly calm, perfectly unaware that your evening was about to take a dramatic turn.

“Hey,” you said, head tilted, curiosity softening your expression.

“Hi,” Lando managed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to keep his head attached. He looked like a lost puppy who’d wandered too far from home. Mostly because he was one.

“You need something?” you asked, giving him a quick once-over. “You don’t look great. You’re really pale. Come in, sit down.” You stepped aside, warm and worried and gentle in a way that made his stomach twist.

Lando swallowed hard and perched on the very edge of your couch, like sitting normally might somehow make this whole thing worse. His knee bounced, his fingers twisted together, and he looked one deep breath away from passing out. “Right… so… um…”

You raised an eyebrow, watching him fidget like a kid who’d been caught doing something he absolutely shouldn’t have been doing.

“I know this is gonna sound completely insane,” Lando said, voice wobbling in a way you had never heard from him. “I… I need a—big. Huge. Gigantic favor, Y/n.”

Your confusion only grew. This was Lando Norris—confident, charming, annoyingly magnetic Lando—now sitting on your couch like a drenched stray dog someone had forgotten to bring inside. He couldn’t seem to look at you for more than half a second, and his hands were practically tying themselves into knots.

“Lando?” you said softly, nudging his knee with yours. “Just talk. You’re scaring me a little.”

Lando’s hands wouldn’t stay still. They fidgeted in his lap, fingers tapping against each other like he was trying to summon courage through sheer friction. “Okay… so… this is gonna sound completely ridiculous, but just—just hear me out,” he said, his voice pitching upward in panic.

“My… my brother—Oliver—he’s getting married in, uh… four days. Four days, Y/n. And… um… well… I kinda… told my family I had a girlfriend.”

You stared at him, confusion knitting your brows. “And…? What does that have to do with me?”

“Well—I don’t have one!” Lando blurted, the words bursting out like they’d been trapped in his chest.

You blinked. Hard. Because… what? Lando Norris didn’t have a girlfriend? Lando Norris, who always seemed to have someone on his arm, someone texting him, someone laughing at his jokes?

“You don’t have a girlfriend?” you repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “You always have someone around.”

“Ha. Ha. Not helpful,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes darted everywhere—your bookshelf, the floor, the ceiling—anywhere except your face, like looking at you might make this whole thing even more humiliating.

His knee bounced. His throat bobbed. And for the first time since you’d met him, Lando Norris looked genuinely, painfully out of his depth.

Lando threw his hands up, breath coming too fast, like his brain had officially abandoned ship. “I lied! They’re always making fun of me for being the only sibling without a ‘stable love life’!” His gestures got bigger, more frantic. “So I lied! I told them I finally have a normal girlfriend! I told them she’s the right—”

You cut in before he could spiral any further. The amount of information he’d just dumped on you was… a lot. Especially coming from someone you’d only ever exchanged elevator small talk with. “Lando… breathe. You’re kind of having a panic attack.”

He froze mid‑wave, arms suspended awkwardly in the air. His chest rose and fell too quickly, eyes wide and unfocused, like a startled animal trying to decide whether to bolt or faint.

And something in you softened.

Before you could overthink it, the words slipped out. “I can do it. I can pretend to be your girlfriend—if that’s what you need.”

Lando blinked at you, stunned into silence. For a moment he just stared, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

Then his whole face lit up, relief crashing over him so visibly it was almost endearing. “Really?!” he burst out, voice cracking with disbelief and something dangerously close to joy, like you’d just handed him the winning ticket to his own rescue.

“Yes,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your mouth. “You don’t deserve to be humiliated by your entire family. Not this week, at least.”

“Ha-ha, hilarious,” he muttered, but the grateful smile pulling at his lips gave him away. “But seriously… thank you. Jesus, Y/n, you’re actually saving my life here. What do I owe you?”

You lifted a brow, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe start by not panicking every two seconds?”

He nodded so fast it was almost comical. “Right. Yeah. I can do that. I’ll try.”

And then—naturally—he let out a loud, shaky exhale, his fingers immediately twisting together again, looking like a man who was absolutely not succeeding at the whole “not panicking” thing.

It made you smile, just a little, because for all his charm and confidence, Lando Norris was clearly a disaster in need of rescuing.

────────────

You and Lando sat at your dining table, both of you silently questioning every decision that had led to this exact moment. Well… you were. Lando looked like he was still trying to remember how to breathe. You had just agreed to pretend to be the girlfriend of a man known across Formula 1 for his charm, his speed, and—most famously—his impressive track record of short-lived romances.

“So,” you said, aiming for calm even though your pulse was doing laps, “if I’m going to fake-date my neighbor—who I barely know—I think we need some rules.”

“Rules?” Lando repeated, brows lifting, confusion flickering across his face. For once, he didn’t look cocky or confident. He looked… unsure. Almost nervous.

“Yes. Rules,” you said, holding up three fingers. “Only three. I promise they’re not complicated.”

He leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and mild panic—like a student bracing for a pop quiz he definitely hadn’t studied for. “Okay. Tell me,” he said quickly, already trying to memorize them before you’d even opened your mouth.

His eagerness made you smile despite yourself.

“Rule number one: no disgusting pet names. Like… honey, light of my life, or whatever. I hate those. Babe, darling, and love are fine,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as you could.

Lando nodded immediately. “Yeah, no, same. Anything too cheesy makes my skin crawl.”

“Rule number two: no hooking up. No sex.” You said it firmly, maybe a little too quickly. It was mostly for your own safety—your heart’s safety. You’d heard the stories. You’d seen the headlines. And you had absolutely no intention of becoming another one of Lando Norris’s charming little footnotes. (Not that you weren’t already halfway there.)

Lando blinked at you, eyes widening in a mix of shock and exaggerated offense. “I would never.”

You gave him a look that said please, I know exactly who you are.

He cleared his throat.

You continued, “and the most important, absolutely non-negotiable rule: no falling in love.”

“Right,” Lando said, nodding like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Simple.”

But the way his knee bounced under the table, the way his eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second, the way your stomach twisted at the thought of just hearing him say love—you both knew it wasn’t going to be simple at all.

Not even close.

Lando looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had been on the verge of a full emotional collapse less than twenty‑four hours ago.

“Do we even have a solid backstory?” you asked, giving him a look that said you already doubted the answer.

“Oh, we do,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the smug confidence of a man who absolutely should not have any.

You narrowed your eyes, waiting.

He lifted his hands in surrender, grinning. “Okay, fine, I just came up with it. But don’t worry—it’s a good one.”

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “Alright, genius. Let’s hear it.”

“We met in the elevator,” he announced instantly. “Which is technically not a lie.”

You stared at him. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? They’ll never buy that.”

Lando looked genuinely offended, like you’d just criticized a work of art he’d spent years perfecting.

“Hey, it’s realistic,” he insisted, chin lifting. “People meet in elevators all the time.”

“Yes,” you said slowly, giving him a look that could only be described as are you hearing yourself right now? “And then they say hello, maybe smile awkwardly, and go to their own apartments. They don’t magically start dating.”

Lando waved a hand like you were being dramatic. “Details.”

You leaned back in your chair, trying to piece together something that didn’t sound like it had been written by a twelve‑year‑old. “Okay, so maybe I dropped something and didn’t notice when I left the elevator. You picked it up and returned it to me later—”

“We got stuck together in the elevator!” Lando declared, pointing at you with the enthusiasm of a man who believed he had just cracked the Da Vinci code.

You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice.

“Lando.”

“What?!” He threw his hands up like you’d personally offended him. “You’d be surprised how often elevators get stuck in this building!”

“It happened, like, twice,” you said, crossing your arms. “And I live next door, remember? I think I’d know.”

“And it happened to me both times!” Lando shot back, jabbing a finger at his own chest as if that somehow strengthened his argument. “Suspicious, right?!”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed.

Because you remembered. Oh, you remembered exactly how that last incident went. The entire building had known within minutes that Lando Norris was trapped in the elevator. Neighbors had gathered in the hallway. The building manager had been sweating bullets. And Lando—poor, panicking Lando—had been shouting through the metal doors that he was “perfectly calm,” while sounding anything but.

Honestly? The story was ridiculous.

But believable.

Painfully, hilariously believable.

“Right. So… we were stuck, and then what? Fell in love while panicking?” you asked, skeptical.

“We talked,” Lando said with a grin, leaning back casually. “Found out we’re neighbors, started seeing each other more, and realized we’re both charming, funny, and attractive people.”

“Funny?”

“Absolutely.”

You grabbed the nearest napkin from the table and tossed it at him.

Lando laughed, easily dodging it. “See? Perfect. The chemistry is already there.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Your poor family.”

“My family will love you,” he said confidently. “You’re kind, you’re funny, and you already tolerate me—which is honestly the hardest part.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward anyway. Just a little.

────────────

Warm air wrapped around you the moment you and Lando stepped out of the airport in Sicily, the kind of soft heat that made your shoulders drop and your lungs loosen. It felt like the whole island exhaled around you. Thank God it was Sicily—you’d spent the entire flight quietly panicking that he might’ve dragged you to rainy England instead. At least here, if everything went horribly wrong, you’d have sunshine.

“My brother’s gonna pick us up,” Lando said, tugging his suitcase behind him as he wove through the crowd with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times.

You hurried after him, trying to match his long, impatient strides. Your heart was already beating too fast, and not just from the travel. “Wait—what are your parents’ names? You haven’t even told me!”

Lando barely slowed down. “My mum’s Cisca, my dad’s Adam. My brother is Oliver, and his fiancée is Sav. My sisters are Flo and also Cisca.”

You blinked, your brain scrambling to keep up. The names felt like someone had thrown a handful of puzzle pieces at you and expected you to assemble them mid‑run.

“That’s… a lot of names,” you said, breath catching a little. You were suddenly very aware that you were about to meet all these people—people who believed you were dating their son. People who probably asked a lot of questions.

Lando shrugged like this was all perfectly reasonable, even though your pulse had started doing gymnastics. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is when I’ve met exactly zero of them,” you shot back. “And in, what, ten minutes? I’m supposed to convincingly pretend I’m dating you in front of your entire family.”

“Relax,” he said, dragging his suitcase along like he wasn’t dragging you straight into chaos. “My family is nice. A bit chaotic, but mostly nice.”

“Chaotic?” you repeated, the word landing in your stomach like a stone.

“They’ll probably ask a lot of questions,” he added casually, like he was telling you the weather forecast.

Your heart dropped.

Questions.

Of course they’d ask questions.

You’d known Lando for—what—three days? Four? And that was being generous. Sure, he’d lived next door for years, but elevator small talk and awkward hallway smiles did not prepare you to play his girlfriend in front of people who had known him his entire life.

“Not helping, Lando,” you muttered, shaking your head as you tried to keep up with him through the crowd.

Then another thought hit you so hard you actually stopped walking.

“What if they ask how long we’ve been dating?!”

Lando turned around and stepped closer, the warm Sicilian breeze ruffling his curls as if even the weather was more relaxed than you were.

“Five months, babe.”

Your eyes narrowed so fast he actually flinched.

Too soon. Way too soon for that word.

“Don’t call me that,” you warned. “Yet.”

He lifted both hands in surrender, though the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He was enjoying this way too much for someone who had begged you for help less than four days ago.

“We’ve been dating for five months,” he said, slipping back into that calm, annoyingly confident tone. “Long enough for it to seem serious, but short enough to explain why they’ve never met you.”

You let that settle in your mind. Five months. Not too long, not too short. Enough time to know each other, but not enough time for family introductions. It actually… made sense.

“…Okay,” you admitted slowly. “That’s not terrible.”

But then something clicked. The way he said it. The ease. The certainty. The fact that he hadn’t even hesitated.

You looked at him again, suspicion creeping in. “Wait—you already thought about this?”

Lando’s smirk widened, soft but undeniably smug, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.

“Of course I did.”

And for a moment—just a moment—you saw the truth behind the grin:

he’d been thinking about this way before you ever agreed.

The car behind you honked—sharp, impatient—and you jolted like someone had poked you with a live wire.

“That must be Oliver,” Lando said, already turning toward the parking area with that casual confidence you absolutely did not feel.

You followed his gaze and spotted a dark car rolling up to the curb, sunlight bouncing off the windshield. The driver leaned out just enough for you to see him squinting through the Sicilian glare.

“Lando!” he called out.

“Yep. That’s him,” Lando confirmed, far too calm for someone about to introduce his fake girlfriend to his real brother.

Your stomach tightened.

This was it.

The first test.

The first family member.

The first person who could look at you and immediately think, Nope. She’s not his type.

“Just greet him,” Lando murmured quietly, noticing how stiff you’d gone. His voice dropped, softer than usual. “You don’t have to say much.”

Oliver climbed out of the car with an easy, warm smile—the kind of smile that made you understand instantly why people liked him. He had that same Norris charm, just steadier, more grounded. Older brother energy radiated off him.

“Finally,” Oliver said, pulling Lando into a quick hug. “You’re late.”

“Blame the airport!” Lando shot back, grinning like he hadn’t been panicking for days.

Then Oliver’s gaze shifted to you.

And suddenly you were hyper-aware of everything—your hair, your clothes, your posture, the way your hands were awkwardly gripping your suitcase handle.

“You must be Y/n,” he said warmly.

“Yeah, that’s me,” you replied, smiling even though your heart was thudding against your ribs.

“I’m Oliver,” he said, offering his hand.

“I’m Y/n… but you already know that,” you added with a small laugh. The words came out a little too confident, and you immediately prayed it sounded playful instead of arrogant.

Oliver chuckled, clearly unfazed. “Nice to officially meet you, Y/n.”

And just like that, some of the tension in your chest loosened. He didn’t look suspicious. He didn’t look confused. He didn’t look like he was about to interrogate you.

He just looked… kind.

Which, honestly, was almost worse—because kindness made it harder to lie.

Oliver drove with the kind of calm confidence that made you wish you felt even half as steady. Warm Sicilian sunlight spilled through the windows, turning the dashboard gold. Outside, the world looked soft and bright and easy.

Inside the car, Lando was talking like he’d been plugged into a power source.

He and Oliver were deep in race talk—corner speeds, tire degradation, strategy calls—Lando gesturing wildly, Oliver chiming in with that older‑brother mix of teasing and genuine interest. It was like watching two people speak a language you’d only ever heard in passing.

“You saw that last corner from Russell, right?” Oliver asked, glancing at Lando with a grin. “Absolutely insane overtaking maneuver.”

“Yes!” Lando lit up instantly. “But the tires, the line he took—it was borderline genius. I mean, I would’ve done it slightly differently, obviously.”

You sat in the back, hands folded tightly in your lap, nodding along like you understood even a fraction of what they were saying. You caught words—Monza, grip, strategy—but they floated past you like puzzle pieces from the wrong box.

Then Oliver’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror.

“What about you, Y/n? What did you think of the race?”

Your brain blanked.

Completely.

Utterly.

“It… uh…” You tried to sound thoughtful, like you were recalling something meaningful. “I thought it was… exciting?”

Lando snorted under his breath. “She’s very diplomatic.”

Oliver laughed, warm and easy. “Fair enough. Hard to argue with that.”

You sank back into your seat, cheeks warm, trying not to overthink the fact that you were already improvising. Already lying. Already pretending to be someone who fit into this world.

And Lando—of course—kept glancing back at you with these tiny, amused smiles. Like he could see every thought running through your head. Like he knew exactly how flustered you were and found it… cute.

You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

The car wound through the narrow Sicilian roads, sunlight flickering across your lap, and with every turn your nerves pulled tighter—like someone was slowly winding a string inside your chest. This was only the warm‑up. The easy part. The real performance waited at the end of the driveway, where an entire family believed you were in love with their son.

Oliver parked smoothly and stepped out, probably to gather the rest of the Norris clan. The moment the door shut behind him, the car felt too quiet, too warm, too full of everything you were suddenly terrified of messing up.

“Relax,” Lando said, glancing over at you with a half‑smile. “You look like you’re about to meet the mafia.”

“I kind of am,” you muttered, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Did I say something bad? About the race? I feel like I said something bad.”

Lando laughed softly, leaning back in his seat like he had all the time in the world. His grin was easy, warm, annoyingly reassuring. “Calm down. You were fine.”

You followed his gaze out the windshield—and your stomach dropped.

The whole family was already gathered at the end of the driveway. Talking. Laughing. Waiting. A cluster of people who knew each other inside out… and were about to meet the stranger pretending to be part of their world.

Your breath caught.

Lando noticed. Of course he did.

He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it barely registered—except it did. It settled something in you. Or maybe it unsettled everything. Hard to tell.

“You’ve got this,” he said, voice low, teasing, but steady in a way that made your pulse slow just a little.

You took a deep breath, trying to believe him. Trying to believe yourself.

Then the car door opened, warm air rushing in, and there was no more time to think.

It was showtime.

Lando’s arm slid around your waist like it had always belonged there—easy, natural, practiced in a way that made your breath catch for half a second. It wasn’t tight, just enough pressure to say mine without actually saying it. Enough to make you look like a couple. Enough to make your heart do something stupid.

“My dearest family! Your best son is back! Even with a girlfriend!” Lando announced, laughing like this was all a big joke he’d been waiting to deliver.

“Move, Lando, I want to see your lovely girl,” his mum, Cisca, said, gently shoving him aside with the confidence of a woman who’d been doing it his whole life.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Lando pretended to be offended, hand over his heart, but then shot you a mischievous smirk—like he was enjoying this way too much.

Cisca stepped closer, warm and bright, the kind of person who made you feel welcome before you even spoke. “Y/n, I’m Cisca, and this is my husband, Adam. My daughters, Flo and Cisca, my soon‑to‑be daughter‑in‑law, Sav, and my sons, Oliver and… well, you know, Lando.”

She reintroduced everyone as if Lando hadn’t rattled off their names in the car, but you smiled anyway, greeting each of them—twice, just to be safe. Your cheeks were warm, but no one looked suspicious. If anything, they looked excited. Curious. Happy to meet you.

“Lando told me a lot about you,” you said, smiling—and immediately realized how that could sound. “Only the best things, of course.” You let out a nervous laugh, hoping it landed somewhere between charming and believable.

“See?” Lando said, his smirk widening into something almost proud. “Perfect son—and now boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a tiny spark of warmth in your chest at how confidently he said it. Like he’d imagined this moment before. Like he’d rehearsed it. Like he’d been waiting for you to step into this role long before you agreed.

And that thought… well, that was dangerous.

Lando’s arm stayed around your waist as Sav led you down the hallway, her voice bright and cheerful, completely unaware that your heart was doing somersaults. You and Lando exchanged a quick look—yours full of are you kidding me?, his full of that infuriating, smug confidence he wore like a second skin.

“C’mon, lovebirds, I’ll show you your room,” Sav said, swinging open a door with a flourish.

You stepped inside, taking in the soft lighting, the open window, the warm Sicilian breeze drifting through the curtains. It was a beautiful room—cozy, airy, romantic in a way that made your stomach twist.

And then your eyes landed on the bed.

One bed.

A big one, sure. But still one.

Sav didn’t seem to notice your internal meltdown. “Dinner’s at six! Don’t be late,” she chirped before disappearing down the hall.

The door clicked shut.

You turned slowly toward Lando, raising an eyebrow so high it practically left your face. “There’s only one bed.”

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t even pretend to be surprised. He just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“We are a couple, remember?” he said, voice low and annoyingly smooth.

You let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Right. Almost forgot.”

But the truth was, your pulse had picked up. Just a little. Because the room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. And Lando—smirking, relaxed, completely unfazed—looked far too comfortable standing there like he belonged in this space with you.

You still stood there, arms crossed, staring at the bed like it had personally wronged you. It sat in the middle of the room—big, soft, innocent—and yet somehow the most stressful piece of furniture you’d ever encountered.

Meanwhile, Lando looked like he’d just walked into a hotel suite he’d booked himself. He pushed off the doorway, wandered in, and dropped his bag by a chair with the ease of someone who had absolutely no shame.

“You’re overreacting,” he said, tone maddeningly casual.

You turned your head slowly, like a horror movie character realizing the killer was behind them. “Overreacting? Lando, there is one bed.”

He glanced at it, then back at you, completely unfazed. “Yeah. I can see that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And where exactly do you plan on sleeping?”

He shrugged, all innocence. “In the bed?”

The pillow was in your hand before you even thought about it. You launched it at him. He caught it mid‑air, laughing like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“Relax, I’m kidding—kind of.”

“‘Kind of’ is not reassuring,” you snapped, brushing past him to your suitcase because you needed to move before you strangled him.

Lando watched you for a beat, then let out a dramatic sigh worthy of an Oscar. “Fine. We’ll figure something out. I’m a gentleman.”

You paused, turned, and raised one eyebrow. “You?”

He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Wow. That hurt.”

“Good.”

────────────

You stepped out of the bathroom for what felt like the third time, maybe the tenth, maybe the hundredth—time had stopped meaning anything somewhere between outfit number four and the moment you realized Lando was absolutely no help at all.

He was sprawled across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam, scrolling through his phone, not a single worry in sight. Meanwhile, you were one bad outfit away from a full emotional collapse.

“What about this?” you asked, voice tight with the kind of stress only family dinners and fake‑dating could create.

Lando looked up.

And for a moment—just a heartbeat—he didn’t move. His eyes dragged over you slowly, like his brain had forgotten how to function. You shifted under his stare, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of fabric on your body.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered.

He blinked, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Hot.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Lando.”

He sat up a little too fast, rubbing the back of his neck, that small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. It softened him in a way you weren’t prepared for. “I mean—you look nice. Really nice. That’s all.”

The words hung in the air, warm and a little dangerous. And even though you rolled your eyes, you felt your stomach flip, just once, like it was testing the waters.

Lando definitely noticed how stiff you were, how your fingers kept twisting together like you were trying to wring the nerves out of them. He sat up a little, the teasing fading from his face, replaced by something softer.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low in a way that made it hard to pretend you were fine.

“Just… stressed,” you said with a shrug, trying to make it sound small even though it felt huge in your chest.

“Hey,” Lando said, pushing himself off the bed so quickly it almost startled you. “Stop stressing, Y/n. They already love you.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “They don’t even know me.”

“They don’t need to,” he said, stepping closer like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re kind, you’re funny, you didn’t run away the second you met my family—honestly, that’s already impressive.”

A tiny laugh escaped you, but your shoulders stayed tight, your pulse still too fast. And of course he noticed. He always noticed.

“Come here,” he said suddenly.

You frowned. “What?”

“Come here,” he repeated, gentler this time, like he wasn’t asking—just quietly waiting.

You hesitated, then stepped closer.

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against your hair as he tucked a strand behind your ear. Then he smoothed it down, slow and careful, like he’d done it a hundred times before. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the loud, chaotic version of him everyone else saw.

“There,” he murmured, eyes lingering on you for a beat too long. “Perfect.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it, a tiny hitch you hoped he didn’t hear.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips before you could hide it.

“At fake dating?” he asked, eyebrow lifting in that way that always made him look like he was two seconds from trouble.

“At not being a completely insufferable asshole,” you shot back—though the laugh that slipped out ruined any attempt at sounding annoyed.

Lando let out a soft huff, shaking his head. “Wow. I’m really raising the bar here, aren’t I?”

“Bare minimum,” you teased.

“Rude.”

“But accurate.”

He stepped closer, just enough that you felt the warmth of him, his voice dropping into something lower, softer—something that felt like it was meant only for you.

“And yet,” he murmured, a hint of a smirk curling at his mouth, “you still agreed to be my girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. If anything, your feet stayed rooted, your pulse doing that stupid fluttery thing again. “Fake girlfriend.”

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes lingering on yours. “Keep telling yourself that.”

For a second, neither of you moved. The air felt thick, warm, charged with something you weren’t ready to name. His hand was still close to yours. Too close. Close enough that if either of you breathed wrong, your fingers might brush.

Then reality snapped back into place.

You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to break the moment. “Come on. Your family’s waiting.”

Lando grinned, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened—except his eyes were brighter, and his smile was a little too pleased.

“Let’s go, babe.”

You shot him a look.

“…We said that one was allowed,” he added quickly, hands raised in mock innocence.

You didn’t reply—just shook your head and walked out of the room with him, your hand still resting lightly on his arm. It felt steady there, even though nothing inside you felt steady at all.

The closer you got to the dining area, the louder everything became. Laughter spilling over laughter. Voices overlapping. Cutlery clinking. Chairs scraping. A whole family in full motion.

Chaos.

Warm, loud, overwhelming chaos.

You slowed down without meaning to.

Lando noticed instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear him. “Breathe, remember?”

“I am breathing,” you whispered back.

“Barely.”

You shot him a look—half glare, half panic—but before you could argue, you stepped into the dining room.

And immediately—

Every head turned.

“Oh, there they are!” someone called—Flo, you were pretty sure.

“What took you so long?” Sav added, wearing a smirk that said she absolutely thought she knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “It takes him forever to get ready,” you said, jerking your thumb toward Lando.

The table erupted with laughter.

And for the first time since you’d arrived, the tension in your chest loosened. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the noise. Maybe it was the way this whole thing was starting to feel… weirdly doable.

“Oh?” Lando turned to you, smirking, clearly not expecting you to fire back so quickly. “That’s interesting, considering you changed your outfit, what—four times, love?”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it. Just a spark of something lighter.

“Dinner’s getting cold! Sit, sit,” Cisca urged, waving you both toward the table with the kind of warmth that made it impossible not to smile.

You slid into your seat, Lando taking the chair beside you like he’d been doing it for years. His knee brushed yours under the table—light, accidental, but steady enough to make your pulse jump. You didn’t move it away. Maybe you couldn’t.

Adam reached for the wine bottle. “Wine?”

“Yes, please,” you said a little too fast, and Lando’s quiet laugh beside you didn’t help.

Glasses filled, plates passed around, and for a few minutes everything felt almost… normal. You smiled, nodded, laughed when everyone else did. You were doing it. You were blending in. You were surviving.

Then Sav leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “So. Tell us everything. How did you two meet?”

There it was. The question. The one you’d been dreading since the airport.

You glanced at Lando for half a second—barely long enough for anyone else to notice, but he caught it instantly.

“We got stuck together in the elevator,” he said smoothly, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

You exhaled quietly, picking up the thread. “For two hours,” you added with a small laugh. “Very, very long two hours of my life.”

“Speak for yourself, darlin’,” Lando cut in, not missing a beat. “Best two hours of mine.”

The table erupted with laughter—Flo snorting, Sav shaking her head, Cisca smiling like this was the cutest thing she’d ever heard.

And you… you felt your face warm, but not from embarrassment. More from the way Lando said it—light, teasing, but with a softness underneath that wasn’t entirely fake.

Cisca leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity. “So what happened after? You got out and just… what? Went on a date?”

You froze for half a second.

Lando didn’t.

“I asked for her number,” he said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your head snapped toward him.

Oh.

That was new.

And dangerously believable.

“And I said no,” you added quickly, because your brain clearly decided honesty‑but‑not‑really was safer than silence.

Lando looked at you, eyebrows lifting. “You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

“You hesitated,” he corrected, pointing at you with his fork. “And then gave it to me anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, a small laugh slipping out. “I didn’t trust you.”

Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “Smart girl.”

The table laughed, the moment loosening—until Lando spoke again, his voice dipping just slightly, the teasing softening around the edges.

“But,” he said, glancing at you, “she eventually said yes.”

Your eyes met his.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for something warm to settle low in your chest, something you weren’t prepared for.

“…Eventually,” you echoed, quieter than you meant to.

And the strange part?

It didn’t feel like a story anymore.

Not a script.

Not a lie you were both juggling.

It felt like something that could’ve happened.

Something that almost did.

Lando looked away first, but not before you caught the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—soft, knowing, like he’d just read your mind and liked what he found.

You talked for another three hours, and somehow—it was suspiciously easy.

No interrogation. No awkward pauses. No slip‑ups. No one trying to poke holes in your very real, very not‑real relationship. If anything, they just… welcomed you. Laughed with you. Pulled you into conversations like you’d always been there.

And that almost made it worse—because it felt natural. Too natural. Like you weren’t pretending at all.

Eventually, plates were empty, wine glasses half‑full, and the warm Sicilian night hummed softly through the open windows.

“I think we’re gonna head to our room,” Lando said casually, stretching an arm around your shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. “Y’know, get some rest.”

Damn.

He was good at this. Too good. The kind of good that made your stomach flip, because he didn’t even have to think about it—his voice warm, his touch easy, his smile soft enough to sell the whole thing without trying.

And the worst part?

For a split second, you didn’t feel like you were acting either.

As you stood, his hand slid down your arm, fingers brushing yours in a way that felt almost accidental—except it wasn’t. Not with the way he glanced at you, just briefly, like he was checking if you were still okay… or maybe checking something else entirely.

You stepped into the room and the door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the noise from downstairs like someone had dropped a blanket over the world.

Silence settled—thick, warm, a little too intimate.

Your eyes drifted immediately to the bed.

One bed.

Again.

You turned slowly toward Lando.

He was already staring at it too, hands in his pockets, jaw shifting like he was trying not to laugh.

“…Right,” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied.

A beat.

Another beat.

The kind of beat where you could practically hear both of your brains screaming.

“You’re not seriously telling me this is becoming a pattern,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

You didn’t even bother hiding the disbelief in your voice.

“We are dating, babe.”

“Fake dating, babe.”

“Still counts for logistics.”

“There are two chairs,” you said, pointing at them like you’d just discovered a legal loophole.

Lando didn’t even look. “You want one of us to sleep on a chair?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “This is insane.”

Lando flopped back onto the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just detonated your entire nervous system for the day. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s literally one bed.”

“And?” he asked, glancing up at you with that maddeningly calm expression.

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

Then, slowly—dangerously—that familiar smirk crept in. “We behaved perfectly fine tonight, didn’t we?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice infuriatingly casual, “if we can survive interrogation over dinner, we can survive sleeping in the same bed.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It kind of is.”

You stared at the bed like it might magically split in half if you glared hard enough.

“Fine,” you sighed. “But if you’re snoring, I’m kicking you out.”

“I don’t snore,” Lando said instantly—way too instantly.

You turned your head slowly.

He blinked.

“…I don’t,” he repeated, much quieter now.

You raised an eyebrow. “That was way too fast for someone telling the truth.”

He scoffed, kicking off his shoes like he lived here. “I’m an athlete. I’m basically engineered for optimal sleep conditions.”

“Sure,” you nodded, deadpan. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

Lando grinned, grabbing his suitcase. “Well, Your Majesty, feel free to take the left side of the bed.”

“There are sides now?”

“There are always sides.”

You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. It dipped under your weight, soft and warm, and you watched him move around the room—unpacking, stretching, tossing his hoodie onto a chair—like he’d done this a thousand times.

Like he belonged here.

Which was the annoying part.

He made everything feel… normal. Easy. Like sharing a room, sharing a bed, sharing this whole ridiculous lie wasn’t a big deal at all.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you muttered.

Lando glanced over his shoulder, smirk already forming. “Too late.”

────────────

The washed dishes weren’t even dry yet when the Norris family was already on their feet again, buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy only they could produce. Someone— definitely Sav—clapped her hands together like she was kicking off a national broadcast.

“Okay! We’re playing How Well Do You Know Your Partner!”

Instant groans. Instant cheers. A chorus of excitement and dread rolled across the terrace.

You slowly turned your head toward Lando.

“…We are fucked,” you mouthed.

Lando didn’t even blink.

He gave you a calm, reassuring nod that was so painfully unconvincing it almost made you laugh.

“We’ll be fine,” he mouthed back.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

Liar.

Because even as he said it, his mouth twitched—just a tiny, traitorous twitch—like he was already regretting every life choice that had led him to this exact moment.

Around you, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone moved back toward the table. Pens appeared, paper was handed out, and suddenly it looked way too official for something that was supposed to be “just a game.”

Flo was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing in her seat like she’d been waiting all night for this exact moment.

“First question!” she announced, pausing dramatically like a game‑show host.

Everyone leaned in.

You braced yourself.

“What is your partner’s biggest pet peeve?”

Of course.

Of course that was the first question.

Lando immediately bent over his card, writing like this was the easiest thing he’d done all day. No hesitation, no thinking, no panic—just pure, irritating confidence. He even tapped his pen against the table afterward, relaxed, smug, like he already knew he’d get it right.

You stared down at your blank paper.

Biggest pet peeve.

You barely knew your own biggest pet peeve, let alone his. Your mind went completely empty, like someone had unplugged your brain and walked away with the cable.

You risked a sideways glance.

Lando was done.

Done.

Already leaning back in his chair, looking like he was waiting for the rest of the class to catch up.

Show‑off.

You sighed quietly and wrote the first thing that made sense: people driving too slowly.

It wasn’t a wild guess. More like a logical conclusion. He drove fast cars for a living, lived fast, talked fast—slow drivers probably felt like a personal attack on his soul.

Hopefully.

You set your pen down, trying to look confident.

You absolutely did not feel confident.

And beside you, Lando’s knee brushed yours under the table—light, steady, like he was silently saying we’ve got this.

Flo practically vibrated with excitement. “Ready?”

Everyone flipped their papers.

Lando’s answer: cheesy nicknames.

You blinked.

Right.

That one barely counted—he only knew because you’d ranted about it earlier. Still, Sav burst into laughter.

“You hate nicknames, Y/n?”

“Hate,” you said instantly, no hesitation at all.

“Especially ‘light of my life,’ right, Y/n?” Lando added, laughing like he wasn’t actively trying to get himself murdered.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“Don’t push it.”

He only grinned wider, the menace.

Then his eyes dropped to your board.

He read it.

And his whole expression shifted—slowly, deliberately—into a smug, satisfied smirk that told you he was about to be insufferable.

“Oh,” he said, dragging the word out like he was unwrapping a present.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

He leaned in just a little, enough to make it feel like he was invading your personal space on purpose. “Not bad.”

You glanced down at your own paper.

people who drive too slowly.

Lando let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head like he was both impressed and personally offended.

“That’s actually kind of good,” he admitted, still smirking. “Like… annoyingly accurate.”

You shrugged, trying to look casual even though your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip. “At least I didn’t embarrass us.”

He nudged your knee under the table—light, warm, intentional.

“You could never embarrass us, darling.”

That nickname sent shivers down your spine.

And the worst part?

The part you refused to acknowledge?

For a moment, you almost believed him.

Flo clapped her hands again, absolutely delighted with the chaos she was creating. She looked like someone who’d been waiting her whole life to host this exact moment.

“Okay! Next question!”

She paused dramatically, eyes sparkling.

“What is your partner’s most annoying habit?”

You felt Lando shift beside you immediately—pen already in hand, posture straightening like he was preparing for a qualifying lap. He didn’t even hesitate. He just started writing, confident and focused, like he had a whole list ready to go.

Meanwhile, you stared at that damn paper again.

Most annoying habit.

Where were you even supposed to begin?

He had so many.

You risked a glance at him.

He looked calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made you want to throw your pen at him. Of course he was confident. Of course he thought he knew exactly what you’d write. He lived for this.

You exhaled slowly and wrote the first thing that felt right: leaving cabinets open.

It was oddly specific, but it fit him. He had that chaotic energy, the kind that probably left a trail of half‑open cupboards behind him like breadcrumbs.

“Ready!” Sav announced.

Everyone flipped their papers.

There was a half‑second of silence.

Then—

Cisca gasped, pointing at your answer like she’d just discovered buried treasure. “Yes! Y/n! Thank you—finally! That has driven me mad ever since he was a kid!”

The table erupted into laughter.

Lando whipped around to his mum, offended. “Traitor!”

“I’m sorry,” she said through her laughter. “It’s true!”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed too. And as the noise settled, you felt Lando nudge your knee under the table, a tiny, wordless I can’t believe you just exposed me like that.

You didn’t look at him.

But you smiled.

You looked at Lando’s board.

overthinking and stressing over everything.

You blinked.

Oh.

For a moment, the laughter around the table dimmed, like someone had quietly turned the volume down. The terrace was still full of noise and warmth and clinking glasses, but it all felt a little distant—like you’d stepped half a beat out of sync with the room.

Because that answer…

That wasn’t a joke.

That wasn’t a throwaway guess.

That was painfully, uncomfortably accurate.

Your eyes lifted to him.

He wasn’t smirking this time. No teasing, no smugness, no dramatic flourish. Just Lando watching you with this quiet, steady kind of awareness that made your chest tighten. Like he’d seen it. Not just tonight, but before. Like he’d been paying attention in ways you hadn’t realized.

You let out a small breath, something caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Okay… that’s a bit too accurate.”

Lando shrugged lightly, but there was something softer in his expression now—something that didn’t belong to the game or the performance or the lie you were both maintaining. “You make it kind of obvious.”

The words weren’t mocking. They weren’t even teasing. They were gentle, almost careful, like he was trying not to push too hard.

And for a second, you felt it again—that strange, unsettling shift.

The one where the line between fake and real blurred just enough to make your heart stumble.

A few hours later, the noise from inside had finally faded, replaced by the soft hum of the evening—warm air brushing against your skin, distant laughter drifting from somewhere down the hill, the faint rhythm of waves rolling in and out like the night was breathing with you.

You leaned against the balcony railing, letting your shoulders drop for the first time all day. It had been… a lot. Fun, chaotic, terrifying, weirdly comforting—a mess of emotions you hadn’t sorted yet and weren’t sure you wanted to.

“Enjoying your victory?” a familiar voice drawled behind you.

You didn’t even turn. “We did not win.”

“Debatable,” Lando said, stepping out onto the balcony like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this quiet moment.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “We survived. Barely.”

He came to stand beside you, leaning his elbows on the railing, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You were good.”

You let out a soft snort. “I guessed half of it.”

“And still got it right,” he pointed out, like that settled the matter.

You shook your head, staring out at the dark horizon. The sky was a deep blue, the kind that made everything feel softer, slower. “That’s not the point.”

You looked at him now, really looked, the balcony light catching the edges of his face in that soft, golden way that made everything feel a little too intimate.

“You, on the other hand… what was that?”

Lando blinked, all faux‑innocence. “What was what?”

“That whole ‘overthinking and stressing over everything’ thing?” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Bit personal, don’t you think?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

Instead, he gave a small shrug, gaze drifting out toward the dark horizon for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“It’s true.”

You crossed your arms, partly defensive, partly trying to keep your heartbeat from doing something stupid. “You don’t even know me.”

He turned his head then, slow and deliberate, meeting your eyes with a steadiness that made your breath catch.

“I know enough.”

It wasn’t flirtatious.

It wasn’t teasing.

It was quiet, honest, and it hit you harder than you expected.

You looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the waves you couldn’t actually see. “You got lucky.”

“Twice?” he said, the teasing finally slipping back into his voice.

You rolled your eyes, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get cocky.”

He smiled to himself, that small, private kind of smile that told you he was enjoying this far more than he should.

After a moment, he nudged your arm lightly with his elbow. “You were good too, by the way. The cabinet thing? My mum’s never going to let that go now.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. “I take pride in that.”

“You should,” he said, turning back toward the view. “You’ve officially turned my family against me.”

“Part of the job,” you replied, but your voice softened without your permission.

And for a moment, the two of you just stood there—side by side, warm air brushing past, the night settling around you—feeling something that didn’t quite fit the definition of fake anymore.

There was a brief pause—one of those rare, quiet moments where everything felt suspended in warm night air. Comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of comfort that made you forget, for a second, that none of this was real.

Then, almost at the same time, your eyes drifted downward toward the garden.

And froze.

His entire family was there—clustered in little groups, pretending to chat, pretending to admire the flowers, pretending to do anything other than stare directly up at the balcony. Sav was leaning against a tree like she was undercover. Adam had his hands on his hips. Flo was perched on a lounge chair, chin in her hands. Cisca was the only one trying to look subtle, which somehow made it worse.

They were all waiting.

Watching.

Expectant.

“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, heat rushing to your face.

Lando followed your gaze, and the moment he saw them, his shoulders dropped in exhausted disbelief.

“…They’re insane,” he said quietly, like he was afraid they’d hear him.

“They’re waiting,” you whispered, because there was no denying it. They were practically vibrating with anticipation.

“I can see that,” he murmured, jaw tightening like he was trying not to laugh or scream.

A beat passed.

Then another.

The kind of beat where your heart started doing something stupid in your chest.

Lando shifted closer—just a small movement, but enough that his shoulder brushed yours, warm and steady. When he spoke, his voice dropped low, soft enough that only you could hear it over the hum of the night.

“Can I kiss you, please?”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and for the first time all night there was no smirk waiting for you, no teasing spark, no playful challenge. Just something softer. Something careful. Something that made your chest feel too tight.

“You’re asking?” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the warm night air.

“Figured I should,” he murmured back, his tone low and steady. “Consent and all that.”

Despite everything—your nerves, the audience below, the fact that this was supposed to be fake—a small smile tugged at your lips. You couldn’t help it.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t want to break the moment. “But can I?”

You hesitated for half a second. Not because you didn’t want to. Not because you were scared of the kiss itself. But because suddenly, terrifyingly, it didn’t feel like part of the act anymore. It felt like something else entirely—something real, something fragile, something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.

Still, you nodded.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t rush. He didn’t joke. He didn’t turn it into a performance for the garden below. He just leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His hand brushed your arm, light and warm, like he was checking—are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?

You didn’t move.

And then—

His lips met yours.

Soft. Careful. Warm.

It was meant to be quick, just enough to convince the family watching from below. Just enough to sell the story.

But neither of you pulled away right away.

Not even close.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the quiet press of his mouth against yours, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand still resting against your arm. Everything else—the balcony, the night, the family waiting below—faded into a blur.

And all you could think was:

This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

────────────

The pre-wedding party was… a lot. The kind of “a lot” that filled every corner of the villa with noise and warmth and movement. Music spilled across the garden in waves, loud and bright, mixing with the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter that rose and fell like the night had its own heartbeat. Fairy lights stretched overhead, soft and golden, blurring slightly at the edges—or maybe that was just the alcohol. Hard to tell anymore.

Still, even with all the warmth and noise and celebration, something felt a little off.

Everyone here seemed to have their place. Their people. Their easy conversations and inside jokes and familiar rhythms. Sav floated from group to group with the kind of glow only a bride‑to‑be could pull off. Flo was dancing with someone’s aunt. Cisca was deep in conversation with a cluster of relatives you couldn’t keep straight. Everywhere you looked, there was a sense of belonging—woven into the air, into the laughter, into the way people leaned into each other without thinking.

And you… well. You were here. Present, technically. But not quite part of the current.

You took another sip of your drink, leaning against the bar, letting the cool glass steady you. Fourth drink? Fifth? You’d lost track somewhere between the speeches and the second round of music. It didn’t matter. The night was warm, the lights were soft, and the alcohol made everything feel a little easier to float through.

Across the garden, Lando was surrounded by his cousins, animatedly talking about F1, hands moving as he laughed at something one of them said. He looked completely at ease—comfortable in a way that made sense. This was his world. His people. His history.

He looked at home.

And you—

You just stood there, watching him for a moment longer than you meant to, feeling that small, quiet ache of being close to something without quite belonging to it.

You were still leaning against the bar, letting the music and chatter blur into a soft background hum, when someone stepped into your space from the side—close enough that you felt the shift of air before you heard the voice.

“Hey.”

You turned slightly.

One of Lando’s cousins stood there with an easy smile. Will—probably. Or Ben. Honestly, after your fourth drink, all the cousins had started blending into one tall, friendly blur of Norrises.

He offered his hand like you were meeting at a business conference instead of a pre-wedding party. “Will.”

“Y/n,” you replied, shaking it briefly.

He didn’t let go right away.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he said with a small smirk, finally releasing your hand but not stepping back. “You’re kind of the main topic of conversation.”

Your brows lifted, a mix of amusement and mild alarm. “That’s concerning, considering this is Sav and Oliver’s wedding.”

He laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. “Fair point.”

Only then did he give you a little more space—though not much. Just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Relax,” he added, tone light. “It’s all good things.”

You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. “That’s not very reassuring.”

He grinned, hands sliding into his pockets. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. They like you.”

“That’s better,” you said, though you weren’t sure if the warmth in your chest was the alcohol or the words.

Either way, it was nice to hear.

Will’s smile lingered a little longer than it should have, the kind of smile that tried to look casual but didn’t quite land that way.

“You know,” he said, leaning one elbow against the bar so he was angled toward you, “I’m still trying to figure out how someone like you ended up with him.”

You let out a small laugh, swirling what was left of your drink. The ice clinked softly against the glass. “Wow. Straight to insulting him. Nice.”

“I’m not insulting him,” he said quickly, hands lifting in a harmless gesture. “Just… surprised.”

“Because?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though your tone stayed light.

He shrugged, eyes flicking over you in a way that felt a little too assessing. “He’s Lando. And you seem… normal.”

That actually made you snort. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” he said, and this time his gaze lingered a beat too long. “I just mean—you could do better.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward, settling between you like something you didn’t want to touch. You opened your mouth—ready to defend Lando, or correct him, or shut the whole thing down before it got any weirder—

“Hey, babe. Is everything okay?”

Lando’s voice cut cleanly through the moment.

Before you could even turn, his hand slid around your waist, warm and steady, pulling you gently but unmistakably toward him. The movement was instinctive, protective, and just a little too sure of itself.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by how close he suddenly was.

But he didn’t look at you first.

His eyes were locked on Will—calm, unreadable, but with an edge underneath that you hadn’t heard in his voice all night. Or ever.

Will straightened immediately, hands dropping from the bar like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah, just talking.”

Lando hummed once—a low, controlled sound that wasn’t quite agreement. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. Like he had a sharper response sitting on the tip of his tongue and was choosing, very deliberately, not to use it. His jaw tightened for a second before he smoothed it over, the kind of restraint that said more than any raised voice could.

Then he finally looked down at you.

“You okay?”

There was something in his tone—lighter than the look in his eyes, softer than the tension in his shoulders. It was a question meant for you, not for the audience around you. A check‑in, not a performance.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

A small beat passed.

His hand was still at your waist, warm and steady, fingers resting just firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t letting go until you told him to. And without thinking, your own hand had settled against him too, holding on like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Good,” he said simply.

Then his gaze slid back to Will.

“Not sorry, Will,” Lando said, voice calm, almost casual—but with a quiet edge underneath. “I need to talk to my girlfriend.”

The emphasis was subtle, but unmistakable. A line drawn. A boundary set.

Will blinked once, caught between surprise and a laugh he didn’t quite commit to. “Yeah, alright.”

He lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender. “Didn’t mean anything by it, man.”

“Cool,” Lando replied, smooth and final.

No warmth. No invitation to keep talking. Just a clean end to the conversation.

Then, without another word, he guided you away from the bar. His hand stayed firm at your waist, steering you through the garden, past the clusters of people, past the fairy lights and music and noise. You didn’t resist. You didn’t even think about resisting. You just let him lead you, the warmth of his touch grounding you in a way the alcohol never could.

He didn’t loosen his grip once.

Only when you were finally inside the villa—away from the crowd, away from Will, away from the eyes and the noise—did he slow down. His steps eased, his hand softened, and the air between you shifted into something quieter, heavier, waiting.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, the noise of the party vanished like someone had cut the power. No music, no laughter, no clinking glasses—just silence. Thick, heavy, the kind that settled over your skin and made the room feel smaller than it was.

Lando finally let go of your waist, but only so he could turn toward you fully. His movements were sharp, controlled, like he’d been holding something in since the moment he saw you at the bar.

“What was that?” he asked immediately.

You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “What was what?”

“That guy,” he said, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “The way he was talking to you.”

You scoffed, trying to brush it off, trying to keep the moment light. “It’s literally your cousin. He was just talking.”

“He is the biggest idiot of all of them,” Lando shot back, voice low, “and he was not just talking.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed once, shaking your head, trying to defuse the tension. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes,” he said instantly.

And that—more than anything—made you stop.

He wasn’t teasing.

He wasn’t playing the part.

He wasn’t performing for anyone.

He was actually annoyed.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, quieter now, because suddenly the space between you felt charged in a way you didn’t know how to handle.

“I’m not,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no doubt. 

A beat passed—quiet, heavy, stretching just long enough to make your pulse stumble.

Then Lando stepped closer again, closing the space you’d tried to keep between you. His voice dropped, low and rough around the edges. “I didn’t like it.”

Your breath caught, sharp and involuntary.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered, even though the words didn’t come out nearly as steady as you wanted them to.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s fake,” you reminded him, but your voice wavered, softening at the end like even you didn’t fully believe it anymore.

The word fake landed between you like something sharp. Something that should have pushed him back.

It didn’t.

Lando looked at you for a long second—long enough that you felt it everywhere. Like he wanted to argue, like he had a dozen things he wanted to throw back at you, but none of them made it out fast enough.

“Right, fake.” Lando laughed, but it was dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. “You looked like you didn’t want me there,” he said finally, quieter now, but somehow more honest.

The words hit harder than they should have. Harder than you were prepared for.

“I did,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I just didn’t need you to—”

“To what?” he cut in, stepping closer again. “To act like I care?”

Silence.

Thick. Electric. Unavoidable.

Your chest tightened, breath catching somewhere high in your throat.

“Lando…” you warned softly, but it didn’t come out like a warning. It came out like something fragile. Something unsure.

And he was already too close again—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that stepping back didn’t even cross your mind.

This time, you didn’t move at all.

“I care,” he said, and the words were so quiet, so steady, so painfully real that they seemed to settle right under your skin.

That changed everything.

Your breath stuttered, catching somewhere high in your chest. For a moment neither of you moved, like the air between you had turned solid.

Then—

Something in you snapped.

You grabbed the front of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the fabric, and pushed him backward. He didn’t resist. He barely even blinked. He just let you guide him until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he fell onto it with a soft thud, eyes wide, breath unsteady.

You climbed over him before he could say a word.

And kissed him.

Not careful this time. Not soft. Not measured.

This kiss was messy, urgent, horny, full of everything you’d been holding back. No hesitation. No pretending. No audience to perform for. Just heat and frustration and something that had been building for far too long.

Lando’s hands were on you instantly—gripping, grounding, pulling you closer like he needed you right there, right then. His breath was warm against your mouth as he managed a half‑laugh, half‑groan.

“…So that’s how we’re resolving things now?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled against his lips, refusing to pull away.

He did, just barely, just enough to look up at you with that infuriating, familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What happened to rule number two, darling?” he teased, voice low, eyes bright with something that made your pulse jump.

You didn’t even think.

“Fuck rule number two.”

His smile widened—slow, wicked, knowing.

And then he pulled you back down.

────────────

The wedding had been beautiful.

Perfect, actually—the kind of perfect that made your chest ache a little if you thought about it for too long. Everything glowed. The flowers, the lights, the people. Sav looked like she’d stepped out of a dream, and everyone cried at least once. Even you, even though you barely knew half the people in the crowd. Oliver was nervous in a sweet way, stumbling over his vows, and Lando… well. Lando was the prettiest best man anyone had ever seen, all soft smiles and quiet pride, looking like he belonged in every photo taken that day.

But you hadn’t really been thinking about the wedding.

Not the ceremony.

Not the speeches.

Not the dancing.

You’d been thinking about last night.

About the way he’d looked at you.

About the way he’d said I care.

About the way you’d grabbed him, kissed him, lost yourself in something that wasn’t supposed to be real.

Which was exactly why you’d spent the entire day avoiding him.

You kept yourself busy—helping Sav, talking to Flo, pretending to be deeply invested in the seating chart, slipping away whenever you felt his eyes on you. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t graceful. But it was the only thing you could manage, because every time you caught even a glimpse of him, your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the memory of his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his breath against your mouth.

You weren’t ready to face him.

Not yet.

Not when everything inside you still felt unsteady.

So you smiled, you mingled, you clapped during the speeches, you danced when someone pulled you in—but underneath all of it, there was this constant hum in your chest.

A reminder. A question.

And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you could feel him somewhere in the crowd, watching you like he was waiting for you to stop running.

After the ceremony, everyone drifted inside, swept up in dancing and champagne and the kind of joy that filled every corner of the villa. Music echoed off the walls, laughter spilled across the room, and the whole place felt warm and alive in a way that should have pulled you in.

But instead, you found yourself outside, sitting at the edge of the pool with your legs tucked close, staring at the water like it might offer some kind of clarity.

It didn’t.

Obviously.

The surface just rippled gently, reflecting the lights strung above you, turning everything into soft, shifting colors. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful compared to the noise inside. And maybe that was why you stayed out here—because the quiet made it easier to breathe, even if it also made it harder to ignore the thoughts you’d been trying to outrun all day.

You heard footsteps before you saw him.

Of course you did. You always knew when he was close, even when you didn’t want to.

“Here,” Lando’s voice said gently.

You didn’t turn around.

“I brought you water,” he added after a second, like he wasn’t sure if you’d accept it.

A small sigh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Thanks,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder.

He was standing there like he hadn’t been the reason you hadn’t slept properly, eaten properly, or thought about anything else properly since last night. Casual. Too casual. Like he hadn’t been in your head every hour of the day.

He sat down beside you—not too close, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. He placed the bottle next to you instead of handing it over, giving you space you weren’t sure you wanted.

Silence stretched between you.

Comfortable for him.

Unbearable for you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, eyes still on the water. “You have.”

And there it was—the thing you’d been trying so hard not to face.

You kept your eyes on the pool, tracing the slow, gentle movement of light across the surface. The water shimmered in soft blues and golds, shifting every time the breeze touched it. It was easier to look at that than at him. Easier to pretend you were calm. Easier to pretend you weren’t unraveling a little.

“…I’m not avoiding you,” you said finally, though the words felt thin, like they didn’t quite hold their own weight.

Lando let out a quiet breath—one of those soft, almost-sighs that told you he didn’t believe you but wasn’t ready to push too hard. Not yet. He sat there with his hands loosely clasped, shoulders relaxed, but there was something in the way he watched the water that gave him away. He was waiting. He was listening.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Then what are you doing?”

The question landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallowed, eyes still fixed on the ripples in front of you.

“Thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he muttered under his breath.

Despite everything—despite the tension, despite the nerves, despite the way your heart had been doing somersaults since last night—your lips twitched. Just a little. Just enough to betray you.

Another pause stretched between you. Not the comfortable kind from earlier. This one felt more honest, more fragile, like the air between you had thinned and you were both trying not to break it.

You hugged your knees closer, pulling them tight to your chest. “I just… didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

That made him turn his head toward you. Slowly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t sure what you were about to say but knew it mattered.

“Like what?”

You hesitated, because there were too many answers. Too many feelings you didn’t have names for yet. Too many moments from last night still echoing in your head.

“Complicated,” you said at last, the word slipping out on a breath.

A beat passed.

Then he nodded, slow and thoughtful, like that made sense to him too. Like he’d been carrying the same word around all day.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Same.”

It was full of everything neither of you were saying out loud—heavy, warm, impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that pressed against your ribs and made your pulse feel too loud in your own ears.

You picked at the hem of your sleeve, eyes still on the water. “We were supposed to be fake dating,” you said quietly, almost like saying it again might rewind everything, might pull you both back to the safe version of this. The version with rules. The version where your heart wasn’t involved.

Lando let out a short laugh—soft, breathless, almost disbelieving. “We were really bad at that.”

The corner of your mouth lifted before you could stop it. A small smile, but a real one.

“…Yeah,” you admitted.

Another pause settled between you, heavier this time, like the night itself was leaning in to listen.

Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement through the air. “Do you regret it?” he asked again, but this time his voice was quieter, stripped of all the bravado he usually carried so easily.

You frowned a little, turning your head toward him. “What?”

He hesitated—actually hesitated—and that alone made something tighten low in your stomach. Lando never hesitated. Not with you. Not with anyone.

“You know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a second. “Last night. Us. Sleeping together.”

Oh.

Right.

Your fingers went still against your sleeve. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, to the way he was looking at you now—no smirk, no teasing, no easy confidence. Just Lando. Waiting. The real version of him, the one he didn’t show to many people.

You looked at him properly then, really looked, and your breath came out slower than you expected.

“I don’t think I do,” you said quietly.

A beat passed, soft and fragile.

Then, even softer—almost like you were testing the truth of it as you spoke—

“I don’t think I regret it at all.”

The words hung there between you, warm and terrifying and honest.

Lando looked at you for a second longer than usual, like he was trying to read the truth behind your words, trying to see if you meant it the same way he did. Something in his expression softened—barely, but enough.

“Same,” he said quietly.

A beat passed, stretching out between you like a held breath.

You let out a nervous exhale, trying to steady whatever was spinning too fast inside your chest. “Let’s not break rule number three, Lando,” you said, aiming for lightness, but your voice didn’t quite make it there.

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t turn into a smile. Not really. “You’re making it very hard,” he admitted.

That made you glance at him again, your pulse skipping. “Hard how?” you asked, careful, cautious, like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.

Lando exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the water before lifting back to you. “Pretending this is just… nothing,” he said. “Pretending it was just a mistake we can laugh off in the morning.”

Silence settled over you—thick, heavy, honest. The villa noise felt distant now, like it belonged to another world entirely.

You swallowed. “We agreed on no falling in love.”

He let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then he shook his head slightly, like he was frustrated with himself, like he’d been fighting something he’d already lost. “That rule’s kind of pointless now,” he said softly.

Your breath caught.

“Lando—”

But he didn’t let you finish.

He turned toward you fully, closer than before, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him even with the space still between you. His voice was quieter now, but steady in a way that made your heart stutter.

“I think I’m already there,” he said.

Everything in you stopped.

The pool light rippled across his face, catching in his eyes, making them look impossibly open, impossibly vulnerable. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or bravado. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t pretending.

He was just telling you the truth.

And then, like it was the simplest thing in the world—even though you could hear the fear tucked beneath it—

“I love you,” he added.

The words hung in the air between you like they had weight.

I love you.

No jokes followed.

No smirk.

No quick escape route disguised as humor.

Just silence.

Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, like your body was trying to catch up to what he’d just said. You searched his face, hoping—maybe—that you’d find some hint of exaggeration, some playful twist you could latch onto and turn this into something lighter. Something easier to handle.

But there wasn’t anything like that.

Lando didn’t look away.

He just waited.

And for once, he didn’t look like he was performing anything at all. He looked real. Open. A little scared. A lot sincere.

Your throat tightened.

“I—” you started, but the word broke apart before you could finish it. You let out a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of the way everything inside you felt like it was shifting at once.

This was supposed to be fake.

This was supposed to be simple.

This was supposed to be safe.

You swallowed hard.

“I didn’t plan for this,” you admitted quietly, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.

A small, almost sad smile flickered across his face. “Neither did I.”

Something in your chest loosened at that—just a little, just enough to breathe again. You looked back at the water, watching the lights ripple across the surface, but it didn’t help. It didn’t make anything clearer.

Because the truth wasn’t complicated.

It was just terrifying.

“…I think I do too,” you said finally, the words soft but steady.

Lando went completely still.

You turned your head toward him again, your voice gentler now, more certain even if your hands weren’t. “I think I’ve been trying not to say it all day,” you added. A breath. “Probably longer than that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.

It felt different.

Settled.

Like something had finally clicked into place.

Lando exhaled slowly, almost like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until that moment. “Yeah?” he asked quietly.

You gave a small, nervous nod. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

Then he let out a soft laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe either of you. “We are so bad at rules.”

That pulled a laugh out of you too—quiet, shaky, but real. You wiped at your face quickly, as if that would fix anything, as if that would make you feel less exposed.

“Awful at them,” you agreed, laughing.

© verstarris 2026

babsie radio ! heyy….. how are you….long time no see….sorry if this is bad, i tried to overcome my writers block somehow… also I (re)discovered bella kay’s iloveitiloveitiloveit and sombr’s canal street so im in mood for some angst….

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “Nope. He said, and I quote, ‘I can promise you…’” You mimicked Lando’s voice, just enough to make Kimi snort.

“Oh, so we’re making promises now?” he teased, smirking as he nudged your arm with his elbow.

“Definitely not,” you said, too quickly. “He’s the last person I’d promise anything to.”

It was a lie. Or at least, not the whole truth. Because your heart stuttered for just a second, a quiet flicker of guilt slipping through. You had promised him something. Just a few hours ago. In the middle of that strange, quiet moment on the court. You’d said you’d tell him if it got worse. You’d meant it, too.

But you didn’t say any of that. You just kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, pretending the weight in your chest was just nerves.

You reached the locker room door a few minutes later than planned, your steps slowing as you got closer. You could already feel the tension waiting for you on the other side, thick and familiar, like a coat you didn’t want to put on but knew you had to. Lando, Zak—the duo of your nightmares—and Toto were supposed to already be inside. You could picture them clearly: Zak pacing, checking his watch; Toto with that unreadable expression that somehow made you feel both ten years old and entirely replaceable; and Lando… well, Lando would probably be lounging somewhere, pretending not to care, but watching everything.

You stopped just short of the door, heart thudding a little harder than you wanted to admit. Kimi stood beside you, calm as ever, his presence grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed until now.

“Thanks for walking me,” you said, offering him a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Always,” he replied, pulling you into a quick hug. “I’ll be in the player box. Good luck.”

You stepped back, exhaling. “I’ll need it.”

You were just about to turn the handle when his voice stopped you.

“And Y/n…” he said, voice light but pointed, like he was aiming just beneath the surface. “Try not to kill Lando. You’ll need him sooner or later.”

You froze, hand still on the door. A smirk tugged at your lips, automatic and dismissive. “Need him?” you echoed, scoffing under your breath. “Yeah, that’s… not happening.”

But the words didn’t land the way you wanted them to. They felt hollow, like something you were supposed to say, not something you believed. Because the second they left your mouth, something in your chest shifted. A flicker of doubt. A whisper of something you didn’t want to name.

Or…?

You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, but it clung to you. Quiet and stubborn. The kind of thought that didn’t go away just because you told it to. You didn’t need anyone. You’d built your whole career on that. On being the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t fold, didn’t ask for help. Especially not from Lando Norris.

And yet, something about last night—about the way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you like he actually saw you—had left a mark. Small, but there.

You twisted the handle and stepped inside, the cool air of the locker room wrapping around you like a familiar chill. The tension hit you instantly, settling over your shoulders like armor. You straightened your spine, lifted your chin, and walked in like you belonged there.

But Kimi’s words still echoed in your mind.

You’ll need him sooner or later.

You stepped into the locker room and spotted them right away—Lando, Toto, and Zak—huddled in a tight little circle like they were planning a military operation. The sight made your stomach twist, just a little. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or habit. Probably both. They looked up as you entered, and for a second, the room felt too quiet, too expectant.

“Sorry,” you said, dropping your bag with a soft thud. “You know Kimi’s haircare routine.”

You glanced at Toto as you said it, letting the joke land with just enough bite to make your point. A jab, but a gentle one. A reminder that you still had some fire left in you.

Toto let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “That boy is definitely my kid.”

“For real,” Lando added, grinning as he leaned back against the bench. “I need to know what shampoo you use, Toto. That shine doesn’t just happen.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Just a little. The sound surprised even you. You had a match ahead, adrenaline already humming beneath your skin, your thoughts a mess of strategy and pressure and what-ifs. And yet here they were, talking about shampoo like it was the most important thing in the world. It was ridiculous. But somehow, it helped. It made the room feel less sharp, less like a battlefield. 

Toto raised an eyebrow at Lando, his voice dry. “Win this match, and I’ll tell you.”

Lando’s grin widened, cocky and boyish all at once. “Deal.”

And just like that, the tension in the room shifted. Not gone, but softened. You took a breath, steadier now, and started to lace up your shoes.

“Right,” you muttered under your breath, not really expecting anyone to hear. “Shampoo secrets on the line. No pressure or anything.”

Lando caught it anyway. Of course he did. He glanced over, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Hey, motivation comes in many forms.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. It was ridiculous. All of it. But somehow, the banter helped. It made the room feel a little less sharp, a little less like it was closing in around you.

Zak clapped his hands once, loud enough to pull everyone back to the moment. “Alright, jokes aside. Focus up. This is still a match.”

The shift in energy was instant. You straightened a little, finishing the last loop of tape around your wrist. Toto stepped closer, his voice dropping into that calm, steady tone you’d known your whole career. The one that always made you feel like you were ten seconds away from either a lecture or a pep talk.

“Remember what we worked on,” he said. “Short points. Clear calls. And—” his eyes moved between you and Lando, steady and pointed—“trust.”

You nodded, but your throat felt tight. That word. Trust. It landed harder than you expected. You’d spent so long building walls, keeping people at arm’s length, doing everything on your own. Trust wasn’t something you gave easily. Not anymore. And definitely not to someone like Lando. But here you were, about to step onto the court with him, your name tied to his, your game tangled with his choices.

You swallowed, pushing the thought down. You didn’t have time to overthink it. Not now. You just had to play.

“Five minutes,” Zak said, his voice sharp but not unkind, the kind of tone that snapped you to attention without needing to raise the volume. Then he and Toto turned and left, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that made your stomach twist. And just like that, it was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that settled heavy in the room, thick like fog, pressing in around the edges. You could hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, the soft creak of your shoes as you shifted your weight, but nothing else. Just you and Lando. Alone.

You didn’t look at him. Not at first. You were too busy trying to keep your breathing steady, too busy pretending that your heart wasn’t already racing. You’d been in locker rooms like this a hundred times before, but this felt different. This wasn’t just another match. This was your match. And he was your partner. Whether you liked it or not.

“Trust me, yeah?” Lando said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. You looked up, startled, and found his eyes already on you—steady, serious, not teasing for once. “You can trust me, Y/n.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice, by the way he said your name like it meant something. Trust him? After everything? After the years of rivalry, the arguments, the sarcastic jabs that always hit just a little too close to home? It felt impossible. Or maybe just… unfamiliar.

“I… I don’t know,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice was low, almost too quiet, but it still gave you away. The flutter in your chest. The doubt. The fear of letting someone in, even for a moment.

Lando stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His voice dropped, softer now. “Look, I know we’re… complicated. But today, on that court? You and me? We’re a team. Just for the match.”

You looked at him then, really looked. And for a second, you saw something in his face that made your chest ache. Not arrogance. Not amusement. Just honesty. Maybe even hope.

Your fingers tightened around your racket. You told yourself it was just nerves. Just adrenaline. Just the weight of the moment pressing down. You nodded slowly, the motion small but certain. “Okay,” you said. “Just for the match.”

A flicker of a smile crossed his lips—quick, quiet, but real. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You wanted to say something—anything. Maybe argue, maybe agree. You weren’t even sure which one scared you more. The idea of pushing him away, or the possibility of letting him in. Both felt dangerous in their own way.

Your mouth parted slightly, a breath catching in your throat, stuck somewhere between thought and feeling. But before you could find the words—

“Y/n Y/l/n and Lando Norris versus Carmen Mundt and George Russell.”

The announcement rang out through the locker room speakers, loud and final, slicing through the silence like a bell toll. That was it. No more time. No more space to think or hesitate. The moment had arrived.

Lando moved first. The shift in him was instant—like someone had flipped a switch. His posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and the easy grin he’d worn just moments ago was gone. He reached for his racket, fingers curling around the grip with practiced ease, then paused. His eyes found yours.

“That’s us,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

Your heart kicked hard in your chest, a sharp, sudden rhythm that made your breath catch again. This was it. The first mixed doubles match. The one everyone had been whispering about, dissecting, judging before you’d even stepped onto the court. You could already hear the headlines forming, the commentary waiting to pounce on every glance, every mistake.

You nodded once, trying to steady yourself. “Let’s go.”

Side by side, you walked toward the tunnel, the sound of the crowd growing louder with every step. What started as a low hum quickly swelled into a roar, the kind that vibrated through your bones and made your skin prickle. Your knee gave a small, familiar twinge, and your stomach twisted in on itself, nerves tangling with adrenaline. Your thoughts spun fast—too fast—but beneath the chaos, something else began to rise.

Focus.

At the edge of the court, just before the light spilled over you, Lando leaned in. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his voice was only for you.

“Remember,” he said, quiet and firm. “Mine. Yours. We talk.”

You turned to him, meeting his eyes. There was no sarcasm there. No teasing. Just determination. Just a kind of quiet promise.

You nodded, the noise of the crowd fading for a moment. “Yeah,” you said. “We talk.”

And then you stepped into the light.

You and Lando stepped onto the court side by side, the world opening up around you in a rush of light and sound. Rod Laver Arena stretched wide and bright, the stands packed, the crowd already roaring, banners fluttering high above like restless birds. It felt surreal—too big, too loud, too much. Like you were walking into a dream you hadn’t quite agreed to have.

You bounced on your toes, trying to shake the nerves loose, rolling your shoulders to ease the tightness that had settled there hours ago. Your knee ached, a dull, familiar pull that reminded you of everything you were carrying. The pressure pressed into your spine, heavy and invisible, but impossible to ignore.

Across the net, Carmen and George stood close, already talking, already nodding in sync. Calm. Collected. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. Of course they had. Of course they looked like they belonged here.

The warm-up passed in a blur. You hit the ball, moved your feet, went through the motions, but nothing felt quite right. Your timing was off by a breath. Lando’s footwork was a half-step behind. You were close enough to function, but not close enough to feel safe. Not yet.

“Ready?” Lando murmured beside you, voice low and steady.

You nodded, though your stomach was twisting. “Let’s just… survive the first game.”

He snorted, a soft huff of amusement. “Comforting.”

And then it began.

George stepped up to the line, calm as ever, and served. Clean. Fast. Right down the T. You barely got your racket on it, the ball skimming off the frame. Carmen was already at the net, sharp and precise, putting the point away before you could even react.

15–0.

You exhaled, jaw tight.

“Shake it off,” Lando said, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was clipped. Focused. Like he was already moving on.

You nodded again, trying to do the same. But your heart was pounding, your thoughts racing, and the court suddenly felt a lot bigger than it had just seconds ago.

The next rally dragged on, long and brutal, the kind that made your lungs burn and your legs feel like they were moving through water. You chased everything—wide balls, low slices, impossible angles—gritting your teeth as Carmen sent shot after shot cross-court, each one sharper than the last. George hovered at the net like a shadow, ready to pounce on anything loose. You were holding your own, barely, until you called “Mine” a second too late. Lando hesitated. The ball dropped between you, untouched.

30–0.

The crowd let out a low hum, the kind that wasn’t quite disappointment, but wasn’t impressed either. Curious. Watching. Waiting to see if this was the beginning of the end.

You fought your way back to deuce, but it didn’t feel like a win. Your pulse was racing, not from adrenaline, but from frustration. From the way your body wasn’t moving the way you needed it to. From the way every point felt like a battle you weren’t sure you could keep winning.

“Yours!” Lando shouted as the next return came flying in.

You lunged, slicing the ball just over the net. It was too soft. You knew it the second it left your strings. Carmen didn’t hesitate—she stepped in and crushed it.

Break point.

You swore under your breath, chest heaving.

The next point was chaos. You dropped back to cover the baseline, Lando darted forward to the net, and for a few frantic seconds, it was just movement and noise—feet skidding, voices overlapping, the ball a blur. You nearly collided with Lando once, both of you reaching for the same shot, both pulling back at the last second. And then, somehow, you found the angle. You ripped a forehand down the line, clean and fast, and it landed just inside the corner.

Deuce.

Lando turned, breathless, sweat clinging to his hairline. He looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Okay,” he said, voice rough. “That was hot.”

“Focus,” you snapped, but your lips betrayed you, twitching at the edges.

You held serve. Barely. Every point felt like a cliff edge, but you didn’t fall. Not yet.

The set dragged on, game for game, point for point. No rhythm. No comfort. Just survival. You weren’t playing to win—you were playing not to lose. And somehow, that was worse.

At 4–4, everything nearly unraveled.

Mid-rally, your knee gave a sharp, sudden twinge. Just a flash of pain, but enough to throw you off. Your breath caught. Your step faltered. You were late to the ball, and George saw it instantly. He didn’t hesitate—angled his return wide, out of your reach before you could even recover.

“Sorry,” you gasped, still bent over, trying to breathe through the sting.

Lando shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to your leg. “Don’t apologize,” he said, voice low but firm. “Call it if you need.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. You didn’t want to call it. Not yet. But the pain was there now, humming beneath your skin like a warning.

At 5–5, something shifted. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was different. The rhythm between you and Lando, once jagged and uncertain, started to settle into something steadier. Not easy, but clearer. You called “Mine” early, your voice strong. Lando answered without missing a beat—“Switch”—and you moved like you’d done this a hundred times before, not just for a few days. You covered for each other. You trusted each other. Not completely. Not yet. But enough.

At 6–5, you stepped up to serve.

Set point.

Your hands trembled as you bounced the ball. Once. Twice. Three times. The noise of the crowd faded into a low hum, your heartbeat louder than anything else. You took a breath, tossed the ball, and served down the middle.

Lando moved fast, closing the net in a blur. George got a racket on it, sending the ball high, floating just enough to make the world slow down.

“Mine!” Lando shouted.

He leapt, body twisting midair, and smashed the ball with everything he had.

It hit the line.

In.

The umpire called it. The crowd erupted, a wall of sound crashing over you.

First set: 7–5.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine. The adrenaline was still rushing through you, but underneath it was something else—disbelief. You’d won. Somehow. Barely. Messily. On the edge of collapse. But it counted. It was real.

You turned toward Lando, still trying to catch your breath.

He was already looking at you. Grinning, flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline and something else—something dangerously close to pride. Not the smug kind. The real kind. The kind that made your chest ache a little.

“Told you,” he said softly. “Trust me.”

You swallowed, throat tight. The word still scared you. Still felt too big. Too risky.

But maybe—just maybe—you could.

The second set didn’t give you a moment to breathe. It came at you fast, relentless, like the match had decided it was done waiting for you to catch up. Carmen adjusted almost instantly—cutting off angles, stepping in early, poaching like she could see your shots before you hit them. George found his rhythm on serve, each ace landing with brutal precision, stacking up like some kind of cruel joke. And just like that, the balance tipped. You were no longer playing to win—you were trying not to fall behind.

Your knee twinged again. Sharp. Unforgiving. A warning you didn’t have time to listen to.

So you didn’t.

You did what you always did. You hid it. You pushed through. You told yourself it wasn’t that bad. That you could handle it. That it would pass.

But the cracks started to show. A missed return. A late step. One ball you should’ve reached but didn’t. You felt it all slipping, just a little, just enough.

“Sorry,” you muttered, barely loud enough for Lando to hear.

“It’s fine,” he said, but his voice was tighter now. Less patient. Less sure.

The unforced errors crept in like shadows—quiet, but impossible to ignore. The crowd shifted, the energy changing, the hum of anticipation turning into something more uncertain. They could feel it too. The momentum swinging. The match tilting.

At 3–4, you stepped up to serve and double-faulted. The second ball sailed long, and the frustration hit you like a wave. Hot. Immediate. You clenched your jaw, blinking hard, trying to keep it together.

“Shake it off,” Lando said quickly, his voice sharp with urgency.

You nodded, even though your hands were shaking. You tried. God, you tried. You told yourself to reset, to breathe, to fight. But your body wasn’t listening the way it had in the first set. Your mind was loud, scattered, full of doubt.

Carmen ended the set with a clean volley winner, her timing perfect, her swing effortless. George’s fist pump was sharp and certain, and it said everything you didn’t want to hear.

Second set: 4–6.

You stood there, staring at the court, sweat dripping from your chin, your heart pounding in your ears. The match was even now. One set all.

You walked to the baseline with your racket in hand and your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. The crowd was still loud—cheering, clapping, calling your name—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater. The only thing you could really hear was the pounding in your head, each thud echoing behind your eyes. You bent forward slightly, hands braced on your knees, trying to breathe through it. In. Out. Slow. Steady. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. Just the moment. Just the weight of everything pressing down at once.

Lando’s voice cut through the fog, quiet but close. “You good?”

You looked up. He was watching you, his expression softer than you expected. Not teasing. Not annoyed. Just… concerned. And that, somehow, made it worse.

You straightened immediately, forcing your spine tall, your chin high. You didn’t want him to see it. The crack in your focus. The ache in your knee. The fear curling low in your stomach.

“Yeah,” you said, the word sharp and automatic. “I’m fine.”

It came out too fast. Too easy. A reflex you’d learned a long time ago.

The lie sat on your tongue like something bitter. Familiar. And dangerous.

But you didn’t take it back.

The bench felt harder this time. Less like a place to rest and more like a spotlight. You dropped down beside Lando, chest rising and falling too fast, sweat dripping down your temples and soaking into your collar. The scoreboard loomed ahead—one set all—and the numbers felt like a judgment. The crowd was still buzzing, but the sound had blurred into a dull roar, like your ears had stopped letting it all in. You were too aware of your body. The ache in your legs. The tightness in your chest. The sharp, pulsing throb in your knee that you were trying so hard to ignore.

Zak stepped forward, arms crossed tight, his expression unreadable but his tone anything but.

“That second set was messy,” he said, eyes locked on you. “Too many missed returns. You hesitated at the net, and it cost you games.”

Your jaw clenched. Of course. Of course it was you. You felt the heat rise in your face, not from the match, but from the sting of being called out like that. In front of Lando. In front of Toto. In front of yourself.

“I didn’t hesitate,” you snapped, the words out before you could soften them. “Russell kept targeting the middle, and—”

“And you let him,” Zak cut in, voice sharper now. “Mixed doubles doesn’t forgive indecision.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to defend yourself, to say something—anything—but Lando beat you to it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but firm.

“That’s not fair,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “They were reading me, not her. I was late on two switches. That’s on us, not just Y/n.”

Zak’s eyebrows lifted, surprised. “You’re really going to pretend her forehand didn’t drop off that set?”

Before you could even react, Toto stepped in. His voice was calm, but there was steel underneath it. “Keep my kid’s name out of your fucking mouth, Brown. She carried the first set on her serve games. You don’t erase that because the second slipped.”

You stared down at your shoes, throat tight, heart pounding. The words hit you like a wave—Toto’s defense, Lando’s too—and you didn’t know what to do with them. Anger still burned in your chest, but now it was tangled with something else. Embarrassment. Doubt. A flicker of something that felt dangerously close to shame. Your knee throbbed again, a sharp reminder of everything you were trying to push through. You didn’t want to be the weak link. You didn’t want to be the reason things fell apart.

But for the first time in a long time, someone had stepped in before you had to defend yourself.

And that… that was new.

The third set didn’t ease you in. It came at you like a storm—fast, loud, and unforgiving. Every point felt like a war, the ball flying back and forth with brutal speed, no room for error, no space to breathe. Your muscles screamed with every sprint, every lunge. Your lungs burned. The crowd roared around you, but it all faded into a distant hum. None of it mattered. Not the noise, not the cameras, not the stakes. It was just you and Lando now, locked into something sharp and desperate and strangely in sync.

“Back!” you shouted as Carmen sent a blistering cross-court shot toward Lando.

“I’ve got it!” he yelled, diving low, barely getting his racket under the ball. “Mine!”

“Too late, Norris!” you snapped, breathless, but he just rolled his eyes, grinning despite the sweat dripping down his face.

“You called it first!” he shot back, voice light even as his chest heaved.

You groaned, but there was no time to argue. The next rally started before you could blink, each shot more frantic than the last. You chased a wild drop shot, lunging forward and barely managing to flick it over the net. Lando was already moving, already there, slamming the return with perfect timing.

The scoreboard blinked—5–5.

You bent over slightly, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. Lando glanced at you, his face flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“This is it,” he panted. “We either break them now or we’re in trouble.”

You nodded, jaw tight. “Let’s do it.”

The next few games stretched you thin. Every serve was a test of nerve. Every return felt like a gamble. You played with your whole body, your whole heart, every instinct screaming to hold on just a little longer. Your knee throbbed, your hands ached, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not now.

And then—match point.

Carmen stepped up to serve, her expression unreadable. The ball flew fast. George moved in, ready to finish it. But you saw it coming. You moved before you could think, sprinting across the baseline, your shoes skidding against the court.

“Mine!” you shouted, throwing yourself into a backhand, slicing it low and fast across the net.

Lando read it perfectly. He cut in, sharp and sure, and smashed the volley across the court with everything he had.

The ball hit the line.

Silence.

Then the umpire’s call.

In.

The crowd exploded, a wave of sound crashing over you, wild and electric.

You stood frozen for a second, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine. You couldn’t quite believe it. You’d won. Somehow. Against the odds. Against the pain. Against the fear.

You turned toward Lando.

He was already looking at you—grinning, breathless, eyes shining with something fierce and proud and real.

And in that moment, it didn’t feel like just a win.

It felt like something had shifted.

“WE FUCKING DID IT!” Lando shouted, his voice cutting through the noise as he sprinted toward you, eyes wide, grin stretched across his face. You had just dropped onto the bench, legs shaking, chest still rising and falling too fast. Your whole body felt like it had been wrung out—sore, soaked in sweat, buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You couldn’t even think straight. The match was over. You’d won. Somehow. And now Lando was in front of you, practically vibrating with joy, like he couldn’t hold it all in.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Barely, Norris. Barely…”

He dropped down beside you, still grinning like a maniac. “Barely my ass! You were perfect!”

The words hit you harder than you expected. Not because they were loud or dramatic, but because they were so sure. So easy for him to say. Like he meant it. Like he’d seen something in you that you hadn’t let yourself believe in for most of the match. You looked at him, really looked—his hair damp, his shirt clinging to his back, his eyes still bright with the rush of it all—and something in you shifted.

Not a big shift. Not a crash or a fall. Just a quiet click, like a door unlocking somewhere deep inside.

“So were you,” you said, the words soft but steady.

And for once, you didn’t feel like you were lying.

────────────

Lily and Oscar had insisted you come out, and honestly, you hadn’t had the energy to argue. So here you were, tucked into a booth at some lively bar in the center of Melbourne, the kind of place that buzzed with music and laughter and the low hum of people trying to forget the day. The lights were soft and golden, casting everything in a warm blur, and the air smelled like citrus and sweat and something sweet you couldn’t quite place. You weren’t sure if you were actually in the mood to celebrate, but you were here, drink in hand, trying to let the noise fill the spaces your thoughts kept slipping into.

“First round’s on Oscar,” Lily said with a grin, nudging her boyfriend and raising her glass. “You two deserve it after today.”

Oscar laughed, easy and warm, and looked between you and Lando. “Seriously, you two were insane out there.”

You gave a small, flat laugh, swirling your drink in slow circles. The ice clinked against the glass, and you watched it spin, not quite ready to meet anyone’s eyes. “It went worse than I expected,” you said, voice low.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Everyone else saw the win. The score. The final point. But you saw the cracks. The missed returns. The moments you hesitated. The pain in your knee you hadn’t mentioned. You always saw the mistakes first, the places where you could’ve done better. It was how you’d survived this long—by never letting yourself get too comfortable. By always looking for what needed fixing.

Lando leaned in a little, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you, his voice cutting through the noise. “C’mon, Y/n,” he said, teasing but steady. “We won. That’s what matters.”

You looked at him then, and for a second, you let yourself believe it. That maybe, just for tonight, it was okay to stop picking everything apart. To sit in the win. To let yourself feel proud.

Even if it still felt a little too big. A little too good.

“Gonna be right back,” you said with a small smile, already sliding out of the booth before anyone could stop you. Lily gave you a quick nod, Oscar didn’t even look up from his drink, and Lando—well, you didn’t check. You just needed air. A moment. A break from the noise and the lights and the way everyone kept looking at you like you were supposed to be glowing with joy. 

You loved them, truly. Lily’s warmth, Oscar’s quiet steadiness. But lately, it felt like there was never any room to just… be. It was always something. Training with Lando. Strategy meetings with Toto. Checking in on Kimi. Smiling when you were tired. Nodding when you wanted to scream. Always on. Always expected to be fine.

The bathroom was quiet, thank God. The music from the bar was muffled by the walls, the bass just a dull thump beneath the silence. You moved slowly, letting your hands rest under the cool water longer than necessary, watching the droplets slide down your fingers like they might carry some of the weight away. When you finally looked up, your reflection startled you. Not because it was unfamiliar, but because it was too familiar. The tired eyes. The tight jaw. The way your shoulders curved inward like you were bracing for something. You’d won today. You were supposed to feel proud. But all you felt was worn out. Like the victory had taken more than it gave.

And then—

“Didn’t think you were the celebrating type.”

You froze.

That voice. That tone. That timing.

Of course.

You turned slowly, already knowing what you’d see. Max, leaning against the wall near the sinks like he belonged there. Arms crossed, posture relaxed, that same infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like he’d been waiting. Like he always knew exactly where to find you, even when you didn’t want to be found.

You let out a short, dry laugh, shaking your head as you turned back to the mirror. “Oh God…” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

Because of course he was here. Of course he’d show up now, when your guard was down and your chest still ached from the match. Because that was the thing about Max—he always left first, always walked away before you could, and yet somehow, he still managed to be everywhere you were. Like a shadow you couldn’t quite outrun.

And now he was here. Watching you. Smiling like he knew something you didn’t.

“I’m not God, I’m Max,” he said, smirking like it was the cleverest thing anyone had ever said. His voice was too loud for the quiet of the bathroom, too casual for the way your chest had just tightened. He probably had five shots in him already—his words loose, his posture easy, like none of this mattered.

You didn’t even try to hide the eye roll. “Well, you do have an insane God complex, so—”

He held up a hand, cutting you off before you could finish. “Relax,” he said, the smirk softening just enough to make you want to hit something. “I’m not here to ruin your night.”

You let out a breath of laughter, sharp and humorless. “Funny,” you said, your voice low and flat. “That seems to be your specialty lately.”

He flinched—barely—but you saw it. Just a flicker. And then it was gone, buried under that same old mask of charm and deflection.

“Look,” he started, his tone shifting, trying for something gentler. “You’ve got every right to be mad at me, but—”

But.

That word stopped you cold. You didn’t want to hear what came after it. You didn’t want the excuses, the explanations, the half-hearted apologies wrapped in justifications. You didn’t want him to make it make sense. Because it didn’t. Not to you.

“Please,” you said, stepping closer, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. The irony in your tone was impossible to miss. “Just… be quiet.”

“Just wanted to say congratulations,” he called after you, voice echoing slightly in the tiled quiet.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. You didn’t want his congratulations—not when they came too late, not when they came wrapped in everything he hadn’t said before.

“Mhm.” It slipped out, flat and cold, the only thing you could manage. Not an answer. Not forgiveness. Just a sound to fill the space between you.

You kept walking, your steps steady, your jaw tight. No glance back. No softening. Just the door swinging open and the sharp, final sound of it closing behind you.

You slid back into the booth, trying to make your body look relaxed even though your chest still felt tight. Lily’s eyes found yours the second you sat down—sharp, knowing, like she could read the shift in your energy before you’d even opened your mouth. How did she always know? Even when you didn’t?

“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice low, careful.

“Yeah,” you said too fast, the word brittle on your tongue. You forced a smile, hoping it would be enough to make her drop it. You didn’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not now.

You tried to tune back into the conversation—something about fast cars, maybe a story from Oscar about a near miss in practice—but the words blurred together, your mind still stuck in the quiet of the bathroom, the echo of Max’s voice, the way it always managed to find you.

And then, like clockwork, it did again.

“…and Y/l/n? She’s completely overrated. Norris carried her today,” Max said, loud enough to cut through the hum of the bar, his voice thick with drink and ego. He laughed, like it was a joke, like it didn’t matter.

Of course. Of course he couldn’t help himself. Always had a mouth full of shit, always knew exactly where to aim it.

You felt Oscar shift beside you. “Y/n, ignore him—” he started, but you were already moving.

You turned your head, slow and deliberate, your voice slicing through the table’s chatter like a blade. “Excuse me, Max?” you said, sharp and clear. “Can you please repeat what you just said?”

The table went quiet. Even the music seemed to dull for a second.

“I said what everyone thinks,” Max shot back, his voice steady, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to flinch. “You’d be screwed if Norris wasn’t covering your ass.”

The words hit like a slap, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you leaned back slightly, letting the sarcasm drip from your lips like something sharp and sweet. “Brave words from someone who brags about being undefeated and only wins by a single point.”

You didn’t have to say his name. Everyone at the table knew you were talking about Leclerc. You hadn’t even watched the match—Kimi had mentioned it in passing, a quiet comment over breakfast—but it was enough. Enough to know Max had barely scraped by. Enough to know he hated being reminded of it.

“Oh, please,” Max scoffed, already gearing up. “You wanna talk about winning only b—”

“Shut the fuck up, Max.” Lando’s voice cut through the table like a blade—sharp, controlled, and louder than anyone expected. “Nobody wants to hear this nonsense all day.”

You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected him to step in. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so clean.

Max turned to him, sneering. “Oh, suddenly you’re defending her?”

Lando didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and even. “I’m just calling out a cocky asshole when I see one,” he said. “And that’s definitely you.”

“I need air.” The words left your mouth before you’d fully registered them, your body already in motion, pushing back from the table, weaving through the crowd. You didn’t wait for anyone to follow. You didn’t want them to. The noise of the bar pressed in from all sides—music too loud, lights too bright, laughter too sharp. It was all too much.

Jesus Christ. One night. That’s all you’d wanted. One night to breathe, to feel normal, to celebrate something that had actually gone right. But no. Max always found a way to be there, to twist the knife with that smug little smile and his voice full of poison. You were starting to believe that even if you flew to Perth, found the most obscure bar in the city, he’d still be there—leaning against the wall, drink in hand, ready to ruin your peace.

You were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the noise behind you.

“Why are you defending her, Norris? I thought you hated her. You told me that.”

You stopped, just for a second. Not because you cared what Max thought, but because you wanted to hear what Lando would say.

He didn’t even pause. “Pff, c’mon,” he said, voice casual, almost bored. “That was three years ago.”

You rolled your eyes, a bitter laugh catching in your throat as you pushed the door open. The cool night air hit your face like a slap, sharp and grounding.

Some things never changed.

And some things—maybe—did.

The cool Melbourne night hit you like a wall of relief the second you stepped outside. The air was crisp, quiet, and for a moment, it felt like you could finally breathe again. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because you were cold, but because everything inside you felt too loud. The bar, the voices, Max’s smugness, the way your chest still hadn’t unclenched—it was all too much. You just needed a second. Just one second without someone needing something from you.

But the door swung open behind you, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Lando’s footsteps were quick, his cap pulled low, his eyes already locked on you as he jogged to catch up.

“You’re really gonna walk away after that?” he called, his voice carrying easily in the stillness of the street.

You didn’t slow down. “I can’t deal with this right now,” you snapped, your pace quick and uneven. “With him, with you, with all of it. I need space!”

Lando didn’t back off. If anything, he moved closer, his voice firmer now. “You’re not gonna get anywhere running from me. You think I’m defending you for fun?”

You stopped so suddenly he nearly ran into you. Spinning around, you planted your hands on your hips, your breath coming fast. “Then why?” you demanded. “Why do you care what he says? You never cared before!”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For a second, he looked like he might actually walk away. But then he let out a breath, shrugged slightly, and said, “Because I…” His voice was quieter now, less sure. “I just can’t let him talk like that about you.”

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything you weren’t saying. Part of you wanted to laugh—because of course he was being impossibly stubborn, showing up like this, saying things that didn’t make sense. But another part of you wanted to punch him. Or maybe just grab him by the collar and shake the truth out of him. Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t simple. It hadn’t been for a long time.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of a quiet street, looking at you like maybe he finally saw you clearly.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” you snapped, the words coming out sharper than you meant. Too sharp. But you didn’t take them back. You couldn’t. Not when your chest was already tight and your hands were curled into fists at your sides. “I can handle myself. I always have.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he took a step closer. “Yeah?” he said, voice low. “Then why are you letting him get to you?”

“I’m not!” The word came out louder than you intended, your voice rising with the heat of it. “I’m just—” You broke off, breath catching, frustration bubbling over. “I’m tired, okay? Tired of all of this. Tired of people telling me what I can’t do. Tired of watching people like him twist everything, make it about themselves.”

Lando didn’t flinch. He just kept looking at you, steady and unblinking, like he was trying to see past the words to whatever was underneath. Then he stepped in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the tension radiating off his skin like static.

“Then stop fighting it alone,” he said, voice softer now, but no less intense. “Stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not. You think I’m here because it’s convenient? You think I give a shit what Max says? You think his opinion matters more than yours?”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. He was right. You knew he was right. But pride was a stubborn thing, and it rose up like a wall between you. You turned away, needing space, needing air, needing anything but the way he was looking at you.

“I don’t need anyone, Norris,” you said, the words brittle, breaking as they left your mouth. “Especially not you.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t chase. But his voice followed you anyway, low and sharp and impossible to ignore.

“Fine,” he said. “Walk away then. Walk away from all your problems like you always do.”

You spun on your heel, heart pounding, and walked into the darkened street, the night pressing in around you. The city lights blurred at the edges of your vision, and the tension between you and Lando hung in the air like smoke—hot, heavy, and impossible to breathe through.

And still, you didn’t look back.

────────────

Late afternoon sun poured down like punishment, the Australian heat clinging to your skin, thick and unrelenting. The clay beneath your feet radiated warmth back up through your shoes as you finished tying the laces, fingers moving slower than usual. Everything felt heavier today—your limbs, your breath, the silence stretching between you and Lando like a taut wire no one wanted to touch.

You’d played your singles match that morning—won it, technically. Straight sets. Clean stats. On paper, it was everything you were supposed to want. But when the final point landed and the crowd rose to their feet, you’d felt… nothing. No rush of adrenaline. No spark of joy. You’d raised your hand in a half-hearted wave, offered a tight smile, and walked off the court like you were heading into a meeting, not walking away from a win.

It had felt wrong. Like winning without being seen didn’t count.

Now, as you stood on the edge of the court, the silence between you and Lando felt louder than the cicadas buzzing in the trees. He stepped onto the clay, racket in hand, cap pulled low, shoulders set. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t nod. Didn’t say a word.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Hey,” you said, cautious, your voice cutting through the stillness.

Nothing.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just kept walking to his side of the court like you weren’t even there.

Damn.

The ache in your chest settled deeper, quiet and familiar.

So this was how it was going to be.

You picked up your racket and rolled the ball between your fingers, trying to focus on the rhythm of it, the familiar weight in your palm. The heat shimmered off the clay, and the silence between you and Lando stretched long and taut, like a string pulled too tight. You cleared your throat, trying for something light, something that might crack the tension.

“Ready?” you asked, tossing the ball once, catching it again. You aimed for casual, but your voice came out thin, brittle around the edges.

Lando didn’t answer. He just bent down, scooped up a ball, bounced it once, and served. No warning. No glance. Just motion. You returned it on instinct, a little harder than necessary, the ball slicing low across the net. He chased it down, sent it back. And so it went—rally after rally, the two of you locked in a rhythm that felt more like a standoff than a warm-up. The only sounds were the thwack of strings, the scrape of shoes, the occasional grunt of effort. No words. No laughter. Just the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air between you.

After a particularly long exchange, you let the ball drop at your feet, chest rising and falling with the effort. You didn’t want to ask. You really didn’t. But the silence was starting to feel like a wall you couldn’t breathe behind.

“Hey…” you said, voice quieter now. “What’s going on with you?”

Lando didn’t look up. He just shrugged, fiddling with the grip on his racket. “It’s fine.”

You frowned. “Fine?” you repeated, arching a brow. “You don’t sound fine.”

He finally glanced at you, just for a second, and there was something in his eyes—tired, maybe. Guarded. “I said it’s fine,” he repeated, voice flat. “That’s all you need to know.”

You stared at him, frustration rising like a tide. His avoidance was like a locked door you didn’t have the key for, and it made something in your chest twist. But you didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, you turned back to the baseline, picked up the ball, and served.

The rally that followed was faster. Sharper. Less like practice, more like a fight neither of you wanted to name.

The ball came at you faster than you were ready for. You moved on instinct, lunging to your left, twisting your body to reach it—but the second your foot planted, your knee gave out. A sharp, burning pain shot up your leg, so sudden and fierce it stole your breath. You stumbled, barely catching yourself before you hit the ground, your racket the only thing keeping you upright.

“Y/n?!” Lando’s voice cut through the air, louder than it had been all day. The usual calm in his tone was gone, replaced by something tight and worried. You heard the thud of his shoes as he rushed toward you, hand already reaching out.

You bit down on the groan rising in your throat, gripping your racket like it might hold you together. “I’m fine,” you muttered, even though the words felt like a lie the second they left your mouth. They tasted bitter, like something you didn’t believe but needed to say anyway.

Lando crouched a little, eyes locked on your knee. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now but still tense. “That didn’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, sharper this time. You forced yourself to take a step, needing to prove it, needing to show him—and yourself—that you could still move. But the pain came again, sharp and hot, and you swore under your breath, your body flinching before you could stop it. You hated that he saw it. Hated that he was watching you struggle. It made everything feel worse.

Lando didn’t argue. He didn’t push. But he didn’t back off either. He stayed close, eyes narrowed, tracking every movement like he was waiting for you to fall again. “Okay,” he said finally, careful and quiet. “Fine. But we stop if it gets worse. No excuses.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Your throat felt tight, your chest even tighter. You bounced the ball in your hand, trying to steady your breathing, trying to pretend this was normal. But it wasn’t. Not the pain. Not the way he was looking at you. Not the way your pride was fighting your body, desperate to keep going even when everything inside you was screaming to stop.

Because somehow, the idea of showing weakness in front of him—of needing help, of not being okay—felt more terrifying than the pain itself.

You tried to shake it off. Just a twinge, you told yourself. Just a flare. You could push through it. You had to. So you forced your body to move, to keep the rally going, to pretend everything was fine. But the moment you pivoted to chase Lando’s next shot, your knee buckled beneath you.

The pain was instant—sharp, hot, and unforgiving. It tore through your leg like fire, stealing the breath from your lungs. You collapsed onto the clay with a gasp, your racket slipping from your hand and skidding across the court. “Fuck—” The word came out broken, more breath than sound.

“Y/n?!” Lando’s voice cracked, panic slicing through the air as he sprinted toward you.

You tried to sit up, to wave him off, to pretend it wasn’t as bad as it felt. “I’m fine—” you gasped, but your arms trembled under your weight, your body refusing to cooperate.

“No. You are not fine,” he said, cutting you off before you could lie again. His voice was firm, but his eyes—his eyes were full of something else. Fear. Frustration. Something deeper.

“I obviously am!” you snapped, trying to push yourself upright again. “We need to—”

But before you could finish, his hands were already on you—one under your knees, the other behind your back. “What the—put me down, Norris!” you yelled, startled, your voice rising with the panic you hadn’t let yourself feel until now.

He didn’t listen. He didn’t even flinch. He just lifted you like it was nothing, like you didn’t weigh a thing, like carrying you was the most natural thing in the world. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on yours, and whatever you were about to say died in your throat.

Because in that moment, all you could see was the worry in his face. The way his grip was steady, but his breathing wasn’t. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know how to fix this—but he was damn well going to try.

“You need to see a doctor,” Lando said, his voice steady and firm, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t going to let this slide. There was no softness in his tone, no room for argument—just quiet insistence that made your chest tighten.

“No,” you snapped, the word coming out too fast, too sharp. “I need to train.” You tried to straighten up, to push past the pain like you always did, but your voice betrayed you—tight, strained, laced with something that sounded too close to fear.

Lando didn’t move, but his presence felt closer somehow, heavier. “You promised me,” he said, quieter now, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable. “You said you’d tell me when it got bad. And you didn’t.”

You looked away, jaw clenched, throat thick. The words hit harder than you expected. Not because they were loud, but because they were true. You had promised. And you’d broken it. Not out of malice, but out of habit. Out of pride. Out of that old, familiar fear that if you admitted something was wrong, it would make it real.

The waiting room was still, the kind of quiet that made every sound feel louder—the soft shuffle of shoes, the low hum of the air conditioning, the occasional cough from across the room. A few faces you recognized sat scattered among strangers, but they all blurred together, washed out by the ache in your knee and the heavier ache in your chest.

Lando lowered you gently to the floor, letting your back rest against the cool wall. His hands lingered for a second longer than they needed to, steady and warm, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Then he stood, moving toward the clipboard by the physio room door, scribbling something down—your name, probably. Details. 

You stood there, trying to breathe through the pain, but it wasn’t just your knee. It was everything. The weight of your own stubbornness pressing down on you. The guilt curling in your stomach. You’d done this. You’d pushed too hard, ignored the signs, told yourself you could handle it. And now you were here, hurting, and dragging him into it with you. Again.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt the heat of it—tears slipping down your cheeks, hot and salty, carving quiet paths across your skin. You didn’t make a sound. Just sat there, blinking hard, hoping no one would notice.

But of course, he did.

Lando stepped closer to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he always carried. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and careful, but there was something firm beneath it—something that said he wasn’t going to let you lie.

You kept your eyes on the floor, blinking faster now, trying to will the tears away. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Not like this.

“Y/n…” he said again, softer this time, but no less certain. “Look at me.”

The words cut through the fog in your head, quiet but impossible to ignore. Slowly, reluctantly, you lifted your gaze.

“I hate you,” you said, the words ripping out of you before you could stop them. They came out raw, cracked open by everything you’d been holding in. “I hate how you care and don’t at the same time. I hate how right you always are.” Your voice broke halfway through, and suddenly you couldn’t hold anything back anymore.

The tears came fast, hot and angry, sliding down your cheeks in messy streaks. Your whole body trembled—not just from the pain in your knee, but from the frustration, the fear, the way everything had been building for days, maybe weeks. You didn’t even know what you were crying about anymore. The injury. The pressure. The silence. Him. You. All of it.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, something soft and unreadable in his eyes. Then, gently, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you before you could pull away. “I know,” he said quietly, like he wasn’t trying to argue or fix it. Just be there.

You didn’t fight him. You couldn’t. Your face pressed into his chest, and your tears soaked through his shirt, but he didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, one hand moving slowly through your hair, brushing it back from your damp face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s not your fault, darling,” he whispered, and the word—darling—hit you like a wave. It was soft, unexpected, and it cracked something open inside you. You could feel it in your chest, the way it made your breath catch. He meant it. Somehow, you could tell. Lando Norris—the cocky, infuriating, impossibly talented idiot you’d sworn to hate since you were seventeen—was holding you like you mattered. Like you weren’t a burden. Like he saw you, even now, even like this.

And you let him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into his shirt, your voice small and broken, barely more than a breath.

“Don’t be,” he said, his arms tightening around you just a little more. “You don’t have to be.”

By the time you made it to the physio room, your body felt like it had been through a war. You slumped onto the edge of the treatment table, shoulders sagging, legs heavy, every muscle aching like it had given more than it had to give. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving only the dull throb in your knee and the quiet, gnawing fear that the doctor might say the one thing you didn’t want to hear.

That you couldn’t play.

Lando stood near the door, his hand still on the handle like he hadn’t quite decided to leave yet. “Y/n, I have to go—meeting with Zak,” he said, voice clipped, like he was trying to keep it professional. But he didn’t move. Not really. His eyes lingered on you, and there was something in his posture—tight, reluctant—that made it clear he didn’t want to go.

“If you need anything,” he added, softer now, “call me.”

You nodded, barely. You didn’t trust your voice to hold steady, not with the way your chest still felt cracked open. Not with the warmth of his hug still clinging to your skin like a memory you didn’t know what to do with.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, it flew open again—this time with a burst of energy and panic.

“Kid!” Toto’s voice boomed as he rushed in, eyes wide, his whole face drawn tight with worry. “You okay?”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still trying to catch up to everything that had happened. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though the words felt thin, like paper trying to hold back a flood. You could still feel the echo of Lando’s arms around you, the way he’d said your name like it meant something. You didn’t know why that helped. But it had.

Toto crouched beside you, scanning your face, your knee, your posture—like he was trying to assess the damage with just his eyes. “God, you scared me,” he said, breathless. “What happened?”

You looked away, jaw tightening. “Just me being stupid,” you muttered, voice low.

But Toto didn’t buy it. You could feel it in the way he stayed close, in the way his hand hovered near your shoulder like he wanted to steady you but didn’t want to push. He knew you too well. He always had.

“Don’t do that,” he said gently. “Don’t pretend it’s nothing.”

You kept your eyes on your hands, watching the way they trembled in your lap. You hated that he noticed. Hated that you couldn’t stop it. “I’ve played through worse,” you muttered, the words barely more than a breath.

Toto’s expression didn’t change, but his voice grew firmer. “That’s not something to be proud of,” he said. “That’s how people lose everything. That’s how careers end.”

You looked up then, your jaw clenched, eyes burning. “If I stop every time something hurts,” you said, voice tight, “I won’t play at all.”

He let out a long, tired breath and ran a hand over his face, like he’d had this conversation too many times before. “You sound exactly like you did two years ago,” he said. “And last year. And every time you scare the hell out of me.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was right. You’d been here before—same pain, same stubbornness, same fear of what it would mean to stop. And still, you kept pushing. Because stopping felt like giving up. And giving up wasn’t something you knew how to do.

But maybe it was time to learn.

You noticed the physio’s eyes lingering on the papers a little too long, her lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. That look—the one that meant she was trying to find the right words—made your stomach twist. You sat up straighter on the edge of the treatment table, heart thudding a little faster.

“So?” you asked, your voice tight, too quick. “Can I still play?”

She looked up slowly, her expression calm but serious, the kind of calm that made you nervous. “Y/n,” she said gently, “let’s slow down for a second.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling around the edge of the table like it might anchor you. Beside you, Toto shifted his weight, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension radiating off him.

“It’s the same knee,” the physio said, her voice steady. “The one you injured last year. There’s no tear, which is good. But it’s strained again. And it’s very inflamed.”

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “So that’s a yes,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I can play.”

She didn’t smile back. “It’s a conditional yes,” she said carefully. “If this were just singles, I’d recommend rest. But with the mixed doubles schedule…” She paused, choosing her words like each one mattered. “You can play, but only if we manage it properly. That means taping, treatment before and after every match, no extra sessions, and you have to listen to your body. No pushing through pain. No pretending it’s fine when it’s not.”

Funny, it was like you heard these words before.

Toto let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. “And if she doesn’t?”

The physio didn’t hesitate. “Then she risks making it worse. A lot worse. We’re talking long-term damage.”

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones.

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “I’ll be careful,” you said, the words small but certain.

Toto turned to you slowly, his eyes steady, full of something between frustration and fear. “You said that last time,” he said, voice low.

“I know,” you whispered, looking down at your hands. “But I mean it this time.”

And for once, you did.

────────────

It was late—past eleven—and you were still wide awake, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. The room was quiet, dim, and too still. Your knee throbbed in a dull, steady rhythm, and the pain meds had taken the edge off, but not enough to let you sleep. Your thoughts kept spinning, looping back to the match, the fall, the look on Lando’s face, the way everything had unraveled so fast.

When the knock came at the door, you sat up so quickly it made your head spin. For a second, you honestly thought you were imagining it. You’d taken enough medication today that a hallucination wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing. But the knock came again—soft, but real.

You pulled yourself out of bed, limping slightly as you crossed the room, and opened the door.

Lando stood there.

He was in a hoodie, the sleeves pushed up, his hair still damp like he’d just stepped out of the shower. And his arms—God, his arms were full. Bags of snacks, bottles, wrappers peeking out from under his elbow. It was a mess of things, but not random. It was your things. The chocolate you always stole from Kimi’s stash. The crisps Lily always made fun of you for liking. Even that ridiculous electrolyte drink you always pretended to hate but somehow always finished. He’d brought all of it.

You blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and something warmer. “Norris?” you said, raising an eyebrow. You half expected him to disappear, like your brain had conjured him out of exhaustion and wishful thinking. You wanted to roll your eyes, maybe tell him off, maybe ask what the hell he was doing here—but something about tonight made it hard to be sharp. You were too tired. 

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Thought I’d check on my stubborn, injured partner,” he said, voice light, but his eyes didn’t quite match. They were softer. Watching you carefully.

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. Just a little. “Yeah, sure,” you said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

After kicking off his shoes, he moved past you, careful not to bump your knee, and started unloading the snacks onto your kitchen counter like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him, curiosity tugging at you. “How do you even know all this?” you asked, voice quieter now.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “I interrogated Kimi.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. Of course he had.

“By the way,” Lando said, glancing over at you as he dropped onto the couch, “Kimi asks way too many questions.”

You snorted, the sound catching you off guard. “As always. He’s curious as a shit. Just like Toto.” The words came out with a laugh, light and familiar, and for the first time all day, something in your chest loosened.

Lando smiled, but his eyes didn’t quite follow. They lingered instead—on your knee, wrapped tight in tape, propped up on a pillow. His gaze softened, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “So… what did the doctor say?”

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “It’s not torn. Which, honestly, I’m kind of shocked about.” You gave a small chuckle, but it didn’t quite land. “But! I can play.”

Lando’s lips curved into a small smile, the kind that didn’t show teeth but still felt warm. “Good,” he said, nodding. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Just good?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not relieved? Not worried? Not even a little dramatic?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. “I was freaking out like a maniac, baby.”

You blinked. “You were that worried?” you teased, trying to keep your tone light, but your heart had already started to beat a little faster.

“Mhm,” he said, not looking away.

And then it hit you.

Baby.

He’d said it so easily, like it was nothing. Like it was normal. But it wasn’t. Not for you. Not from him. The word landed in your chest like a stone dropped into still water—small, but heavy, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, your throat suddenly dry, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch.

Because maybe he didn’t mean anything by it.

Or maybe he did.

“Uh—I… I should probably go,” Lando said, his voice low as he rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t looking at you, not really. Just somewhere near your shoulder, like if he didn’t meet your eyes, it wouldn’t feel so hard to leave.

But something in you twisted at the thought of him walking out that door. You didn’t know why, not exactly. Maybe it was the quiet that would follow. Maybe it was the way his presence made the room feel a little less heavy. Whatever it was, you didn’t want him to go.

“No,” you said, the word barely more than a whisper. “Stay.”

He stilled, his hand dropping to his side. His eyes finally met yours, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he was trying to figure out if he’d heard you right.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you added, your voice soft, a little shaky. “Not with all this mess in my head.”

Lando didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, caught in the doorway, like he was balancing on the edge of something. Then he took a slow step back into the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

“What?” he asked, voice quieter now, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

You looked down at your hands, then back up at him. “Let’s… watch a movie or something,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the words came out more like a plea. “Just… stay.”

“Don’t ask twice,” Lando said with a grin, already sliding onto the bed like it was his, like he belonged there. He sprawled out without hesitation, arms behind his head, completely at ease.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you moved to follow him—but the second you shifted your weight, your knee gave a sharp protest. You winced, the pain catching you off guard, and slowed your steps, careful not to let it show too much.

Lando’s eyes flicked to the way you moved, the slight limp you couldn’t quite hide. His smile faded just a little. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I forgot.”

You opened your mouth to brush it off, to tell him it was fine, but before you could get a word out, he was already on his feet again. That same cocky smirk tugged at his lips, but there was something softer behind it now—something that made your heart stutter.

Without warning, he stepped toward you and scooped you up into his arms, smooth and easy, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Lando—what the hell—” you started, but your voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan as your arms instinctively looped around his neck.

“You are ridiculous,” you muttered, half annoyed, half amused, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie as he carried you back to the bed.

“Yeah,” he said, settling you down gently, his hands lingering for a second longer than they needed to. “But you love it.”

And maybe, just maybe, you did.

You let yourself sink into the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you as Lando gently eased you down. The ache in your knee flared, but the softness of the pillows helped, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could maybe breathe.

Lando grabbed the remote and flopped down beside you, legs stretched out, scrolling through the hotel’s movie library with the kind of focus he usually reserved for match replays or Mario Kart. Then he suddenly sat up straighter, eyes wide.

“No way… they have The Godfather?!” he said, like he’d just found buried treasure.

You blinked at the screen, then at him. “Uh… what’s that?”

He turned to you so fast it made you laugh. “You’re kidding,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You’ve never seen it?”

You shrugged, trying not to smile. “I’ve been a little busy winning Grand Slams, remember? And isn’t it, like, fifty years old?”

Lando threw his head back with a dramatic groan, laughing. “Unbelievable. It’s a classic! Me and Oscar watch it on every flight. You’re seriously missing out.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. His excitement was contagious, and for a moment, the pain, the pressure, the fear—they all faded into the background.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Fine,” you said, pretending to sound reluctant. “We’ll watch it. But if it’s boring, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Lando said with a grin, already settling in beside you like he’d been waiting for this all night. He handed you a bag of your favorite chocolate without a word, and you took it without hesitation, fingers brushing his for a second too long. It felt like comfort. Like something familiar and safe.

The movie started, the opening notes filling the quiet room, but your attention kept slipping. You tried to focus on the screen, really tried—but your eyes kept drifting sideways. To him. To the way his curls fell messily over his forehead. To the way the soft glow from the TV danced across his face, catching in his lashes, lighting up the curve of his cheek. He looked calm. Focused. Like he wasn’t thinking about anything except the film.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking.

The warmth of him beside you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The way your knee didn’t hurt quite as much with him here, like his presence dulled the edges of everything sharp.

Your eyelids started to grow heavy, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. You blinked slowly, head tilting without you meaning it to, until it hovered just near his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely above the sound of the movie.

“Mhm,” you murmured, and let your head rest gently against him.

He tensed for the briefest moment, like he hadn’t expected you to lean in, but then he softened, his body adjusting to yours without hesitation. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t crack a joke or make some smug comment. He just let you rest there, your head on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sleepy already?” he murmured, his voice low and warm, careful not to break the quiet hum of the movie playing in the background.

“Maybe…” you whispered, your eyes already half-closed, the weight of the day finally catching up to you. The pain, the adrenaline, the fear—it all felt distant now, dulled by the steady warmth of him beside you.

He shifted slightly, just enough to drape an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. His touch was gentle, protective without being overbearing. You could feel the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. It was steadying. Soothing. Like your body had finally found something safe enough to let go.

The movie kept playing, scenes flickering across the screen, but neither of you seemed to care. The story faded into the background, just noise and light, while the silence between you settled into something soft and easy.

You let your eyes close fully, your body sinking into his, the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his hoodie wrapping around you like a blanket. And in that quiet, you let yourself drift—finally, completely—into sleep

────────────

The match was supposed to start at noon, but the whole morning felt… off. Like something was out of place, but you couldn’t quite name it. The air felt heavier than usual, your thoughts slower, your body buzzing with something that wasn’t quite nerves but wasn’t calm either. You kept checking the time, pacing the edges of your mind, trying to shake the feeling that something was wrong. Nothing big, just a quiet unease that clung to you like a second skin.

You’d woken up next to Lando, which should’ve been strange. But after the way last night unfolded—the movie, the quiet, the way he let you fall asleep on his shoulder without saying a word—it didn’t even feel surprising. Just… warm. Familiar. Like maybe the lines between you had blurred a little, and neither of you had the energy to draw them back.

Breakfast was a blur of strategy talk and half-eaten toast. You and Lando sat across from Toto and Zak, going over plays, rotations, what to expect from He and Albon. It was a big match—quarterfinals. Everything was on the line. And of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your knee had to give out a day ago. You were still sore, still stiff, but you’d convinced yourself you could push through. You had to. For you, there wasn’t another option.

Now, you were in the locker room, pulling on your gear, wrapping your knee with slow, practiced hands. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the distant thud of tennis balls echoing from the courts. You were trying to stay focused, to breathe through the tightness in your chest, but your mind kept drifting—back to the pain, the pressure, the way Lando had looked at you last night like he saw something you weren’t ready to admit.

And then his voice cut through the silence, soft but clear.

“Did you take your meds, darling?”

You froze.

Fuck.

That was it. That was what had been gnawing at you all morning. You hadn’t taken them. You’d either forgotten completely or told yourself you didn’t need them—again. It was always the same. You hated how they made you feel slow, heavy. Like you weren’t fully in control. So you skipped them. Told yourself you’d be fine. That you could handle it.

But now, with Lando standing there, calling you “darling” like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the weight of it. The mistake. The risk. The way your body was already starting to hum with the ache you’d tried to ignore.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your taped knee, heart thudding a little too fast, guilt curling in your stomach like smoke.

“Um, yeah,” you said, eyes fixed on your knee, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your wrap. You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Because deep down, you knew he’d see right through it. He always did. Somehow, he just knew when you were bluffing—even when you barely realized it yourself.

“Really?” His voice cut through the quiet, sharper than before. Not teasing. Not light. There was something in it that made your stomach twist, something that sounded a lot like disappointment.

You bristled, the tension in your chest snapping into something sharper. “Yeah?” you shot back, your tone turning defensive, sarcastic. A shield.

Lando stepped closer, his eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in that way he got when he was trying to read you—like you were a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze with a frown. “And?” you said, voice low, tight. “What if I’m not?”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the crack in them. The way they didn’t quite hold. Because you both knew the truth.

Lando let out a short, dry laugh—one that held no real humor. “Right. And what, your knee just magically healed overnight?”

You stiffened, the words hitting harder than you expected. “Don’t start,” you said, voice low, warning.

“I’m already started,” he snapped, stepping closer, hands planted firmly on his hips. “You didn’t answer me. Did you take them or not?”

You looked away, jaw tight. That pause, that silence—it was all the answer he needed.

He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m fine,” you shot back, the words coming out sharper than you meant. “Stop acting like I’m made of glass.”

His eyes flashed, not with anger, but something deeper—hurt, maybe. Fear. “That’s not what this is about,” he said, his voice rising despite the effort to stay calm. “This is about you lying. Again. To my face. Like it doesn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because what could you say? That you were scared? That you didn’t want to feel weak? That you hated needing help, even from him?

You pushed yourself up from the bench too fast, your knee wobbling beneath you before you caught your balance. The pain flared, but you ignored it, too full of heat to care. “Why do you even care so much?” you snapped, your voice sharp and rising. “It’s my body, my knee, my career. Not yours.”

Lando’s expression hardened in an instant. “Because I have to be on court with you!” he shot back, his voice loud in the quiet room. “Because if something happens to you out there, it’s not just your problem anymore—it’s mine too. We’re a team, remember?”

You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest like armor. “Oh, so now I’m a liability?”

His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to yell, to shake the words out of you, but instead he just stood there, jaw tight, eyes burning. “That’s not what I said,” he bit out. “But you—fuck. You always do this. You twist everything like I’m the bad guy. Until I’m the asshole for giving a damn.”

You crossed your arms tightly, chin lifting in defiance even as your knee pulsed with pain. “Maybe because you are acting like one,” you snapped, voice sharp. “You think I don’t know my own limits?”

Lando let out a bitter laugh, the sound short and cutting. “Your limits?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You don’t have limits. That’s the problem. You ignore them until your body gives out—until you’re literally on the ground and still trying to convince everyone you’re fine.”

“That’s what champions do,” you fired back, heat rising in your chest. “They push through. They don’t stop just because it hurts.”

“No,” he said, stepping in closer now, his voice low but intense, every word deliberate. “That’s what people do when they’re terrified to stop. When they think if they slow down for even a second, everything they’ve worked for will disappear.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how close he was to the truth. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Norris,” you said, trying to sound cold, but your voice wavered.

“I wouldn’t have to,” he said, softer now, but no less firm, “if you didn’t make it so damn obvious.”

The silence that followed was thick, charged. You could hear the muffled roar of the crowd outside, the echo of announcements, the world still spinning while you stood here, stuck in this moment with him.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “You think I don’t see how hard you are on yourself? How you carry everything like it’s some kind of punishment? Like if you just suffer enough, it’ll make you worthy of all this?”

You shook your head, but it wasn’t as firm as you wanted it to be. “You don’t know anything about me,” you said, but the words felt hollow. Defensive. Like a door slammed too late.

“Jesus Christ, Y/n!” Lando snapped, the words bursting out of him before he could stop them. “I know everything about you!”

The sound echoed off the locker room walls, too loud, too raw. It hung in the air like a slap, and you froze where you stood, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because something in his voice had cracked, and it cracked something in you too.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing like he couldn’t bear to stay still with all of it building inside him. Once. Twice. Then he stopped, right in front of you, eyes burning.

“I know you pretend you’re fine even when you’re not,” he said, voice shaking with frustration he was barely holding back. “I know you push yourself until your body gives out, and then you laugh it off like it’s some kind of joke. Like it doesn’t matter.”

Your chest tightened, breath shallow.

“I know you hate being taken care of,” he went on, quieter now, but every word still sharp. “Because in your head, needing help means you’re weak. And I know—” he paused, swallowing hard, “I know you’re terrified that if you stop, even for a second, people will forget why they ever believed in you. That everything you’ve worked for will just… vanish.”

“Stop,” you whispered, eyes burning, voice barely holding steady.

But he didn’t. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve known you since we were seventeen. That’s nine years, Y/n. Nine. I know how you lie. I know how you tap your fingers when you’re nervous. I know how you pretend not to care when you care more than anyone.”

He let out a breathless laugh, almost disbelieving. “I even know your favorite fruit. Because you wouldn’t shut up about it that one summer.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“It’s papaya,” he said, softer now, something almost tender in his voice.

Your heart stuttered.

Because yeah. It was papaya.

“And why do you even care, Lando?” you snapped, voice cracking under the weight of everything. “No one asked you to remember all this shit!”

His eyes flashed, and before you could take the words back, he fired right back—louder, sharper, like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for too long.

“Because I love you!”

The words hit the air like a punch. Sudden. Loud. Real.

You froze.

“What?” you breathed, barely able to get the word out.

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening like he was bracing for impact. For a second, you thought he might retreat—make a joke, roll his eyes, pretend it slipped out by accident. That would’ve been easier. Safer.

But he didn’t.

He looked right at you, eyes steady, voice rough around the edges. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck, your pulse thudding loud and uneven in your ears. “I—”

The word caught, stuck in your throat. You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through your hair, more frustrated with yourself than with him. “What am I even supposed to say to that?”

Because you knew. God, you knew. You were a fucking idiot for pretending otherwise. The truth had been there for a while now—quiet, inconvenient, growing somewhere between the chaos and the late nights and the way he looked at you when you thought no one was watching. You just didn’t know when it happened. When hate blurred into trust, when trust turned into something that scared the hell out of you.

Lando didn’t push. He didn’t fill the silence with a joke or a deflection or some cocky one-liner. He just stood there, still and steady, hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back. His eyes were wide, open, softer than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, honestly. “There’s no script for this.”

He let out a shaky laugh, the kind that sounded like it surprised even him. “But I do love you. Somehow.”

He tilted his head, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It probably happened somewhere between you screaming at me on court… and falling asleep on my shoulder last night.”

Your chest tightened, aching in that strange, unbearable way that only comes when something real is staring you in the face. Something you’ve wanted. Something you’ve feared.

Your lips parted, a shaky breath slipping out before you could stop it.

“Yesterday,” Lando said, his voice softer now, like he was afraid too much volume might break whatever this was between you, “you looked completely ridiculous. Half-asleep on me during The Godfather.”

You let out a weak scoff, trying to cling to something light. “I did not.”

“You did,” he said, and there was a flicker of a smile on his face—fond, teasing. But then it faded, melting into something quieter, something that made your heart ache. “And that’s when it hit me. I want that. All of it. Every night like that. Before matches. After the hard days. The good ones too. I want you there.”

He stepped closer, slow and sure, until there was barely any space left between you. His eyes didn’t waver. “I want you. Here. With me.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching as a thousand thoughts crashed into each other. “Lando…” you started, voice trembling. “I’m always angry. I’m tired. I’m injured. I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he said, cutting in gently but without hesitation. “I don’t care about any of that.”

His voice was steady now, low and certain. “I love you. Not the version of you that’s easy or perfect or unbreakable. I love you. Exactly as you are.”

So there it was. The truth you’d been running from, laid bare in the space between you. Proof that someone could love you—not in spite of the mess, but because of it. The sharp edges, the stubbornness, the bruises you tried to hide, the softness you only let out in the quiet. He saw all of it. And he stayed.

“God,” you breathed, voice trembling, heart thudding so loud it drowned out everything else. “I love you too.”

For a moment, Lando didn’t move. He just stared at you, like he was trying to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. That you’d really said it. That it was real. Then, slowly, his hands came up to cradle your face, warm and steady, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes—wiping away tears you hadn’t even noticed falling.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was everything you’d held back crashing forward at once. All the late nights, the fights, the stolen glances, the ache of wanting and not knowing how to say it. You kissed him like you were finally letting yourself breathe. Like you’d been waiting for this moment without even realizing it. And he kissed you back like he’d known all along.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, hearts still racing. His smile was different now—gentle, open, stripped of all the usual bravado. Just him.

Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and held something out.

“Now take these, baby,” he said softly.

You blinked, staring down at the familiar bottle in his hand. The exact meds you were sure you’d left on the kitchen counter that morning.

Your eyes flicked back up to his, wide with disbelief. “You absolute idiot,” you muttered, voice thick with something that wasn’t anger at all.

“We need to go,” Lando said, glancing at the clock before turning back to you, eyes bright with something that looked a lot like pride. “Time to show He and Albon who the real champions are.”

Then, with a crooked smile, he added, “Good luck… kiss?”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin broke through before you could stop it. “You’re such a menace,” you muttered, the words laced with laughter as you stepped in, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

And then you kissed him—quick, warm, a little breathless.

When you pulled back, he was still grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

“Now let’s go win a goddamn match,” you said, grabbing your racket and heading for the tunnel, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

© verstarris 2025

babsie radio ! If you’re reading this, congratulations!!! You officially reached the end of this story. To be honest, I don’t really know what to say, because all I wanted to say was said already in first part!!! I just hope you liked it, it was a wild ride :)

You were ranked sixth in the world now. People smiled when they said it, like it was something to be proud of—and it was, you knew that. But your eyes always drifted to the names above yours, to the top five, to the players who seemed just out of reach. It was right there, close enough to taste, and yet every time you stretched for it, it slipped through your fingers like a damn mist.

You’d made it to the Australian Open. That should’ve felt like a win. But as you stood there, sweat drying on your skin, your muscles tight and your thoughts heavier than they should be, all you could think about was how much it had taken to get here. How much it still cost. And how long you could keep pretending that none of it mattered.

There wasn’t supposed to be space for doubt here. Not with Max. Not when you were training with your mixed doubles partner—the one person who was supposed to match your pace, your drive, your hunger to win. On paper, it made sense. Two top-ranked players, both sharp, both relentless. It should have been easy. It should have worked.

But lately, training with him felt less like a partnership and more like something you had to survive. He kept hitting balls at you with that same ruthless precision, never easing up, never checking in. Normally, you could keep up without thinking. Today, though, your timing was off. Your legs felt heavy. Your body wasn’t listening the way it used to.

“You’re late on it,” Max said, his voice flat, eyes already on the next shot.

Like you didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, biting back the sting in your chest. “Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you bent to pick up another ball. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t bother you.

He looked at you then—just for a second. His expression was tight, unreadable, the kind of glance that didn’t ask questions or offer anything close to concern. Just a flicker of irritation, like your mistake had thrown off his rhythm. Like you were a problem to work around, not a person trying to hold it together.

“Again,” he said, already tossing the next ball into the air.

You didn’t argue. You adjusted your grip, shifted your stance, and forced your body to move faster. Your knee screamed in protest the moment you pushed off, a sharp, familiar pain that you’d learned to ignore. You chased the shot anyway, stretched too far, and barely managed to flick the ball back over the net.

Max sighed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough. Just enough to land like a slap, quiet and cutting.

“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning his back, like the drill was more important than you were. Like you weren’t standing there, trying not to fall apart.

You swallowed hard, the words burning at the back of your throat. But you didn’t say them. You just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. Even though it didn’t matter. Quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t either. You told yourself you could handle it. That you’d get through this. That you always did.

Even if it was getting harder to believe.

After a few more shots, Max stopped. No warning, no signal—just stopped. The balls rolled to a quiet halt at your feet, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the drill ever had. It wasn’t just the end of a session. It felt like something else. Like he’d made a decision. Like he’d given up—not just on the practice, but maybe on the partnership. Maybe on you.

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Look, Y/n,” he said, voice clipped. “The Open starts tomorrow. You need to get your shit together.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice steady, even though it cost you. “Yeah. I’m trying, Max.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t soften. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood there for a beat too long. Then he said, “Good,” like it was final. Like that was all there was left to say.

And then he walked off the court, leaving you standing there alone, staring at the baseline, your racket hanging loosely at your side. The ache in your knee pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but it was the quiet that hurt more. You’d been trying. You were always trying. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being enough—and you didn’t know when that happened. Or how to fix it.

“Y/n!”

You turned at the sound of your name, and there she was—Lily. Your doubles partner, your best friend, the one person who could still make you smile without trying. Just seeing her standing there, sun in her hair and concern in her eyes, made something in your chest loosen. That was the thing about Lily. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.

She walked over and handed you a water bottle, shaking her head with a small, crooked grin. “You look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I feel like that too,” you said, taking the bottle and pressing it to your forehead before unscrewing the cap.

Lily didn’t say anything right away. She just watched you, her expression softening as she took in the slump of your shoulders, the way you were holding your weight off your left leg. “What happened?” she asked gently. “Is it about Max?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter. “Just him being grumpy, as usual. Nothing serious.”

“You can’t take him seriously. You know that,” Lily said, shaking her head like it was obvious, like Max’s mood didn’t still cling to your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at the court, jaw tight, the silence between you stretching a little too long.

Lily didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she shifted gears, her voice lighter. “Come on. Oscar’s on Court Four,” she said, her eyes brightening as she mentioned him—her boyfriend, her mixed doubles partner, the one person who always seemed to make her laugh, even on the worst days. At least someone had figured out how to make it work.

You glanced up. “With… Norris?”

The name came out sharp, bitter on your tongue. Lando Norris. Just saying it made your shoulders tense.

That man was everything you couldn’t stand. Ranked fourth in the world. Always smirking. Always talking. Loud, cocky, flirty—and somehow, impossibly, good. The kind of good that made it hard to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to.

You grimaced, the thought of sharing a court with him making your chest tighten. But Lily didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She reached for your arm and tugged gently, already pulling you toward the other courts.

“Come on,” she said again, smiling like she knew something you didn’t. “It’ll be fun.”

You weren’t so sure.

You followed her anyway, even though every step felt heavier than the last. Training had wrung you out, left your limbs sluggish and your knee aching with that familiar, stubborn throb. It wasn’t sharp enough to stop you—never was—but it lingered, a quiet reminder of everything you’d pushed through to get here. Walking toward Court Four felt like walking straight into something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want to face, but couldn’t avoid either.

You sank onto the edge of the stands, letting your bag drop beside you with a dull thud. Your eyes drifted to the court before you could stop them. Oscar and Lando were already mid-rally, moving like they shared a brain. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need words. Every shot was clean, every return precise. It looked effortless. Like they’d been doing this forever.

Your gaze caught on Lando for a moment too long. His curls were damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, his movements sharp and sure. He looked like he belonged out there—confident, focused, completely in control. You clicked your tongue softly and looked away, annoyed at yourself. Idiot.

They noticed you then. Both of them paused, rackets dropping slightly as they turned. Lando’s eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. Like he’d been waiting. You rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw it.

“Hey, baby!” Lily called out, her voice bright as she waved at Oscar, completely unfazed by the tension simmering beside you.

Oscar lit up the moment he spotted Lily, lifting a hand in greeting before jogging over to the stands. He looked so at ease—sweat-slicked and flushed from the rally, but smiling like the world hadn’t asked anything of him today. Like he hadn’t just spent an hour under the sun, chasing points. That kind of ease made something twist in your chest, sharp and quiet. You didn’t want to name it.

Lando followed behind him, slower, spinning his racket in one hand like it was second nature. He stopped a few steps from the bench, his eyes flicking over you in quick, practiced glances—your stiff posture, the way you leaned ever so slightly off your left leg, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his attention, and it made your skin prickle.

“Didn’t think you’d come watch,” he said, voice light, almost teasing.

You didn’t bother softening your tone. “Trust me, I didn’t plan to.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”

Lando’s smile tugged wider, just enough to be annoying. “Rough session?”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And from the way Lando’s eyes lingered on yours, you had a feeling he knew that.

Lando leaned against the fence, casually tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The sun caught the edge of his , casting a flicker of light across the court. “So,” he said, voice light, almost lazy, “Open starts tomorrow. Last meeting with the coaches, final schedule, all that fun stuff.”

You tilted your head slightly, keeping your tone as even as you could manage. “Yeah. I know. Don’t need another reminder.”

He didn’t flinch. Just kept that same maddening smirk on his face. “Just making conversation,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’d hate for you to forget.”

Your jaw tightened. The way he said it—like he was amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made your pulse tick faster. “I can handle it,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant coaching tips to function.”

He raised an eyebrow, the ball still spinning lazily in his hand. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were the only one capable of surviving a Grand Slam.”

You opened your mouth, the retort already forming—sharp, fast, something that would land clean and cut deep. He’d done this too many times. Pushed just far enough to make you snap. And maybe that was the point.

But before the words could leave your mouth, Lily’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, bright, and unmistakably hers.

“Enough,” she said, stepping between you with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. “We’re here to watch, not start a war. Save the drama for the court.”

You and Lando both froze, glancing at her like kids caught misbehaving. Her eyes were wide, but there was steel behind them—serious now, even if her tone still carried that familiar edge of teasing. She looked between you, arms crossed. “Seriously. You two look ridiculous. Stop glaring at each other like you’re about to throw rackets. The tournament hasn’t even started yet.”

You muttered something under your breath—something unkind, probably—but the heat in your chest had already started to cool. Lily had a way of doing that. Of stepping in just before you said something you couldn’t take back. You leaned back on the bench, jaw still tight, but your hands unclenched. For now, at least, you could sit still and watch instead of letting the frustration boil over.

Even if Lando was still standing there, smirking like he’d won something.

────────────

There were only thirty minutes left until the final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers. You stood near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one familiar face. But Toto wasn’t there. No clipboard in hand, no calm voice cutting through the noise, no steady presence to anchor you. Your stomach tightened. He was never late. And that kind of silence didn’t feel like a good sign.

Without thinking, you turned and made your way down the hallway, pushing open the door to his office with more force than necessary. “Toto?” you called, stepping inside.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Kimi.

You blinked, caught off guard. Kimi—Toto’s son. The boy who used to sit on the sidelines with toy cars while you learned how to serve. The one who used to fall asleep in the stands with his head on your shoulder, juice box still in hand. He was taller now, older, but still Kimi. Still the kid who felt like your little brother.

“Kimi!” you shouted, a grin breaking across your face as you jogged over and pulled him into a tight hug. “What the fuck!”

He laughed, hugging you back without hesitation. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Plans changed,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t miss my big sister playing at a Grand Slam.”

You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day. You squeezed him once more, holding on for a second longer than you needed to. Somehow, just seeing him—his familiar face, his easy smile—made the pressure in your chest ease. Not all the way. But enough to breathe again.

“I’m so glad you came,” you said, and you meant it—but your mind was already drifting, scanning the room again. “Do you know where Toto is?”

Kimi shrugged, leaning back against the desk. “He said he’d be back in five minutes. That was a while ago, though. Haven’t seen him since.”

You let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down your face, the weight of the day pressing harder against your shoulders. Of course. The final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers was about to start, and the one person you needed most—your anchor, your constant—was nowhere to be found. Just your luck.

“Anyway,” Kimi said, nudging your arm with his elbow, trying to pull you back to the present. “How’s Australia treating you so far?”

You snorted. “Horrible,” you muttered. “It’s too hot. Lily and Oscar are being disgustingly cute, and Max is acting weirder than usual.”

Kimi grinned, arms folding across his chest like he’d been expecting that answer. “That’s why I’m here,” he said, eyes warm. “To make it better.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Toto step inside. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, but set in that way you’d come to recognize over the years. The kind of look he wore when something was wrong and he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Your stomach dropped before he even spoke.

“Kimi,” he said, voice low but steady, “can you give us a minute?”

Kimi hesitated, glancing between the two of you. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t want to leave, like he could feel the shift in the air too. But after a beat, he nodded. He gave you one last look—quiet, reassuring, the kind that said I’m still here—before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

Toto crossed the room and sank into the chair across from you as you sat down too. He didn’t waste time. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on yours.

“We’ve got a problem, kid,” he said.

And just like that, the room felt smaller. Heavier. Like the walls had moved in a little closer, waiting to hear what came next.

“What is it, Toto?” you asked, the words catching in your throat as a knot began to form in your stomach.

Something was off. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—steady, serious, like he was bracing for impact. And suddenly, you were too.

He didn’t waste time. “Max doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

The words hit harder than you expected. For a second, you just sat there, blinking, like maybe you’d misheard him. Like maybe if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d take it back.

But he didn’t.

What the fuck.

Everything you’d been working toward—the endless drills, the long hours on court, the pressure you’d carried like a second skin—suddenly felt like it had been for nothing. Max, the one person who was supposed to be in this with you, had walked away before the match even started. Just like that.

You sank back in your chair, hands gripping the edge like it might keep you grounded. But your chest was tight, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Anger flared first, hot and sharp. Then disbelief. Then something colder, heavier—exhaustion that settled deep in your bones.

“What?” you said again, the word sharper this time, cutting through the silence like glass. As if saying it out loud might change something. As if it might make this feel less real.

But it didn’t.

“He and Horner told the ITF he can’t play with you anymore,” Toto said, his voice low, steady in that way that only made it worse. He let out a slow breath, like he hated saying it out loud. “No explanation beyond that.”

You stared at him, the words echoing in your head, refusing to settle. So that was it. That’s why Max had been so off yesterday—the clipped tone, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the drills that felt more like punishment than practice. It hadn’t just been a bad day. It had been a warning. You just hadn’t seen it.

Your stomach twisted. “What the fuck,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “Is it because of my knee? Or—” your voice sharpened, rising with the heat in your chest, “—because he couldn’t handle playing with someone just as good as him?”

The words hung in the air, bitter and raw. You didn’t know which answer would hurt more.

Toto shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “You know how he is.”

“No,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “No, I don’t, Toto. Not at all.”

Your voice cracked at the edges, tight with disbelief. “I’ve trained. I’ve pushed through every session, every drill. I’ve done everything he asked—everything—and he just walks away? Just like that?”

Toto didn’t flinch. His voice stayed calm, steady in the way it always was when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, firm. “This isn’t on you. Sometimes people—”

“Sometimes people?” you cut in, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “He’s my partner. He’s supposed to show up. He’s supposed to work with me, not—” your voice caught, your throat tightening, “—not bail when it gets hard.”

You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your palms against your face like you could hold it all in. The anger, the confusion, the ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your knee. It wasn’t just about the tournament. It was about trust. About being left behind by someone who was supposed to be in this with you.

And now, you were alone.

“Look, kid, we have to go to the meeting,” Toto said, already reaching for his jacket. “The ITF will definitely bring it up.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The last thing you wanted was to sit in a room full of officials and coaches, all of them dissecting what had just happened—your partner’s betrayal dressed up as a scheduling change, a strategic shift, a footnote in someone else’s press release. You could already feel their eyes on you, waiting to see how you’d react. Waiting to see if you’d crack.

“But Toto—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll find someone for you. Or you play singles and women’s doubles. That’s still a full load.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Not everyone has to play all three categories.”

But that wasn’t you.

You weren’t here to do the bare minimum. You weren’t here to coast. You were known for showing up in every bracket, every match, every damn point. You and Lily were ranked number one in women’s doubles. You’d clawed your way to the top of singles. And mixed doubles? That was supposed to be the final piece. The one you’d been grinding for. Giving it up wasn’t just a change in schedule—it was surrender. And surrender had never been part of your game.

If Max didn’t want to be your partner? Fine. You didn’t want him either.

You wouldn’t beg. Not for a spot. Not for a second chance. And definitely not for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say it to your face. He could walk away. You’d find another way forward.

Or you’d win without him.

You followed Toto down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The glass-paneled doors of the meeting room loomed ahead, silhouettes shifting behind them—coaches, officials, players. The hum of low voices filtered through the glass, a quiet storm already in motion. Your stomach twisted.

Inside, the room was a square of tension and strategy. Lando and Oscar sat with their coach, Zak, deep in conversation. Across from them, Max and Horner had already taken their seats, their expressions unreadable. Lily was there too, waiting for you and Toto, her posture relaxed but her eyes tracking everything.

As you slid into your seat beside her, she leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you. “What took you so long?” she murmured, offering a small, knowing smile.

“Business,” you said, keeping your tone even, your face unreadable.

Your gaze swept the table, instinctively searching for the cracks. Lando’s eyes found yours almost immediately—sharp, steady, like he was trying to read something off your skin. You met his stare for a beat, then rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close you were to unraveling.

Max didn’t even glance your way.

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some distant point on the table. Like you weren’t even there. Like none of this mattered. And somehow, that burned more than anything he could’ve said.

The room held its breath.

For a moment, no one spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a chair shifting, the low hum of tension pressing in from all sides. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, your nerves coil tighter with every second it stretched.

Then, finally, an ITF official cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Today’s focus is the upcoming Australian Open. We’ll review schedules, training adjustments, and—” his eyes flicked toward you, just for a beat, “—mixed doubles pairings.”

Your stomach dropped.

There it was. The thing you’d been dreading. The thing everyone in the room knew was coming. You straightened in your seat, spine stiff, jaw set. You kept your face neutral, your hands still, even though every part of you wanted to get up and walk out. Run, maybe. Anything but sit here and let them talk about you like a problem to be solved.

Across the table, Lando shifted in his chair, slow and deliberate. His gaze never left yours. There was something in it—sharp, unreadable. Not quite smug, not quite concerned. Just… watching. Measuring. You felt the familiar flicker of irritation rise in your chest, tangled with something else. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.

Max didn’t look at you. Not once.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. You didn’t need words to feel the wall he’d built between you—cold, final, impenetrable.

The meeting began with the usual rhythm of formality—schedules, regulations, court assignments. The kind of logistical noise that could lull you into a daze if you let it. ITF officials took turns reading from their notes, outlining start times, warm-up slots, dress codes. The words blurred at the edges, a steady drone of structure and protocol.

Beside you, Toto leaned in every so often to murmur reminders—small things, practical things—but your mind kept drifting. To Max, silent and distant across the table. To Lando, still watching you like he was waiting for something. To the quiet truth that tomorrow, every person in this room would be watching your next move.

Then the tone shifted.

“Let’s move on to women’s doubles,” one of the officials said, tapping a finger against the chart projected on the screen.

The room stilled, just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the display.

“Here we have the rankings,” another added, gesturing toward the list.

Your name appeared at the top. And right beside it: Lily Zneimer.

“Y/l/n and Zneimer,” the official announced, voice even but unmistakably clear. “Ranked number one in women’s doubles. The pair has demonstrated exceptional synergy and dominance throughout the past season. They are expected to perform at the highest level.”

You felt the words land in the room like a quiet drumbeat. Not boastful. Not dramatic. Just fact.

You turned your head slightly, catching Lily’s eye. Her smile was small, tight at the corners, but proud. The kind of smile that said we earned this. The kind that made you want to reach under the table and squeeze her hand, just to say I know. I feel it too.

Even here, surrounded by the best of the best, the words carried weight.

You were the best.

And no one could take that from you.

The praise for you and Lily still lingered in the air, a faint echo of something steady and earned. But it didn’t last.

One of the ITF officials cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And now, on to mixed doubles,” he said, his voice noticeably tighter. “There’s an issue we need to address regarding pairings.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Beside you, Toto went still, his posture sharpening in that subtle way that told you he already knew what was coming. Across the table, Max shifted—arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the far wall like it held something more interesting than the fallout he’d just detonated.

You didn’t need him to look at you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the cold wall he’d built between you. It was already there yesterday, in the clipped words and the silence between drills. You just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Lando noticed it too. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked between you and Max, sharp and calculating. Like he was watching a match unfold before the first serve had even been hit.

The official continued, reading from the paper in front of him like it was just another line item on the agenda. “Max Verstappen has informed the ITF that he will not be participating in mixed doubles with Y/n Y/l/n. No further explanation has been provided.”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s gaze snapped to you, unreadable. Oscar’s followed, his brow furrowed. And Lily—Lily turned to you with wide eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

Before you could speak, one of the officials cut in, his voice brisk. “Mr. Wolff, have you started looking for a replacement?”

Toto didn’t flinch. “We’re exploring options, yes,” he said, calm as ever. “But you need to understand—we’re not just filling a slot. We have to find someone worthy to play alongside Y/n.”

Your jaw tightened at the word worthy. It wasn’t meant as a slight, not from Toto. He was defending you, holding the line. But still, the word scraped something raw. Like your value needed to be justified. Like you were a risk now, a question mark.

You stayed quiet, letting Toto’s steadiness anchor you. If he hadn’t been there, you might’ve said something you couldn’t take back.

The official didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wolff,” he said, his tone turning sharp, almost smug. “We’ll find the perfect match for Miss Y/n.”

Your hands curled into fists beneath the table.

Perfect match, you thought, the words sour in your mouth. As if Max had been perfect. As if this wasn’t a mess of his making. As if you were the one who needed fixing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. The insult was subtle, but it landed all the same. You weren’t the one who walked away. You weren’t the one who quit.

But now you were the one being discussed like a problem to solve.

The official cleared his throat again, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. “We’ll continue discussing logistics,” he said, tone clipped, “but please remember: we need all players ready and committed by tomorrow’s first practice session.”

He turned his gaze toward you and Toto, eyes steady, voice firm. “Miss Y/n, Mr. Wolff, a replacement for mixed doubles must be confirmed before then.”

The words landed with finality, like a door clicking shut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. The pressure was familiar—this was the sport, after all—but today it felt different. He wasn’t just talking about logistics. He was talking about your future. Your reputation. Your ability to adapt, to survive, to prove that you weren’t the one who broke the partnership.

────────────

The next day, you stepped onto the court with Lily, racket in hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you loosened. Just a little. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a stone, more like something you could carry.

The sun hung high overhead, warm but not punishing, casting long shadows across the court. The ball moved between you in a steady rhythm—clean, sharp, familiar. Back and forth, like breath. Like memory. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the thud of sneakers on clay, the soft grunt of effort, the satisfying pop of the ball off your strings. No Max. No ITF. No headlines or whispers or meetings. Just this.

“Nice shot!” Lily called, laughing as you sent a cross-court winner skimming past her reach. She jogged after the ball, scooping it up with practiced ease and tossing it back without missing a beat.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you win today,” you said, grinning as you twirled your racket in your hand.

“You wish,” she shot back, eyes gleaming. Then she returned the next ball with a speed that made your legs scramble and your breath catch.

And for a while—an hour, maybe two—you weren’t thinking about the mess waiting outside the court. You weren’t thinking about Max’s silence or the way the ITF official had said perfect match like it was a threat. You were just here. With Lily. Your partner. Your friend. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other to move faster, hit harder, stay present.

You both paused at the baseline, breath catching in your chests, sweat cooling on your skin. Lily tossed you a bottle of water with a flick of her wrist, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she watched you.

“So,” she said, voice light but laced with curiosity, “about mixed doubles… who would you want to play with if Max is out?”

You took a long sip, letting the water cool your throat while your mind spun. The question was simple enough, but the answer wasn’t. Not anymore. Anyone else felt like a gamble—an unknown rhythm, a new language you’d have to learn mid-match. And after everything, you weren’t sure how much more risk you could take.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, leaning on your racket. “It has to be someone I can actually work with. Someone who won’t make everything harder than it already is.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be someone out there who’s good—and maybe even tolerable.”

You let out a dry laugh, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Tolerable? That narrows the list down to zero.”

She grinned. “What about Sainz?”

Carlos Sainz. You blinked. The image of him flashed in your mind—perfect hair, perfect smile, that infuriatingly smooth confidence.

“Definitely not,” you said, shaking your head. “He looks like he spends more time on his hair than his serve.”

Lily burst out laughing, tossing the ball lightly toward you. “Fair. Noted. No Sainz.”

You caught the ball with one hand, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded. Just a little.

Before you could answer Lily, a shadow fell across the edge of the court. You turned to see Toto standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

You frowned, the shift in his tone enough to make your pulse skip. You set your racket down slowly, brushing the sweat from your brow. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just tilted his head toward the far side of the court, away from Lily, away from the easy rhythm you’d just found again. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s important.”

That word—important—landed like a stone in your gut. When Toto said it like that, it never meant something small. Never meant something you could brush off.

You glanced at Lily, and she gave you a quiet nod, her expression soft with understanding. No questions. Just support.

You followed Toto without a word, each step across the court making your chest feel tighter, your breath a little shallower. The sun felt hotter now, the air heavier.

You followed Toto through the maze of courts and corridors, the noise of bouncing balls and shouted drills fading behind you. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, just kept walking with that purposeful stride that always meant something was coming. Something big.

He stopped near a shaded corner of the facility, tucked behind a row of benches and a half-empty water cooler. It was quiet here—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle.

His face gave nothing away.

“So?” you asked, trying to sound steady, though your foot tapped against the concrete, betraying you.

“I have news,” he said, voice low and even.

You swallowed, the tension in your chest winding tighter. “Good or bad?”

Toto looked at you for a long beat, unreadable. “Depends,” he said finally.

And just like that, your pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. Because when Toto said depends, it never meant simple.

“So, basically, the ITF found you a partner,” Toto said, his voice even, like this was just another update. Nothing special. Nothing explosive.

For a second, your heart lifted. That sounded like good news. A solution. A way forward. Maybe this whole mess was finally turning around.

“Who?” you asked, eyes flicking up, hope creeping in before you could stop it.

“Lando.”

Your brain stalled.

Your jaw actually dropped, like in a bad movie. “Norris?!” you blurted, too loud, too fast. It felt like the words had been yanked out of you before you could catch them. No. No way. This had to be some kind of fever dream. Any second now, you’d wake up in your hotel bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing, and laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

But Toto didn’t blink. “Lando Norris,” he said again, calm as ever, like he was telling you the weather.

You just stared at him, frozen. Your thoughts were a mess—half-formed, tangled, loud. Of all the people. Him? The cocky, smug, insufferably talented top-four player who never missed a chance to get under your skin? The one who always had something to say, always with that smirk, always acting like he knew better?

You could barely stand him on a good day. And now you were supposed to play with him?

Your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the part where this made any kind of sense. But it didn’t. It just didn’t.

“No. No, no,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Panic rose fast and hot in your chest, tightening everything. “I’d rather die than play with him.”

Toto didn’t flinch. “And the best part?” he said, voice flat. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his face.

You let out a single, sharp laugh—dry, disbelieving. “What? It can’t possibly get worse than this.”

He didn’t blink. “Zak and Lando already confirmed it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching.

“They’re waiting for your confirmation,” he added, calm as ever.

Your mind reeled. What the fuck.

This wasn’t just a hypothetical. This wasn’t a joke or a bluff or some cruel twist of fate waiting to be undone. It was real. Lando—Lando—had said yes. Zak too. They’d already agreed. And now it was on you.

You felt the ground shift beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down. You weren’t just being asked to tolerate him. You were being asked to trust him. To share the court. To rebuild something with someone who’d spent the last year getting under your skin every chance he got.

“No, Toto. I won’t confirm.”

The words came out fast, sharp, before you could stop them. Your voice was too loud, too final, but you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t. As soon as you said it, your body seemed to catch up with everything you’d been holding in. Your knee throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Even your head pulsed with a dull, relentless pressure. Like your body had finally decided it was done carrying the weight of all this—of Max, of the meetings, of the expectations pressing in from every side.

“Find me someone else,” you said, quieter now, but no less certain. Even though deep down, you already knew. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

Toto exhaled, and for the first time, the edge of frustration cracked through his calm. “I can’t, kid,” he said, voice low. “There is no one better than him.”

You flinched, the words landing harder than you expected. “Yes, there is,” you snapped. “What about Leclerc? Sainz?” You could still hear Lily’s voice from earlier, teasing, hopeful.

But Toto just shook his head. “Leclerc’s already paired with Mleux. And Sainz doesn’t play mixed doubles. Never has.”

And just like that, the list was gone. The excuses ran out. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, like the air before a storm.

You looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Because the truth was settling in now, slow and unwelcome.

It was Lando… or no one.

And you weren’t sure which was worse.

“Toto, this won’t work,” you said, shaking your head, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We hate each other.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that steady, unshakable calm he always carried, like nothing you said could surprise him. “Y/n,” he said, “you don’t need to love each other.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “We can barely stand being in the same room.”

Toto didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence stretch for a moment before answering, voice quiet but certain. “You’re both the greatest,” he said. “That’s what the ITF sees. Not your arguments. Not your egos. Your results.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a weight in your chest. Because that was the part that stung the most—he was right. On paper, it made perfect sense. Two top players. Two names that carried weight. Two people who knew how to win.

“They don’t care how you feel,” Toto added, softer now. “They care about what you produce on court.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second. Long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones. It wasn’t just about Max or Lando anymore. It was everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant need to prove yourself, to hold it all together, to pretend like none of it touched you. But it did. And it was catching up.

“What if I say no?” you asked, your voice low but sharp, like you were daring him to give you a way out. “What if I decline the partnership?”

Toto didn’t even blink. “You’ll be disqualified from the Grand Slam.”

The word slammed into you. “WHAT?!” It tore out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and full of disbelief.

But even as it echoed in the quiet space between you, you already knew. Of course they’d do this. Of course the ITF would back you into a corner, smiling politely while they took away your choices one by one. They didn’t want your comfort. They wanted your compliance. Walk away, and you’d lose everything you’d worked for. Stay, and you’d have to do it with him.

“That’s what the ITF told me,” Toto said, softer now. “That’s why Lando already confirmed. He didn’t have a choice either.”

The fight drained out of you all at once, like someone had pulled the plug. The anger, the panic—it all gave way to something heavier. Something quieter.

So this wasn’t arrogance. This wasn’t Lando going behind your back or trying to one-up you. He hadn’t chosen this any more than you had. He was stuck too. Just like you.

Now you couldn’t even hate him for it.

“Y/n,” Toto said, his voice firm, steady, and final. “Either you put your ego aside and play this Grand Slam with Norris—prove to Max that you can win without him—or you get disqualified completely.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, the words sinking in like slow poison. They didn’t hit all at once. They settled, heavy and cold, curling around your ribs and tightening your chest until it was hard to breathe.

“It’s all or nothing,” he added, softer now, but no less certain.

And just like that, every exit you’d been clinging to vanished. All the ways you’d tried to delay, to deflect, to pretend there might be another option—they were gone. There was no middle ground. No loophole. No one coming to save you from this choice.

You looked down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s practice. Callused fingers, taped knuckles, wrists that had carried more weight than they should’ve. You’d built your whole life with these hands. Match by match. Win by win. Loss by loss. And now, they were shaking.

You looked up at Toto. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just… steady. Concern flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t soften the truth. He was here to help you stand, but he wasn’t going to carry you.

Winning without Max Verstappen. Winning with Lando Norris.

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven, like your body was trying to make space for the decision already forming in your chest. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This was about pride. About survival. About proving—to Max, to the ITF, to yourself—that you were still standing. That you could still fight.

And somewhere deep down, you realized the choice had already been made.

“Fine,” you said at last, lifting your head. The word came out steady, clear, even though your insides still felt like they were shaking. “Tell the ITF I’ll do it. I confirm.”

For a moment, Toto didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something shifting in his expression—less relief, more recognition. Like he saw the cost of what you’d just agreed to. Like he knew exactly how much it had taken to say it out loud.

His voice was quiet when it came. “That’s my girl.”

────────────

You stayed on the court after Lily left, even though the sun was starting to dip and the shadows were stretching long across the baseline. She and Oscar had plans—dinner, a movie, something that sounded like a life untouched by chaos. You waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and told her you’d be fine. A lie, but an easy one. One she didn’t press.

You weren’t supposed to be alone for long anyway. Zak, Lando, and Toto were on their way. A meeting, they’d said. A conversation about your “future partnership.” The phrase alone made your jaw clench. You could think of a hundred better ways to spend a Monday afternoon than waiting for the guy you could barely stand.

So you stayed busy.

You picked up a ball and hit it across the court. Then another. And another. No rallies. No rhythm. Just you and the silence and the sting in your arm as each shot landed harder than the last. Your breath came faster. Your muscles burned. But you didn’t stop.

Anger bled into every swing. Not just at Max, or the ITF, or Lando. At the whole damn situation. At how unfair it all felt. You were ranked sixth in the world. Sixth. And still, somehow, you were the one being forced to prove yourself. To adapt.

And now you were supposed to play mixed doubles with someone who lived comfortably in the top five. Someone who made it all look effortless. Someone you’d spent your whole career trying to catch—and never quite reaching.

The thought lodged in your chest like a splinter. No matter how many hours you trained, how many sacrifices you made, it always felt like you were one step behind him. Always chasing. Always just short.

Your knee twinged as you lunged for another shot. You ignored it. Hit harder.

If this was what it took to prove you belonged—next to him, not beneath him—then fine.

You’d burn yourself out trying.

Better that than letting anyone think you weren’t enough.

“You should take a break,” a voice said, low and familiar.

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice. Kimi.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the court, your grip tightening around the racket. You tried to make your voice sound firm, unshakable. But even to your own ears, it rang hollow.

“You say that a lot,” he said, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. Observant. His gaze moved over you—your stiff shoulders, the way your weight shifted to protect your knee, the tension you couldn’t quite hide.

You clenched your jaw. “Because I am fine. Don’t read too much into it.”

Kimi didn’t flinch. “That’s what you said last year,” he said gently. “And the year before that.”

You let out a breath, sharp and frustrated. “Things are different this time.”

“Are they?” he asked, voice calm, even. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks the same. You’re not just angry about Max. Or the ITF. You’re still carrying that injury. Still pushing through it like it’s not there. Still trying to outrun something that’s already inside you.”

You looked away, blinking hard. Because he was right. And hearing it out loud made something twist in your chest. You hated how much it stung. Hated how much it felt like truth.

Kimi crouched down a little, bringing himself to your eye level. He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you. Just looked at you with that quiet steadiness of his. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re strong. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But even the strongest players need to breathe. You don’t have to prove everything all at once.”

You stared at the ground, your fingers clenched around the racket handle like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You didn’t know if you wanted to yell at him or lean into his words and let them hold you up.

“Just… think about it,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Before you meet them.”

You watched him walk away, and couldn’t help the thought that slipped in, uninvited and sharp.

He sounded just like Toto.

You stood there for a moment after Kimi left, the court stretching out around you, suddenly too wide, too quiet. The silence pressed in, broken only by the steady thud of your heartbeat and the echo of his words in your head. Take a break. As if it was that simple. As if stopping didn’t feel like surrender. Like letting go of the only thing holding you together.

You bent down, picked up a ball, and served it hard. Too hard. It clipped the net and rolled back toward you, slow and mocking. You stared at it, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. Your knee pulsed with pain—a sharp, familiar warning you’d been ignoring all afternoon.

You dropped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, racket dangling from your fingers. For a moment, you let your head fall forward, eyes closed. Just a breath. Just a pause. The anger that had carried you through the day began to slip away, leaving something heavier in its place. Not rage. Not even frustration.

Fear.

Fear that Max had been right to walk away. Fear that this new pairing—this forced partnership with Lando—wasn’t a second chance, but a spotlight. One that would show everyone just how far you’d fallen. How much you were still hurting. How much you were still trying to pretend you weren’t.

You glanced at your phone. 6:56 p.m.

Time to go.

You wiped the sweat from your face with a towel, grabbed your bag, and started walking. Out of the facility, down the quiet path toward the café where Toto, Zak, and Lando would be waiting.

The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from the courts, tucked behind a row of hedges like a secret only the players knew. It was the kind of place where people pretended, for an hour or two, that their lives weren’t ruled by rankings and press conferences and the weight of expectation. Just coffee, quiet, and the illusion of normal.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the cool hush of the room. The air smelled like espresso and something sweet, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you. Relief and dread twisted together in your chest, tight and tangled.

They were already there.

Toto saw you first. He lifted a hand in a small, steady wave—reassuring, grounding. Zak sat beside him, posture easy but eyes sharp, already reading you like a stat sheet. And then there was Lando.

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cap turned backwards like always. He looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this wasn’t a meeting about a forced partnership or a career-defining gamble. Like he hadn’t been dragged into the same mess you had.

Of course he looked fine.

You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and dropped your bag beside the empty chair across from him. You didn’t sit. Didn’t look at him. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a little too long.

“Sorry,” you said finally, voice flat. “Training ran late.”

Lando’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yeah. I can tell.”

You turned then, sharp and fast, eyes narrowing. The look you gave him was a warning—don’t.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t waver. Still watching you. Still too calm. Still too curious.

“I’m glad you came,” Zak said, turning toward you with that smooth, practiced tone of his.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Zak Brown. The most infuriating man on the planet—second only to the player sitting across from you. There had always been something about him that rubbed you the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he already knew the outcome. Or maybe it was the fact that, years ago, he’d told Toto you were too “unruly” to manage. You’d been seventeen. Fiery. Determined. And apparently, too much.

You kept your expression neutral, fingers tightening around the strap of your racket bag like it might anchor you to the floor. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this still grated.

“Thanks,” you said, voice even, polite. Controlled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Zak smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that said he was already five steps ahead, already moving the pieces into place. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk about this partnership, shall we?”

You nodded once, slowly, and finally took your seat. The chair felt too stiff. The air too still. Across from you, Lando hadn’t said a word.

Toto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low and steady. “Let’s be clear,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “This partnership isn’t about liking each other. It’s about results. The ITF made the call. Now it’s our job to make it work.”

You didn’t look up. Just stared at your hands, fingers curled tight around the strap of your racket bag like it might hold you together. “I get it,” you said quietly. The words came out flat, thin. Even you could hear how hollow they sounded.

Across from you, Lando shifted in his seat. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—like a weight pressing against your skin.

“Funny,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I highly doubt that.”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, that faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like this was all a game to him. Like none of it mattered.

Zak raised a hand before either of you could say more, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Enough,” he said, sharp but calm. “We’re not here to rehash old drama. We’re here to make a plan—practice schedules, match strategy, communication on court. Every detail matters if you two want to win.”

You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, heart still pounding. You weren’t sure what was worse—Lando’s smirk, or the fact that Zak was right.

Toto leaned back slightly, his voice calm but clipped. “We don’t have much time. You play singles tomorrow. There won’t be much time. You need to train together in the meantime.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharp in your throat. “Oh, yes. Waited for that my whole life.”

Across the table, Lando’s smirk bloomed before he even opened his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said, voice light and needling. “That sounded suspiciously like complaining.”

You snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Well, it is complaining,” you said, the words landing hard. “I didn’t spend years clawing my way up the rankings just to be forced into a partnership with someone I can’t even stand.”

Lando leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something sharper. “Oh, come on. You act like I begged for this. The ITF picked me. I didn’t pick you.”

“That makes it worse!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask for Max to walk away either, but here we are!”

He raised an eyebrow, tone cooling. “So what?” he said. “You’re mad at me for being good at my job?”

You shot him a look that could’ve burned through concrete. “I’m mad?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re cocky, infuriating, and you walk around like the world owes you something.”

Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, eyebrow arching. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Y/n. You’ve got an ego the size of Australia.”

Your hand slammed down on the table before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden. Zak flinched. “Better an ego than being a pain in everyone’s ass every time you show up,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Pain in the ass, huh?” he said, grin widening. “You’ve clearly spent a lot of time thinking about me.”

You leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’ve spent way too much time thinking about you already,” you shot back, the words landing harder than you meant them to.

The silence that followed was thick and electric, both of you breathing hard, neither willing to back down.

Toto cleared his throat, voice low but firm. “Enough,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “If you two can’t start with some professionalism, this partnership won’t survive a single training session.”

“Training starts in fifteen minutes,” Toto said, standing up. Zak followed him out without a word, leaving you and Lando alone.

You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. You just stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air between you charged and unyielding.

Zak exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to be… interesting,” he muttered.

The silence that followed was thick—awkward and bitter, stretching too long to ignore. You shifted in your chair, arms crossing tightly over your chest, gaze fixed on the table. You refused to look at him. Not yet.

Lando leaned back, the edge in his posture softening. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Look,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask to be your partner.”

Your arms tightened around yourself, a reflex you couldn’t stop. “Glad we’re being honest,” you said, the words clipped, brittle.

He let out a breath, then shrugged. “But… I did save us both from getting disqualified. So… you’re welcome, I guess.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking the exhaustion underneath.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace.

But it was something.

A crack in the wall, maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, the court was already a disaster.

“You call that a forehand?!” Lando shouted across the net, his voice echoing through the empty stands. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as the ball zipped past you, just out of reach.

You spun around, breathless, glaring. “It’s fine! You just aim like a toddler!”

He laughed—loud, unbothered, infuriating. “Fine? That’s hilarious!” He tossed another ball into the air and hit it with ridiculous ease. “Seriously, Y/n, do you even know which way to swing that thing?”

“Shut up!” you snapped, stepping into the next shot and yanking it back over the net with more force than necessary. The ball cracked against the baseline, but you barely registered it. Your pulse was too loud in your ears.

Toto’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “Enough! Both of you!”

Zak’s voice followed, sharper, clipped. “Focus. This isn’t a playground—it’s training.”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring across the net at each other.

And yet, neither of you moved to apologize.

You and Lando barely registered the shouting from the sidelines. Too caught up in your own storm, too busy hurling balls across the net like weapons, swinging with more spite than strategy, arguing over every single point like it mattered more than the match itself.

“Your backhand is worse!” Lando shouted, his voice echoing across the court.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you could even touch mine!”

He scoffed, sending another ball flying your way. “In your dreams!”

You lunged, returned it with a sharp crack. “Only when they’re nightmares!”

Toto’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “Stop shouting!” he barked, marching toward the net, his patience clearly fraying. “You’ll wear yourselves out before the first match!”

Toto’s whistle cut through the chaos like a blade. The ball skidded to a stop between you and Lando, the silence that followed almost louder than the shouting had been.

“Enough,” Toto said, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the headache away. “We’ll deal with the attitude later.”

You scoffed under your breath, turning away. Lando muttered something low and sharp that you didn’t quite catch—but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat still radiating between you.

Toto pointed between you both, his voice firm. “Tomorrow, you each play singles. Y/n, your match is first. After that—no excuses. You train together again.”

Zak crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “And not just drills.”

Toto nodded. “You’ll train against Oscar and Lily.”

That made you look up.

Lily and Oscar. Calm, in sync, terrifyingly efficient. They moved like they shared a brain, like they’d been playing together since birth. Watching them was like watching choreography—fluid, precise, unshakable.

“They’re one of the best doubles pairs here,” Toto continued. “If you want to survive mixed doubles, you’ll learn from them. Communication. Movement. Trust.”

Lando let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So we get destroyed on purpose.”

“Exactly,” Toto said, not missing a beat. “And you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t respond. Neither did Lando.

But for the first time all day, neither of you had anything to argue about.

────────────

You sat alone in the locker room, the silence pressing in around you like a second skin. The hum of the stadium was distant, muffled by thick walls and the weight of your own thoughts. Your elbows rested on your thighs, head in your hands, leg bouncing restlessly. You hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.

The Australian Open. The one that always slipped away. You’d won everything else—Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros. But Melbourne had always found a way to break your rhythm. A bad draw. A rolled ankle. A match point that vanished in the heat. It had become a ghost you couldn’t shake. And now, here you were again. Minutes from walking out. Minutes from trying—again—to rewrite the ending.

You told yourself this time would be different. You were stronger now. Sharper. You’d survived heartbreak, injury, Max leaving, the ITF’s games. You were still standing. That had to count for something.

Still, your chest felt tight. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A soft knock broke through the quiet.

“Come in,” you said, voice low, not bothering to lift your head.

The door creaked open. “Just checking on you,” came a voice you knew by heart.

Kimi.

Of course it was him.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. He just knew. Always had. Like he could feel it in the air when you needed someone to show up.

Kimi stepped closer, his presence calm and steady in the way it always was. “You got this,” he said simply.

And somehow, that meant more than any speech ever could. Because if there was anyone who still believed in you—truly, without conditions—it was Kimi. He didn’t need you to win to believe in you. He just did.

You looked up at him, your voice soft. “Thanks, Kimi. I hope so.”

He gave a small nod, then added, “Lily couldn’t make it. She’s got training. But she told me to tell you she’s wishing you luck.”

You tried to smile. “I’ll see her after the match,” you said, but the words felt thinner than you meant them to. The thought of training with Lando later, of facing Lily and Oscar on the other side of the court—it crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of your focus.

Kimi opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to ground you again, maybe just to stay a little longer.

But the loudspeaker crackled to life, cutting him off.

“Welcome to the first women’s singles match of this year’s Australian Open! Y/n Y/l/n versus Alexandra Saint Mleux!”

The words echoed through the locker room, sharp and final.

It was time.

You stood slowly, gripping your racket like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You gave it a few light swings, trying to shake the tension from your arms, but your muscles still felt tight, coiled like springs. From somewhere beyond the locker room walls, the roar of the crowd filtered in—louder than you expected. It hit you in the chest, sudden and real, and your stomach twisted.

Kimi stood just off to the side, arms folded, calm as ever. He gave you a small nod, his voice low and steady. “Focus,” he said. “You know what to do.”

You nodded back, not trusting yourself to speak. Then you turned and walked down the long hallway toward the court, each step echoing in the narrow space. You passed Toto near the entrance, his expression unreadable but his voice warm.

“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Remember Mleux’s weaknesses.”

You managed a quiet, “Thanks,” as you stepped past him and into the light.

The sun hit you like a wave—bright and hot, wrapping around your skin. The stadium opened up in front of you, vast and humming with energy. The crowd’s cheers rolled over you in waves, and your heart kicked up, faster than it should’ve been. You blinked against the brightness, against the noise, against the weight of it all.

This is it, you thought. This is finally your Australian Open.

You walked to your baseline, the court beneath your feet familiar and foreign all at once. You took a deep breath, let it fill your lungs, and exhaled slowly. The racket settled into your hands like it belonged there.

You bounced lightly on your toes at the baseline, trying to shake the nerves from your limbs. Your eyes stayed locked on the other side of the net, where Alexandra stood like a statue—calm, composed, her expression unreadable. She looked like she was waiting for a warm-up rally, not the start of a Grand Slam match. Of course she did. That was her thing. Ice in her veins. No cracks in the armor.

The umpire’s voice broke through the hum of the crowd. “Time.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. The racket felt solid in your hand, familiar. You tossed the ball into the air, eyes tracking it as it rose against the bright sky.

Focus.

The ball met your strings with a clean, satisfying snap. It flew wide and fast, clipping the line. Ace. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over you, and for a moment, it lit something in your chest. A spark. A reminder. You were here. You were ready.

The next point didn’t come as easy. The rally stretched long—baseline to baseline, shot for shot. You felt your knee twinge, a dull ache that flared with each push off your right foot. You ignored it. There was no space for pain today. You moved sharper, hit deeper, pulling from every drill Toto had hammered into you. Attack her backhand. Drag her wide. Don’t let her settle.

Point by point, the match found its rhythm. Brutal. Demanding. Sweat rolled down your spine, your grip tightening with every swing. The world narrowed to the ball, the lines, the breath in your lungs. Everything else fell away.

The first set had taken everything out of you. Long rallies, sharp angles, your knee screaming every time you pushed off just a little too hard. You’d won it—barely. And now, standing at the baseline in the second set, the heat pressed down heavier than before. The sun clung to your skin, sweat pooling at the base of your neck, soaking into your wristbands. You bounced the ball, trying to find your breath, trying to find your focus.

One point at a time.

You returned serve cleanly, chased the next shot, sent it down the line with just enough spin to pull it out of reach. The crowd responded, a low murmur rising into something louder, warmer. You didn’t let yourself react. Not yet.

But as you walked back toward the baseline, towel draped around your shoulders, your eyes drifted—just for a second. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

And there he was.

Lando.

Sitting in the stands, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just stillness. Focus. Watching you—not like a teammate, not like a rival. Like someone trying to understand something he hadn’t seen before.

Your grip tightened around the racket handle.

Why is he even here?

You shook the thought off, forced your gaze back to the court. It didn’t matter. He was just another face in the crowd. Just another distraction.

But the next rally dragged long—brutal, punishing. You chased a wide ball, stretched too far, and your knee flared in protest. Sharp. Immediate. You bit down on the pain, forced yourself through the motion, barely masking the wince.

And from the corner of your eye, you saw him move.

Lando straightened in his seat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

Like he felt it too.

You’d taken the second set, but your heart was racing for all the wrong reasons. Not from the heat or the effort or the pressure of the match—but from something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

As the applause rolled over the court, you let your eyes drift—just for a second, just long enough to betray yourself. And there he was.

Lando.

Still in the stands. Still watching. Elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, gaze fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away once.

You turned quickly, heading for the sidelines. The crowd was loud, the sun relentless, sweat dripping down your temple as you moved straight toward Toto. You didn’t wait for him to speak.

“What is he doing here?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t he have his own match?”

Toto handed you a bottle of water, calm as ever. “He already played,” he said. “He won.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He’d finished his match. And he’d still come to watch yours.

The thought landed in your chest with a strange weight. Not heavy, exactly. Just… tight. Unsettling. Maybe he was here to see you fall apart. Maybe he wanted proof that you weren’t as good as everyone said.

Or maybe—worse—he wanted to see for himself just how good you really were.

“Focus, kid,” Toto said, his voice low and even, cutting through the noise like a metronome. He gave you a steady look, the kind that didn’t waver, didn’t rush. “You’ve already taken two sets out of three. You’ve got this in the bag.”

You nodded, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your heart was still racing, your body humming with adrenaline and heat and something else—something harder to name. Pressure, maybe. Or fear. Or the weight of knowing how close you were to finally breaking the curse of this tournament.

You looked down at your hands, fingers wrapped tight around the water bottle, knuckles pale. You’d done the hard part. You were ahead. But the finish line always felt the farthest when it was right in front of you.

Still, Toto’s voice stayed with you. Calm. Certain. Like he believed in you even when you weren’t sure you could believe in yourself.

You took a breath. Then another.

And when you stood, racket in hand, the world narrowed again—to the court, the ball, the next point.

Just one more set.

The whistle blew, sharp and final, slicing through the heat-soaked air.

You stepped to the baseline, and something inside you shifted. Not snapped, exactly—more like something uncoiled. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe it was the image of Lando, still watching, still there, etched into the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Whatever it was, it lit a fuse.

You served with more bite, more speed. The ball cracked off your strings and kissed the line. Your returns came cleaner, heavier, each one landing with purpose. Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, your body slipping into that rare, elusive rhythm where everything just worked.

The crowd roared, but it barely registered. Their cheers blurred into a distant hum, like waves crashing somewhere far away. All you could hear was the thud of the ball, the scrape of your shoes, the steady beat of your breath.

Focus. Timing. Instinct.

It all clicked.

Each point you won fed the next—momentum building, confidence blooming in your chest like something wild and overdue. The anger, the nerves, the noise—they all faded, burned away by the fire in your blood and the clarity in your mind.

And then, between points, as you turned to towel off, your eyes flicked to the stands.

Lando was still there.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. No smirk. No smugness. Just focus. Just… attention.

The rally stretched on, longer than you thought your body could handle. Sweat dripped into your eyes, your muscles screamed with every lunge, every pivot, every desperate reach. Your breath came in ragged bursts, the court blurring at the edges as you chased one more shot, then another, refusing to let go.

Alexandra lunged for your return, her body fully extended, racket slicing through the air. The ball clipped the edge of her strings—then spun wide.

Out.

The stadium erupted.

For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sound hit you like a wave, crashing over your shoulders, and then your knees gave out. You dropped, the racket slipping from your hand, your fists clenched and raised as you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

You’d done it.

The Australian Open. The one that had always slipped through your fingers. The one that haunted your off-seasons and whispered in your dreams. You’d won the first round. And this time, it was real.

Toto was there in an instant, dropping to your level, gripping your shoulder with both hands. His eyes were bright, voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like pride. “You did it,” he said, shaking you gently. “You did it, kid!”

You laughed, still catching your breath, the weight of the last few months crashing down all at once. The pressure. The burnout. The doubt. The noise. It all spilled out in one long, shaking exhale. “We did it,” you said, voice cracking. “We actually did it.”

Toto pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. “No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You did it. That’s all you.”

And in the middle of the chaos—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the blur of movement—you let yourself feel it.

Not relief. Not survival.

Triumph.

Real, unfiltered, earned.

You had won the first round of the Australian Open.

You and Toto stepped into the hallway, the buzz of the crowd still echoing faintly behind you. You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling—that quiet, proud smile he only wore when words weren’t enough. The kind that said I knew you could without needing to say it at all.

And then you saw them.

Lily, Oscar, Kimi… and Lando.

Lily was the first to reach you, arms already outstretched. “You did it, Y/n!” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You laughed, still catching your breath, still riding the high. “Thanks, Lil. It’s—God, it’s unbelievable.”

Oscar clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and easy. “That was insane. You dominated out there.”

Kimi didn’t say much— he never did—but his smile was warm, steady. “Told you,” he said simply. “You’ve got this. Always.”

And then your eyes found Lando’s.

He stood a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, cap still low over his brow. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint. Just something quieter. Something still.

“Congrats,” he said.

Just that. One word. No fanfare. No sarcasm.

And honestly, you hadn’t expected more.

But somehow, it lingered. The way he said it. The way he looked at you when he did. Like it meant something. Like he’d seen something out there—something real—and couldn’t quite put it into words.

You’d won today. That much was clear.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d also proved something.

To yourself. And to him.

“Training in one hour,” you said, glancing at Lando, Lily, and Oscar as you reached for your bag.

Toto’s voice followed, calm but edged with quiet disapproval. “You should take a break.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t wanna,” you muttered, brushing past, fingers already curling around your racket.

Lando raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Seriously? You just crushed your singles match and now you’re jumping straight into doubles?”

You turned, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Yeah. Seriously.”

He didn’t push, but the look he gave you lingered—half impressed, half questioning.

“No rest for the best,” you added, tugging your shoes on with quick, practiced movements.

Lily let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?”

You paused for half a second, then shrugged. “Relaxing’s for people who aren’t chasing Grand Slams,” you said, tightening the laces. “I don’t have that luxury.”

No one argued with that.

────────────

An hour later, you were back on court.

The adrenaline from your win still pulsed through your veins, sharp and heady, like a second heartbeat. Your limbs buzzed with leftover energy, your mind still half caught in the echo of the crowd. Only your knee whispered its quiet protest, a dull throb you refused to acknowledge. Not now. Not in front of them.

Across the net, Oscar and Lily were already in motion—laughing, tossing balls back and forth, their movements fluid and in sync. They looked like they belonged together on and off a court—in which, they did. Like they didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking.

It was annoying, honestly. How easy they made it look.

Meanwhile, you stood near the baseline with Lando, Zak, and Toto, the four of you in a loose circle that felt more like a standoff than a strategy session.

“You two need to communicate,” Toto said, his voice clipped, no room for argument.

Zak chuckled, hands on his hips. “And not argue, by the way. Just to be clear.”

He was the only one who found that funny.

Toto didn’t even blink. “Communication doesn’t mean yelling,” he added, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “Call your shots. Trust each other.”

You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your gaze snapped to Lando, heat rising in your chest. “You think I can trust someone like him?”

Lando let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. Starting strong, aren’t we?”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “This,” he said, “is exactly what I mean.”

“Take example from Oscar and Lily,” Toto said, nodding toward the other side of the court.

You followed his gaze. There they were—laughing, bumping shoulders, moving like they shared the same rhythm. They looked relaxed, completely at ease, like this was just another afternoon. Like they weren’t about to run drills in the heat. Like they weren’t being watched. It was effortless. Disgustingly effortless. And, of course, they were in love. That probably helped.

“Toto, please,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “They’re dating.”

“And?” Toto shot back without missing a beat. “They communicate. They know each other’s next move before it even happens.”

You opened your mouth, but Lando beat you to it, his voice dry. “That’s because they’ve been playing together for, like, four years.”

Toto sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this entire setup. “Exactly my point. They didn’t start like this. They learned. They worked at it.”

Lando let out a quiet scoff, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah. Over four years. We’ve had—what—twenty-four hours?”

You turned toward him, heat rising in your chest. “And half of that,” you snapped, “you spent mocking my forehand.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because it was late.”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “It won the match.”

“Barely,” he said, and though his voice was even, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Toto clapped his hands once, the sound loud and sharp. “Enough,” he said, stepping back. “On court. Both of you. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Neither did Lando.

But as you walked to your side of the net, you could feel the tension still crackling between you—sharp, stubborn, and not going anywhere anytime soon.

The first rally hadn’t even properly begun before it all fell apart.

Oscar’s serve came fast and clean, skimming just over the net. You moved to cover your side, expecting Lando to shift with you—but he didn’t. The ball flew past him, bounced once behind you, and rolled to a stop near the fence.

Lando groaned, spinning around with his arms outstretched. “Seriously?!”

You turned too, already bristling. “What was that?” he snapped, glaring.

“What was that?” you shot back. “You weren’t ready!”

He didn’t answer—just lunged for the next ball that Oscar had casually returned to keep the rally going. You stepped forward to help, swung too late, and clipped the net. The ball dropped dead at your feet.

“You’re late again!” Lando barked, breath short. “Move your ass!”

You whipped around, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re the one standing there like a statue!”

He didn’t respond. Just dove for another shot, barely keeping it in play. You tried to recover, swiped at the return, and missed entirely.

From the sidelines, Toto and Zak were shouting—something about spacing, about communication—but their voices barely registered. The court had shrunk to just the two of you, locked in a rhythm of blame and frustration, every word sharper than the last.

“You’re impossible!” you shouted, voice sharp and raw as another ball zipped past you, missing your shoulder by inches.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “You think you’re perfect?” he snapped, slamming the next ball toward your side with a little too much force, like he wanted to make a point with the sound of it hitting your half of the court.

You lunged, off balance, barely getting your racket to it. “Fuck!” you hissed as the ball clipped the strings and dropped straight into the net, limp and useless.

“Shit!” Lando barked, scrambling after the next shot, his foot catching awkwardly as he stumbled, barely staying upright.

The rally kept going, but it was a mess. Every shot felt like a fight. Every movement turned into a complaint. You weren’t playing together—you were playing around each other, like two magnets repelling on contact.

“Move your feet!” he yelled, frustration bleeding into every word.

“You’re blocking me!” you snapped, trying to sidestep him and nearly colliding instead.

“Watch the net!”

“How the hell did you miss that?!”

The ball skidded out of bounds, and you both stood there, breathing hard, glaring across the court like enemies instead of teammates. Somewhere on the sidelines, you could hear Zak groaning and Toto muttering under his breath, but it all felt distant.

The shouting had reached a boiling point—sharp, fast, and full of heat. Every word felt like it was meant to hurt. You missed two more volleys in a row, your timing completely off, your head spinning with frustration. And then you heard Lando’s voice, panicked and too late.

“I—shit—watch out!”

But you were already moving. Both of you lunged for the same ball, and the collision was loud and jarring. A solid thunk of shoulder against ribs, racket against thigh.

“Ow!” you gasped, stumbling back, clutching your shoulder as the sting bloomed deep and fast.

“Fucking hell,” Lando muttered, bent over slightly, rubbing his side with a grimace. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and angry. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away. Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, your body aching in more ways than one. And then you looked across the court.

Lily and Oscar were still playing—still laughing, still moving like they shared the same heartbeat. They bumped shoulders, exchanged a high-five, and didn’t even glance your way. The contrast was brutal. It made your stomach twist.

You threw your racket down, the sound loud and final against the court. “I can’t,” you said, voice cracking. “This is impossible.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “Impossible?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re the one yelling at everything!”

You took a step forward, anger flaring. “You think I’m the problem? You’re a—”

“—a cocky idiot?” he cut in, eyes blazing. “Yeah. I know. You’ve said it enough times.”

The words kept coming, fast and sharp, like neither of you could stop. Insults, blame, frustration—spilling out until your throat burned and your chest ached from the effort of it all. You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. The match? The pressure? Each other?

All you knew was that it hurt.

Toto stormed onto the court, arms raised like he was trying to physically push the tension back into place. “Enough!” he barked, voice cutting through the heat and noise. “Both of you!”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring at each other like you were seconds away from swinging your rackets at something other than tennis balls. And then, slowly, you both looked down—realizing at the same time that your grips were too tight, your stances too sharp. You weren’t holding rackets. You were holding weapons.

Toto’s voice dropped, low and firm, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. “Take a break. Sit down. Drink some water. And calm the hell down. Because whatever this is—it’s not doubles. It’s a screaming contest.”

You didn’t argue. Just turned and walked to the bench, legs heavy, lungs still burning. You dropped onto the seat like your body had finally remembered it was tired, water bottle clutched in your hand like it might keep you from unraveling. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts still tangled in the last ten minutes of chaos.

Across the court, Lando didn’t sit. He leaned against the fence instead, arms crossed, head tipped back like he was trying to breathe through whatever storm was still brewing inside him. He didn’t say a word. But the tension coming off him was thick enough to feel from where you sat, like heat rising off the pavement.

You and Lando had finally cooled down enough to approach Oscar and Lily, rackets in hand, the silence between you still heavy but no longer sharp. The earlier shouting had drained something from both of you, leaving behind a kind of raw quiet. Not peace, exactly—but maybe the start of it.

Lily glanced up as you approached, bouncing the ball gently on her racket. Her tone was light, but kind. “So,” she said, “watching you two out there… maybe try calling your shots before swinging. It really helps.”

Oscar nodded beside her, his expression easy but sincere. “Yeah. And trust each other. You don’t have to chase every ball alone. Let the other person take their shot.”

You nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere in your chest. It still felt tight, like your ribs hadn’t quite relaxed since the last argument. But you were listening. “Call our shots,” you repeated under your breath. “Right. And… trust. Sure.”

Lando let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Sounds easy when you two say it.”

You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “It’s not. Trust doesn’t just show up.”

“No,” he agreed, and for once, there was no edge in his voice. “It doesn’t.”

Lily smiled gently, stepping closer. “Exactly. It takes time. You’ll get there. Just… breathe. And listen to each other.”

While Lando nodded along to Lily and Oscar’s advice, you shifted slightly to the side, adjusting your grip on your racket. That’s when you heard it—Zak’s voice, low and curious, just behind Toto.

“Was she always like this?” he asked. “I mean… with Max?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of wind. You froze mid-step, heart thudding once, hard and loud. You didn’t turn around, didn’t move. Just listened.

Toto’s voice came a moment later, calm and even, but softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s always been like this. Fiery. Stubborn. Unrelenting.”

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the memory in his voice when he added, “Max knew it. And honestly, that’s why he respected her. She drove everyone else crazy, but he never flinched. He always saw the good in her—even when she couldn’t see it herself.”

You swallowed, the air suddenly thicker in your lungs.

“She pushed him,” Toto went on, his gaze distant now. “Hard. He had to adapt, trust her instincts, keep up. And he did. Because he knew what she was capable of. He never doubted it. Not once.”

You shifted your weight, fingers tightening around the handle of your racket. The words settled deep, stirring something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a while. Pride, yes. A flicker of irritation, maybe. But mostly… something quieter. Something that ached.

Longing, maybe.

Or the echo of something you hadn’t quite let go of.

“Why did he bail on her though?” Zak asked, his voice low, curious in that way people get when they think you’re not listening.

But you were.

God, you were.

No. No. No. You didn’t want to hear this. You weren’t ready. But your feet stayed planted, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, and your ears strained for every word.

Toto let out a slow breath, the kind that carried weight. “She had a knee injury a few months ago,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “Max probably thought she wouldn’t be the same after that.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, breath catching. You stared straight ahead, but your vision blurred at the edges.

He thought you wouldn’t be the same.

Like you were broken. Like you were less.

Toto kept talking, his tone dipping into something darker. “But I don’t know for sure,” he added, jaw tight. “You know Horner. That piece of shit probably twisted something, planted doubts in Max’s head. God knows what he told him.”

You clenched your jaw, teeth grinding together as the heat rose in your chest. Anger flared, sharp and sudden, curling around the old ache in your knee and the deeper one in your chest. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. It all tangled together, heavy and bitter and impossible to swallow.

Zak’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough resting. Back to work.”

You didn’t need to look to know he’d caught you listening. The way he said it—clipped, pointed—made it clear. But you didn’t flinch. You just exhaled, slow and steady, letting the anger and anxiety settle somewhere low in your chest.

Something shifted then. Maybe it was the leftover fire from the earlier chaos. Maybe it was the sting of hearing Max’s name spoken like a closed chapter. Or maybe it was just the simple, stubborn truth: if you didn’t figure this out—if you and Lando couldn’t find some kind of rhythm—this whole doubles thing was going to crash and burn.

“Let’s do this,” you muttered, stepping back onto the court beside him.

Lando didn’t say anything, but he followed.

The first serve came fast, skimming low over the net. You didn’t hesitate.

“Mine!” you called, loud and clear, lunging forward with purpose. Your racket met the ball with a clean, satisfying thwack, sending it deep into the corner.

“Got it!” Lando barked, shifting behind you, his stance sharp, alert. He moved like he was actually paying attention this time—like he trusted you to hold your ground.

The second volley came quicker, a blur of motion. “Backhand, yours!” you called, already pivoting to cover the other side.

“On it!” he replied, and this time, he was. He stepped in, met the ball with a clean return, and for once, you didn’t have to roll your eyes or bite back a curse.

You adjusted without thinking, sliding low to intercept a drop shot that barely cleared the net. “Switch!” you called, already pivoting.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it!” Lando shouted, his voice tight with focus as he sprinted to cover the other side.

And somehow, it worked.

The next rally came, and then another. Each one steadier than the last. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was there—hidden in the chaos, waiting to be found. You started calling your shots more clearly, your voice cutting through the air with short, sharp commands.

“Net, mine!”

“Middle, yours!”

“Don’t rush, hold it!”

“Got it, don’t worry!” Lando called back, his tone clipped but not biting. Focused. Present.

Then came a tricky volley—fast, low, aimed right between you. For a split second, you both moved. But this time, there was no hesitation.

“Mine!” you shouted, stepping in.

“Good!” Lando called, grinning as he followed up, slamming the ball over the net with just the right amount of force.

You caught the return cleanly, your body moving before your brain could catch up. “Yours!” you called, already shifting to cover the next angle.

And he was there.

The small victories started to stack up. Clean hits. Fewer mistakes. A kind of coordination that hadn’t been there before. The bickering still hummed beneath the surface—old habits didn’t vanish in an hour—but it didn’t get in the way. Not this time.

Across the court, Zak had stopped pacing. He stood still, arms folded, one eyebrow raised as he muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable: surprise, maybe even a little relief.

Toto stood beside him, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You and Lando paused at the baseline, both bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath. Sweat clung to your skin, your chest rising and falling in heavy bursts, but the air between you felt different now. Less sharp. Less combative. There was still tension, sure—but it had shifted. Smoothed into something closer to rhythm. A kind of truce, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

Across the court, Lily grinned, bouncing the ball lazily on her racket. “Well, would you look at that,” she called, her voice light with amusement. “They’re actually talking to each other. Miracles really do happen.”

Oscar leaned on his racket beside her, smirking. “Yeah, I can’t decide if I’m impressed or mildly horrified.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

For the first time all day, it didn’t feel like the court was a battlefield.

It just felt like tennis.

────────────

You hated media day. Always had, always would.

The questions never changed. Same dull rhythm, same tired faces. Who do you think will win? Who’s the better player? How much sleep did you get? You could practically mouth the answers before the reporters even opened their mouths. It was all noise—predictable, exhausting noise.

“Gosh… I really don’t wanna do this,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet behind Toto as he led the way down the corridor toward the press room.

“You tell me,” Toto said, not even turning around, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

Up ahead, Zak and Lando were already waiting by the entrance. Zak stood with his arms crossed, scanning something on his phone. Lando leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, curls a mess, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth like he actually enjoyed this circus.

Zak looked up as you approached, his expression shifting into something sharper. “Alright,” he said, gesturing between the two of you, “don’t argue. Don’t yell. If someone asks how you’re doing, just say ‘fine.’ Got it?”

He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat.

“They’ll be annoying,” he added, voice flat. “Be ready for that.”

You exchanged a glance with Lando. He raised an eyebrow, still smirking.

You stepped into the room behind Lando, moving quietly, like slipping into a space you didn’t really want to enter. The setup was exactly as you remembered—two long rows of tables, each seat marked with a neat little name card, everything lined up in perfect, press-friendly order.

Your eyes scanned the row, already bracing for the worst.

And then you saw it.

Two empty seats.

Side by side.

Your name on one. Lando’s name was on your left.

And on your right?

Max.

Your chest tightened, breath catching for just a second. Of course. Of course they’d put you next to him. Like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like you were still a team.

Right. Of course you were stuck in the middle.

You and Lando made your way toward the table, walking side by side, both a little too quiet, a little too stiff. Your nerves buzzed just beneath your skin, making your steps feel heavier than they should’ve.

You kept your eyes down, focused on the floor, the chairs, anything but him. God forbid you looked at Max. You didn’t want eye contact. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But somehow… it happened anyway.

A flicker of movement. A shift in your peripheral vision. And then—his eyes met yours.

“Hey,” he said, soft and casual, like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t left.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. “Hey,” you said, sharp and flat, sliding into your seat without another glance.

The space between you felt like a live wire.

And the press hadn’t even started yet.

The first question came fast, before you’d even fully settled into your seat.

“Y/n, congratulations on your singles win yesterday. How are you feeling heading into the rest of the tournament?”

You straightened, smoothing your expression into something calm, composed. The cameras were already clicking. “Good,” you said, offering a polite smile. “Focused. It’s a long tournament, so I’m just taking it one match at a time.”

Another hand shot up. “You’ve won every Grand Slam except the Australian Open. Does that add extra pressure?”

You let out a slow breath, measured and even. “Pressure’s part of the job,” you said. “If I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

A few reporters nodded. Someone murmured approval. The cameras clicked again.

Then came the question you’d been waiting for.

“And how’s the knee?”

The tone was too casual, like they were asking about the weather. You didn’t blink.

“It’s fine,” you said, voice steady. Firm.

Beside you, Lando shifted in his seat. You felt his glance, quick and quiet, but you didn’t look his way. You kept your eyes forward, your posture still.

Another voice chimed in. “Do you see yourself as the favorite this year?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I see myself as prepared,” you said. “That’s all that matters.”

The room quieted for a beat, the weight of your words settling in.

The camera shifted slightly, its lens angling just enough to frame you and Lando side by side. You didn’t need to look up to know what was coming. You could feel it in the way the room shifted, in the way the air seemed to pause for a beat.

“Lando,” a reporter began, voice smooth and practiced, like he’d been waiting for this one, “how do you feel about your partnership with Y/n? Especially considering the history you two have.”

Your shoulders tensed. You kept your eyes on the table in front of you, jaw tight. Of course they’d go there. Not the matches. Not the training. Not the actual tennis. Just the story. The drama. The past.

Beside you, Lando let out a quiet breath. You could hear the way he shifted in his seat, leaning slightly toward the mic. “I mean,” he said, with a shrug that sounded more tired than casual, “we’ve definitely had our moments.”

You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. But you held still, biting back the urge to scoff. Moments was one way to put it.

“But we’re both competitive,” he went on, and this time his voice was steadier, more grounded. “We both want to win. And at the end of the day, that matters more than whatever history people think we have.”

You didn’t look at him. But something in his tone—calm, honest, maybe even a little tired—made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.

The reporter didn’t waste a second.

“Y/n, do you agree?”

You lifted your head slowly, schooling your features into something neutral. Not cold, not warm—just steady. “We’re professionals,” you said, voice even. “We don’t have to like each other to play well together.”

The room stilled for a beat, that kind of pause reporters lived for. The kind that made every word after feel heavier.

Another voice jumped in. “And do you think this partnership can actually work?”

You felt the smallest shift beside you—Max, adjusting in his seat. You didn’t look, but you felt it. Lando, on your other side, glanced at you, just for a second. You caught it in your peripheral vision, but kept your gaze forward.

“Yes,” you said, clear and firm. “I do.”

There was no hesitation. No room for doubt.

Lando leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “Same.”

You blinked.

That was… unexpected.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet agreement, like he meant it.

The questions had started off simple. Predictable. You almost let yourself believe it wouldn’t be so bad.

But of course, that didn’t last.

“Max,” a reporter said, leaning forward just enough to make it feel personal. The camera clicked, the flash catching the edge of your vision. “There’s been some controversy around your sudden withdrawal from mixed doubles. Care to explain?”

Your mouth twitched. A flicker of something—disgust, maybe. Annoyance. You swallowed it down, kept your eyes forward, your hands folded neatly in your lap. But your heart had already picked up speed.

Max didn’t miss a beat.

“Singles are my priority,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. Sharp in that way he always was when he didn’t want to be questioned. “I decided to focus on myself this Grand Slam. Simple as that.”

You stared at the table in front of you, jaw tight. The words landed like a slap, even though you’d heard them before. Even though you’d lived them.

Focus on myself. Simple as that.

You clenched your fists just enough to feel your nails press into your palms. Not enough to show. Just enough to stay grounded.

Beside you, Lando shifted. You didn’t look, but you felt it—the way his body turned slightly, the way the air changed. Then came the glare. You could feel it radiating off him, sharp and unfiltered, aimed straight at Max.

Another journalist leaned forward, voice calm but loaded. “Do you regret your decision?”

Max didn’t even blink. “No. I don’t,” he said, smooth as ever. “Mixed doubles can be limiting if you’re not perfectly aligned…”

You blinked. What does that even mean?

Your stomach twisted, a slow, sour knot forming deep in your gut. The words echoed in your head, looping in that same clipped, careless tone. Limiting. Like you were a weight. Like you’d held him back. Like the months of training, the hours of work, the trust you’d built—meant nothing now. Just a footnote in his story.

Before you could even process that, another reporter jumped in, voice sharper now. “And what do you think of this new pairing? Y/l/n–Norris? Do you think they’ll do better than you and Y/n? You two were top three before—no one reaches that level easily.”

Your breath caught.

What the fuck.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails digging into your palm. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Didn’t trust yourself to move. The heat in your chest was rising fast, too fast, and you could feel it pressing against your ribs like a warning.

Beside you, Lando’s jaw clenched. You saw it in your peripheral vision—the way his whole body tensed, the way his eyes snapped toward Max, sharp and furious.

Max just shrugged, like none of this mattered. “I think they’ll do fine,” he said, voice light, almost bored. “It’s not my problem anymore.”

And just like that, he tossed the words out like they were nothing. Like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.

Fucking idiot.

You didn’t say it out loud. But the words burned in your throat, bitter and hot.

Suddenly Lando’s head snapped to Max, sharp and unflinching. “You know what’s funny, mate?” he said, voice tight. “You didn’t just walk away. You dumped everything on me. All the pressure, all the expectations—like it was nothing. That’s for that. Really.”

Max didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth, almost amused. “And? That’s your problem now, isn’t it?”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s hand hit the table with a dull thud, loud enough to make a few heads turn. He leaned forward, the smirk gone, replaced by something sharper. “No,” he said, voice low and steady. “No, that’s our problem, and you walked out like it meant nothing. You think it’s easy being stuck cleaning up your mess?”

You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say stop. Not here. Not now. But he didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Max, jaw tight, breathing hard.

Max didn’t blink. “I don’t see it as my mess,” he said, calm as ever. “I made the decision that was best for me. Don’t blame me for that.”

Lando let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m not blaming you, mate,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “I’m just saying… it’d be nice if you owned up to it instead of pretending it’s nothing. You shot everything at me, and now you act like you’re better off alone. Well, congrats. You’re not.”

You cleared your throat, the sound small but sharp in the heavy silence. “Hey…” you said, voice steady, even if your chest was tight. “He made his choice, alright? I get why he did it. It sucks, yeah. But it’s not the end of the world.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because someone had to. Maybe because, deep down, it still stung to hear Lando tear into Max like that—even if you had every reason to be angry too. Even if you weren’t sure you’d ever forgive him.

Lando turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief, frustration flickering just beneath the surface. “Seriously?” he said, voice low but sharp. “You’re defen—”

“Enough,” Zak snapped, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Out. Both of you.”

The word landed hard.

You didn’t argue. Just stood, slow and stiff, your chair scraping quietly against the floor. Lando rose beside you, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides. The cameras clicked in a frenzy, flashes popping like fireworks as you made your way toward the door.

You could feel the weight of every stare, every whispered comment. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. You didn’t need to check your phone to know what tomorrow’s headlines would say.

Almost at the door, Lando stopped.

You turned just in time to see him spin on his heel, eyes locked on Max, voice rising above the hum of the room.

“You’re a selfish piece of shit, Max!”

The words rang out, sharp and clear, echoing off the walls and straight into every microphone in the room.

Zak and Toto exchanged a look as the door shut behind you, the noise of the press room fading into a dull hum. Both men let out quiet scoffs, the kind that said this again?

“You two are impossible,” Zak muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you even realize how that looked? Cameras everywhere. Journalists hanging on every word. Do you care what kind of mess you just made?”

“Impossible? Me?!” Lando snapped, his voice sharp as he turned toward you, finger jabbing through the air. “I just called him out! Someone had to say it!”

You crossed your arms, stepping in closer, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, please. You think yelling in front of every camera makes you some kind of hero? You’re just as ridiculous as he is.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But at least I’m not sitting there pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. At least I say what I mean.”

You shook your head, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Spare me. You’re not some moral crusader, Norris. You’re just loud idiot.”

“Oh, and you’re what? Enlightened?” he shot back, voice rising. “Defending the guy who bailed on you like it was nothing? Are you stup—”

“Enough!” Zak barked, cutting him off before the sentence could land. “My head hurts just listening to you two. You’re like children.”

Toto stepped in then, his voice quieter but firmer. “Go to the hotel. Take a shower. Sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

No one argued.

You just turned and walked, the silence between you and Lando louder than anything either of you had said.

────────────

Sleep wouldn’t come.

You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the press conference, still playing on a loop in your head. Maybe it was the match tomorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a stone. Or maybe it was just your body—too wired, too used to adrenaline and noise and movement to understand that it was finally allowed to rest.

You lay flat on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they might spell something out. The hum of the air conditioning filled the room, soft and steady, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made the silence feel louder.

Then your phone lit up on the nightstand.

The buzz was sharp in the quiet, startling in its suddenness.

You groaned, already bracing yourself. Probably Lily, checking in. Or Kimi, sending some half-asleep meme. Maybe Toto, reminding you to hydrate.

You reached for it lazily, thumb swiping across the screen.

One message.

norris u asleep?

Your eyebrows lifted.

What the hell?

You glanced at the time. 11:07 p.m.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

For a moment, you thought about ignoring it. Pretending you hadn’t seen the message. Just going back to staring at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch on.

But instead—before you could talk yourself out of it—you typed a reply.

yn no. why?

Short. Dry. On purpose.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared. Then came back.

You watched it, heart ticking a little faster for reasons you didn’t want to name.

norris me neither was thinking maybe we should train? court one’s free

You blinked at the screen.

Of all the things he could’ve said—that wasn’t what you expected.

Not an apology. Not a joke. Not some half-hearted attempt to explain the press conference.

Just… train? At 11 p.m.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering again.

yn it’s late.

And it was. The kind of late that made your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts a little slower, your body unsure if it wanted rest or movement.

norris that’s the point. no zak. no toto. no cameras. just tennis.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering. He wasn’t wrong. You did need the practice. There was still so much to figure out—timing, rhythm, trust. The match tomorrow wasn’t going to wait for you to feel ready.

Still, something about this felt… off. Or maybe just unexpected. Lando reaching out like this. Not to argue. Not to gloat. Just to play.

You hesitated for a second longer. Then typed before you could overthink it.

yn fine. see you there in 15.

You set the phone down, heart ticking a little faster now.

What could possibly go wrong?

Plenty, if history was anything to go by.

But you were already pulling on your hoodie.

The court was washed in the harsh white of the floodlights, every corner lit too brightly, every shadow stretched long and strange across the surface. The city murmured in the distance—cars, wind, the occasional far-off siren—but here, it was mostly quiet. Just the soft thud of tennis balls echoing in the stillness.

Lando was already there, leaning on his racket like he had all the time in the world. His silhouette cut a sharp line against the light, curls messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked over as you stepped onto the court, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Wow,” he said, voice light. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t be so surprised,” you said, walking toward your bag. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Right,” he said, flipping a ball into the air and catching it again, his gaze following its lazy arc. “Can’t exactly win a Grand Slam sitting on our asses, can we?”

You didn’t answer. Just bent to lace your shoes, the weight of the day still clinging to your shoulders.

Lando flicked a few switches on the ball machine, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first ball shot out like a bullet.

You swung—and missed.

The second came even faster. Another miss.

“Oi! Watch it!” Lando shouted, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Your forehand’s still a disaster!”

You glared at him, breath already short. “Maybe if you didn’t hog the settings like a control freak, I’d have a chance!”

You swung at the next one—missed again. The frustration boiled over, and you slammed your racket down against the court with a sharp crack that echoed under the floodlights.

The machine didn’t care. It kept firing, relentless and mechanical, balls flying at you both like it had something to prove. You and Lando kept shouting over the noise, blaming each other, tossing insults mid-rally like they were part of the drill.

“You’re late on it!” he snapped, ducking a ball that whizzed past his shoulder.

“No, you’re late on your—”

CRASH.

You collided mid-swing, shoulders slamming together, rackets clattering to the ground. You stumbled back, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding from the impact and the sheer absurdity of it all.

The machine kept going, balls bouncing wildly across the court.

You both froze, glaring at each other, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

If Toto or Zak had been watching, they’d be having a full-blown meltdown.

Lando finally threw up his hands. “Alright! Break! Now!”

He sounded so much like Zak that you almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, you nodded, dragging your sleeve across your forehead as you walked off court, muttering under your breath.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. You sipped your water slowly, the coolness of it grounding you as your eyes traced the white lines on the court. They looked sharper under the floodlights, like they’d been drawn just for you to stare at while you questioned every decision that had led you here. The press conference. The match tomorrow. The fact that you were out here, in the middle of the night, training with someone who drove you absolutely insane.

Then Lando’s voice cut through the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

It came out flat, automatic. You weren’t in the mood. Not for more questions. Not for whatever was brewing behind that tone of his.

But of course, he ignored you. That was just who he was—always pushing, always poking, always talking even when you told him not to. You rolled your eyes, already regretting showing up. And yet, despite yourself, a small laugh slipped out. Just a breath of amusement, soft and tired.

“Why do you keep defending him?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. You kept your eyes on the court, pretending you didn’t know exactly who he meant. “Who?”

Lando didn’t take the bait. “You know who,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost teasing. “Max. At the press conference. You jumped in like you were his lawyer.”

You sighed, the weight of it catching in your chest. Jesus. Why does he care? Why now, after all the yelling, after all the tension, after everything that had gone unsaid for weeks?

“Because he didn’t deserve what you said,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Yeah, he messed up. He made a shitty call. But that doesn’t mean you get to tear him apart in front of the world. It was unnecessary.”

Lando turned toward you, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Since when does Y/n Y/l/n empathize with anyone?”

You shot him a look, sharp and tired, but there was a flicker of something else behind it. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, despite everything. “Maybe I’m full of surprises, Norris.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face. “Oh, you definitely are.”

The quiet settled again, heavier this time. Not the kind that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made the air feel thicker. You could hear the soft hum of the lights above, the distant buzz of the city beyond the fences, but between the two of you, there was nothing. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Then Lando spoke, and his voice was different now. No teasing. No edge. Just quiet confusion. “No, seriously,” he said. “I don’t get it. Why would you defend someone who bailed on you?”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes—judgment, pity, curiosity. You weren’t sure which would be worse. “You’re reading into it too much, Norris,” you said, trying to keep your voice flat, dismissive. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

But something in you shifted. The way he was looking at you—soft, searching, not smug or sarcastic—made something twist in your chest. It caught you off guard. You almost felt bad for brushing him off. Almost.

What the fuck is happening to you?

You exhaled slowly, your eyes dropping to the court, to the lines you’d been staring at all night. You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and raw.

“It’s because I got injured.”

And there it was.

The truth, sitting between you like a stone dropped in still water. No excuses. No spin. Just the thing you hadn’t said out loud until now.

You didn’t look up to see his reaction. You weren’t sure you could.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, racket hanging loosely at his side, the ball resting by his shoe like it had been forgotten. His face was hard to read—no smirk, no sharp comeback, just stillness. And that somehow made it worse. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

“Injured?” he asked finally, and his voice was quieter now. Not accusing. Just… unsure.

You felt your stomach twist. Of course. Even him. Even Lando Norris, who never shut up, who always had something to say—now he was looking at you like he didn’t know what to believe. Like maybe you were making it up. Like maybe you were just another excuse.

But something in your chest shifted. You didn’t want to lie. Not this time. Not about this. You didn’t want to brush it off or change the subject or pretend it didn’t matter. Because it did. It mattered more than anything.

“It happened last year,” you said, your voice soft, almost like you were telling the story to yourself. “Wimbledon. One wrong step. That’s all it took.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The memory was still sharp, still vivid—the way your foot slid, the way your knee twisted, the way everything changed in a second. You hadn’t even screamed. Just laid there, stunned, knowing something had gone very, very wrong.

“I didn’t tell anyone at first,” you went on, eyes fixed on the court. “Not the doctors. Not the federation. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. I thought I could push through it. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. And by the time I finally told Toto, it was already too late.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Max knew, though. He could tell something was off. He always could.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He just stood there, still and quiet, his expression unreadable. But you could feel him listening. Really listening. And somehow, that made it harder to keep talking.

Still, the words kept coming.

“So when he left,” you said, your voice steady but worn thin at the edges, “I understood why. I didn’t like it. I hated it, actually. But I got it.”

You stared down at the court, the white lines blurring slightly under the harsh lights. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It just felt… full. Like everything you hadn’t said until now was finally catching up to you.

“So yeah,” you said, softer now, “that’s why I defended him.”

You paused, the words sitting heavy in your chest.

“Because in the end…” You swallowed. “It’s kind of my fault.”

There it was. The truth, bare and quiet and a little bit ugly. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not like that. But once it was out, you didn’t take it back. You just sat there, heart thudding, waiting to see what he’d do with it.

“That’s bullshit. It’s not your fault,” Lando said at last, his voice low but firm, like he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore.

You let out a soft scoff, but there was no humor in it. Just bitterness. “Sure it is,” you muttered, eyes still on the ground. “I hid it. I kept playing like nothing was wrong. If I’d just been honest—”

“Shut up, Y/n.”

The words hit you like a slap, not because they were harsh, but because of how suddenly they came. You blinked, startled, and looked up.

Lando had stepped closer, his expression tight, serious in a way you rarely saw. No smirk. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just something raw and real.

“If you’d been honest,” he said again, slower this time, “you would’ve been benched. You wouldn’t have played singles. You wouldn’t have won. You would’ve been sidelined, and you know it.”

You stared at him, heart thudding a little harder now. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because he wasn’t saying it to hurt you—he was saying it like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed you to stop blaming yourself for something that was never really yours to carry alone.

To be honest, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to make sense of the version of Lando standing in front of you now—calm, steady, almost gentle. It didn’t fit the version of him you’d been arguing with just hours ago. It didn’t fit the version who yelled across press rooms or snapped at you mid-rally. And yet, here he was. Saying things that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“Just so you know,” he said, voice low, words careful, “I won’t bail on you because of an injury. I can promise that.”

You stared at him, heart ticking a little faster. Lando Norris, making promises. Since when did he do that? Since when did he say things that made your throat tighten?

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “What does that mean for me?”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His eyes met yours, steady and clear. “It means I want you to promise me something,” he said. “That if it gets worse—if anything feels off—you tell me. No more pretending it’s fine. Got it?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Something warmer. You weren’t used to this version of him. You weren’t sure what to do with it. But you knew one thing—you believed him.

“Got it,” you whispered, nodding slowly.

And just like that, something shifted between you. The weight of the night, the tension, the rivalry—it didn’t disappear. But it softened. Just a little.

“Now…” Lando said, his voice lighter again, like he was trying to shift the mood, to pull you both back into something that felt more familiar. “Let’s train again, shall we?”

He held out his hand.

You were still sitting on the bench, water bottle resting loosely in your grip, legs stretched out in front of you, muscles cooling too fast in the night air. You looked at his hand for a moment, unsure. Not because you didn’t want to take it—but because something about the gesture felt different. Not performative. Not sarcastic. Just… simple. Steady. Like he meant it.

Against your better judgment, you smiled. A small one, barely there. Then a quiet laugh slipped out, soft and surprised, like it had caught you off guard. Like it had been waiting for a reason to surface.

And then—without really thinking—you reached out and placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Like muscle memory. Like something you hadn’t realized you missed until it was there again. His fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to hold you steady.

Something flickered in your chest. A strange little flutter that didn’t belong here. Comfort, maybe. Or reassurance. Or something else entirely—something you didn’t have a name for. You weren’t supposed to feel it. Not with him. Not like this.

This was supposed to be a late-night training session. That’s all. Just two players trying to find their rhythm again. Just you and the guy who’d driven you insane for years, who knew exactly how to get under your skin.

So why did your heart skip a beat at his touch?

You didn’t know.

© verstarris 2025

babsie radio ! so here it is, my dearest child </33 this was so much fun to write!! also sorry for the possible inaccuracies, but I played tennis, like, twice in my life, and one time my friend nearly broke my nose! So if you spot any mistakes, just pretend you don’t see them! thank you! Hope y’all like it anyway and see you in part two, which will be available in few seconds <3 big thanks belongs to @lvrclerc for allowing me to take inspo from her graphic and layout in general. Without A Dent In The Ice this fic wouldn’t exist!!!

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol. But some short wdc drabble could be coming to your way anytime soon 💟

But it hadn’t always been like this.

When you met Max three years ago, everything felt different. He surprised you. You never thought someone like him—so sharp, so sure of himself, so closed off to the world—could be soft. But he was, with you. Not in the way people usually are. He didn’t say much. He didn’t write you long messages or plan big romantic gestures. But he showed you, in the quiet ways. In the way his hand would find yours when he was driving, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a secret. In the way he’d pull you closer in the middle of the night, even in his sleep, like he was afraid you might slip away. He didn’t say “I love you” often, but when he looked at you, you felt it. You felt it in your bones.

Back then, loving him had been easy. It had felt like breathing—something you didn’t have to think about, something that just happened, something that kept you alive.

Now, it felt like trying to remember how to breathe at all.

It started with something stupid. It always did.

You were sitting on the couch, phone in your hand, scrolling without really seeing anything. The kind of scrolling you did when your mind was tired but too restless to stop. You heard Max come in, but he didn’t say hello. Didn’t drop his keys on the counter like usual. Didn’t take off his shoes. He just walked in with this heavy energy around him—tight, sharp, the kind that made your stomach twist before he even said a word.

“You said you’d wash it,” he said, voice flat. But there was something underneath it—something clipped and cold—that made you look up right away.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He held up a Red Bull shirt, the one that had been sitting on the chair for days. He hadn’t put it in the laundry basket. Hadn’t even mentioned it until now. But he held it like it meant something. Like it proved a point.

“You said you’d wash it,” he repeated. “It’s still dirty.”

You sighed, leaning back into the cushions, trying to stay calm. You didn’t want to fight. Not again. Not over something like this.

“I forgot, Max. It’s one shirt. You have a dozen more just like it. Why are you making this into a thing?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just tossed the shirt into the basket with more force than necessary, jaw tight, eyes hard.

“You forget a lot lately,” he said quietly. But the way he said it made it feel like more than just laundry. Like he wasn’t talking about shirts at all.

That one hit harder than you expected.

“Sorry? You could’ve just washed it yourself.” You scoffed, trying to keep your voice steady, but you weren’t about to let him win this one. Not over something so small.

Max shrugged, that careless little movement that always made your blood boil. It wasn’t just the gesture—it was what it meant. Like he didn’t care. Like none of this mattered.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already turning away. “But you’re the one sitting around all day while I’m out there racing, making money, trying to make you happy.”

You froze. The words didn’t make sense at first. They just hung there, sharp and ugly, until they started to sting.

“Excuse me?” you said, voice low, eyes locked on him.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring at the floor like he hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the middle of the room.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbled. “You could at least handle one simple thing.”

You laughed, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too bitter. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even close.

“One simple thing?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Max, are you serious right now?”

His jaw clenched, but he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was the worst part. He knew what he’d said. He knew it hurt. But he didn’t take it back.

“You don’t get it,” he said, quieter now, but still cold. “I’m working my ass off every single day, and you can’t even—”

“Do laundry?” you cut in, your voice shaking with anger. “You’re really gonna stand there and act like I don’t do anything for you?”

He finally looked up, and for a second, you wished he hadn’t. His face wasn’t just angry—it was tired. Cold. Like he’d already given up on the conversation before it even started. And when he said, “Sometimes it feels like you don’t,” it didn’t sound like a fight. It sounded like a quiet truth he’d been carrying for too long. That hurt. More than you wanted it to. More than you were ready for.

You felt your chest tighten, your fingers curling around the edge of the cushion just to keep yourself steady. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the shaking in your hands, trying not to let the sting in your eyes turn into tears. You didn’t want to cry. Not over this. Not again.

“You think because you drive a car for a living, you’re the only one who’s exhausted?” you said, voice low but trembling. “You come home, you drop your stuff everywhere, you barely talk to me, and somehow I’m the one who doesn’t care?”

He let out a short laugh, but there was no warmth in it. Just bitterness. Just that familiar edge that made everything worse.

“You always turn things around,” he muttered, still avoiding your eyes.

That was it. That was the moment something cracked inside you. You didn’t mean to shout, but the words came fast, too full of everything you’d been holding in for weeks.

“I’m not turning anything around, Max!” you snapped, voice rising. “You’re the one who’s been distant. You barely look at me anymore. I can’t remember the last time you asked me how I was.“

“Maybe I’m tired,” he said, voice flat and distant.

You looked at him, searching his face for something—anything—that might soften the blow. “Tired of me?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence between you stretched too long, too loud. It said everything. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat louder than the last, and still he said nothing. Just rubbed a hand over his face, eyes closed, like he wanted the whole conversation to disappear. Like you were the problem he didn’t want to solve.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked anyway. “You know what? I don’t even know why we bother talking anymore. You don’t listen. You never do.”

He sighed, deep and tired, and the sound made your stomach twist. His frustration was written all over his face—tight jaw, furrowed brow, eyes that wouldn’t meet yours. “Because all we do is fight.”

You felt the heat rise in your chest, the sting behind your eyes. “Yeah, because you don’t even try,” you said, louder now, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You shut down the second something doesn’t go your way. You walk away, you shut me out, and then you act like I’m the one making everything hard.”

He finally looked at you, but there was no softness in his eyes. Just exhaustion. Just distance. “Maybe because I’m done being blamed for everything.”

And that was the moment you realized how far apart you’d drifted. Not just in the room, but in everything. The love, the trust, the quiet understanding you used to share—it felt like it had been replaced by walls neither of you knew how to break down.

“Oh my god, Max, this isn’t about blame—”

But he cut you off before you could finish, voice sharp and tired. “It’s always about blame with you. You want me to be the bad guy so you don’t have to feel guilty about anything.”

You stared at him, stunned. The words didn’t make sense at first. They just hung in the air, heavy and cruel, until they started to sting. You opened your mouth, trying to find something to say, something to make him see how wrong he was. But all that came out was a quiet, broken question.

“You really think that’s what I’m doing?”

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the floor like he couldn’t bear to look at you. Like looking would make it harder to leave. His movements were quick, almost careless, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

“I’m done talking,” he said, voice low and final.

You felt the tears before they fell—hot and sharp, burning behind your eyes. You tried to swallow them down, tried to stay strong, but your voice cracked anyway.

“Of course you are,” you whispered. “Because it’s easier to walk away than actually fix anything.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there for a moment, still and silent, like he was waiting for something—maybe for you to stop him, maybe for himself to change his mind. But then he turned toward the door, and the sound of it slamming shut echoed through the apartment like a final goodbye.

And then there was nothing. Just silence. Just the ache of everything you didn’t say.

────────────

You woke up to one side of the bed cold.

It didn’t surprise you. That space had been empty more often than not lately, and you’d stopped expecting it to be warm. Max hadn’t come to bed, or if he had, it was long after you’d fallen asleep and gone again before you woke. Maybe he’d stayed out late with friends. Maybe he’d spent the night at the simulator, chasing something he couldn’t explain, something that kept pulling him further away. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. You were used to it. Used to waking up alone. Used to pretending it didn’t hurt.

You got out of bed slowly, tying your hair up with tired fingers as you walked toward the kitchen. The apartment felt quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Not peaceful—just empty. Like something important had been missing for a long time, and you’d only just started noticing how loud that silence had become.

And then you saw him.

He was already there, sitting at the table like he’d been up for hours. His hair was messy, sticking up in places like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes looked tired, dark around the edges, like sleep hadn’t found him either. He was holding a mug of coffee with both hands, fingers wrapped tight around it like he needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look up when you walked in. Didn’t say anything. Just sat there, quiet and still.

“Morning,” you said, trying to sound casual, trying not to let the desperation slip into your voice.

“Morning.” His reply was low, rough, like it hurt to speak.

You moved around the kitchen slowly, letting the sound of the kettle fill the space between you. You could feel him watching you—or maybe you just wanted him to. Maybe you were imagining it. Either way, the air felt thick. Heavy with everything you hadn’t said last night. With all the words you’d swallowed, all the things you were too tired to fight about anymore. You didn’t know how to fix it. You weren’t even sure if he wanted to.

When your coffee was ready, you sat down across from him, the mug warm between your hands. The two of you didn’t speak. You just sat there, facing each other across the table like strangers who used to know everything. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the fridge, steady and quiet, like it was trying to fill the space where your voices used to be. You stared at the steam rising from your cup, watching it curl and fade, and for a moment, you wished your thoughts could do the same—just disappear into the air.

“Are you happy?” you asked, your voice soft, almost too quiet to hear.

He blinked, like the question had caught him off guard. Like it didn’t belong in the middle of a quiet morning. “What?” he said, his brow pulling together.

You looked up at him then. Really looked. At the tired lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped, the way he held his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “Are you happy, Max?” you asked again, slower this time. “With us. With me.”

His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but nothing came out. He looked down at his mug, thumb tracing the rim over and over, like he was trying to find the right words in the shape of it. The silence stretched between you, and your heart beat louder with every second he didn’t speak.

“Why are you asking me that?” he said finally, his voice low and tired.

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “Because I can’t tell anymore,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if we’re okay, or if we’re just pretending to be.“

He let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair, eyes tired, shoulders heavy. “I don’t know,” he said, and the way he said it made your chest tighten. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t defensive. It was quiet. Honest. Like he’d been carrying that answer for a while and didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

You frowned, unsure if you’d heard him right. “You don’t know?” you asked, even though part of you already understood. You just needed him to say it again. Needed to hear it out loud.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, voice low but steady. “Some days I am. Some days I’m not.” He gestured between you, the movement small and tired. “I don’t even know how we got here.”

You felt something twist inside you. Not anger. Not even sadness. Just that deep, aching kind of confusion that comes when something you love starts slipping away and you don’t know how to hold onto it. You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your heart beating too fast.

“We used to be good,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “I don’t know what happened to us.”

He looked at you then, and for the first time in a long time, there was something real in his eyes. Not frustration. Not distance. Just sadness. Just the quiet kind of pain that comes when you realize you’ve lost something you didn’t mean to let go of.

“I know,” he said, and his voice cracked just a little. “But it doesn’t feel good anymore, does it?”

You shook your head slowly, eyes stinging. “No.”

And that was the truth. As simple and as painful as it was. You weren’t okay. Not really. And maybe you hadn’t been for a while. But saying it out loud made it feel more real. Like maybe now, something had to change.

He stared at the table for a long time, like the words were stuck somewhere deep and he wasn’t sure if he should say them. When he finally looked up, his voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that didn’t feel comforting. The kind that felt like distance.

“Maybe we just need some time apart,” he said. “Space. To figure out if we even want the same thing anymore.”

Your stomach twisted. That was his answer? After everything? You searched his face, hoping to find something—doubt, guilt, hesitation. Anything that would tell you he didn’t really mean it. But he looked steady. Like he’d already made up his mind.

“Like a breakup?” you asked quietly, your voice barely holding together.

He shook his head fast, like he wanted to stop that thought before it could take root. “No. Not a breakup. Just… a break,” he said, rushing the words out like he needed you to believe them. “Six months. You do what you want. I do what I want. We both… see other people. If we get jealous, and if we still feel it after that—” he paused, his voice softening, “then we’ll know.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. The room felt like it was tilting, like the ground beneath you wasn’t solid anymore. See other people? Was he serious? Was this his idea of fixing things—by breaking them first? You couldn’t wrap your head around it. You’d been hoping for a conversation, for honesty, for something that felt like trying. But this didn’t feel like trying. It felt like giving up.

You tried to laugh, but it came out wrong—shaky and bitter. “So, what, we’re supposed to cheat on each other? On purpose?” you said, the words tasting like something you didn’t want to say out loud.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to soften it. “Not cheat,” he said quietly, like the word itself didn’t belong between you. “Just… be honest about what we want. If it’s still each other, then we’ll come back.”

You kept staring at him, trying to find something familiar in his face. The man who used to pull you close without thinking. The man who used to laugh with you in the middle of the night, who used to reach for your hand just because. But all you saw now was someone who’d already started to let go. Someone who had one foot out the door and was trying to make it sound like a choice. Like it was fair.

“And if we don’t?” you whispered, the words catching in your throat.

He hesitated. His eyes dropped to the coffee mug between his hands, fingers tightening around it like he needed something to hold onto. For a moment, you thought he might take it back. That he’d look up and say he didn’t mean it. That he’d fight for you. But when he finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely there.

“Then maybe it wasn’t supposed to last.”

And just like that, something inside you cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a quiet shift, like the moment you realize the person you love doesn’t see the same future anymore.

You sat with the idea for a moment, letting it sink in. It felt strange. Wrong. Like something that should’ve made you angry, should’ve made you walk away. But instead, it just made you tired. Tired in that deep, aching way that comes when you’ve been holding on too tightly for too long. It sounded like the beginning of the end, and maybe that’s exactly what it was. But still—you couldn’t stop yourself.

Because even now, even after all the fights and silences and nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering what went wrong, you still wanted to fix it. To fix him. To fix you. To fix the version of love you used to believe in. You loved Max. God, you still did. Even if that love had started to feel more like a bruise than a comfort. Even if it hurt more than it healed.

You looked at him across the table, your chest tight, your heart too loud in your ears. And suddenly, all the memories came rushing in—his laugh echoing through the apartment, the way his hands used to settle on your waist like they belonged there, the nights you couldn’t sleep unless he was beside you, breathing slow and steady. It all felt so close you could almost touch it. And so far it made your throat ache.

You swallowed hard, the words catching for a second before you let them go. “I’m in,” you said quietly, and you tried to sound sure. Tried to sound like you believed this was the right thing.

But deep down, you already knew. You weren’t agreeing to fix anything. You were agreeing to lose him slowly. To watch the space between you stretch wider, day by day, until it was too far to cross.

Six months.

You told yourself you could do six months. You said it like it was a promise, like it was something you could carry without breaking. Six months of space. Six months of pretending it didn’t hurt. Six months of hoping that time apart would somehow bring you back together.

You tried to believe it. You really did.

But as the seconds passed, and the silence stretched between you, a quiet thought crept in. One that made your chest ache, made your breath catch, made your heart feel too heavy to hold.

What if he doesn’t come back?

────────────

The first week barely felt real.

You’d moved back in with Alex—your best friend, your old roommate, the person who’d seen you through every version of yourself before Max. Her apartment hadn’t changed much. Same chipped mugs in the cabinet, same crooked photo frames on the wall. It should’ve felt comforting. Safe. But it didn’t. It just reminded you of everything that had changed. Of how far you’d drifted from the person you used to be.

Most of the week passed in a blur. You stayed curled up in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling or your phone screen, scrolling through nothing. You didn’t eat much. Coffee went cold on the nightstand. The world kept spinning outside the window, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move with it. You felt stuck in place, like time had paused just for you, like the break had frozen something inside you.

You thought about Max constantly. Not just the fight, not just the words—but the way he looked that morning at the kitchen table. How tired his voice had sounded. How far away he’d felt, even sitting right across from you. You wondered if he was thinking about you too. If he missed you. If he regretted anything. But you didn’t reach out. You couldn’t.

The door creaked open.

Alex walked in, barefoot and determined, her messy bun bouncing as she crossed the room. She didn’t say anything at first. Just yanked the curtains open, letting sunlight pour in like it belonged there. You squinted against it, blinking hard, the light too sharp after so many days in the dark.

“Rise and shine,” she said, her voice light but her eyes serious. “You can’t just rot here and wait for your ex to realize what he’s lost.”

You groaned, rolling onto your side and pulling the blanket over your head like it could shield you from the truth. “He’s not my ex,” you mumbled, even though the words didn’t feel solid anymore.

Alex raised a brow, arms crossed, her tone sharp but familiar. “Right. Because ‘let’s take a break for six months and maybe fall in love with someone else’ sounds like the healthiest version of commitment I’ve ever heard.”

You gave her a weak glare, too tired to argue properly. “You’re not helping,” you muttered, voice rough from days of silence.

“Good,” she said, without missing a beat. “Because helping would mean letting you stay in this bed until your hair starts sticking to the pillowcase and you forget what daylight looks like.” She marched over and yanked the blanket off you in one swift motion, letting the cold air hit your skin like a slap. “Up. Shower. We’re going out.”

You blinked, squinting against the sudden light, your body stiff from not moving much. “Out?” you echoed, the word foreign in your mouth.

“Yes, out,” she said firmly, standing her ground. “Sunlight. People. Maybe even alcohol if that’s what it takes. You’re not going to fix your heart by hiding from it. And you’re definitely not going to get answers by staring at your ceiling and hoping Max magically figures it all out.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just sat there, blanket gone, heart heavy, trying to decide if you had the energy to pretend you were okay. But Alex didn’t wait for you to decide. She was already pulling open drawers, tossing clothes onto the bed like she’d made up her mind for both of you.

And maybe that was what you needed. Someone who refused to let you disappear.

You sighed, staring at her — at the fire in her eyes, the concern tucked behind every sharp word. Alex had always been like this. Fierce. Unyielding. The kind of person who didn’t let you drown quietly. Her stubbornness had been her superpower for as long as you’d known her, and right now, it was aimed directly at you.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word heavy in your mouth. Not because you wanted to go, but because you knew she wouldn’t stop until you did.

Her smirk was instant, triumphant. She tossed a hoodie onto the bed like it was a lifeline. “Good girl,” she said, voice light but eyes still watching you closely. “You’ve got ten minutes before I drag you out in your pajamas and make you talk to strangers.”

The air outside felt strange—too bright, too sharp after days spent in the quiet dim of Alex’s apartment. The sunlight pressed against your skin like it was trying to wake something up inside you, something you weren’t sure was ready. But Monaco was beautiful, impossibly so. The kind of place that made you feel guilty for staying in bed while the world kept blooming around you.

You wore a yellow sundress, the fabric light against your skin as you walked beside Alex. She did most of the talking, her voice a steady hum that filled the silence you couldn’t quite break. You let her words wash over you, nodding when it felt right, trying to remember how to be a person again. How to exist outside of heartbreak.

“We’re meeting a few people for lunch,” she said, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “Just a small group. Don’t give me that look.”

You frowned, the expression automatic. “Alex…”

“It’s not a setup,” she said quickly, which only made you more suspicious. Her tone was too fast, too practiced. “Just some friends. You’ll like them. Promise.”

You sighed, kicking at a loose stone on the sidewalk, watching it bounce ahead of you. “I don’t really feel like talking to people.”

Alex didn’t push. She just slipped her arm through yours, her grip gentle but firm, like she was holding you together without saying it out loud.

“I know,” she said softly. “But you can’t hide forever. You’ll sit next to me, you’ll order something, and if you hate it, I’ll take you home right after dessert. Deal?”

You didn’t answer. You just nodded, because arguing with Alex took more energy than you had. The sun was warm on your shoulders, the air smelled faintly of salt and citrus, and for the first time in days, you were outside. That had to count for something.

A few blocks later, the restaurant came into view—one of those tucked-away places by the shore that Alex always gravitated toward. Cozy, sunlit, full of mismatched chairs and laughter spilling out every time someone opened the door. You could already hear the clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the kind of atmosphere that made you feel like maybe the world wasn’t so heavy after all.

“Also…” Alex said, dragging the word out in a tone far too casual to be innocent. “There’s someone there I think you’ll like.”

You stopped walking, turning to look at her. Her face was all mischief, eyes bright, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile too hard.

“Alex,” you warned, your voice low. “If this is about setting me up—”

“It’s not,” she cut in quickly, hands raised in mock surrender, though the grin was already creeping in. “He’s already your friend. Kind of. You know him.”

You frowned, trying to piece it together. “What do you mean I know—”

“Charles,” she said simply, watching your reaction like she was waiting for fireworks.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The name hit harder than you expected.

“Leclerc?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

That Charles Leclerc? Max’s best friend? The one who used to crash on your couch after race weekends, who always brought wine and made you laugh when Max was too tired to talk? The one who knew your favorite coffee order and once helped you build a bookshelf when Max forgot?

Alex nodded, a small, hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. He’s joining us. And before you start—no, this isn’t some weird trap. I invited him before you even said yes. But he asked if you’d be there, and… I didn’t think it would hurt. I told him you and Max are broken up.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the restaurant door. The laughter spilling out from inside felt distant, like it belonged to another world. “Great,” you muttered. “So now I get to have lunch with my ex’s best friend. Totally normal.”

Alex slipped her arm through yours again, her grip gentle, grounding. “He’s not taking sides,” she said softly. “Charles isn’t like that.”

“But he is Max’s best friend,” you whisper-shouted, the words sharp with disbelief.

Alex shrugged, her tone calm but firm. “Yeah, and the whole point of this break is to meet new people. Max didn’t exactly say his best friend was off-limits.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because she was right, even if it felt wrong. Charles wasn’t off-limits. He wasn’t the enemy. He’d always been… kind. Softer than Max in ways you used to tease him for. Thoughtful in ways that lingered. He listened when others didn’t. He noticed small things—like when you were cold and needed a blanket, or when you were quiet and needed space. He never pushed, never demanded. Just showed up.

When you stepped inside, you saw him right away.

Charles was already at the table, mid-laugh, his hands moving in that familiar way they always did when he got carried away. His smile was wide, eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, he looked lighter than you remembered. Happier. Like the weight you’d been carrying hadn’t touched him in the same way. And maybe that stung a little. Or maybe it was just envy—watching someone exist so easily while you were still trying to remember how.

Then his eyes lifted and met yours.

There was a flicker of surprise, quick and soft, before it melted into something warmer. That smile you knew so well. The one that had always felt safe. Something twisted in your chest, sharp and sudden, like your heart didn’t know what to do with the sight of him.

“Hey,” he said, standing to greet you, voice low and warm. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Alex dragged me out,” you replied, forcing a small smile, trying to sound casual even though your pulse was anything but.

He chuckled, that low, easy sound that had always been his. The kind that used to fill your apartment on quiet nights, the kind that made everything feel a little less heavy.

“Good,” he said gently. “You needed it.”

You froze for half a second, caught off guard by how soft that sounded. Like he knew. Like he’d seen the cracks even from a distance and didn’t want to make you name them. It was kindness without pity, and somehow that made it harder to hold yourself together.

You slid into the seat across from him, Alex settling beside you with a grin that said she knew exactly what she was doing. The conversation flowed around you—familiar voices, laughter, stories you half remembered. You didn’t say much. Just listened. Let the noise fill the space inside you that had felt so hollow.

And every now and then, you caught Charles watching you.

Not in a way that made you shrink. Not like he was waiting for you to fall apart. But like he was checking in. Like he was making sure you were still breathing. Still here.

And maybe—for the first time in a long while—you almost felt like you were.

────────────

A few days later, Alex burst into your room like a whirlwind, holding two padel paddles above her head like she’d just won a prize. Her grin was wide, triumphant, and far too pleased with herself.

“You’re coming,” she declared, no room for argument.

You turned slowly in your chair, already exhausted by the energy she brought in with her. “Coming where?” you asked, voice flat.

“Padel,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Charles booked a court. Rebecca’s coming too, and we need a fourth.”

You blinked at her, heart skipping once at the mention of his name. “Why me?”

Alex tossed one of the paddles onto your bed with dramatic flair. “Because you owe me for dragging you out of bed the other day,” she said, already rifling through your closet. “And because you’re terrible at saying no.” She paused, her voice softening just enough to make you wary. “Also… Charles will be there.”

Yeah. Charles.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at the paddle lying on your bed, the weight of it suddenly heavier than it should’ve been. You thought about his smile at lunch, the way he’d looked at you like he was trying to read between the lines. You thought about how easy it had felt, sitting across from him, even with everything unraveling inside you.

You sighed, long and slow, already knowing you’d go. And sure enough, an hour later you were standing on a sun-drenched court, wearing borrowed sneakers and trying not to look completely lost. The sun was warm on your skin, the air smelled faintly of salt and sweat, and laughter echoed from the court next to yours. You squinted against the brightness, heart thudding in your chest like it hadn’t decided whether to be nervous or hopeful.

Charles was already there, tying his shoes, chatting with Rebecca, his voice low and familiar. He looked up when you arrived, and for a moment, his face lit up—not in surprise, but in something softer. Something that felt like relief.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind being there.

“You two are together on a team,” Alex announced, her voice laced with faux innocence as she claimed the opposite side of the court with Rebecca. You didn’t even bother responding. Of course you were paired with Charles. It couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d drawn hearts around your names.

The first few minutes were pure chaos. Balls flew in every direction, Alex missed half of them while laughing at her own mistakes, and Rebecca kept shouting that she hadn’t stretched and was “too old for this.” Charles was laughing so hard he could barely serve, his shoulders shaking, his grin wide and unguarded. His joy was effortless, the kind that filled the space around him and made it easier to breathe. And somehow, in the middle of all that noise and movement, you laughed too. The sound startled you—bright and real, like it had been buried under weeks of silence and finally found its way out.

It felt strange, letting yourself have fun. After so many days of feeling hollow, of waking up with a weight in your chest and going to sleep with the same ache, this moment felt like sunlight cracking through a window you hadn’t opened in a long time. Every time Charles smirked at your clumsy returns or teased you for missing a shot, something inside you loosened. The knot in your chest, the one that had been holding everything together just tightly enough to keep you from falling apart, began to unravel in the gentlest way.

“You call that a shot?” Charles teased after you barely managed to return the ball, his voice light, playful.

“I call it a warm-up,” you shot back, trying not to grin, but failing.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Alex and Rebecca were shrieking on the other side of the net, tangled in laughter and missed swings, but for a moment, all you could hear was Charles’ laugh. Warm. Easy. Familiar in a way that made your heart ache just a little. Not because it reminded you of Max, but because it reminded you of something simpler—being seen, being safe, being allowed to exist without having to explain yourself.

By the end of the game, everyone was sweaty, breathless, and still laughing like they hadn’t in years. You flopped onto the bench beside Charles, your legs aching, your cheeks flushed, your heart strangely light. He handed you a water bottle without a word, and when your fingers brushed, you didn’t pull away.

“I carried us,” Charles said smugly, tossing his paddle into the bag with theatrical flair. His grin was wide, boyish, the kind that made it hard to stay annoyed even when he was clearly exaggerating.

You scoffed, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward despite your best effort. “You mean the smoothie Alex already promised me for keeping you from missing every shot?”

Rebecca groaned dramatically, still wiping her face with a towel. “You two sound like a married couple,” she teased, her voice light, but the words hung in the air longer than they should have.

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “If that means I win arguments, I’ll take it,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You rolled your eyes and tossed a ball at him. It barely grazed his shoulder, but he laughed anyway—full and unguarded, the sound echoing off the court like sunlight. And something in your chest twisted, not painfully, but in that quiet, aching way that comes when you realize you’ve missed something without knowing it. Not Max’s laughter—his had always been sharp, edged with something that made you flinch. But this. This was different. Easy. Warm. Like it could hold you without asking for anything in return.

Alex slung her bag over her shoulder, already plotting something, you could tell. She glanced at Rebecca, then back at you with a look that made your stomach tighten.

“Speaking of smoothies,” she said casually, “why don’t we go grab them? There’s a stand around the corner.”

You frowned, suspicious. “All of us?”

Alex gave you a smile that was far too innocent to be real. It didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll go order first. You two catch your breath.” Then she winked—quick, sharp, unmistakable—and tugged Rebecca along before you could protest.

You watched them walk away, heart thudding a little too loud in your chest. Charles was still beside you, quiet now, stretching his legs out in front of him.

After a moment, Charles spoke, his voice low and careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it at all.

“You seem better.”

You blinked, caught off guard. The word felt strange, like it didn’t belong to you. “Better?” you echoed, unsure whether to believe it.

He shrugged, glancing at you sideways, his expression unreadable but gentle. “Than last week,” he said. “You laughed today. That’s something.”

Your chest tightened. The kind of tight that came with too many feelings tangled together—relief, guilt, confusion. You wanted to feel grateful for the lightness, for the way the laughter had surprised you. But part of you still clung to the idea that healing too soon meant forgetting. That enjoying this—him—meant betraying something you hadn’t finished grieving.

You shook your head slightly, trying to clear the noise. “I guess it is,” you murmured, voice barely there.

Charles leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes steady on yours. He didn’t push, didn’t crowd you. Just waited, like he always did. Like he knew silence could be its own kind of comfort.

“When Alex told me what happened…” he began, slow and hesitant, “I didn’t want to say anything. It’s not my place. But… I hope you’re not just waiting for him to come back.”

The words hit harder than you expected. A quiet pang, sharp and sudden, blooming in your chest. You looked down at your hands, twisting them in your lap like they might offer answers. Am I? you wondered. You didn’t know anymore. Everything felt blurred—your heart split between the version of love you’d lost and the warmth sitting beside you now. Max had been fire, all-consuming. Charles was something else. Something quieter.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. The words tasted bitter, like admitting them made everything more real. Like saying it out loud meant you had to feel it.

Charles didn’t flinch. He just nodded slowly, like he understood without needing you to explain. “That’s okay,” he said, voice low and steady. “You don’t have to know. Just… don’t forget there’s a world outside of him.”

You exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, soft and shaky. For the first time in weeks, something in your chest loosened. Not completely. Not enough to feel whole. But enough to breathe. “That’s hard,” you murmured. “When every part of my world used to include him.”

There was a pause, quiet and full. You looked down at your hands, then back at Charles, trying to find something light in the heaviness. “And anyway,” you added, voice tentative, “aren’t you supposed to take his side?”

Charles leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful, gentle. “He is my best friend,” he said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was right. Especially when he treated someone he loved like a piece of shit.”

The words hit harder than you expected. They settled deep, sharp and soft all at once. You swallowed, unsure what to say, unsure how to hold the weight of being seen so clearly.

Charles leaned in, elbows resting on his knees, eyes steady on yours. His voice dropped, quiet and sincere.

“Y/n… if you ever need anything, I’m here. Really. No games. No expectations. Just… me.”

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to read between the lines. Trying to figure out if he meant it, or if he was just saying what anyone would say to someone who looked like they were still learning how to breathe again. “You make it sound so easy,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could soften them. Half annoyed. Half grateful. All tangled.

Charles tilted his head, that familiar glint flickering in his eyes—teasing, but not unkind. “Easy?” he echoed, like the word itself was a joke. “Who said anything about easy? I just think… you deserve better than being made to feel like you were never enough.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. It was small, reluctant, but real. “And what, you’re the hero now?”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning back with a shrug that was all practiced nonchalance. But his eyes didn’t move. They stayed on you—steady, open, like he wasn’t afraid of what he might find there. “Or maybe I just like seeing you smile. Feels like a win either way.”

And just like that, something in your chest shifted. Not all at once. Not enough to forget. But enough to wonder what it might feel like to be looked at like that again—not as someone broken, or waiting, or lost. Just… someone worth smiling at.

────────────

You didn’t mean to see it.

You were just scrolling — half awake, half numb — the kind of mindless scrolling you did when you were trying not to feel too much. The apartment was quiet, the movie playing in the background barely registering. You and Alex sat curled on the couch, sharing a blanket, picking at lukewarm pizza, letting the silence stretch in that familiar, companionable way.

Then, between blurry memes and photos of someone’s breakfast, it appeared.

A paparazzi shot. Grainy, but clear enough.

Max.

He was smiling — really smiling — that small, crooked grin that used to be yours. The one he’d flash across the kitchen table, or into your neck when he was half-asleep and still holding on. His arm was draped around a girl you didn’t recognize. She was pretty in that effortless way that made your chest tighten. Hair tousled, eyes bright, body angled toward him like she belonged there.

They looked comfortable. Close.

Your stomach dropped before your brain could catch up. The air felt thinner. Your thumb froze on the screen.

“What the fuck,” you said, the words slipping out sharp and stunned. You weren’t sure what you felt — surprise, disgust, sadness. Maybe all of it. Maybe something worse.

Alex turned toward you, her attention snapping into focus. “What’s up?” she asked, already bracing herself.

You didn’t answer right away. You just turned your phone toward Alex, your throat tight, fingers trembling slightly around the edges of the screen.

She leaned in, squinting at the photo, and her expression shifted instantly—eyes narrowing, mouth pressing into a line. “Oh…” she said, voice careful, cautious, like she was stepping over glass. “That’s… well. That’s definitely him.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound brittle. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Alex hesitated, her gaze flicking between you and the image, unsure where to land. She had that look again—the one she wore when she didn’t know how to fix something, when words felt too small for the weight in the room. “She looks like she could be his mom,” she said finally, and it was so unexpected, so absurd, that it pulled a small, reluctant smile from you.

But it didn’t last.

You shook your head quickly, needing to cut her off before the pity could settle in. Before it could wrap around you and make everything feel heavier. “No, it’s fine,” you said, too fast, too practiced. “It’s actually—good. He said he’d do what he wanted, right? That was the deal. Six months. No rules. No questions. He’s just… doing what he wants.”

You stared at the photo again, trying to feel nothing. Trying to convince yourself that this was part of the plan. That this was what you’d agreed to. But your chest ached anyway, and the girl’s smile felt like a knife pressed gently against something tender.

Alex sat beside you, close enough that her presence felt like a buffer against the unraveling. She didn’t say anything at first—just watched you, like she could see the moment you were about to break but were still trying not to. Her voice, when it came, was gentle. Steady.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You stared at the photo one last time, letting the image blur slightly as your eyes stung. Then you locked your phone and set it face down on the couch, as if that could erase the way it had made your chest cave in.

“It’s not about being hurt,” you said finally, your voice low, frayed at the edges. “It’s about not being surprised. That’s the worst part. I knew this would happen. I just didn’t think it’d feel like this. Or happen this fast.”

Alex didn’t argue. She didn’t try to spin it into something hopeful. She just reached over, her fingers brushing yours in quiet solidarity. A touch that said I’m here, without demanding anything more.

“You’re allowed to miss him,” she said softly. “Even if he’s being an idiot.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. The lump in your throat was sharp, stubborn. You didn’t speak again—not because you didn’t have words, but because you knew they’d come out broken. And right now, silence felt safer.

Alex leaned back on the couch, her eyes glinting with mischief, the kind that always meant trouble. “Post something with Charles,” she said, casual as anything, like she was suggesting a new pizza topping.

You froze, blinking at her. “What?”

She tilted her head, grinning like she’d just cracked some secret code. “So he knows how it feels. Trust me. He’ll lose his shit.”

You laughed, though it came out uneven—half disbelief, half something else. Something sharper. “Alex… that’s cruel.”

“Not cruel,” she countered, sliding closer, her voice low and coaxing. “Strategic. Just think about it. You’ve been stuck missing him, replaying everything, while he’s out there acting like none of it mattered. Maybe he needs a little reminder.”

You stared at the floor, chewing on your lip. The idea twisted in your chest, tight and complicated. Part of you thrilled at the thought—at the possibility of Max seeing you with someone else, of him feeling even a fraction of what you’d been carrying. But another part of you recoiled, guilty for even considering it. This wasn’t who you were. And yet… he was Max. He’d notice. He always noticed.

Alex nudged your shoulder, her tone softening. “Come on. Don’t overthink it. You’re allowed to show him what he’s missing. And hey… Charles is sweet, right? Just a photo. Just smiling. Nothing dramatic. Just… proof that you’re still here.”

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just enough to feel the difference. Alex was right. Maybe a little post wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it wasn’t about revenge or cruelty—maybe it was about reclaiming something. A flicker of control. A reminder that you were still here, still worth looking at, even if Max had stopped.

You nodded, more to yourself than to her. Alex caught it, her grin blooming with quiet satisfaction, but she didn’t say another word. She leaned back, letting you sit with the thought, letting you decide.

And then, as if the universe had been listening, your phone buzzed.

charles hey, I need a plus one for f1 event. Thought maybe you’d want to come?

You stared at the message, heart thudding against your ribs. The timing was too perfect. Too sharp. You knew exactly why you’d say yes. Max would be there—of course he would. And part of you, the part still aching and raw, wanted him to see. Wanted him to look across the room and realize you hadn’t disappeared. That you were still moving, still laughing, still not entirely his anymore.

You hesitated for only a moment. Then you typed your reply, fingers steady.

yn sure, why not?

────────────

The parking lot in front of Monaco’s casino was chaos wrapped in glitter — sleek cars weaving past each other like they were choreographed, valets darting between them with practiced urgency, and flashes from cameras lighting up the dusk like fireworks. It was always busy, but tonight felt different. Louder. Sharper. Like the whole city had dressed up just to watch itself sparkle.

You squeezed Charles’ hand a little tighter as the car rolled to a stop, your fingers curling into his like you needed something solid. “This is… intense,” you murmured, eyes scanning the crowd. F1 drivers in tailored suits, their partners in shimmering gowns, laughter and champagne and the kind of glamour that made you feel like you’d wandered into someone else’s life.

Charles chuckled beside you, that low, easy sound that always managed to settle your nerves just a little. He glanced over, his smile soft and grounding. “Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “You get used to the chaos… eventually. You and Max never came to things like this?”

You swallowed, the question catching you off guard. “Maybe when we first started dating,” you said, laughing quietly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze drifted back to the crowd, scanning faces, searching for one you weren’t sure you wanted to see.

Max would be here.

Of course he would. And the thought twisted in your stomach, sharp and complicated. Part of you wanted to see him — wanted him to see you, standing beside Charles, dressed in something that made you feel like you mattered again. But another part of you wanted to disappear into the shadows, to slip past unnoticed and pretend you didn’t care. That you hadn’t spent the last few weeks unraveling every time his name came up.

The lights of the casino shimmered against the polished stone, casting golden reflections that danced across the pavement. Music drifted from inside, low and elegant, weaving through the laughter and camera flashes that lit up the entrance like a stage. The scent of expensive perfume clung to the air, mingling with cologne and champagne and the quiet hum of anticipation. Everyone looked like they belonged — polished, poised, perfectly placed in the glittering chaos.

Charles leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him steady and grounding. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low and calm. “Let’s just enjoy tonight.”

You nodded, but the motion felt mechanical. Your stomach flipped, nerves tightening like a coil. The thought of Max was a quiet roar in the back of your mind — constant, insistent. You didn’t know what you were bracing for. Anger? Longing? Indifference? Maybe something worse. Maybe nothing at all.

You’d spent weeks building walls, stitching together control from the scraps of your own unraveling. But tonight felt like a test. One glance, one word, one look from him could undo everything. Could remind you of what you’d lost, or worse — what he’d already let go of.

And somewhere, deep down, that terrified you.

The doors of the casino parted with a hush, spilling warm, golden light across the red carpet like a welcome too grand to feel real. Inside, the hum of chatter and laughter wrapped around you, champagne glasses clinking, heels tapping against marble, the scent of perfume and polished wealth hanging thick in the air. You followed Charles in, letting the crowd pull you forward, your steps steady but your heart anything but.

And then you saw him.

Max.

He stood across the room, surrounded by familiar faces, laughing in that easy, arrogant way that used to make you feel like the center of his universe. That laugh had once been yours—shared across pillows, echoed in kitchens, whispered into your neck when the world felt too heavy. Now it belonged to the room. To them. To someone else.

He hadn’t seen you yet. And for a moment, you froze, caught in the quiet violence of recognition. You didn’t know whether to look away or keep watching. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, his suit sharp and perfectly tailored, every movement effortless, like he hadn’t missed a step since you last saw him. Like nothing had shifted.

A flicker of something twisted in your stomach—jealousy, longing, anger, maybe all of it tangled together. You’d told yourself you were here for you. For Charles. To move forward. But seeing Max like that, untouched and radiant, reminded you just how much of your world he had once held in his hands. And how easily he’d let it go.

Charles’ hand brushed yours, a quiet tether pulling you back to the present. His touch was steady, grounding, the kind that didn’t ask for anything but offered everything.

“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, though your throat felt tight. “Yeah… just… surprised.”

Charles gave you a small, understanding smile, the kind that didn’t push, didn’t pry. “I get it. But remember—you’re here with me. Don’t worry.”

For a few steps, you walked beside Charles, trying to anchor yourself in the rhythm of his presence—the quiet steadiness of him, the way his hand fit so easily in yours. But your eyes kept drifting. Drawn back, again and again, to the figure across the room.

And then Max looked up.

The moment his gaze met yours, something shifted. His smile faltered—just for a second—but it was enough. A flicker of recognition passed between you, sharp and immediate. And beneath it, something else. Something quieter. A flash of jealousy, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, it landed in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything you’d tried to keep calm.

You held his gaze longer than you meant to, trying to keep your expression neutral, unreadable. But your heart was pounding, and you hated how easily this one glance could undo you. How much power he still held, even now.

Charles’ hand tightened gently around yours, a silent tether pulling you back to the present. To him. To now. His warmth was steady, real, and kind in a way that didn’t ask for anything but offered everything.

“You okay, chérie?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

You nodded, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah… I just—need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

You slipped your hand from his, already turning away before he could ask more. You needed a moment. Just one. To breathe.

You ducked into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you like a sigh. The party had been too much—too loud, too bright, too full of faces you didn’t want to read. Seeing Max again had thrown your chest into chaos, the kind that made it hard to breathe without feeling like you were unraveling. You leaned against the sink, trying to steady yourself, trying to remember why you’d come.

But before you could exhale, the door burst open.

You spun around, startled, your hand flying to push it closed again. “What—Max!?” you gasped, stumbling back a step.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. He stepped inside like he belonged there, like the rules didn’t apply to him, and leaned against the wall with that same quiet arrogance you used to find magnetic. His arms crossed, his eyes locked on yours, intense and unreadable.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low, firm, like he hadn’t just shattered the boundary you were trying to build.

You blinked at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the air thick between you. “We… we don’t need to talk,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You straightened your spine, trying to hold onto the version of yourself that didn’t bend just because he walked into the room.

“You’re with him,” Max said, his voice edged and tight, but beneath the sharpness was something else—something quieter, more familiar. Concern. The kind that always made your chest tighten, even when you didn’t want it to.

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Guess I am,” you said, letting the words land with just enough bite. “And you’re with her.” You didn’t say her name. You didn’t need to. The image from the photo was still burned into your mind—her hand on his chest, his smile easy and unbothered. You were almost surprised she wasn’t here tonight, draped on his arm like a trophy.

Max blinked, and for a split second, something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe. Or guilt. It passed too quickly to catch. “Right,” he said, too casually, like he was trying to play it off. Like he didn’t know exactly what you meant.

You raised an eyebrow, your stomach twisting. “Right?” you echoed, the word sharp, laced with everything you hadn’t said. “You don’t even remember her? Or are you just pretending not to?”

He hesitated, jaw clenched, and you caught the faintest twitch in his eye—barely there, but enough to betray him. “I remember,” he said finally, voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself. “I just… didn’t think it mattered.”

The words landed like a blow, sharp and disorienting. You felt something twist in your chest—part relief that he hadn’t forgotten, part fury that he thought forgetting might’ve been better. That he’d weighed the memory and decided it was disposable.

Of course it mattered.

It mattered more than he would ever understand. More than he’d ever let himself admit.

Max’s eyes darkened, his voice sharp but trembling beneath the surface. “Y/n… we’re still basically together. This deal—it doesn’t change that. I didn’t make it easy, but it was supposed to give us space. Not erase us completely.”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “Erase us?” you repeated, shaking your head slowly. “Max, this was your idea. You said six months. You said we should see other people, figure ourselves out. And now you’re standing here, looking at me like I’ve done something wrong?”

He flinched, jaw tightening, eyes flicking away for a second before snapping back. “That’s not what I said—”

“No?” you cut in, stepping closer, your voice low but edged with heat. “Because that’s exactly what it sounds like. You told me to move on. You told me to try it with someone else. And now that I might be doing it, you can’t stand it. What the fuck?!”

The silence between you was thick, pulsing with everything unsaid. You could see it in his eyes—the conflict, the regret, the possessiveness he hadn’t earned the right to feel. And still, it lingered. Still, it hurt.

You crossed your arms, trying to steady the tremble in your breath. “There are still five months left, Max. Five.” Your voice was quiet, but the words carried weight. “What if I actually go through with this? What if, when those months are over, I tell you I don’t love you anymore?”

His expression faltered—just for a heartbeat. A flicker of something cracked through the surface: fear, maybe, or regret. But then he looked down, jaw tight, and when he spoke, his voice was flat. Controlled.

“Then I guess that’s what you’ll tell me.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You hated how calm he sounded. How easily he said it, like he hadn’t once held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Like he hadn’t whispered promises into your skin, or looked at you like you were his future.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to match his detachment. “Right. Guess we’ll see.”

The silence that followed stretched long and heavy. Outside, the muffled sounds of the party bled through the walls—laughter, music, life moving on. But in here, everything felt suspended. Like the air had thickened. Like the space between you had shrunk and expanded all at once.

You stepped past him, your shoulder brushing his as you reached for the door. You didn’t look back.

“Five months,” you murmured, voice steady now. “Don’t forget—this was your idea.”

You didn’t see the way his eyes followed you, or the way his hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you. Like he wanted to say something that might matter. But he didn’t. And you didn’t wait.

────────────

The sun was sinking low, spilling gold across the horizon like it was trying to hold on just a little longer. The last of the light caught the waves as they curled against the shore, soft and rhythmic, like the world was exhaling. You and Charles had spent the day surrounded by friends—laughter echoing across the sand, teasing traded like currency, photos snapped in golden light that made everything look easier than it felt.

When the group began to drift apart, one by one, Charles had turned to you with a quiet offer—dinner, just the two of you. And you couldn’t say no. The sea air was too gentle, the evening too still to go home and lie awake, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about everything you hadn’t said.

The restaurant he chose was small, tucked into the curve of the coastline like it had always been there. It smelled like salt and lemon and something warm simmering in garlic. You sat outside, the ocean stretching behind him in endless blue, the breeze lifting strands of your hair as the sky deepened into dusk.

“This place is beautiful,” you said, your voice soft, eyes scanning the view like you were trying to memorize it.

Charles looked up from his menu, smiling over the edge. “It’s one of my favorites,” he said. “I come here when I need to think.”

“Think about what?” you asked, your chin resting in your hand, the question more curious than prying.

He shrugged, the motion easy, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Races. Life. Things I should’ve said. Things I shouldn’t have.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You know how it is.”

You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—shared weight, shared ache. You nodded, a small sound in your throat.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”

The waiter appeared with practiced ease, and before you could open your mouth, Charles was already ordering for both of you. He glanced at you with a grin, eyes dancing.

“Trust me,” he said, confident and light. “I know what you want better than you do.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching, but didn’t argue. There was something about the way he said it—so sure, so effortless—that made it easy to let go. To lean into the moment. He had that kind of presence, the kind that made you forget, just for a little while, the storm Max could stir in you with a single glance.

When the food arrived, the scent wrapped around you like a promise—garlic, lemon, something rich and slow-cooked. Charles leaned back in his chair, the sea breeze tousling his hair, a playful glint in his eye.

“Okay, seriously,” he said, gesturing toward your plate. “You have to try this. I swear it’ll change your life. Or at least your evening.”

You laughed, picking up your fork, the sound lighter than it had been in days. “You always say that,” you teased, “and I always end up judging you for it later.”

“Only because you secretly love it,” he shot back, smug and sweet.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Maybe,” you said, voice softening. “Maybe I do.”

The conversation drifted like the tide—easy, unhurried, full of warmth. From favorite travel spots to absurd childhood stories, from inside jokes about mutual friends to playful debates over who could survive the strongest espresso. Charles was present in that rare way that made you feel seen without being studied. He made you laugh, genuinely, and even when he teased you—like when he insisted you were overthinking the simplest things—it felt soft. Safe. Like he knew exactly how far to go without ever crossing the line.

And yet, beneath the laughter, beneath the glow of the evening and the salt-laced breeze, something in your chest still tightened. Max lingered in the corners of your mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore. His intensity, the way he could unravel you with a glance, a word, a silence—it hovered like a shadow, quiet but persistent. You pushed it down, tried to stay here, in this moment, with Charles. In the calm.

Charles reached across the table, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your breath catch. His eyes held yours, steady and sincere.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “It’s nice to see you… happy.”

You looked down at your hands, blinking against the sudden sting behind your eyes. You didn’t want to name what you felt—it was too layered, too fragile. But you nodded, voice barely above a whisper.

“I am,” you said.

And even as the words left your mouth, you felt the tug of something deeper. A storm you’d spent months trying to tame. A love that hadn’t unraveled cleanly. But tonight, you let yourself stay in the quiet. In the warmth. In the flicker of peace that made everything else blur at the edges—just for a little while.

The waiter placed the check gently on the table, and before you could reach for it, Charles slid it away with a shake of his head.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got this.”

You hesitated, fingers curling slightly against the edge of your napkin. A flicker of disbelief passed through you—soft, familiar. “You always do this,” you said quietly, the words laced with something you couldn’t quite name.

Charles shrugged, easy and unbothered. “Always?” he teased, eyes warm. “I insist. It’s part of being… polite.”

You laughed, a quiet sound that barely rose above the hush of the waves nearby. But beneath it, something sharper twisted in your chest. A thought you couldn’t shake. What would Max do?

You could see it clearly—Max scanning the receipt, making a show of insisting, maybe tossing out a smug comment about how you always ordered the most expensive thing. It would be playful, but edged. A challenge. That was Max. He didn’t just pay the bill—he made it a moment. A performance. A way to remind you that he was always one step ahead, always holding the reins.

Charles, by contrast, simply leaned back, content. No games. No pressure. Just the quiet act of care, offered without expectation. And as much as it soothed you, it also made your chest tighten. Because Max didn’t do comfort. Not anymore. He did storms. And Charles… Charles made you feel safe.

You took a slow breath, trying to push the thought aside, trying to stay here, in the softness of the evening. “Thank you,” you murmured, brushing your fingers over the table’s edge.

Charles gave you that small, steady smile again. “Don’t thank me. Just enjoy tonight. That’s all I want.”

You nodded, letting yourself sink into the moment—the breeze lifting your hair, the lights flickering along the water, the sound of waves folding into the shore. But somewhere deep down, Max lingered. A whisper in the back of your mind.

───────── FIVE MONTHS LATER

You swore you’d seen Alex no more than five minutes ago. Her laugh had echoed somewhere near the bar, her hand tugging yours toward another round, another distraction. And now… somehow, here you were—slumped on the curb outside the club, heels crooked, head heavy, the night spinning around you like a carousel you couldn’t step off. You barely remembered how you’d gotten here. Just flashes: the music too loud, the drinks too sweet, the ache in your chest too familiar.

You’d told yourself it was just a night out. Just a little release after five long months of trying to be okay. Things with Charles had been good—steady, kind, uncomplicated. But no matter how perfect he was, you still found yourself measuring every quiet moment against the storm Max used to bring. You still missed him. Not always loudly. Sometimes just in the way your hand reached for your phone without thinking.

You remembered the first drink. Then the second. Then the third. By the fifth, the edges of the world had melted, and you weren’t sure where you ended and the noise began. Your fingers hovered over your screen now, scrolling through your contacts like they were lifelines. And maybe they were.

You knew you’d regret this. Tomorrow, or maybe even in ten minutes. But tonight, the ache was louder than your pride. And in the end… weren’t you still his? Weren’t you still tangled in whatever this was, whatever it had refused to stop being?

Your thumb pressed call before your brain could catch up. The alcohol made the decision feel brave. Or reckless. Maybe both.

“Y/n?” His voice came through sharp, alert—then softened, like he’d heard the tremble in your breath before you even spoke.

“I… I can’t… I just…” The words spilled out, messy and slurred, half-laughing, half-crying. “I can’t do this. I need… I need you.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for the shift to happen. His tone dropped, calm but commanding—the voice that used to steady you when everything else spun out.

“Where are you?”

You hiccuped, pressing your palm to your face, trying to hold yourself together. “Jimmy’z… Jimmy’z club. Can you… maybe come? Please?”

You didn’t hear the way he exhaled, didn’t see the way he was already moving. But you knew. You always knew.

The slam of his car door cut through the haze like a lifeline. You didn’t even have time to stand before Max was there—his long strides closing the distance in seconds, eyes sharp and scanning, taking in your disheveled state with a precision that made your chest tighten. And then, just as quickly, something in him softened. Not pity. Not judgment. Just that quiet, familiar concern that used to make you feel like the world could stop spinning if he was near.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice low, more observation than reprimand. He crouched beside you, one hand brushing your elbow, steadying you with a touch so light it made your breath catch. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this mess.”

You nodded, barely. The words stuck in your throat, tangled somewhere between shame and relief. Before you could protest, before you could remind him about Charles, about the deal, about everything you weren’t supposed to want anymore—he lifted you. Arms around your back, legs cradled in his, the kind of gesture that used to mean home. And despite every instinct screaming that this was a mistake, part of you melted into the certainty of him. The way he didn’t hesitate. The way he still came when you called.

Inside his—your—apartment, the air felt too quiet. Familiar in a way that made your heart ache. He guided you to the bed, careful with your limbs, like you were something fragile. Something still his.

“Water,” he said, pressing a glass into your hands. “Drink it slowly.”

You did, fingers trembling slightly around the rim. Your head lolled back against the cushions, the room spinning just enough to make you close your eyes. And then he was there again, crouched in front of you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache—and ache to stop.

“You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep this up,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, the gesture so careful it felt like a memory. His touch was hesitant, almost reverent—like he was afraid you might dissolve if he pressed too hard. Like he wasn’t sure if he still had the right.

You let out a weak laugh, more breath than sound. It slipped out before you could catch it, brittle and tired. “You say that like you still care,” you mumbled, the words tumbling from your lips without permission.

His gaze flickered, a crack splitting through the calm he wore like armor. “You think I don’t?” he asked, voice low, barely there, like the truth might shatter if spoken too loudly.

You stared at him, searching his face for something solid. Something real. Something that told you you hadn’t imagined it all—the way he used to look at you like you were gravity, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The silence between you stretched, delicate and dangerous, like a thread pulled too tight.

“Do you…” your voice trembled, barely holding together, “do you ever miss me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, eyes dropping to the space between you, as if the question had cracked something open. When he looked back up, his expression was raw—stripped of everything he usually hid behind.

“Every day,” he said finally, and the words came out like they hurt. “Even when I try not to.”

And there it was. The truth. Quiet and devastating. The kind that didn’t fix anything, but still made your heart ache in a way that felt like remembering.

Your throat tightened, the words pressing against it like they were trying to claw their way out. You wanted to tell him. That you missed him too. Every version of him—the quiet mornings tangled in sheets, the late-night arguments that always ended with his hand reaching for yours, the way he used to look at you like you were the only thing that made sense. But you didn’t. You just nodded, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes, swallowing everything you couldn’t say.

“I shouldn’t have called,” you whispered, voice barely holding together.

Max shook his head slowly, his gaze steady, unwavering. “No,” he said, quiet but firm. “You should’ve.” His voice softened, that familiar edge of tenderness curling around the words like a memory. “You needed someone.” He paused, eyes never leaving yours. “And I’ll always come when it’s you.”

Max leaned in, slow and careful, his hand hovering near yours like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you anymore. His eyes searched yours, quiet and intense, like he was trying to read every thought you hadn’t said aloud. “Do you… miss me?” he asked, softer this time, like the answer might undo him.

You swallowed, your chest tightening around the truth. “Yeah… I do.”

He exhaled, the sound barely audible, but you saw the way his shoulders eased, the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I thought you might,” he said, teasing just enough to soften the moment, but not enough to hide the relief.

And then, almost without thinking, you added, “But… I probably shouldn’t.” Your voice was quiet, hesitant. “Charles is the exact opposite. Calm, easy… maybe that’s why.”

Max paused, his gaze dropping for a moment before finding yours again. “The exact opposite?” he echoed, like he was trying to understand what that meant. What it meant about him.

You looked away, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, the silence stretching between you. “It’s not that I don’t care about him,” you said slowly. “It’s just… he’s steady. Predictable. You… you’re complicated. Hard to handle sometimes.”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head, but there was no bitterness in it. Just something tired. Something honest. “Yeah… I know. I’ve always been… too much, I guess.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “But I’m trying, Y/n. I’m trying to be better. To be someone who’s worth it. Worth you.”

────────────

You woke with a headache that felt like punishment—sharp, pulsing, unforgiving. The light bleeding through the curtains was too bright, the sheets too warm, too familiar. You blinked once. Twice. The room came into focus slowly, like a cruel trick.

And then you saw it.

The bedroom. His bedroom.

Once yours, too.

Fuck.

Your gaze slid to the other side of the bed, heart thudding. There he was—Max. Still half-asleep, hair tousled, one arm sprawled across the pillow where you’d just been lying. His breathing was slow, steady, like nothing had changed. Like this was still normal.

Fuck.

Your stomach twisted violently. Did you—? No. No, you couldn’t have. You were still dressed. You remembered the water, the blanket, the way he’d crouched beside you like he didn’t know how to stop caring. But guilt surged anyway, cold and suffocating.

Charles.

You needed to see Charles. You needed to leave.

You scrambled out of bed too fast, the floor tilting beneath you. In your rush, your toe slammed into the corner of the nightstand.

“Fuck!” you hissed, grabbing your foot, pain shooting up your leg like punishment layered on punishment.

From the bed, Max stirred, his voice rough with sleep. “What the hell are you doing, schat?” he mumbled, accent thick, words lazy. He cracked one eye open, watching you fumble for your clothes with a kind of quiet amusement. “Come back to bed.”

His tone was soft, almost teasing—but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter. Something that made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to name. Like he already knew you wouldn’t. Like he was asking anyway.

You rubbed your hands over your face, the panic rising fast and sharp. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing, Max. I shouldn’t have called you. I shouldn’t even be here.” The words came out tangled, half-guilt, half-confession, and all of it too late.

His voice stayed quiet, but there was an edge beneath it—something brittle, something bruised. “Yeah, well… you did.” He paused, eyes flicking toward you. “Guess that means something.”

You looked up, catching the tiredness in his eyes, the faint bitterness threading through his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He let out a dry laugh, short and sharp. “It means it’s been, what—five and a half months? And you still call me when everything falls apart.” His gaze held yours, steady, unflinching. “The deal’s almost over, Y/n. Maybe that’s the problem. It never really was a break for us. You never really left.”

Your heart thudded painfully, the truth landing harder than you expected. “Max…”

He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless, like the words were too heavy to hold still. “You want honesty?” he said, voice low. “I tried. I really did. I went out, met people, smiled when I didn’t mean it. But every time, I looked for you in them. The way you talk. The way you laugh. The way you make everything feel like it matters.” He stopped, jaw tightening, eyes dropping to the floor. “It’s pathetic, I know.”

But it wasn’t. Not to you. Not when your chest ached with the same kind of longing. Not when you still hadn’t figured out how to stop calling him when the world felt too heavy.

The panic clawed up your throat, sharp and familiar, the kind that always came when things got too close to breaking open. “Don’t do this,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Max stood from the bed slowly, his eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something quieter. Something wounded. “Harder for who?” he asked, voice low but edged. “You? Because you’re the one pretending you don’t care when you clearly do. You’re the one who runs the second it starts to feel real.”

You flinched, the words landing too close to the truth. “That’s not fair,” you snapped, standing now, the distance between you shrinking. “You’re the one who wanted the deal, Max. You told me to find someone else. To see someone else. So don’t stand there and act like I’m the one who broke something that was already falling apart.”

He stared at you, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep something inside. The silence stretched, heavy and raw, until he finally spoke.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet, bitter around the edges. “Guess that’s what I get for thinking six months apart would fix what I broke.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The silence between you felt thick, like fog pressing in from all sides—dense with everything you hadn’t said, everything you should’ve said months ago but never found the words for. It hung in the air, fragile and suffocating, like one wrong breath might shatter it all.

You thought about Charles. His steadiness. The way he looked at you like love was simple, like you were easy to choose. You thought about how different it felt now—this room, this ache, this pull toward Max that refused to loosen its grip. No matter how far you’d tried to run, it always found you.

So you did the only thing you could. You reached for your jacket, fingers trembling as you slipped it on, the motion slow and clumsy. You didn’t look at him—not at his messy hair, not at the way his chest rose and fell like he was holding something back. You couldn’t. Not without unraveling.

“Y/n,” Max said quietly, voice rough around the edges. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. Like he’d run out of ways to ask you to stay.

You froze, just for a moment. Then turned slightly, your gaze fixed on the floor, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I don’t know what I want, Max,” you said, the words cracking as they left you. “I’m sorry.”

────────────

Two weeks passed—slow, heavy, uneven.

You tried to pretend life was moving forward. You went to dinners with friends, let Alex talk circles around you about how good Charles was for you—how steady, how kind, how easy he made everything seem. You nodded, smiled when you were supposed to. You spent quiet mornings in his apartment, coffee warming your hands, sunlight spilling across the floor like something out of a dream you weren’t sure you belonged in. It was calm. Maybe too calm. Charles never asked about Max. He never pushed. He gave you space like it was a gift, and it should’ve made you feel safe. It should’ve made you feel grateful.

But some nights, when the world went still and the silence pressed in, you found yourself drifting. Back to Max. Back to the sound of his laugh echoing in your chest, the weight of his hand on your thigh while he drove, the way his voice softened when he called you schat like it meant something only the two of you understood. You told yourself it was just habit. That it would fade. That it had to.

But it didn’t.

The ache stayed. Quiet, constant. Like a bruise you kept pressing just to see if it still hurt.

You tried to love Charles the way he deserved. You tried to give him the pieces of yourself that Max had left behind—fractured, worn, still sharp around the edges. But it was like trying to fill an ocean with a teaspoon. He could make you laugh, yes. He could hold your hand and make the world feel still. But he couldn’t quiet the storm inside you. He couldn’t reach the part of you that still turned toward the door, half-expecting Max to walk through it.

And maybe that was the worst part. Knowing that even in peace, you still missed the chaos.

The apartment smelled like roasted garlic and fresh bread—the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a blanket, that made a place feel lived-in, warm, safe. Charles moved through the kitchen with that familiar ease, humming under his breath as he plated the pasta he’d made, the soft clink of cutlery and the low hum of music filling the space like a lullaby. It was the kind of evening that should’ve felt perfect.

You sat at the table, wine glass in hand, swirling the deep red liquid without ever bringing it to your lips. Your fingers tapped absently against the rim, your gaze drifting—not really seeing the flicker of candlelight or the way the shadows danced across the walls.

“Y/n, you’re quiet,” Charles said gently, glancing up from the plates. His smile was small, curious, open. “Something on your mind?”

You took a breath, deep and shaky, your chest tightening like it was bracing for impact. Every instinct told you to lie. To let the night stay soft and simple. To keep pretending. But you couldn’t. Not anymore. Not when the weight of it had started to bleed into everything—every silence, every kiss, every morning you woke up wondering why the ache hadn’t gone away.

“Charles…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you something.” You paused, eyes fixed on the table, on the way your fingers trembled slightly around the stem of your glass. “I’ve been thinking. A lot. About us. About me.”

His fork stilled mid-air. He looked at you then—really looked. And there was no anger in his eyes. No fear. Just patience. Just kindness. Just the quiet knowing of someone who had seen this coming and loved you anyway.

“Okay,” he said softly, steady as ever. “I’m listening.”

You pressed your lips together, the lump in your throat rising fast, thick with everything you didn’t want to say but couldn’t keep inside. “I… I can’t do this. Not with you,” you said, the words spilling out before you could second-guess them. “You’re incredible. Kind. Patient. Everything someone else would be lucky to have. But… I still love Max.”

Charles blinked once, slowly, then set his fork down with deliberate care. His gaze didn’t harden. It didn’t flinch. It just softened, like he’d already known, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up to the truth he’d quietly carried for weeks. He leaned back slightly, his shoulders easing, the silence between you stretching wide but not cruel.

He exhaled, long and slow, the kind of breath that sounded like surrender. When he looked at you, there was no anger. No bitterness. Just quiet understanding, the kind that made your chest ache even more.

“I know,” he said gently. “I could tell. I just hoped… maybe time would change it.” He offered a small, bittersweet smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I think you already know where you belong.”

You blinked hard, tears threatening to spill, guilt burning hot in your chest. “You don’t deserve this,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t deserve me choosing someone else.”

He reached out, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles—a touch so gentle it felt like goodbye. Then he pulled his hand back, slow, deliberate, like he knew holding on would only make it harder.

“You’re not choosing someone else,” Charles said quietly, his voice steady, kind. “You’re just choosing what your heart already did.”

And that broke you.

You stood too fast, the chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound that made you flinch. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely able to hold your voice together, the words trembling as they left you.

He nodded once, eyes never leaving yours. “Go,” he said, soft but certain. “Before it’s too late.”

You didn’t wait.

You ran—through the winding streets of Monaco, past shuttered cafés and glowing storefronts, your breath coming in sharp bursts, your chest aching with every step. Max. His name echoed in your head like a drumbeat, relentless. Every corner you turned, you half expected to see him there, leaning against a lamppost, waiting. The city blurred around you, lights smearing into gold and silver, your lungs burning, but you didn’t stop.

By the time you reached his building, your legs felt like water, your heart like thunder. You barely remembered how you got there—just the pull, the need, the certainty that you had to. Your hands trembled as you reached for the door, fingers fumbling with the handle, breath caught somewhere between panic and hope.

And there he was—slouched on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, eyes fixed on the muted flicker of a race replay playing on the TV. The apartment was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor, and he looked exhausted. Hollow. Like sleep hadn’t found him in days. But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, his head snapped up.

His eyes widened—first with disbelief, then something quieter. Something fragile. Hope. “Y/n?” he said, voice barely more than a breath, like saying your name might break the spell. Like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You swallowed hard, breath catching in your chest. “Max— I… I’m here.” The words trembled out of you, raw and unsteady, full of everything you hadn’t said for months. “So maybe… if you still feel it—like I do—we can try again.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air felt suspended, like the world itself had paused to listen.

Then he stood, slow and uncertain, like one wrong step might send you running again. “You mean that?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he didn’t dare believe it.

You nodded, chest rising and falling too fast, too hard. “I never stopped feeling it. Not for a second. I tried—” your voice cracked, “—God, I tried to forget, but I couldn’t. You’re still in everything, Max. In every place, in every song, in every breath. I’m tired of pretending you’re not.”

He crossed the room in two strides, then paused—his hands hovering near your waist, unsure, reverent. And then, finally, he touched you. Lightly. Grounding. Like he needed to feel you to believe you were really there.

“I tried too,” he whispered, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I tried to be better. To be okay without you. But it’s like—” he stopped, voice breaking, “—it’s like my world doesn’t make sense when you’re not in it.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask again. Just looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of this moment—your flushed cheeks, your trembling breath, the way your eyes held his like they’d never stopped searching.

And then, slowly, he leaned in.

His hands stayed gentle on your waist, grounding you, steadying you. His forehead brushed yours, and for a second, you just breathed together—two people trying to find the courage to stop pretending. Then his lips found yours, tentative at first, like he was asking permission.

You kissed him back.

Soft. Certain. Like coming home after too long in the cold. His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he deepened the kiss, and everything else fell away—the months apart, the guilt, the ache. All of it dissolved in the quiet press of mouths and the way your body leaned into his like it had never forgotten how.

© verstarris / formerly norristri 2025

babs radio ! happy halloween !! my monthly appearance has come 😇 again with angst and love triangle… I promise next time it’ll be something HAPPY. also i kinda hate this cuz i think i’m going through mild writers block + it’s badly proof read so please forgive me.. ALSO I STARTED USING CANVA FOR GRAPHICS (what do we think?)

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, eyes drifting across the paddock without much focus. The usual chaos unfolded around him—team personnel rushing past, journalists setting up tripods, the hum of engines in the distance. It was all familiar. All routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until you.

You walked past like you belonged there. Confident. Effortless. Laughing at something Kimi said, your hand brushing his arm like it was second nature. You didn’t even glance in Oscar’s direction, didn’t hesitate or falter. Just kept walking, like nothing had ever happened. Like you hadn’t once been the girl he kissed behind a garage when he was seventeen.

For a moment, he genuinely wondered if he was hallucinating. Maybe the heat was getting to him. Maybe he hadn’t slept enough. Because there was no way you were real—not like this. Not after all that time. And definitely not with another driver by your side.

Oscar spun on his heel, desperate to vanish into the garage before his brain could catch up with what his eyes had just seen. But fate, as always, had a twisted sense of humor. Instead of escape, he collided straight into Lando—shoulder first, sharp and jarring.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate,” Lando said, laughing without a clue, his voice light and teasing.

Oscar’s chest tightened. Ghost wasn’t far off. Because how else was he supposed to explain the sight of you—walking through the paddock beside Kimi Antonelli like you’d always belonged there? You, the girl he hadn’t thought about in years. Except he had. More than he cared to admit. In flashes. In fragments. In moments he’d shoved aside and buried deep, hoping they’d stay gone.

“Worse,” he muttered, arching a brow as his gaze flicked back toward you, unable to help himself.

Lando followed the look, still clueless. “What, a vampire?” he joked, grinning like this was just another throwaway moment.

Oscar’s jaw clenched, lips twitching with something bitter and reluctant. “Closer to a witch,” he said, the word catching in his throat like it didn’t want to be spoken. Because that was what you did best—appeared out of nowhere, turned the world on its head, and left him spellbound before he even realized he’d fallen under again.

Lando squinted at Oscar, clearly confused. “What’s going on? Like, literally? Are you high?” he asked, half-laughing, half-concerned, like he couldn’t decide whether to tease or intervene.

Oscar groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, but he tried anyway—tilting his head toward the crowd, eyes locked on a very specific pair walking through the paddock. “You see that girl over there? With Antonelli?” he muttered, voice low, like saying it too loud might make it more real.

Lando followed his gaze, casual at first—until his eyes landed on you. Then he froze.

“Y/n?!” he blurted, loud and unfiltered, the name slicing through the noise around them like a mic drop. A few heads turned. Oscar’s stomach dropped.

Oscar whipped around, eyes wide. “You know her?!” he hissed, voice sharp with disbelief, like Lando had just confessed to knowing a ghost. Because that’s what you felt like—something from a past life, suddenly walking through the present like you owned it.

Lando’s outburst earned a few curious glances from passing journalists, their heads turning just enough to make Oscar panic. Without thinking, he grabbed Lando’s arm and yanked him a step deeper into the shadow of the garage, away from prying eyes and open ears.

“Keep your voice down, idiot,” Oscar hissed, his tone sharp and low. His pulse was still hammering in his chest, the image of you—so calm, so composed, so present—still burning behind his eyes. You hadn’t even looked his way. Hadn’t flinched. And somehow, that made it worse.

Lando shook him off, brows furrowed, still staring in your direction like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked, voice quieter now but no less stunned.

Oscar scoffed, the disbelief bubbling up in his throat. “Because I didn’t know she was here,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes. “How do you even know her?!”

Lando blinked, and for the first time all day, his trademark smirk faltered. His posture shifted—just slightly—but enough for Oscar to notice. “Uh… let’s just say we had a… thing,” he said, voice lighter than it should’ve been, like he was trying to toss the words away before they could land.

Oscar’s head snapped toward him, disbelief flaring in his chest. “A thing?!” he echoed, sharp and incredulous, like the word itself offended him.

Lando shrugged, aiming for casual, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “We talked for a while. It didn’t, y’know… work out.” He said it like it was nothing, but Oscar could hear the hesitation tucked between the syllables. It hadn’t been nothing. Not to Lando. And definitely not to Oscar.

Oscar stared at him, deadpan. His mind was already spiraling—images of you and Lando, laughing, texting, maybe even kissing—flashing through his head like static. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

Lando tilted his head, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion, but there was something sharper behind it now. “Wait. Why do you care so much?” he asked, tone shifting. “Don’t tell me—”

Oscar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, and the silence between them stretched just long enough to say everything he wouldn’t.

And that was all it took.

Lando’s grin returned, slow and smug, curling at the edges like smoke. “Oh my god,” he said, practically glowing with mischief. “You dated her, didn’t you?”

Oscar didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Because yeah. He had.

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands through his hair like he could physically shake the memory loose. “Yeah, but I was like seventeen,” he snapped, voice sharp with defensiveness. “It was forever ago.”

Lando burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered, earning a few glances from the crew nearby. “That’s even worse!” he cackled. “You’ve been pining since high school?”

“I’m not pining,” Oscar shot back, but the heat rising in his cheeks betrayed him. He hated how easily Lando could read him—how quickly he’d zeroed in on the one thing Oscar hadn’t even admitted to himself.

“Sure, mate,” Lando said, still grinning as he clapped Oscar on the back like they were sharing a joke. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”

Oscar turned, eyes narrowing, the humor draining from his face. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said, voice low and cold. The look he gave Lando wasn’t playful—it was a warning.

────────────

It was the most cliché thing they could’ve done—two drivers, hiding from media chaos, sipping coffee like teenage girls dissecting drama. But honestly, it was the most interesting part of an otherwise mind-numbing media day.

Lando dropped into the seat across from Oscar in McLaren’s hospitality, still grinning like he’d just uncovered a secret worth framing. Oscar didn’t look up. His head was in his hands, elbows on the table, eyes locked on the swirl of his untouched coffee like it held answers he didn’t want.

“So remind me again,” Lando said, voice light, teasing, and far too amused for Oscar’s liking. “How do you know her?”

Oscar let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like the question physically pained him. “You’re really asking me this?”

“Obviously,” Lando replied, sing-song and smug. “Enlighten me, mate. Because clearly I wasn’t the only one with a… thing.”

Oscar finally looked up, eyes tired and sharp all at once. He didn’t say anything right away, but the silence was loud enough. Lando leaned back, satisfied. He was enjoying this far more than he should.

“We were seventeen,” Oscar said, shrugging like it was nothing more than a footnote in his life. “Drama, hormones… you know how it is.” He waved a hand dismissively, trying to make it sound stupid, like it hadn’t mattered. “It was decades ago.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You sound like you’re ancient. You’re twenty-four, Osc. You’re not that old.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Come on—I wanna know everything.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but the way he exhaled said he was already giving in. He sat up straighter, like he was preparing a speech he hadn’t rehearsed in years. “Okay, so—” he began, voice reluctant but steady. “We met at summer camp. One of those classic annoyances-to-lovers things. She hated me at first. Thought I was arrogant. I probably was.” He paused, lips twitching at the memory. “But I thought she was out of my league. Still do, honestly. Somehow, though… I pulled her.”

Lando didn’t interrupt, just watched him with that smug little smile that said he was enjoying this way too much.

Oscar kept going, the words coming easier now. “We dated for a year. It was good. Really good. But then I turned eighteen, and everything with racing started to get serious. I was traveling constantly, barely had time to sleep, let alone be a decent boyfriend.” He looked down at his coffee, fingers curling around the cup. “So we broke up. No big fight. No drama. Just… timing.”

He leaned back, forcing a shrug. “That’s it. That’s the story.”

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Because if it had really been that simple, you wouldn’t still be the first person who came to mind when someone said what if.

Lando’s smile faltered, the mischief draining from his face as Oscar spoke. He hadn’t expected it to be that deep—hadn’t expected the story to carry weight. But as he listened, something clicked. The details, the rhythm, the way Oscar’s voice dipped at certain parts… it was all too familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, eyes still sharp despite the vulnerability he’d just laid bare. “And what about you?” he asked, voice low but pointed.

Lando leaned back in his chair, suddenly unsure of himself. He scratched the back of his neck, the bravado slipping. “Well… I met her at a Starbucks she worked at,” he said slowly, like he was piecing it together in real time. “Late 2022, I think? I was grabbing coffee before a flight, and she was behind the counter. Somehow we ended up swapping Instagrams and…” He trailed off, flustered, the memory catching him off guard.

“It was fun,” he continued after a beat, voice warming with nostalgia. “We went on a few dates, travelled a bit, hooked up…We never made it official, though.” He glanced at Oscar, who was now staring at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Sorry, mate,” Lando added quickly, the awkwardness creeping in.

“But then… things started to fade,” he said, quieter now. “We talked less and less. Sometimes I ignored her, sometimes she ignored me. I like to tell myself it was timing—she was studying, I was racing. Life got in the way.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, but it didn’t quite land.

Oscar froze mid-sip, the coffee forgotten in his hands. His eyes locked onto Lando, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy. Charged.

It was so fucking similar.

Too similar.

“We drifted away,” Lando finished, shrugging like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb between them.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on his coffee like it had suddenly become the most complicated thing in the world. His fingers curled around the cup, unmoving, as the weight of Lando’s words settled over him like fog. “Wait. Wait…” he said slowly, voice thick with disbelief. “You’re telling me… you two—” He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of it. “You broke up for the same reason?”

Lando blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in Oscar’s voice. “Well… yeah? Kind of?” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Timing, life, studies, racing… same thing, right?” He gave a nervous laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair like he could shake off the awkwardness.

Oscar’s jaw dropped, his mind racing to catch up. “You’re kidding me,” he muttered, eyes wide. “That’s… unreal.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring at Lando like he was seeing him for the first time. “We’re literally mirror images of each other, mate. Same girl, same story, same dumb reason.”

It was absurd. Cosmic, almost. Two teammates, bonded by a shared past they hadn’t even known existed. Both of them had held you once. Both of them had let you go. And now, here you were—back in the paddock, walking beside someone else, while they sat across from each other trying to piece together the ghost of you.

What in the whole universe.

This wasn’t just coincidence.

It was something else entirely.

────────────

You were already running late, the kind of late that made your chest tight and your thoughts scatter. You’d barely had time to brush your hair, let alone double-check your bag, and now you were half-convinced you’d forgotten something important—your phone, your badge, your sanity. Kimi was probably already waiting outside the hotel, arms crossed, foot tapping, silently judging your lack of punctuality.

You sped down the hallway, rummaging through your bag with one hand, trying to fish out your phone while mentally rehearsing excuses. Your steps were quick, uneven, distracted—until you slammed straight into someone. Hard.

A shoulder. A chest. A voice.

“Damn, be careful,” the voice said, familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

You froze mid-step, heart dropping.