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​Then, the silence of the cabin was punctured.

​At first, it was a subtle rhythmic disturbance, something you might have mistaken for the house settling or the wind rattling the eaves. But as you strained your sensitive elven hearing, the sounds sharpened, cutting through the stillness with jarring clarity.

​Squeak... thud. Squeak... thud.

​It was the unmistakable sound of heavy wood straining under weight, a rhythmic friction that vibrated through the floorboards and up the legs of your bed. Your breath hitched, your heart climbing into your throat. Was it the hunters? Had they breached the wards while you slept? Had they found a way to bypass Lando’s patrol?

​You sat bolt upright, your hand instinctively diving into your pack for the hilt of a dagger, your pulse drumming a frantic staccato in your ears. Every instinct screamed danger, but as you focused, the nature of the sounds changed.

​A low, guttural vibration rumbled through the wall—a sound that was half-growl, half-sigh. And then, a voice broke the rhythm, strained and breathless, stripped of its usual playful bravado.

​"Oh... Oscar..."

​The name was whispered with a desperate, hitching intensity that made your entire body freeze. It wasn't a cry of pain, and it certainly wasn't the sound of a struggle. It was Lando. But this wasn't the boisterous werewolf who had served you tea; this was a man caught in the throes of a passion so raw it sounded almost violent.

​The steady thud against the wall intensified, followed by the sharp, metallic chime of a headboard striking the paneling. You heard the low, melodic murmur of Oscar’s voice in response—too muffled to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable: commanding, possessive, and thick with a dark, predatory hunger.

​You felt the heat rush to your face, a flush so deep it felt like your skin might actually burn. In the Elven Courts, intimacy was a silent, ethereal affair of joined minds and soft melodies. This was something else entirely—a collision of fire and ice, a primal symphony of a werewolf’s heat meeting a vampire’s cold precision.

​The cabin, which had felt like a fortress moments ago, suddenly felt far too small. You were trapped in the epicenter of their private storm, the thin wooden walls offering no protection from the sensory onslaught of their union. Every gasp, every heavy thud, and the occasional, sharp intake of breath from Oscar felt like a physical intrusion into your sanctuary.

​You clutched your spellbook to your chest, your knuckles white, staring wide-eyed at the wall that separated your room from theirs. You wanted to vanish, to sink into the floorboards, to be anywhere but here, listening to the two men who had saved your life unravel each other in the dark.

The sound was relentless now—a frantic, heavy drumming of wood against wood that seemed to pulse in time with the blood roaring in your ears. Every time the headboard struck the wall, you felt the vibration in your own mattress, a physical reminder of the sheer power being exerted on the other side of the lath and plaster.

​"Oh God... Oscar..." Lando’s voice broke on a ragged, high-pitched gasp, sounding completely undone, stripped of every ounce of his werewolf pride.

​You lay paralyzed, staring up into the dark canopy of your bed, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. You were a High Elf; you were supposed to be above these base, carnal impulses. Your people valued the soul’s resonance, the slow dance of spirits. But there was nothing ethereal about this. It was raw. It was animal. And it was triggering something deep within your depleted, recovering body that you couldn't control.

A wave of intense, localized heat flooded your core. As the sounds from the next room reached a fever pitch—the low, dominant growl of the vampire and the desperate, rhythmic whimpers of the wolf—you felt a sudden, heavy ache bloom between your thighs. An unmistakable, slick warmth gathered there, a betrayal by your own biology.

​You squeezed your legs together, your muscles corded and tense, trying to crush the sensation, but the friction only made it worse. Every time Lando cried out, a fresh spark of lightning seemed to shoot through your nerves. The air in your room felt stifled and thick, smelling faintly of the marigold salve on your wrists and the lingering scent of the tea, but your mind was filled with the imagined image of them: Oscar’s pale, icy strength pinning Lando’s radiating heat into the bed.

​The thudding reached a crescendo, a final, rapid-fire succession of strikes that made a picture frame on your wall rattle precariously.

​"Oscar—please!" Lando choked out, his voice a strained, beautiful wreck.

​You bit your lip so hard you tasted the faint, metallic tang of copper, your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to maintain your spell. You were supposed to be hidden, invisible, a ghost in the dark—but as you lay there, trembling and wet, you had never felt more painfully, vibrantly alive.

The cabin had become a living thing, breathing and heaving with their exertion. The air in your room was heavy, charged with the spillover of their raw, supernatural energy. Each time Lando’s voice broke into a fractured, desperate plea, a sympathetic jolt raced through your spine, centering in that pulsing, heavy ache.

​Your hand moved almost of its own volition. Your fingers, still smelling faintly of the marigold and beeswax salve, slipped beneath the hem of your pants. The moment you made contact, a sharp, electric gasp escaped your lips. You were slick—drenched in a way that felt scandalous for a creature of your upbringing. The fine silk of your undergarment was already heavy and clinging, a damp barrier that only served to frustrate the frantic need building in your blood.

​With trembling hands, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and shoved the fabric aside.

​The cool air of the room hit your heated skin for only a second before you replaced it with the pressure of your own touch. You were a High Elf, a daughter of starlight, but in the dark, with the sound of a predator being broken by his lover just inches away, you felt like nothing more than a creature of flesh and hunger.

​Thud. Thud. Thud.

​The rhythm was merciless. You closed your eyes, imagining Oscar’s cold, strong hands—the ones that had so clinically stitched your side—now gripped tight on Lando’s hips. You imagined the heat Lando radiated, the way it must feel to be consumed by it.

​As Lando let out a long, low, vibrating groan that sounded like it was being pulled from the very bottom of his lungs, you arched your back against the mattress. Your fingers moved in a frantic, sliding mimicry of the rhythm behind the wall. You were chasing a ghost, a shadow of the pleasure they were sharing, your breath hitching in time with Lando's ragged exhales.

​"Oscar... please..." Lando whimpered, a sound of total surrender.

​You bit down on the knuckle of your free hand to stifle a cry. You were so close, the tension in your thighs becoming unbearable, your heartbeat a thundering roar that drowned out the forest outside. The wetness on your fingers felt like a sin, yet you couldn't stop, your body tuned entirely to the frequency of the two monsters in the next room.

The thin wooden partition between the rooms seemed to vanish as the barrier between your senses and their reality dissolved. Your fingers were a blur, slick and desperate, mirroring the frantic, heavy cadence of the bodies colliding in the next room. Every time the headboard struck the wall, it sent a shockwave through your spine, driving you further into a delirium of sensation that your refined Elven blood had never been prepared for. The air in your room felt ionized, thick with the scent of your own arousal and the phantom heat of their passion.

​Lando’s moans had reached a fever pitch, no longer melodic but raw, guttural, and jagged. You could hear the friction of skin, the heavy, rhythmic gasps of the vampire, and the sound of Lando’s claws probably digging into the sheets—or perhaps into Oscar’s back. You were perched on the very precipice of a jagged cliff, your body wound as tight as a bowstring, your breath coming in tiny, high-pitched hitches that you were barely able to swallow.

​Then, the world shattered.

​A loud, soul-deep groan erupted from Oscar—a sound of primal release that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the cabin—followed immediately by Lando’s voice breaking into a high, soaring cry of total undoing. It was a vocalization of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that tore through the wall like a physical blade.

​In that exact microsecond, the dam inside you burst.

​Your orgasm didn't just arrive; it crashed over you like a tidal wave of white-hot starlight. Your back arched so violently that your head pressed into the pillow, your toes curling until they cramped. A silent scream died in your throat as the muscles of your core and thighs seized in a rhythmic, relentless contraction. The feeling was so agonizingly intense, so much more visceral than any ethereal Elven "joining," that it left you gasping for air that wouldn't come.

​You were squeezing around nothing, your internal muscles clenching in empty, pulsing waves of heat that felt like they were trying to wring the very life from your marrow. For a long, suspended moment, the room spun, and the darkness behind your eyelids exploded into fractals of violet and gold. Your magic, which you had worked so hard to mask, flared briefly in a sympathetic burst of shimmering light before settling back into a dull, exhausted glow.

​As the waves finally began to recede, leaving you limp and trembling against the sheets, the cabin fell into a heavy, ringing silence. The thudding had stopped. The moaning had ceased. All that remained was the distant, muffled sound of two sets of labored breathing and the soft, intermittent creak of a mattress settling.

​You lay there, your hand still damp and resting heavily on your stomach, your skin slick with sweat and the aftermath of your betrayal. Your heart was a drum in the silence, and the sheer, scandalous weight of what you had just done—and what you had just heard—settled over you like a shroud.

The silence that followed was far more terrifying than the noise had been. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket that made every sound you made—the rustle of the sheets, the ragged hitch of your breath—sound like a thunderclap in the small room.

​What have I done? The thought echoed in your mind, cold and stinging. You were a daughter of the High Courts, a lineage of grace and stoic dignity, and you had just... you had participated. Even from behind a wall, you had let the primal, base hunger of a vampire and a werewolf pull you into their orbit.

​The shame was physical, a hot prickle that started at your neck and flooded your face. You felt exposed, as if the very air could testify against you.

Through the wall, the silence was broken by soft, low mumbling. You couldn't make out the words—just the deep, rumbling vibration of Lando’s voice and the smooth, melodic murmur of Oscar’s. It sounded intimate, a private language of murmurs and low chuckles that made you feel like even more of a trespasser. Then, with a final soft rustle of linens, even that stopped.

​You lay deathly still, your muscles aching from the tension. You didn't dare move your hand; you didn't dare pull your shift back down. You were acutely aware that you were in a house with two of the most dangerous predators in existence.

​Oscar, with his ancient, heightened senses, could likely hear the frantic tripwire of your heart. Lando, with his wolf’s nose, would surely be able to smell the change in the room—the sharp, sweet scent of elven arousal that now hung heavy in the air.

​You squeezed your eyes shut, praying to the stars you hadn't seen in years that they would attribute your state to a nightmare or the lingering fever of your wound. You felt like a moth trying to blend into a shadow while its wings were still glowing. Every second of the silence felt like an accusation, as if at any moment, the door would creak open and you would have to face the two men who had just, quite literally, shaken your world.

The darkness of the room felt like it was pressing in on you, thick with the lingering scent of your own shame and the heavy, silent aftermath of what had occurred next door. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard Lando’s voice or felt the phantom vibration of the wall. Sleep wasn't just elusive; it felt impossible.

​The cabin had become a cage of your own making. You needed air—real, biting, forest air—to scrub the heat from your skin and the guilt from your mind.

​Moving with the practiced silence of your kin, you sat up and swung your legs over the side of the bed. You didn't light a candle; instead, you whispered a syllable of the Old Tongue, and a soft, cool orb of violet light blossomed in your palm. It cast long, dancing shadows against the timber walls, guiding you as you pulled on your boots and draped your heavy traveling cloak over your shoulders.

You hesitated at the door. To leave, you needed your steel. Not just for protection, but because you felt naked without the weight of your heritage at your hips.

​Stepping into the hallway, you held your breath. The silence was absolute, save for the rhythmic, distant ticking of a clock somewhere in the main hall. You crept toward Oscar’s study, your heart hammering against your ribs. Every floorboard that didn't creak felt like a small miracle.

​The study door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. You slipped inside, the violet glow of your palm illuminating the rows of ancient books and the glint of silver on Oscar's desk. Your eyes went immediately to the velvet-lined case.

​There they were. Moonlight and Ice.

​The glass lid was still unlocked, just as Oscar had left it. You reached in, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the polished hilts. The moment you gripped them, a sense of cold clarity washed over you, dampening the frantic thrum of your heart. You slid them into the hidden sheaths beneath your cloak with a practiced, fluid motion.

​As you turned to leave, your light brushed over the high-backed chair where Oscar usually sat. A stray thought crossed your mind—that he might be standing there in the shadows, watching you with those unblinking eyes—but the room was empty. They were likely still asleep, tangled together in their room.

​You hurried toward the back entrance, the one Lando had used earlier. The heavy iron bolt was cold to the touch. You slid it back with agonizing slowness, wincing at the faint snick of metal. Then, you stepped out into the night.

​The forest was a wall of bracing cold. It hit your face like a physical slap, shocking the system and finally, blessedly, beginning to cool the fever in your blood. You didn't go far, just deep enough into the treeline that the cabin became a dark, hulking shape behind the pines. You leaned your back against a thick oak, drawing in deep, lung-burning breaths of pine needle and damp earth.

​Here, in the dark, you weren't a source, a breeding mare, or a flustered guest. You were just a shadow among shadows. But as you looked up at the sliver of moon through the canopy, you realized that even out here, you could still feel the phantom heat of Lando’s hand on yours, and the terrifying, magnetic pull of the life you were trying so desperately to escape.

With the lithe, gravity-defying grace of your people, you scaled the ancient oak. Your fingers found purchase in the deep grooves of the bark, and your muscles, though still tender from the previous day’s ordeal, responded with a fluid strength. You climbed until the air grew thinner and colder, finally settling onto a thick, moss-draped limb high above the forest floor.

​From this vantage point, the cabin looked less like a looming fortress and more like a lonely island in a sea of pines. A faint, amber glow still flickered in one of the downstairs windows—perhaps a dying hearth fire—but the rest of the structure was draped in the heavy velvet of sleep.

​You leaned your back against the rough trunk, letting your feet dangle into the empty air. The height didn't frighten you; for an elf, being close to the sky felt more natural than being buried under a roof. The wind whistled softly through the needles, a sharp, clean sound that helped drown out the echo of Lando’s moans that had been playing on a loop in your mind.

​Up here, the scent of the forest was different—sharper, filled with the aroma of rising sap and distant rain. You looked out over the rolling expanse of the woods, searching for any sign of the " southern line" Lando had mentioned, or the silver glint of hunters' armor.

​The silence was peaceful, yet your body still felt heightened. The arousal you had felt earlier was cooling in the night air, leaving you with a lingering, heavy awareness of yourself. You clutched your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the weight of your daggers at your hips providing a grounding comfort.

​You were a fugitive, a relic of a dying race, and you were currently being harbored by two of the most powerful, carnal beings you had ever encountered. The reality of your situation was terrifying, yet as you sat there watching the silhouette of the cabin, you realized the shame was slowly being replaced by a strange, flickering curiosity.

​You had spent your life running from people who wanted to use you as a tool or a commodity. But in that cabin, despite the intensity and the raw nature of what you'd overheard, there was something... genuine. A bond that didn't care about lineage or "sources."

​A twig snapped far below, near the base of your tree.

​Your breath hitched and you froze, your elven eyes dilating to take in every scrap of moonlight. You didn't move a muscle, your gaze darting to the forest floor. Was it a predator, a hunter, or was it Oscar after he found his guest missing from her bed?

The doe moved with a delicate, unburdened grace, her hooves clicking softly against the frozen loam. She was a creature of pure instinct, her only worry the next patch of clover or the snap of a twig. You watched her from your high perch, feeling a sharp, localized ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your wound. You envied her. She didn't carry the weight of a dying heritage in her marrow; she wasn't a "source" to be harvested or a "relic" to be caged. She was simply herself, a part of the forest’s heartbeat.

​When the sound came—a heavy, resonant thud from the deeper shadows of the valley—the doe didn't hesitate. Her ears swiveled, her tail flicked, and in a blur of tawny fur and white light, she was gone, vanishing into the undergrowth with a freedom that felt like a mockery of your own.

​As the forest settled back into an eerie, unnatural silence, the cold began to seep through your cloak. The stillness out here was different from the silence in the cabin; here, it felt expectant, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

​Your gaze inevitably drifted back to the dark silhouette of the cabin.

​In your mind’s eye, the walls of the master bedroom fell away. You imagined the aftermath of the storm you had overheard. The image formed with startling, unwanted clarity: Lando’s massive, bronze-skinned frame sprawled across the linens, his furnace-like heat radiating into the room, and Oscar—cool, pale, and elegant—curled against him like a shadow clinging to a flame.

​You imagined the way Lando’s rough, calloused hand might be resting protectively over Oscar’s chest, and how the vampire’s fingers might be threaded through the werewolf’s messy, sweat-dampened hair. There would be no more growls or frantic gasps, just the steady, rhythmic breathing of the beast and the silent, unmoving presence of the immortal. They were two monsters who had found a way to be human together, creating a sanctuary of tangled limbs and shared breath in a world that would see them both destroyed.

​The thought made your stomach flip, a dizzying cocktail of lingering arousal and profound loneliness. You were someone they had invited in, yet you felt like a thief looking through a frosted window. You were safe, yes, but you were fundamentally alone.

​You leaned your head back against the rough bark of the oak, staring up at the silver-veined sky. The cold air stung your lungs, but it couldn't reach the heat still simmering between your thighs or the restless, chaotic thoughts in your brain. You were a High Elf, trained to see the patterns of the stars and the flow of ancient ley lines, but you realized you had no map for the territory you were currently in.

Between a vampire who cleaned your blades with silk and a werewolf who promised to rip the world apart for your safety, you were no longer just a fugitive. You were a girl in a tree, clutching her daggers, wondering if the heat you felt was fear, or the terrifying realization that you didn't want to run anymore.

​High above, a night bird called out, a lonely, piercing sound that echoed your own isolation. You closed your eyes, the scent of the pine and the distant, fading memory of Lando’s voice swirling together until the line between the forest and the cabin began to blur.

The sharp, rhythmic chirping of a mountain sparrow pierced through the fog of your sleep. Your neck was stiff, propped at an awkward angle against the rough oak bark, and your limbs felt like cold lead. As you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, the world came into focus with agonizing clarity: the sky was no longer a bruised purple, but a brilliant, taunting cerulean.

​"Shit," you hissed, the word catching in your dry throat.

​The sun was high enough to filter through the canopy in long, golden shafts, illuminating the forest floor you had watched so intently in the dark. You had intended to stay out for an hour—maybe two—to clear your head. Instead, your body, starved for rest and recovering from trauma, had simply shut down the moment it felt the safety of the heights.

​You looked down at your hands; they were pale and trembling slightly from the morning chill. You were lucky. Any hunter with a keen eye or a tracking dog could have spotted an elf sleeping in a tree if the branches hadn't been so thick.

​Your head snapped toward the cabin.

​A thin, steady plume of white smoke was curling lazily from the stone chimney, rising into the crisp morning air. It was a picture of domestic peace, but to you, it was a ticking clock. If the fire was lit, they were awake. And if they were awake, they had undoubtedly checked your room.

​The memory of the previous night—the thudding, the moans, and your own frantic, shameful response—hit you with the force of a physical blow, making your face heat up even in the biting cold. You had to get back. You had to slip inside and pretend you’d been there all along, or face the interrogation of a very perceptive vampire and a werewolf who could literally smell the outdoors on your skin.

​You began the descent, your movements hurried and less graceful than the night before. Your boots scuffed against the bark, and your side gave a sharp, protesting throb as you swung down from the lowest branch.

​Landing in the soft needles of the forest floor, you adjusted your cloak, making sure your daggers were hidden but accessible. You moved toward the cabin with a predator’s caution, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. As you reached the back door, you noticed the iron bolt was exactly as you’d left it—slightly ajar.

​You slipped inside, the sudden transition from the fresh forest air to the scent of woodsmoke, old books, and frying bacon making your head spin.

​"The southern line is clear," a low, gravelly voice rumbled from the kitchen.

​You froze. That was Lando. He sounded alert, his voice carrying that post-patrol edge.

​"And our guest?" That was Oscar. His voice was cooler, smoother, and held a note of something you couldn't quite identify.

"Still asleep, I reckon," Lando replied, followed by the sound of a heavy chair dragging across the floor. "I didn't hear a peep from her room when I walked by. Let her rest, Oscar. She’s had a hell of a week."

​You stood in the shadows of the hallway, your back pressed against the wood, realizing with a jolt of pure adrenaline that you were only ten feet away from being caught red-handed. If you moved now, you could make it to your room—but you’d have to pass the kitchen archway.

Aither lumine. The syllables of the invisibility spell were a mere vibration against your lips, a thread of magic that felt brittle in your exhausted state. You felt the familiar, cool shimmer of the veil wrap around you, blurring your outline into the wood-grain and shadows of the hallway. It was a drain on your remaining strength, but the alternative—explaining why you were sneaking in from the woods at breakfast—was worse.

​Holding your breath until your lungs burned, you drifted toward the kitchen archway.

​Lando was standing by the stove, his massive frame dominating the space. As you’d suspected, he was bare-chested, his skin a roadmap of his violent life. White, jagged lines from silver blades and deep, puckered divots from old hunts marred his back. But it was the fresh marks that made your pulse jump. Around the flare of his powerful hips, the skin was blooming with dark, purplish bruises—unmistakable finger marks that spoke of Oscar’s crushing, immortal grip.

​The sight sent a sharp, involuntary jolt through you, the memory of the rhythmic thud against your wall echoing in your mind.

​You forced your eyes away, turning your gaze to Oscar. He was seated at the small breakfast table, the picture of aristocratic poise. He was fully dressed in a crisp linen shirt, his long fingers holding a small, yellowed letter. He looked... satisfied. There was a relaxed curve to his shoulders that hadn't been there yesterday.

​Suddenly, Oscar’s head tilted. His dark, piercing eyes snapped toward the empty space where you stood. He squinted, his pupils dilating as he searched the air. You froze, certain the thudding of your heart would give you away. For a heartbeat, you were sure he saw the slight distortion in the light—the "glitch" in your magic caused by your fatigue.

​Confusion flickered across his pale features, a faint crease forming between his brows. But after a moment, he blinked and returned his attention to the letter, though his posture remained subtly coiled.

​"Lando," Oscar said, his voice a smooth, low velvet. "Did you feel that? A shift in the air?"

​Lando didn't turn around, busy flipping something in a cast-iron skillet. "Just the draft from the cellar, probably. This place is old, Oscar. Even the ghosts get restless when there’s bacon on the stove."

​"Perhaps," Oscar murmured, though his eyes flicked back to your corner one last time before he tapped the letter. "The courier from the Northern Pass arrived. Our friends in the market were indeed working for a 'Private Collector' in the capital. A man with a penchant for extinct beauties."

​You didn't wait to hear more. Using the distraction of their conversation, you glided past the archway, your bare feet silent on the floorboards. You reached your door, slipped inside, and leaned against the wood, finally letting the invisibility spell drop.

​You collapsed onto the bed, your heart racing. You were back, you were "safe," and you had your daggers. But the image of those bruises on Lando's hips—and the way Oscar had looked right through your spell—told you that "hiding" in this house was going to be much harder than you thought.

The room felt like it was spinning as the adrenaline finally ebbed, leaving behind a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. Using your magic while your body was still knitting itself back together was like trying to draw water from a dry well. Every muscle ached, and your breath came in shallow, jagged gasps.

You fumbled with the clasp of your cloak, letting the heavy fabric pool on the floor like a shed skin. Your fingers were clumsy as you peeled off your traveling clothes, leaving you shivering in the cool morning air. The moment your shift was out of the way, the source of the persistent, stinging throb in your side became clear.

​The white linen wrapped around your waist was no longer pristine. A small, angry blossom of crimson had seeped through the center, staining the fabric.

​"Shit, shit, shit," you hissed, the words barely a breath.

​You had pushed it too far. The climb, the cold, and the strain of the invisibility spell had pulled at the delicate work Oscar had done. You knelt by your backpack, your hands shaking as you rummaged for your supplies. You found the clean rolls of bandage and a small vial of elven antiseptic—one of the few things you’d managed to save from your life before the hunters.

​With gritted teeth, you began to unwrap the old dressing. Each turn of the bandage felt like a slow burn. When the last layer came away, you suppressed a groan. The skin around the stitches was swollen and angry, a vivid, irritated red that pulsed with every heartbeat. One of the sutures looked dangerously strained, the flesh puckered where you had clearly overexerted yourself.

​It wasn't infected yet, but it was on the verge.

​You dipped a clean cloth into your antiseptic, the sharp, herbal scent of rosemary and silver-leaf filling your nostrils. As you pressed it to the wound, the sting was so sharp it brought tears to your eyes. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, the memory of the heavy thuds and moans from the night before suddenly clashing with the sterile, lonely reality of your pain.

​Just as you reached around to begin winding the fresh bandage, a soft, deliberate knock sounded on your door.

​"Starlight?" Lando’s voice rumbled through the wood, sounding far too close and much too cheerful. "Oscar says you’re 'restless,' and the bacon is getting cold. You decent?"

​You froze, the clean bandage halfway around your waist, your heart stopping in your chest. You were standing in the middle of the room, half-naked, with a bleeding wound and a backpack full of elven secrets, and a werewolf with a supernatural sense of smell was standing right on the other side of the door.

"Don't come in!" you blurted out, the panic in your voice sharp enough to cut through the heavy oak of the door. "I... I don't have any clothes on!"

​Your heart was a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs, fluttering with a violence that made your head light. You tried to focus on the task at hand, your fingers slick with the herbal antiseptic as you fumbled with the fresh roll of linen. You needed to be fast, to be clinical, but your hands wouldn't stop shaking. As you tried to pull the bandage tight enough to provide support without snapping the strained sutures, you misjudged the angle. The rough fabric dragged across the most irritated part of the incision, and a sharp, white-hot spike of agony lanced through your side.

​"Nngh—hiss!" The sound escaped your throat before you could stifle it, a jagged intake of breath that signaled pure, unadulterated pain.

​For a werewolf, that sound was a dinner bell for his protective instincts. The "No" you had shouted was instantly overridden.

​The door didn't just open; it swung inward with a decisive, heavy thud. Lando stood in the threshold, still bare-chested, his presence filling the small room like a sudden storm. His amber eyes, usually so warm and teasing, were wide and sharp, scanning the room for a threat before they locked onto you.

​He froze.

​You were standing by the bed, stripped down to your thin, lace-edged undergarments. The morning light caught the pale, ethereal glow of your skin, but it also illuminated the carnage of your medical supplies scattered across the quilt. The old, blood-stained bandages lay like a discarded carcass on the floor, and you were clutching a fresh roll to your ribs, your knuckles white and your eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pain and embarrassment.

"Starlight," he breathed, his voice dropping from a command to a low, worried rumble. He didn't look away, but his gaze didn't feel predatory—it was purely, intensely focused on the angry, red flare of the wound on your waist. "You're bleeding again."

​He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt far more intimate than the silence of the forest. The scent of him—cedarwood, woodsmoke, and that underlying, musky heat of the beast—swirled around you, clashing with the medicinal tang of your antiseptic.

​"I told you not to come in," you whispered, pulling your arms across your chest in a futile attempt at modesty, even as you winced from the movement. "I... I can handle it. I just moved the wrong way."

​Lando ignored your protest, moving toward you with a slow, deliberate stride that felt like a mountain shifting. He stopped just inches away, the sheer heat radiating from his body making the chilled air of the room feel suddenly stifling. Up close, the bruises you had seen on his hips earlier were even more prominent—vivid reminders of the man who had been his world just hours ago.

​"You're a terrible liar," he said softly, his eyes searching yours before dropping back to the wound. "You've been out. I can smell the pine and the damp oak on your skin. You climbed a tree, didn't you?"

​He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering just an inch from your waist. He didn't touch you yet, but you could feel the warmth of his palm like a physical weight. "The stitches are pulling, and if you try to wrap this yourself, you're going to tie it too loose or snag a thread. Sit down."

​It wasn't a suggestion. It was the low, steady rumble of an Alpha who was tired of seeing his pack-mate—however temporary—suffer in silence. You looked at him, feeling the remnants of last night's shame mingling with the very real, very sharp pain in your side, and your resolve simply crumbled. You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs trembling.

​Lando knelt between your knees, his massive frame dwarfing you. He reached for the clean bandage, his fingers surprisingly nimble for a man of his size. "Oscar's going to have my head if he finds out I let you rip his handiwork apart," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned in to inspect the angry, red skin.

Lando’s fingers were large, but they moved with a gentle precision that betrayed his rugged appearance. As he took the roll of linen from your shaking hand, his knuckles brushed against your hip—a brief, accidental contact that sent a jolt of static electricity through your nerves.

​He leaned in closer, his brow furrowed as he studied the angry, red flare of the skin. Up close, you could see the golden flecks in his amber eyes and the way his pupils dilated, focusing entirely on the task at hand. The heat radiating from his bare chest was like a physical wall, chasing away the morning chill and making the air feel thick and sweet.

​"You have to be more careful," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to resonate in your very bones. "This skin is like silk, starlight. It doesn't take much to tear it."

​You could feel the tips of your ears—long and sensitive—flushing a vivid crimson. You were sitting there in nothing but thin silk and lace, your heart drumming against your ribs, yet Lando seemed completely unfazed. To a werewolf, perhaps, clothing was a secondary concern to the health of the "pack." He didn't look at you with the hungry, predatory eyes of the hunters; he looked at you with the focused intensity of a healer, or perhaps a guardian.

​"I... I just needed air," you whispered, your voice small and breathless.

​Lando let out a huff of air—a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. "Air is one thing. Climbing oaks like a squirrel is another."

​He reached for the small vial of elven antiseptic you had left on the bed. "This is going to sting," he warned, his gaze flicking up to yours for a split second. "Squeeze my shoulder if you need to. I can take it."

​He didn't wait for a response. He dipped a fresh cotton swab into the liquid and pressed it firmly against the most irritated part of the stitch line.

​The pain was a white-hot needle, sharp and sudden. You let out a choked gasp, your body jerking instinctively, and your hand flew out to steady yourself. Your fingers dug into the hard, scarred muscle of Lando’s shoulder. He didn't even flinch; he stayed perfectly still, an unshakable anchor as the antiseptic bubbled and hissed against your skin.

​"Breathe," he commanded softly, his other hand coming up to rest lightly on the small of your back to keep you steady. "Just breathe through it. I've got you."

​As the initial sting began to dull into a throb, you realized how close you were. His face was inches from your stomach, his scent filling your senses—mountain air, old leather, and that intoxicating, musky warmth. You looked down at his head, at the thick, unruly curls that Oscar had been stroking the night before, and for a moment, the shame of what you’d done in the dark felt less like a secret and more like a shared, heavy truth.

​Lando began to wind the bandage, his movements fluid and sure. He had to reach around your waist, his arms practically encircling you, drawing you momentarily into his heat.

​"There," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he tucked the end of the fabric in, his fingers lingering for a second too long against your ribs.

"Not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to keep you from falling apart while you try to be a shadow."

He looked up at you then, his amber eyes searching yours, and for the first time, a flicker of something other than concern crossed his face—a brief, flickering awareness of the half-naked elf sitting between his knees.

​"Next time you want to go for a climb," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before, "tell me. I’ll carry you up myself."

"Thank you," you whispered, the words feeling small in the wake of his intense presence. You pulled your arms tighter across your chest, your fingers digging into the opposite shoulders as if you could physically pull a veil of modesty back over yourself.

​Lando stood up from his kneeling position with a fluid, effortless power that made the small room feel even more cramped. He looked down at you, and while his gaze lingered for a heartbeat on the way your long hair spilled over your shoulders, there was no leering, no shift in his scent to indicate anything other than a strange, primal protectiveness. To him, the body was just a body—something to be mended, moved, or defended.

​"You don't have any clean clothes I could borrow?" you asked, your voice flickering with a touch of desperation. Your own travel-worn tunics were either caked in forest dirt or stained with the old blood of your escape.

​"Of course," Lando said, a grin finally breaking through his serious facade, flashing those slightly-too-sharp teeth. "I'm sure there are some clothes you can use laying around. Might be a bit big on you, but they'll be clean."

​He turned and headed toward the door, his movements relaxed and completely unfazed by the fact that he’d just spent ten minutes intimately tending to a half-naked High Elf.

​"Stay put," he called over his shoulder as he stepped into the hallway. "I’ll see what Oscar’s got in the 'forgotten' trunks. He’s got stuff from three different centuries in there; surely something won't make you look like you're wearing a tent."

​As the door clicked shut behind him, the silence of the room rushed back in, but the air remained thick with his heat. You let out a long, shuddering breath, finally slumping back against the pillows. Your side felt secure, the throb muffled by the expert bandaging, but your mind was a chaotic mess.

​You looked at the door, then at the scattered medical supplies. Between the vampire who read letters from the capital and the werewolf who didn't blink at nudity but would kill for your safety, you were becoming less of a captive and more of a part of this strange, dangerous household.

​A few minutes later, the door creaked open again. Lando returned, not with one of his own oversized flannel shirts, but with a bundle of soft, dark fabric that smelled of cedar and dried lavender.

​"Here," he said, tossing the bundle onto the foot of the bed. "Oscar says these were left behind by a 'friend' a few decades ago. High-quality silk and wool. Should fit better than my rags."

​He paused at the door, his amber eyes catching yours. "And starlight? Breakfast is still on the table. Oscar’s waiting. Don't make him come get you—he’s less patient than I am."

The silence of the room felt heavy, vibrating with the ghost of Lando’s presence. You stood there for a moment, simply staring at the closed door, before your gaze dropped to the lace against your skin. A small, dark smear of dried blood marred the fabric—a souvenir from your midnight excursion.

​With a weary sigh, you unhooked the garment. The sudden rush of cold morning air made your skin prickle, and your nipples puckered into hard, sensitive peaks. You moved quickly, driven by the fear that Oscar’s legendary lack of patience might bring him knocking next.

​The clothes Lando had brought were exquisite, a far cry from his own rough-spun trousers. You pulled on a pair of soft, charcoal-wool leggings that hugged your hips comfortably, followed by a tunic of deep emerald silk. The fabric felt like a cool caress against your sensitized skin, but as you smoothed it down, you stopped in front of the small, tarnished mirror on the wall.

"Great," you whispered to your reflection.

​The silk was fine—perhaps too fine. Without the structure of your previous layers, the cold air and the lingering adrenaline kept your chest taut, the unmistakable outlines of your nipples pressing clearly against the emerald fabric. It was a blatant, visual reminder of the vulnerability you felt.

​You grabbed your hairbrush, tugging it through the silver-gold tangles of your hair with more force than necessary. You tried to sweep the thick tresses forward, hoping to shroud the elegant, pointed curves of your ears, but they stubbornely peeked through the strands. To a High Elf, ears were a barometer of emotion; right now, the tips were a tell-tale, burning crimson that no amount of hair could hide.

​

​Taking one final, bracing breath, you checked that your daggers were still hidden—now tucked into the waistband of the wool leggings—and stepped out into the hallway.

​The scent of the breakfast Lando had mentioned was even stronger now: the salt of the bacon, the richness of eggs, and the sharp, clean aroma of tea. You followed the sound of a page turning to find them in the kitchen.

​Oscar was still at the table, the yellowed letter set aside. He looked up as you entered, his dark eyes sweeping over you with a slow, appreciative scrutiny that made your skin tingle.

​"Much better," Oscar remarked, his voice as smooth as the silk you were wearing. He didn't miss the way you were trying to hide your ears, nor did his gaze linger—though it certainly noticed—the way the cold room was affecting the fit of your tunic. "The emerald suits you. It’s a vast improvement over the rags of a prisoner."

​Lando was at the counter, leaning back with a mug in his hand. He gave you a wink, his amber eyes warm. "See? Told you we'd find something. Sit down, starlight. Eat before Oscar decides your portion is not enough.'"

The bacon was crisp, salty, and thick-cut, dripping with a richness that felt like a sensory overload after days of travel rations and iron-tasting water. When you took the first bite of the eggs—perfectly seasoned and still hot—you had to physically bite your tongue to keep from letting out a soft, appreciative moan. The flavors were so vibrant they almost felt like a physical weight settling in your stomach, grounding you back into your body.

​The silence that followed wasn't the jagged, tense quiet of the morning, but something heavier and more domestic. Lando leaned against the counter, watching you eat with a sort of satisfied, pack-leader pride, while Oscar sat opposite you, his movements as fluid and silent as the shadows in the corners of the room.

​You found your gaze drifting toward Oscar's hands. They were beautiful in a terrifying way—long-fingered, pale as marble, and deceptively still. He raised his ceramic cup to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip. When he pulled it away, your heart skipped a beat. A thin, glistening smear of vivid crimson coated his lower lip, and the tips of his elongated fangs were stained a deep, dark red.

​The air in the room suddenly felt thin. You hesitated, your fork hovering over your plate, the copper tang in the air suddenly overpowering the scent of the breakfast.

​"What... what are you drinking?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

​Oscar didn't answer immediately. He looked down into the depths of the cup, swirling the liquid around with a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. The sloshing sound was heavy, viscous. He looked back at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, though a faint, cold amusement danced in their depths.

​"What do you think it is, Starlight?" he asked, his voice a low, melodic purr.

​"Blood," you responded, the word feeling thick and heavy, catching in the back of your throat like a burr.

​He made a soft, noncommittal hmm sound, his gaze never wavering from yours. It felt as though he were peeling back the layers of your skin, reading the frantic skip of your pulse and the lingering heat of your embarrassment from the morning.

​"And from what?" he prompted, his voice dropping an octave. He held your gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to look away, the predatory magnetism of his kind radiating across the table like a physical force.

​The memory of the letter he’d been reading—the talk of the capital and the "Private Collector"—flashed through your mind. You thought of the hunters, of the brutality of the world outside these wooden walls, and the raw, carnal power you had heard echoing from his room last night.

​"Human?" you managed to say, the word coming out as a shaky breath.

​Oscar’s lips curled into a slow, enigmatic smile, revealing the full, lethal length of his teeth. Beside him, Lando let out a short, barking laugh that broke the spell of the moment.

​"Human?" Lando echoed, shaking his head as he set his mug down. "If he were drinking human, he wouldn't be sitting here playing 'guess the vintage' with you, starlight. He’d be a lot more... temperamental."

​Oscar tilted the cup toward you, showing you the dark, opaque liquid. "Human blood is thin, frantic, and tastes of adrenaline and bad choices," he said, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing a mediocre wine. "It is a necessity of the hunt, perhaps, but not a preference for a quiet morning in the woods."

He took another sip, his throat working as he swallowed. "This is stag. Deep, earthy, and enriched by the forest's magic. Lando brought it in fresh before dawn. The heart of the woods is far more sustaining than the heart of a city dweller."

​He leaned forward slightly, the movement graceful and predatory. "But tell me, little elf... did the thought of it being human frighten you? Or did it simply make you realize how far you are from the golden halls of your people?"

​As he spoke, your eyes inadvertently flicked to his neck, where a faint, fading bruise—the twin to the ones you'd seen on Lando—was visible just above his collar. The realization hit you again: these were not just monsters, and they were not just protectors. They were a closed circle, and you were a witness to a world that was as violent in its love as it was in its hunger.

​"I... I didn't know," you stammered, looking back down at your plate, your ears burning once more.

​"Now you do," Oscar said, his voice softening into something almost gentle, though the edge of the predator remained. "We are what we are. We do not hide our nature here. I suggest you get used to the sight of red, Starlight. It is the color of survival."

​Lando walked over, ruffling your hair with a heavy hand as he passed to clear a plate. "Eat your eggs. Don't let him get in your head—he’s just showing off because he knows you're a captive audience."

​"Have you tasted Lando’s blood before?"

The question hung in the air like a physical spark, sizzling against the heavy silence of the kitchen. You felt the immediate, sharp pang of regret the moment the words left your lips; it was a query born of the raw, unfiltered curiosity that only comes from being stripped of your societal armor.

​Lando didn't flinch. In fact, he seemed to lean further into the counter, a low, rumbling hum vibrating in his chest that sounded suspiciously like a purr. But it was Oscar who dominated the space. He set his cup down on the wooden table with a deliberate, echoing clack.

​"What do you think?" Oscar asked, his smirk broadening until the sharp, ivory points of his fangs were fully displayed. They were still stained with the deep, ruby essence of the stag, making the smile look both lethal and intoxicating.

​You looked from Oscar’s pale, elegant features to Lando’s rugged, scarred throat, where the pulse of the wolf beat strong and steady. The image of them from the night before flashed through your mind—the thudding, the heat, the sheer animal desperation of their union. The answer was written in the way they occupied the room together, like two halves of a singular, violent storm.

​"Yes," you whispered, the syllable catching in your throat.

​Oscar didn't look away. He took another long, slow sip from his cup, his throat working with a rhythmic, muscular grace. He seemed to be savoring the taste of your discomfort as much as the stag’s blood.

​"Drinking blood from someone makes you able to taste their feelings," Oscar said, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt like a caress against your skin. "It is not merely sustenance; it is an intimacy that transcends the physical. You taste the history of their scars, the heat of their anger, the depth of their loyalty."

​He paused, his dark eyes shimmering with a predatory intelligence that made your breath hitch.

​"And during certain circumstances," he continued, his gaze flicking briefly to Lando before locking back onto yours, "some feelings taste... wonderful. Lust has a sharp, metallic bite, like lightning on the tongue. Adrenaline is sweet and frantic. And surrender? Surrender tastes like the deepest, oldest wine in the world."

​The implication was a physical weight in the room. You realized with a start that he wasn't just talking about a casual feeding. He was talking about the very sounds you had heard through the wall—the moment the wolf and the vampire became one entity of hunger and release.

​Your breath hitched, a tiny, fractured sound that seemed loud in the quiet kitchen. You dropped your gaze instantly, staring at the remnants of your breakfast as if the patterns in the eggs held the secrets of the universe. The heat in your face was no longer just a flush; it was a scorching fever that made the emerald silk of your tunic feel like it was smoldering against your skin.

​"Careful, Oscar," Lando’s voice broke in, though there was no real bite in it. It was thick with a lazy, post-coital amusement. "You’re going to make our little star skip a beat. She’s not used to us 'monsters' being so... descriptive."

​"She asked," Oscar replied simply, his tone shifting back to that of a disinterested scholar, though the smirk remained etched in the corners of his mouth.

​You picked at a piece of bacon, your hands trembling so much the fork clattered against the ceramic. You were a High Elf, a creature of light and ancient song, but in this kitchen, surrounded by the scent of stag’s blood and the lingering musk of a werewolf’s passion, you felt your own primal instincts stirring. The shame you had felt earlier was being slowly eclipsed by a terrifying, magnetic pull toward the very darkness these two represented.

​You weren't just their guest or their patient. You were the third point in a very dangerous triangle.

You managed to clear your plate, though your appetite had been replaced by a strange, hollow thrumming in your chest. The silence that followed Oscar's revelation wasn't heavy anymore—it was charged, like the air right before a summer storm.

​"Is there... a river nearby?" you asked, your voice finally regaining some stability. "I need to wash my old clothes. The travel grit and..." You trailed off, not wanting to mention the bloodstains.

​Lando set his mug down on the counter with a purposeful thud. "There’s a spring-fed creek just a few minutes’ walk through the pines. Water’s cold enough to wake the dead, but it’s clear as glass." He pushed off from the counter, his bare chest catching the morning light as he moved toward a wicker basket in the corner. "I've got a pile of linens that need a scrubbing too. I’ll come with you, carry the heavy stuff."

​Oscar, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression, finally spoke. "If you must go, do not be foolish, Starlight."

He stood up, his height making the kitchen feel suddenly much smaller. He walked toward you, stopping just outside your personal space. His scent wrapped around you.

​"The bandages Lando applied are secure, but they are not a seal," Oscar warned, his dark eyes dropping to your waist where the emerald silk hid the wound. "If you submerge that side, or if the water seeps through the linen, the stitches will soften. Infection in these woods is a slow, rotting death. Keep the wound dry, or I will have to cauterize the flesh next time. And I assure you, you will not enjoy that 'feeling' nearly as much as I enjoy the stag’s blood."

​The threat was delivered with a clinical coldness that made a shiver run down your spine, but there was an undercurrent of genuine protectiveness beneath it.

​"I’ll watch her, Oscar," Lando said, swinging the laundry basket onto his hip with effortless strength. He grabbed your bundle of dirty clothes before you could reach for them.

"She won't get a drop on those stitches, I promise."

​"See that you don't," Oscar murmured, turning back to the table and picking up the yellowed letter once more, dismissing you both with the practiced air of a lord.

​Following Lando out the back door felt like an escape. The morning air was crisp, and the sun was high enough now to draw the scent of pine resin out from the trees. Lando led the way, his stride easy and confident. As you walked behind him, you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles moved under the scarred skin of his back—the sheer, raw power of the man who had cried out in the dark just hours ago.

​"Don't mind him," Lando said over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a more private tone as the cabin vanished behind the trees. "He’s just cranky when he hasn't had enough sleep. And we... well, we didn't get much sleep last night."

​He cast a playful, knowing glance back at you, his amber eyes dancing with mischief. You looked away quickly, your ears flaring red again, but the sound of the rushing water ahead saved you from having to respond.

​The creek was beautiful—a silver ribbon cutting through the grey stones and mossy banks. The sound of it was a constant, soothing rush that seemed to wash away the stifling atmosphere of the cabin.

​"Here we are," Lando said, dropping the basket near a flat, sun-warmed rock. He turned to you, his expression softening. "You take the spot by the rock. It's shallower there. Just... remember what the grump said. Keep your side out of the water."

​He began to pull a heavy, cream-colored sheet from the basket—one that looked suspiciously like it had come from the master bed—and stepped into the water, his calves disappearing into the icy current without him so much as flinching.

The transition from the cabin’s warmth to the biting edge of the mountain stream was a shock to the system. You hesitated for a moment, looking over at Lando, who was already knee-deep in the current, rhythmically snapping a heavy sheet against the surface of the water. He seemed oblivious to the cold, his wolf-blood keeping his skin radiating a faint, visible steam in the crisp air.

​You moved behind a cluster of large, lichen-covered boulders that offered a semblance of privacy. With trembling fingers, you unbuttoned the emerald silk tunic Oscar had lent you. As the fabric slid down your arms, the mountain air hit your bare skin like a physical weight. Your breath hitched, and your nipples instantly constricted, hardening into tight pebbles against the chill.

​You kept your wool leggings on, hiking them up slightly to avoid the splash, and knelt on a flat, mossy stone at the water's edge.

​The moment you plunged your hands—and your travel-worn shift—into the creek, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. "Hah!"

​The water was liquid ice, sourced from the snow-caps and filtered through the deep earth. It felt as though hundreds of tiny needles were pricking your skin.

​"Cold, isn't it?" Lando’s voice rumbled from the other side of the rocks. He didn't look over, respecting the boundary you'd set, but you could hear the smirk in his tone. "It'll settle your blood, Starlight. Good for the spirit, or so Oscar says when he’s trying to be a philosopher instead of a prick."

​You didn't answer, focused on the task. You leaned over the water, careful to keep your bandaged waist tilted away from the spray. You began to scrub the fabric against a smooth stone, the physical exertion sending small ripples of heat through your shoulders that clashed with the freezing water.

​The sound of the rushing stream was hypnotic, but your mind remained sharp, hyper-aware of the man just a few feet away. Every time Lando moved, you heard the splash of his boots and the heavy, wet thwack of the linens.

​Suddenly, your hand slipped on a slick patch of moss. You lurched forward, your heart leaping into your throat as you struggled to maintain your balance. Your injured side twisted, and a sharp, white-hot flare of pain shot through the stitches.

​"Nn—!" You choked back the cry, freezing in a precarious crouch, one hand braced against a freezing rock to keep yourself from tumbling chest-first into the current.

​The splashing on the other side of the rocks stopped instantly.

​"Starlight?" Lando’s voice was no longer playful. It was low, alert, and vibrating with that protective Alpha frequency. You heard the heavy tread of his boots moving through the water, coming toward your hiding spot. "You still dry over there?"

"I'm fine, just slipped," you called out, your voice a little thinner than you intended. You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to take a slow, measured breath. You visualized the pain as a flickering flame and slowly lowered the wick, willing the sharp throbbing in your side to dull into a manageable ache.

​"Are you sure?" Lando asked. His shadow fell over the mossy edge of the boulder, a dark, looming silhouette against the sparkling water. He had stopped just behind your hiding spot, close enough that you could hear the rhythmic drip-drip of water falling from his soaked linens. You could almost feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the glacial spray of the creek.

​"Yeah, I'm sure. The stones are just slippery, that's all," you replied, your fingers numbly returning to the task of scrubbing.

​A low, vibrating hum of concern rumbled in his chest, but he didn't push further. "Alright. Just don't go trying to swim in your underclothes. Oscar would have my pelt if you caught a lung-fever." You heard his heavy footsteps retreat back into the main channel of the stream, followed by the renewed rhythm of rhythmic splashing.

​Left to the solitude of your rocky alcove, you leaned back slightly, trying to ignore the way the cold air made your bare skin tingle. You were a High Elf; your senses were not merely tools, they were a symphony. With the cabin’s stifling atmosphere behind you, your ears began to twitch and rotate, catching the intricate layers of the forest’s morning song.

​You heard the dry skritch-skritch of a squirrel’s claws on cedar bark fifty yards away. You heard the low-frequency thrum of a bumblebee waking in a patch of late-blooming wildflowers and the delicate, crystalline tinkling of ice melting off the high-altitude needles. It was a beautiful, chaotic web of life, and for a moment, you felt your heart rate sync with the pulse of the woods.

​Then, the symphony snapped.

​A sound tore through the ambient noise—a sharp, violent crack of a heavy branch being crushed under immense weight. This wasn't the light, nimble snap of a deer or the clumsy stumble of a bear. It was deliberate, heavy, and close.

Your ears pinned back against your skull instantly. The bird song in the immediate vicinity died as if a curtain had been dropped. The sudden silence was deafening.

​You froze, your wet shift clutched in your freezing hands, the water dripping from your fingers forgotten. You didn't move, didn't breathe. Every instinct you possessed screamed that something was watching from the dense treeline just beyond the bank.

​"Lando," you whispered, the name barely a breath of air, your eyes fixed on the dark, unmoving shadows of the pines where the sound had originated.

"I heard it," Lando’s voice was a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to travel through the very stones you leaned against.

​He didn't move toward you. Instead, he stood perfectly still in the center of the creek, the water rushing around his thighs. His head was tilted, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the wind. "Wait," he commanded, his voice barely audible over the rush of the water. "See if it's just a stray."

​The primal fear of being hunted made you forget the cold and your lack of clothing. You pressed yourself against the rough, sun-warmed surface of the boulder, the stone scraping against your skin as you tried to make yourself as small as possible. Your heart was a hammer in your chest, and your wet hair clung to your back like a cold shroud.

​Snap.

​The sound was closer, followed by the heavy, rhythmic scritch-scritch of something powerful digging into the frozen loam. Your ears swiveled toward the sound, and for a terrifying second, you expected to see the glint of a hunter’s steel.

​Then, the shadows between the ancient pines shifted. A massive rack of antlers, dark and jagged as old oak branches, crested the rise of the bank. A stag—huge, battle-scarred, and majestic—stepped into a patch of sunlight. It paused, its obsidian eyes scanning the creek, oblivious to the elf hiding behind the rock.

​You let out a jagged breath of relief, your shoulders slumping. "Just a stag," you whispered.

​But the silence that followed wasn't peaceful.

​You looked toward Lando and felt the air in the clearing change. The man you had eaten breakfast with was gone. His pupils had blown wide, swallowing the amber of his irises until his eyes were twin pools of dark gold. His muscles were coiled like iron springs, and a thin, predatory steam rose from his shoulders as his body temperature spiked.

​Lando let out a rumble—not a warning this time, but a low, hungry growl that vibrated in his throat. His fingers, still holding the wet laundry, curled into claws, the fabric bunching and tearing under the pressure.

​He wasn't looking at the stag as a creature of beauty. He was looking at it as prey. The blood Oscar had been drinking wasn't just a morning beverage; it was the result of this—the raw, lethal hunger of the beast.

​The stag sensed it too. Its ears flicked, its head snapping toward Lando. The animal froze, its nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of a predator far more dangerous than any wolf.

​"Lando?" you whispered, your voice trembling. The shift in him was terrifying. The domesticity of the cabin had vanished, replaced by a wild, magnetic violence that made your own elven blood sing with a frantic, ancient fear.

​He didn't answer. He didn't even seem to hear you. He was a statue of bronze and scar tissue, his gaze locked on the stag’s throat. You realized then that if he shifted now, if the Beast took over, your privacy would be the last thing on his mind.

The transformation was a violent, blurring symphony of snapping bone and tearing fabric. One moment Lando was a man, and the next, a massive shadow of fur and muscle exploded from the water. He didn't even look at you as he hit the bank in a spray of mud and gravel, a low, guttural howl tearing from his throat. The stag turned and bolted, but the wolf was a streak of lethal gray, vanishing into the treeline in a heartbeat.

​The silence that followed was terrifying.

​Alone in the clearing, with the echo of the chase still ringing in your ears, your ancient elven instincts took the reins. Your brain didn't process the cold, or the fact that you were bare-chested and dripping wet; it only processed the need for height.

​You scrambled from behind the boulder, your feet slick on the moss. With a desperate, agile leap, you caught a low-hanging pine branch. The rough bark bit into your palms and the sensitive skin of your chest, but you ignored the sting. You hauled yourself up, moving with a frantic, frantic speed that sent a fresh spike of agony through your bandaged side.

​You didn't stop until you were twenty feet up, perched on a sturdy limb and shrouded by a thick curtain of needles.

​There, you huddled against the trunk, your breath coming in ragged, white plumes. You clutched your wet shift to your chest, shivering violently as the adrenaline began to ebb and the reality of the mountain chill returned. Your nipples were painfully taut, and your skin was mapped with goosebumps, but you remained deathly still.

​The forest was different now. The peaceful morning had been shattered by the presence of the Beast. Somewhere deep in those shadows, a life was being ended in a spray of that red Oscar loved so much.

​You looked down at your hands, which were stained with green moss and a little bit of your own fresh blood where the climb had pulled at your wound. You were miles from the "civilization" that wanted to cage you, but as you sat shivering in a tree while a werewolf hunted nearby, you realized that safety was a relative term.

​You stared toward the direction Lando had disappeared, your ears swiveling to catch any sound of his return. Would he come back as the man who gently bandaged your waist, or would the creature that just pounced be the one to find you shivering in the branches?

The rough bark of the pine was cold and unforgiving against your bare breasts, but the friction provided a grounding sensation against the frantic thrumming of your heart. You pressed yourself as flat as possible against the trunk, your skin molding to the wood, becoming a literal part of the tree’s shadow.

​Your ears were a blur of motion, twitching and rotating. You filtered out the sound of the rushing creek, focusing instead on the deeper, darker reaches of the forest.

​Crunch. A distant sound—the snapping of a spine.

​Silence.

​Then, the sound of heavy, rhythmic panting. It wasn't the frantic, panicked breath of the stag; it was the slow, wet, and satisfied huff of a predator that had completed its work. The air seemed to grow heavier, the very atmosphere of the woods bowing to the presence of the wolf.

​You watched the treeline, your knuckles white as you gripped the branch. A few minutes passed, agonizingly slow, before the bushes near the bank parted.

​Lando—or rather, the Beast—stepped back into the clearing. He was massive, his fur matted with dark, steaming blood around his muzzle and chest. He looked like a creature out of a nightmare, a primeval force of nature that had no place in a quiet morning wash. He stopped at the edge of the creek, his head low, his amber eyes scanning the area for you.

​He didn't see you immediately, but his nose began to work, scenting the air. He let out a low, vibrating huff, and you saw his muscles ripple as the transformation began to reverse. It was a sickeningly fluid process of fur receding and bones snapping back into human shapes.

​Within moments, he was kneeling on the bank, naked and covered in the stag's lifeblood, gasping for air as his human consciousness returned. He looked toward the boulders where you had been washing.

"Starlight?" he croaked, his voice raw and strained. He looked around the empty clearing, his brow furrowing with a sudden, sharp spike of alarm. "Where are you? Starlight!"

​He stood up, ignoring his own nakedness and the blood dripping from his chin, his gaze darting frantically toward the woods. The protective werewolf was back, and he was realizing that he had left his "pack-mate" vulnerable in the middle of a hunt.

The primal, ancient caution of your lineage took firm root in your mind, overriding any logic that told you Lando was a protector. In the culture of the High Elves, to be seen in such a state—vulnerable, half-clothed, and bleeding—was a profound violation of the dignity your race guarded so fiercely. Your instinct was not to seek help, but to vanish into the timber and the sap. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your cheek against the cold, sappy bark of the pine, willing your heartbeat to synchronize with the swaying of the branches.

​Below, the man-beast was unraveling. Lando’s panic was a physical thing, radiating off him in waves of heat that you could almost feel from your perch. Because you were so high up and the wind was whipping through the canopy, your scent was being dispersed into the upper atmosphere, leaving him blind in the way that frustrated him most.

​"Starlight! This isn't funny!" he roared, his voice cracking. He spun in a circle, his bare feet churning the mud of the bank. The blood of the stag was already beginning to dry on his skin, turning a dark, crusty rust color. When he looked at the empty space behind the boulder where your clothes still lay, his expression shifted from confusion to a raw, jagged terror. To him, an empty clearing meant you had been taken—snatched by the very hunters he had promised to keep at bay.

​He didn't hesitate. He threw his head back, his thick neck cords straining, and let out a rhythmic, haunting howl that wasn't a hunt-call, but a summons. Then, his voice shifted into a desperate, human shout that echoed off the granite faces of the surrounding mountains.

​"OSCAR!"

​The name tore through the forest, silencing the birds once again. For a long, breathless minute, there was nothing but the rushing of the creek. Then, the air near the treeline seemed to shimmer and fold.

​Oscar didn't run into the clearing; he simply was there, manifesting from the shadows with a terrifying, silent speed. He was still dressed in his pristine linens, though his eyes were preternaturally dark, his aristocratic features set in a mask of cold, lethal focus. He took in the scene in a single glance: the blood-stained Lando, the discarded laundry, and the absence of the girl.

​"Where is she?" Oscar’s voice was a whip-crack, devoid of its usual melodic silk.

​"I don't know!" Lando choked out, gesturing wildly toward the woods. "The stag... I lost it, Oscar. I turned for a second and she’s gone. I can't find her scent. It’s like she evaporated."

​Oscar’s head tilted, his nostrils flaring slightly as he sampled the air with a vampire's precision. He didn't look panicked; he looked calculating. His gaze began to travel, not along the ground, but upward, tracing the lines of the ancient trees.

​"She has not evaporated, you fool," Oscar murmured, though his hand drifted toward the silver hilt of the blade at his hip. "She is an Elf. When they are frightened, they do not run along the earth like cattle. They return to the sky."

​He began to walk toward the cluster of trees where you were hidden, his footsteps making absolutely no sound on the dried needles. You held your breath, your chest heaving against the bark, knowing that while you might be hidden from the wolf's nose, the vampire's eyes were a far more dangerous predator.

The sight from your perch was both terrifying and mesmerizing. You squeezed your eyes shut for a heartbeat, feeling the rough bark scrape against the sensitive skin of your chest, but you couldn't resist peeking through the needles.

​Below, the contrast between the two men was jarring. Lando was a frantic, blood-stained mess of raw emotion, his chest heaving as he stared up at the canopy. Oscar, however, remained a pillar of chilling composure.

​"What are you talking about?" Lando barked, his voice thick with a mix of growl and desperation. "She’s hurt, Oscar! She shouldn't be climbing!"

​"calm down, Lando," Oscar murmured, his voice returning to that smooth, terrifying silk. He stepped closer to the naked werewolf, his pale hand reaching out to tilt Lando’s chin up. "She is a creature of the high boughs. Fear is an old instinct for her kind, older than your hunger."

​Oscar’s dark eyes flicked toward your tree, and for a second, you were certain he was looking directly into your soul. Then, he leaned in. With a slow, deliberate grace, he swiped his tongue across Lando’s cheek, licking away a smear of the stag’s cooling blood. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the copper tang mixed with the salt of Lando’s skin.

​"The blood is delicious, is it not?" Oscar whispered, loud enough for his voice to carry up to your ears. "But to a fledgling starlight, I imagine we look like the very monsters her mother warned her about."

​Lando froze, the mention of your fear finally piercing through his panic. He looked down at his blood-soaked hands and then back at the trees, his shoulders sagging. "I didn't mean to scare her. The wolf... the wolf just took over."

​Oscar let go of Lando’s chin and began to circle the base of your tree. He didn't look up, but he began to speak in a low, conversational tone, as if he were merely talking to the air.

​"Starlight," Oscar called out. "Lando is a beast of little impulse control, but the stag is dead and the hunger is sated. You are safe. But if you stay up there much longer, the dampness in your bandages will do more damage than any hunter’s blade."

​"Come down. Or must I come up there and retrieve you myself? I assure you, my climbing is far less graceful than yours, and I am much less concerned with your modesty than the wolf is."

Beside him, Lando grabbed a discarded sheet to wrap around his waist, his face flushing with a mix of shame and concern. "Please," Lando added, his voice a soft, pained rumble. "I'm sorry, starlight. Come down."

The descent felt like moving through thick honey; every fiber of your elven nature screamed to stay in the safety of the heights, to remain a shadow among the needles. But the logic of the wound in your side and the raw, pained sincerity in Lando’s voice acted as a counter-weight.

​You moved with a stiff, cautious grace, your toes gripping the rough bark as you lowered yourself from branch to branch. When you reached the final limb, you paused, looking down at the two predators waiting below. With a soft, muffled thud, you landed on the bed of pine needles, your legs wobbling slightly from the exertion and the cold.

​You instantly curled your arms across your chest, your fingers digging into your skin. Your silver-gold hair hung in damp, tangled curtains around your shivering shoulders. You felt small—utterly exposed—standing between the two of them.

​On one side, Lando was a vision of visceral carnage, the dark, drying blood of the stag mapping the muscles of his chest and arms, his amber eyes wide with a heartbreaking mix of relief and guilt. On the other, Oscar stood like a statue of marble and velvet, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your trembling form.

​The silence of the clearing was broken only by the rush of the creek and your own shallow, chattering breaths.

​Without a word, Oscar stepped forward. He moved with a quiet, regal authority that brooked no argument. He reached behind him, unfastening the heavy, fur-lined coat that draped over his shoulders. With a flick of his wrists, the fabric flared out—smelling of old libraries, winter air, and that faint, metallic hint of the stag’s blood—and settled over your shoulders.

​The weight of it was immense, the interior lined with silk that felt like a warm embrace against your frozen skin.

​"You are a very troublesome light, little elf," Oscar murmured, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second near your collarbone as he pulled the lapels shut for you. His touch was deathly cold, yet it felt grounding.

​Lando took a step toward you, his hands twitching as if he wanted to reach out, but he caught sight of the blood still under his fingernails and recoiled, looking down at the ground. "I... I'm sorry, starlight," he rumbled, his voice thick and wretched. "I shouldn't have left you. I didn't think."

​Oscar looked over his shoulder at the werewolf, a sharp, clinical edge returning to his gaze. "No, you didn't. You never do when the moon-blood is high." He turned back to you, his eyes searching yours. "Can you walk, or has the cold turned your blood to slush?"

"I can walk," you whispered, though the words were interrupted by a violent shiver that rattled your teeth. You clutched the lapels of Oscar’s heavy coat, pulling the fur-lined collar high against your neck. The warmth of the garment was already beginning to seep into your skin, though your core felt like a block of ice.

​Oscar hummed, a low, melodic sound of acknowledgement. He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Lando with a look that was part command and part indulgent handler.

​"You take the laundry home," Oscar said, his tone cool and decisive. "And please fetch that delicious stag you caught. It would be such a shame not to make use of it. We shall need the meat for the winter, and I believe our guest needs the iron."

​Lando’s ears perked up at the direct order. Eager to atone for the panic he’d caused and happy to be given a purpose, he didn't wait for a second prompt. With a sudden, fluid snap of muscle and bone, he shifted back into the massive, gray-furred wolf. He gave a sharp, huffing bark—a sound of agreement—and grabbed the wicker laundry basket in his powerful jaws.

​With a final, lingering look of apology in his amber eyes toward you, he turned and bounded back into the deep shadows of the forest to retrieve his kill.

​The clearing was suddenly much quieter with the absence of the werewolf's frantic energy. It was just you and the vampire now, the sound of the creek filling the silence. Oscar turned back to you, his pale face unreadable in the dappled sunlight.

​"Come," he said, extending a hand toward you, though he didn't touch you. "The walk back is uphill, and I wish to inspect those stitches before the damp sets in. You have a habit of making my morning far more interesting than I generally prefer."

​He began to walk at a slow, measured pace, adjusted specifically for your shorter, trembling stride. As you followed him, the heavy hem of his coat brushed against your bare calves, and you realized that despite his cold exterior and his terrifying nature, he was the only thing keeping you upright in the freezing mountain air.

The transition from the biting mountain air to the interior of the cabin was a blur of shivering limbs and heavy silk. Outside, the grisly sight of the stag hanging by its hind legs—the rhythmic drip-clack of blood hitting the wooden bucket—served as a stark reminder of the world you were now living in.

​Oscar didn't wait for you to find your footing. Sensing the way your knees were starting to lock from the cold, he swept you up into his arms. He was as solid and unyielding as marble, his strength effortless as he carried you through the back of the cabin toward a heavy, iron-bound door you hadn't noticed before.

​"The chill has reached your marrow," he murmured, his voice vibrating through the chest you were pressed against.

​He set you down inside a small, cedar-lined room that was already radiating a thick, humid heat. The scent of pine resin and hot stones was overwhelming, instantly stinging your cold nose. A stack of fresh, fluffy towels sat on a bench, and the steam swirled around the rafters in thick, white ribbons.

"Strip," Oscar commanded, his tone clinical but firm. "The wet wool of your leggings will only keep the cold trapped against your skin. Get your temperature up. Stay on the lower bench if the steam is too much for your lungs."

​He paused at the door, his dark eyes sweeping over your pale, trembling form one last time. "And keep that side away from the direct heat of the stones. I will be back to check the integrity of your stitches once you no longer look like a corpse. Do not make me come in here to find you’ve fainted."

​With a sharp click of the latch, he was gone, leaving you in the sweltering, golden dimness of the sauna.

​The heat hit you like a physical wave. You fumbled with the heavy coat, letting it slide to the floor, followed by the damp wool leggings. As you stepped out of the last of your clothes, your skin felt tight and tingly, reacting to the sudden, extreme shift in temperature. You climbed onto the cedar bench, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around yourself.

​Slowly, the violent tremors began to subside. The heat began to penetrate your muscles, softening the jagged ache in your side. You watched the steam rise from your own damp skin, the silence of the sauna only broken by the occasional hiss of water hitting the hot rocks.

​Through the wooden walls, you could hear the muffled sounds of the house—the heavy thud of Lando moving things around, and the occasional, low murmur of Oscar’s voice. You were safe, for now, encased in wood and heat, but the image of the stag hanging outside remained burned into your mind—a reminder that in this house, care and carnage lived in the very same rooms.

The cedar-scented air was thick enough to taste, heavy and humid against your skin. You leaned your head back against the warm wood, staring out through the small, frosted window that looked out toward the back of the property. The view was breathtaking—the rugged peaks of the mountains piercing the sky—but your gaze was quickly drawn downward to the clearing below.

​Lando was there. He stood near the hanging stag, his massive frame completely bare and silhouetted against the morning light. He looked like a statue carved from bronze and copper, though he was still slick with the dark, drying crimson of the hunt. The blood was smeared across his broad shoulders, his chest, and down his powerful thighs, steaming slightly in the cold air.

​He looked wild, unburdened by the shame he had felt earlier.

​Then, Oscar stepped into the frame. He was a stark, elegant contrast to Lando’s raw brutality, his movements fluid and precise. He walked right into Lando's space, closing the gap until they were chest to chest.

​"It would be such a shame to let it all go to waste," Oscar’s voice drifted up, muffled by the glass but unmistakable in its dark, melodic tone.

​You watched, your breath hitching and fogging the glass, as Oscar reached out. He placed a pale hand on Lando's neck, tilting the werewolf's head back. With a slow, languid motion, Oscar leaned in and began to lick the blood from Lando’s collarbone.

​Lando didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a low, vibrating growl—not of anger, but of a deep, primal satisfaction. He tilted his head further, exposing his throat to the vampire, his hands coming up to grip Oscar’s waist with a proprietary force.

​It was an intimate, visceral display of their bond—a cycle of blood, hunger, and a strange kind of love that ignored all the rules of the world you knew. You felt like a voyeur, a ghost watching a ritual of the earth, but you couldn't look away. The heat of the sauna seemed to intensify as you watched them, the steam curling around you like a living thing, while outside, the two predators began to clean the day's kill off one another's skin.

The heat in the sauna was no longer just from the stones; it felt like it was radiating from within your own chest. Your breath came in short, shallow hitches, leaving a persistent fog on the glass that you had to keep wiping away with a trembling hand. You knew you should turn back to the steam, should focus on your wound and your recovery, but the scene below was magnetic.

​Oscar moved with the practiced, slow grace of a connoisseur. He didn't rush. His tongue trailed a path from Lando’s collarbone up the corded muscle of his neck, his pale hands steadying the werewolf’s swaying frame. Every time Oscar’s lips met skin, Lando’s eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back in a silent, ecstatic surrender.

​Underneath the blood, you could see Lando’s skin beginning to flush a deep, healthy bronze from the friction and the vampire's cold touch. Lando’s hands were no longer restless; they were buried in the fabric of Oscar’s shirt, bunching the expensive linen into his fists as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth.

​It was a terrifyingly beautiful exchange. There was no hierarchy here—no master and pet—just a raw, mutual necessity. Oscar was taking the essence of the hunt, the lingering adrenaline of the wolf, and in return, Lando was being cleaned, grounded, and claimed.

Suddenly, Lando let out a sharp, guttural sound and pulled Oscar closer, burying his face in the vampire’s shoulder. Oscar didn't recoil; he simply wrapped his arms around the broad, muscular back of the wolf, his fingers splaying against the drying crimson on Lando’s spine. They stood there for a long moment, two monsters entwined under the shadow of a dead stag, perfectly still and utterly oblivious to the elven eyes watching them from the heights of the cabin.

​You felt a strange, hollow ache in your belly. For your entire life, you had been taught that these creatures were the antithesis of the light—that they were chaos and hunger personified. But looking at them now, you saw a peace that was more profound than anything you had witnessed in the gilded, silent halls of your own people.

​You finally pulled away from the window, sinking back onto the cedar bench. The steam swirled around you, heavy and hot. Your side throbbed with a dull, rhythmic heat, and as you closed your eyes, you could still see the flash of Oscar’s fangs and the golden fire in Lando’s gaze.

​You were in their world now. And the more you saw of it, the more you realized that the "civilization" you had fled was far colder than the hearts of the monsters in this cabin.

The cedar wood seemed to hum with the heat, a low-frequency vibration that eventually lulled your racing thoughts into a heavy, syrupy haze. The exhaustion was no longer just physical; it was a soul-deep weariness that came from being hunted, wounded, and then thrust into a world where the lines between protector and predator were blurred in blood.

​Your head lolled back against the wall, your damp hair fanning out over the warm wood. You were adrift in that liminal space between waking and sleep, where the hiss of the steam felt like a whisper and the throbbing in your side was just a distant drumbeat.

​The heavy latch of the sauna door clicked, followed by the soft, distinct creak of wood as it swung open.

​A draft of cooler air cut through the humidity, swirling around your ankles. You didn't jump. You didn't even open your eyes at first. The "High Elf" within you—the one who would have died of shame at being seen this way—was buried under layers of bone-deep fatigue.

​Oscar stepped inside. He had removed his blood-stained shirt, standing now in only his dark trousers, his own pale chest a landscape of marble and old, faint scars. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a cold anchor in the sweltering room.

​You finally forced your eyelids open, looking at him through the thick veil of steam. You were slumped on the bench, legs loosely curled, your body completely exposed to his clinical, dark-eyed gaze. Under normal circumstances, you would have scrambled for a towel, but now, you just watched him with a glazed, heavy-lidded stare.

​Oscar’s gaze traveled slowly over you. It wasn't the hungry, frantic look of the wolf, nor was it the leering stare of the hunters. It was the look of a collector observing a piece of fragile glass—appraising the damage, noting the flush of your skin, and tracing the curve of your collarbone where the cold was finally being driven out.

​"The heat has done its work," he murmured, his voice cutting through the humidity like a cool blade. "Your pulse is steadying."

​He stepped closer, kneeling on the floorboards beside the bench so he was at eye level with you. He didn't look away from your nakedness, but there was an unsettling lack of lust in his eyes—only a deep, ancient curiosity.

​"You look wrecked, Starlight," he said softly. He reached out, his long, cold fingers brushing a damp strand of hair away from your forehead. "The mind can only take so much before it simply... quits. Do not fight the sleep. It is the only thing that will knit your spirit back together."

​His hand moved down, hovering just inches away from the bandage at your waist. "I need to see the wound. Stay still."

“Shit,” you whisper, your pulse spiking hard and fast.

You stand there, frozen in the chilly air, your brain catching up to what you just saw. The street is deserted — of course it is. This isn’t exactly rush hour. There’s no one around. No witnesses. No help.

Without thinking, you yank your phone out of your pocket and dial. The ringing in your ear seems to go on forever.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asks briskly.

“A car crash,” you say, already moving toward the wreck. Your feet hit the pavement harder now, the soles of your boots slapping in quick bursts. “Corner of … uh, 116th and Riverside. It’s bad — the car’s totaled. I think someone’s still inside.”

“Are you with the driver now?”

“Not yet. I’m — I’m crossing the street.” You dodge between two parked cars and jog to the other side. The car sits under the broken streetlamp, its front end wrapped around the post like it lost a fight it never stood a chance of winning. The glossy surface is crumpled and shattered, shards of glass glittering on the asphalt like broken stars.

“Ma’am, do not approach the vehicle if it’s unsafe.”

You ignore that. “I think the guy’s still in there,” you mutter, holding the phone tight between your ear and shoulder. You grip the door handle and pull hard, but it’s jammed. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your weight into it until it finally groans open.

The first thing you notice is the smell — leather, gasoline, and the acrid tang of burned rubber. Your heart pounds in your throat. You glance at the man slumped in the driver’s seat, and the breath catches in your chest.

“Hello?” You ask, bending down, peering closer. “Can you hear me?”

He groans, shifting a little, but his eyes remain half-closed. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, carving a red path down the side of his face.

“Hey! Are you okay?” You try again, louder this time. No answer — just a sluggish movement of his head, like he's fighting to stay conscious.

“What's your name?” You keep your voice firm but gentle, the way you imagine an EMT might sound.

The man mumbles something, his voice thick and slurred. You lean closer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“What? I need your name.”

“Lando,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible, more breath than word.

You frown. The name sounds familiar, but that’s not important right now. “Okay, Lando. Do you know where you are?”

His eyelids flutter, and for a second, it looks like he might pass out entirely. Then he forces them open again, just barely.

“Crash,” he mutters. “Crashed the car.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. You glance around the street again, hoping for flashing lights in the distance. Nothing. Just you, him, and the wreckage.

“Can you tell me what hurts?” You ask, trying to keep him talking. Concussions are dangerous — keeping him conscious feels important.

Lando’s head lolls against the seat. “Feels like … everything.”

His voice is thick, heavy with exhaustion. He sounds like someone who’s been through the wringer, someone who desperately needs sleep but can’t afford to close their eyes.

“You hit your head pretty hard,” you say, scanning him for any other obvious injuries. Blood stains the collar of his jacket, but nothing looks life-threatening. Yet.

“Race car driver,” Lando slurs suddenly, like the thought just stumbled out of his brain without permission.

You blink. “What?”

“Race … car driver,” he repeats, slower this time. His accent drags on the vowels, a little British, a little something else.

You raise an eyebrow, convinced now that he’s concussed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

He gives a small, incoherent laugh, like your joke made perfect sense in his scrambled mind.

“You're not supposed to be funny,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You glance back at the wreck, taking in the sleek lines and bright logo on the hood — McLaren. Expensive. Stupidly expensive. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Jesus, you’re one of those guys,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. Rich kid, fast car, bad decisions. You’ve seen this movie before, and it usually ends with someone like him getting bailed out by daddy’s lawyer.

Lando stirs again, his head rolling toward you. “Not … like that,” he mumbles. “I am a race car driver.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. He’s barely coherent — humoring him feels kinder than arguing. “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are.”

He squints at you, his expression dazed but oddly sincere, like he’s genuinely offended you don’t believe him. “I am,” he insists, as if that settles the matter.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s absurd — this whole situation is absurd. You crouch lower, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Just stay awake, okay? Ambulance is on the way.”

Lando hums something that might be agreement, though it sounds more like a sigh. His eyes droop again, dangerously close to shutting.

“Hey.” You give his arm a small shake. “No sleeping. Talk to me.”

“‘Bout what?” He murmurs, his head lolling to the side.

“Anything. Tell me …“ You scramble for something. “What’s your favorite color?”

He blinks slowly, like it’s the most confusing question anyone’s ever asked him. “Blue. No, wait … orange.”

You snort. “Make up your mind, race car driver.”

Lando makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Can’t.”

“That concussion is doing wonders for your decision-making skills,” you say dryly, glancing toward the street again. Still no lights. You tap your foot anxiously.

Lando shifts in his seat, his hand twitching like he’s trying to move but can’t quite manage it. “You’re … bossy,” he mumbles, his accent thicker now.

“Yeah, well, you crashed your car, so you don’t get to complain.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he murmurs, “… Thanks for stopping.”

Something about the way he says it catches you off guard — soft, almost vulnerable. You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze his arm gently.

“Don’t mention it, Lando.”

And then, finally, in the distance — a flash of red and blue lights.

***

The wail of sirens grows louder, slicing through the quiet night like a razor. Red and blue lights bounce off the buildings, streaking across shattered glass and twisted metal. Relief washes over you, making your knees feel a little shaky.

Finally.

Two ambulances come to a screeching halt. EMTs spill out, moving with practiced urgency. One of them, a tall woman with her hair yanked into a messy bun, jogs toward you.

“Are you hurt?” She asks, already looking you up and down for signs of injury.

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine — it’s the driver. He’s … he’s pretty out of it.” You glance back at Lando, slumped in his seat. “I think he hit his head. He’s not making much sense.”

The EMT follows your gaze, nodding sharply. “Okay, step back for me.” She waves another EMT over. “We’ve got one male, early twenties, possible head trauma.”

You move back as instructed, but not far — just enough to give them space to work while still close enough to watch. One of the EMTs wedges a tool into the doorframe to force it open wider, and the crunch of metal makes you wince.

“Hey, buddy,” the EMT says, leaning in toward Lando. “Can you hear me?”

Lando stirs slightly, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and the EMT exchanges a look with his partner.

“Pupils look uneven,” the first EMT mutters, shining a small flashlight into Lando’s eyes. “Definitely concussed.”

The other EMT secures a neck brace around Lando’s head, locking it into place with quick, efficient movements. Lando groans at the pressure, his face twisted in confusion.

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” The EMT says in a loud, clear voice. “Just stay still for me, mate. We’re gonna lift you.”

They maneuver him onto a backboard with a series of coordinated moves, careful to keep his neck stabilized. Lando lets out a soft groan but doesn’t resist — it’s like his body is on autopilot.

You cross your arms against the cold, biting your lower lip. They make it look so smooth, so clinical, but there’s something unsettling about watching someone get hauled out of a wreck like that, limp and helpless.

“Is he your boyfriend?” The EMT asks you, not looking up as they strap Lando to the board.

You blink, caught off guard. “What? No. I-I just saw the crash happen. I came over to help.”

The EMT nods once, focused on the task at hand. “All right. Appreciate you staying with him.”

They lift Lando, sliding the backboard onto a waiting gurney. He lets out a weak noise of discomfort, but his eyes remain half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness.

As they wheel him toward the ambulance, you follow instinctively, your heart thrumming with worry. You can’t just leave now — not when he looks like that.

“Hey,” you call after them, your voice tight. “Can I … can I ride with him?”

One of the EMTs looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Are you family?”

“No. I just-“ You pause, unsure how to explain it. “I don’t feel right leaving him alone.”

The EMTs exchange glances. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse, but the woman in charge sighs and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “Fine. Get in. Just stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you.

You climb into the back of the ambulance as they lift Lando’s gurney inside. The doors slam shut behind you, sealing you in with the hum of medical equipment and the faint smell of antiseptic.

The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.

The EMT sitting across from you pulls on a pair of gloves, leaning over Lando. “Let’s see how we’re doing, champ.”

Lando’s eyes flicker, heavy and unfocused. The EMT checks his pulse, then takes a penlight and shines it directly into Lando’s pupils. He winces, groaning low in his throat.

“Sir, can you hear me?” The EMT asks loudly, as if trying to shake him awake with sound alone.

Lando blinks sluggishly, his brow furrowing. “… Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. His accent makes the word sound more like yeh.

The EMT hums, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Good. Do you know where you are?”

Lando’s face twists in confusion. “Uh … car … crash?”

“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”

Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.

The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.

“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”

You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.

“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”

He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”

“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”

“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.

“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”

The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”

Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.

The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”

You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.

“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”

The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.

You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.

The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.

You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.

“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”

Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.

The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.

The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”

The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

***

The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.

You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.

It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.

A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.

You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.

You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”

The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”

The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”

“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”

The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”

You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”

“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”

You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was … it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”

The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”

You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”

The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”

The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”

Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.

The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.

You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”

Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”

You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”

Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”

“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.

“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”

Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”

You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”

He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.

For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.

“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”

You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.

“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.

***

You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.

You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.

“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.

You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”

The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”

You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.

The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”

You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”

The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”

Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.

“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”

Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.

“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”

“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”

The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”

Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.

The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”

Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”

The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”

Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”

The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.

Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.

“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”

The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”

You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”

Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”

Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”

He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”

“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.

The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”

Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.

The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”

You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”

The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”

You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”

Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”

You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.

***

The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.

He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”

“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”

Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”

You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”

He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.

When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”

Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.

You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”

Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.

When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.

“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.

Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.

“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”

He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.

“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.

You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”

He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”

Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”

“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”

Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”

You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”

You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”

Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”

You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”

He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”

“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”

Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”

“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”

He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”

“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”

Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”

“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”

He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”

Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”

You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.

“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”

Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”

“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.

As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.

***

Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.

Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”

He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.

“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”

The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.

You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.

“Lando?” You say softly.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.

“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”

Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.

“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”

You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“

“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”

Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”

The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.

You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”

Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”

“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”

He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”

The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.

You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.

“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”

Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.

“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”

You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”

“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”

Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”

You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”

Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.

You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.

“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”

You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”

Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”

“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”

You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”

Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”

You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”

And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

***

In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.

Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.

“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”

Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.

Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”

Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Apparently, the worst did happen.

Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”

Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”

Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.

“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.

“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”

“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.

“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”

Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”

The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.

***

In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.

“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”

“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”

Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”

Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”

“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”

Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”

Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”

There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.

Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”

“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.

But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”

Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.

Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”

“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”

Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”

Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.

“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”

“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.

Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”

Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.

They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.

***

The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.

“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”

You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”

Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”

“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”

Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”

You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”

“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”

You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”

He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?

“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”

Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.

“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.

“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.

But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.

Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”

You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.

“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”

Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”

“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”

Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”

You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”

He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”

You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”

Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

***

The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.

Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.

You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.

“Yes, you are.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.

You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”

“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”

You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”

Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.

The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”

“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.

But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”

Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.

“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”

A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.

The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.

“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”

You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.

Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”

A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.

The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”

The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”

“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.

“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”

More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”

“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”

The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”

You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.

“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”

Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.

The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.

“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”

“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.

Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”

“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”

“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”

You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”

“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.

“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”

You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”

But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”

You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.

Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”

You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”

Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

***

The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.

“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.

“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.

“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”

When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.

“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.

You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”

He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.

As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”

You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”

He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”

You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”

Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.

Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”

“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”

Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”

For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.

He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”

You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”

Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”

He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”

You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.

When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”

Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

You arch a brow. “Always?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”

Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”

You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”

With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.

***

The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.

“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”

You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”

“Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”

For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.

And then it happens.

“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”

The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.

Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”

The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”

Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”

“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”

Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.

You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?

“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”

The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.

The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.

You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”

Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”

You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”

Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”

You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”

Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”

The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”

Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”

You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”

Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”

You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”

Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”

You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”

You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.

“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”

Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“

You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”

He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”

You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.

And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.

***

The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.

In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.

“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”

“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”

The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”

Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”

“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”

Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”

The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-

“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”

Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”

You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”

There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.

“Hi.”

The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.

“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”

“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”

“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”

“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.

“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”

Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”

A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”

You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”

“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”

There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”

Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”

You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”

Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.

“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”

Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”

“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”

Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”

Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”

You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.

“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”

There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”

“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”

Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.

“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.

The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”

“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”

You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”

Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”

You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”

And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.

***

It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.

You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”

Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”

You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”

There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.

Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.

“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”

Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.

“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.

Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”

Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”

Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”

Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”

Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”

Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”

Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”

Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”

Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”

Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.

You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.

“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”

“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.

Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.

Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”

Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.

Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”

Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.

Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”

Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.

“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.

Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”

Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”

The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.

Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.

When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.

Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”

Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”

Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.

***

The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.

Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”

The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”

Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”

Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.

When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.

There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.

Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.

Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”

Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”

Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”

He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.

“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.

Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.

“Lando?”

A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.

Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.

“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.

The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”

Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.

“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.

Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.

Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”

Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”

Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.

Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”

Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.

“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.

When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”

Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”

Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”

Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”

Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.

***

Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.

In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.

“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.

Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.

But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”

“Lando.”

He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”

He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”

“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”

Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”

Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.

The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”

Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.

And just like that, something shifts.

The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.

Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”

Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”

Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.

You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”

“Details,” you say with a grin.

One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”

Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.

It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.

The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.

“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”

Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.

“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”

For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.

“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.

You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.

“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.

You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.

“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”

You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”

As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.

***

Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.

Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.

But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.

“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”

“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.

The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.

The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.

“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”

He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.

And then, it happens.

The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.

He remembers everything.

“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”

“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”

“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”

And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.

The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.

“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”

Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”

The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.

He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.

“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.

Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.

You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”

When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”

You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”

His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”

Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”

He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.

All that matters is that Lando is back.

***

The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.

The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.

When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”

Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”

“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.

You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”

Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.

Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”

You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”

Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”

His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”

Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”

“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”

Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”

There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”

You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.

Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”

You snort. “Good luck? You didn’t even get a podium today.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”

His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.

But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”

Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”

***

The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.

Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.

He wins.

The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.

“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.

In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.

He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-

He’s moving toward you.

The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.

It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.

You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.

And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.

Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“

You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.

“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.

Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.

His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.

It’s just you and Lando.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”

He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”

“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.

“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”

Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”

You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

So the younger had taken up photography to pass his time while his older self was working or training or travelling and while you had busy days of your own, meaning that said camera was around a lot. He was quite protective of it and no matter how much his older self knew about photography, the younger Lando would never allow him to so much as touch it. 

Yet, alone, twenty-six-year-old Lando capitalized on this rare opportunity. Raising the viewfinder to his eye, Lando peered through it to see the framed reflection of his bedroom. The light from the ensuite was leaking across the floor from around the corner and he could hear your quiet chatter with his younger self as you got ready. He snapped a picture. 

Slowly scanning the room leftwards, the viewfinder framed a second view of the messy king size bed that, nightly, held the three of you. It had been attempted to be made that morning with the sheets haphazardly strewn back across the mattress and pillows tossed into somewhat of a semblance of order against the headboard. The light from the sun made it look beautiful. Lando snapped another picture. 

He then turned the camera around to face himself and pulled a huge, dramatic grin to snap a third picture, half blurry and out of frame. He chuckled to himself and then turned the camera back around to open the gallery of previously taken photos on the display screen. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, calling out in the direction of the ensuite as he flicked through the images, “Are you guys almost done yet?”

Your voice called back happily, “Didn’t know we were in a rush!” 

A few of the photos from the previous day were taken when younger Lando had gone up north on a hike: a few shots of the foliage and trails or the distant harbour and glistening sea. He was quite private about his newly found hobby so older Lando was treading in dangerous territory. 

“What are you doing with that?”

The panicked voice of his younger self was no less than proof he got caught red handed but with a smirk and a quick raise of the camera again, older Lando snapped a few quick pictures of him. 

The nineteen-year-old hurried across the room towards him, “Stop! Don’t touch my stuff.” 

He then proceeded to have a bunch of unflattering photographs taken of himself getting closer and closer to the camera until his hand was blocking the lens. 

“It’s technically mine too. We are the same person, you know,” older Lando reminded him, lifting his socked foot up to push his younger self back against his stomach. 

“Mate,” younger Lando huffed, “Just…don’t look through it.”

“Why? You have your nudes in here? Sorry…our nudes?” 

“Disgusting,” younger Lando turned away from him and his blunt teasing. 

Another picture was taken, indicated by the sound of the shutter through the quiet bedroom. 

The light from the ensuite was turned off and you came around the corner yourself in only your jeans and a bra. Older Lando carefully turned the lens to zoom in and snapped a few candid photos of you as you checked your phone, half hidden behind his younger self who was pulling on his black hoodie. 

“Smile, baby.” Lando sang softly, earning a few quick photos of your curious expression looking over at him and then smiling and then quickly turning away. 

“Stop, I’m not dressed,” you tisked with a little chuckle. 

“You look good.” 

His younger self drifted past you and kissed your cheek on his way, agreeing softly, “Very good.”

“You two are too much for me.” you said bashfully. 

“Wait, Lan, come back,” the twenty-six-year-old called after his younger self who had since disappeared back around the corner. 

He popped his head back around the corner with an unimpressed expression, correcting him away from the nickname he hated, “Lando, to you.”

Ignoring him, older Lando waved his hand towards you, “Kiss her again.”

You and the younger glanced over at each other and you smiled softly at the way he shyly bit his lip. He looked back to his older self, suddenly all too aware of the attention and the camera pointed at him, “Why?”

“Because it was cute. But kiss her properly this time.” 

Never one to deny you a kiss, the sweethearted nineteen-year-old took the few short steps over to you and you welcomed him in for a brief kiss to your lips, barely touching you before he stepped back again. 

Older Lando tisked, “Oh…do it again, I didn’t get it.”

His younger self stepped closer to you with a quick lick to his lips before he was leaning in to kiss you again. 

“Perfect, now stay right there.”

You smiled into it and let one hand grasp the front of the younger’s hoodie as his hands settled innocently on your waist as if hesitant to touch your bare skin. You shared a few soft chasté kisses to the sound of the camera shutter clicking faintly a few times. 

Always wanting more, your boyfriend spoke from his spot across the room, “Gimme some more hands; come on. Kiss her like you mean it.”

A small huff from the younger Lando fell against your cheek and you giggled at his flustered frustration as your lips locked and your hand found the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards you. His hands slid slowly around your waist and to the small of your back, holding your body against his as your lips moulded the sweetest kisses to be stained in morning sunlight and captured by the camera like a scene out of a movie.

“That’s it,” older Lando spoke from the desk chair, zooming in a little more to take one more picture of the two of you with just your faces filling the frame. He habitually licked his lips at the sight of your perfect kiss and then he looked past the camera towards you himself. 

Although the mini photoshoot was done, neither you nor the nineteen-year-old seemed quite ready to end as the warm touch of each other and perfectly delectable kisses were too addicting. It was quiet in the room for a second and your boyfriend just watched the moment progress. 

But then his younger self went for your neck. Your eyes stayed closed and your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, the sunlight blessing your features to the point that older Lando just had to raise the camera up again. It had to be captured. 

The bite of your lip, the rouge to your cheeks, the pleasure on your face as the feeling of his lips on your neck had your hands grasping tighter to hair and hoodie. Your small hum in appreciation.

Click of the shutter. 

Zoom. 

Click. 

The viewfinder dragged down your body to frame the way his fingers pressed into the doughy flesh of your hip just over the waistband of your jeans. 

Focus. 

Click. 

Your hand in the back of his hair. 

Click. 

Younger Lando lifted his head up just enough to dust his lips over the shell of your ear and his warm breath made you shiver. He whispered to you for only you to hear, “Do we have to leave now?”

“Mm,” you hummed to the room, already in some sort of trance from his touch and his kiss, and you spoke his question aloud for your boyfriend’s answer, “Lan, do we have to leave?”

He answered easily from behind the camera, “Not if we’re going to keep doing this.” 

“Good,” his younger self whispered against your cheek and pressed a lingering kiss there before leaving one more on your jaw. His hands slid to the front of your body and with his shy anticipatory breath on your face, he popped the button on your jeans. 

With a proud smirk on his face, twenty-six-year-old Lando took one last picture before he was looking down at the camera in his hands and switching the setting to ‘video’, sealing your desire to stay home just a little longer with a reassurance of, “The coast isn’t going anywhere.”

He stood from the desk chair just as nineteen-year-old Lando guided you gently backwards to the edge of the bed and when you sat down, he helped to pull your jeans all the way off and to the floor. He then licked away his eager smile as he sank to his knees on the side of the bed and positioned himself between your legs, glancing up at you as he linked his fingers in the sides of your panties and pulled them down your legs next. 

Twenty-six-year-old Lando pressed record, carefully fitting the two of you into the frame, and the little red light illuminated itself on the corner of the camera. He took a slow step closer, his heart already racing in his chest at how sudden and surprisingly arousing this was as he filmed his younger self going down on you. The nineteen-year-old had learned plenty since his first night with the two of you and he knew exactly what to do to make you happy, starting with a soft kiss to your stomach as his hands caressed your thighs and he draped them over his shoulders. 

You giggled excitedly, toes curling in anticipation as he kissed down your pelvis and along your inner thigh before finally leaving a slow, open mouthed kiss right over your pussy with his sparkling eyes peering up at you from the floor. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you watched him kiss you teasingly before his tongue was dropping out and he licked right up between your folds, pulling back with a lick to his lips at the first taste of you. 

Younger Lando’s gentle hands held your thighs as he started to eat your pussy, slowly, savouringly, enough to make you whine for more. You slumped back onto your elbows on the soft mattress, staring down your body to his face between your legs and he just kept your lustful eye contact with ease. 

“Oh my God,” you breathed quietly, shaking your hair over your shoulders and out of your face. You licked your lips as your head lolled to the side slightly as you watched him, letting yourself focus on the sweet sensations that grew within you. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” 

The voice of your boyfriend a few steps away had you looking over at him, glancing right into the lens of the camera for a split second, before looking back down at the nineteen-year-old with a sultry smile and blushing cheeks, “Yeah, it feels really good.” 

Younger Lando sent you a little wink before he was pulling back with a soft slurp and he ran his fingers between your lips, stroking your pussy up and down a few times, finally swirling his fingers around your clit to hear how your breath caught in your throat at his touch. Older Lando stepped closer with the camera, zooming in at the same time just enough to get your hips and thighs in frame so he could film the way his identical fingers teased your pussy a little more. 

You hummed softly and he took that as his invitation to keep going, shyly ignoring the thrill of the camera on him as he let a small drip of saliva fall from his lips onto your cunt before his tongue was following. You moaned quietly to the room and pushed yourself towards the edge of the bed a little more so he could reach more of you and your hand dropped to his hair to pull him closer. 

“Dirty slut,” older Lando tisked, “Just can’t get enough of getting her pussy eaten, huh?”

Younger Lando pulled away again, speaking to the room in almost a whisper and to the camera without looking at it, “Gotta get her wet.”

“That’s right. Get her even prettier for the camera.” 

Said camera slowly panned up your body before focusing on your face as you stared down at the younger Lando between your legs and your change in expression when his mouth was back on you was captured with ease. The slight scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow, the way your head fell back with a moan. 

Your boyfriend reached down to touch your bra, his filming shifting slightly off centre as his large hands cupped your breasts one and then the other and then he was tugging down one of the straps. You obediently helped to slide your arm out and then the other and he nudged your bra down to let your breasts out, giving him ample room to pinch one of your nipples between thumb and forefinger. 

Your breaths were falling shallow between one of their mouths on you and the other’s hand tweaking at your hardening nipples. It wasn’t hard to get turned on around them. They were a pair to be reckoned with; so different with seven years difference between them and yet so wonderfully identical. 

Older Lando slapped one of your breasts and then the other, pulling a strained gasp from your chest at the sting he left behind and his focus drifted back down to the task of his younger self. With your legs over his shoulders, his arms were nearly wrapped around your thighs and he held you right up against his face as he made out sloppily with your pussy and let his nose graze teasingly across your clit. 

“Yeah, just like that. Come on, mate, pin her legs back,” older Lando crouched down to get a better angle, “Spread her open for me and the camera.” 

Nineteen-year-old Lando slid his hands up your thighs to the backs of your knees and he pushed your legs towards your chest, allowing the camera to have a clearer view of you as his tongue worked your cunt sloppily. He moaned loudly against you and licked you out until you were falling flat on your back against the bed with a moan of your own, hands grasping the sheets above your head. His tongue only moved faster, movements more ungraceful, and your hips pushed up against his face pleadingly. 

“Fuck…spit on her cunt,” older Lando directed easily as if he were letting his innermost fantasies spill from his lips.

His younger self pulled back with a lick to his lips and he spit loudly back onto your cunt before the tip of his tongue was following it closely and rubbing it in up and down and right up to your clit. He swirled it there a little, grabbing you tighter as you cried out to the ceiling as he finally tended to your most sensitive spot and your body arched against his touch. Your hands instinctively found your breasts and you squeezed them in your hands as he brought you warm waves of pleasure, forcing mewls and whimpers to tumble freely from your lips. His tongue flicked at your clit faster, his hot breath falling against your damp skin, and you let out a tight grunt to the ceiling, head tossed back against the bed.

“Oh God, Lando,” you choked out shakily.

The nineteen-year-old pulled back from you with a slurp and his chest heaved, giving his jaw and tongue a break so he could take his left hand, spread his fingers in a v-shape and rub them warmly up and down on either side of your puffy folds. You were glistening wet and he spread you open between two fingers to show you off to the camera, giving his older self a few seconds to zoom and focus on your soaked swollen pussy and the way your muscles tensed and contracted with desire. Younger Lando—with near wonder in his eyes—spit on you again and then slid his middle and ring fingers through it, slicking them up before slipping them inside you in one slow steady push. 

Your shaky little gasp was caught by the camera and older Lando centered your pussy in the frame, nice and close, watching how his own fingers pushed inside you right down to the knuckle. Almost right away, younger Lando was curling his two fingers inside you and started to thrust them back and forth in precise little jabs right against your g-spot that had your eyes rolling and your mouth falling agape. But the sound was erotic and loud and the camera easily picked up the sloppy wet squish of your pussy. 

“Fucking hell, listen to that.” older Lando breathed. He reached one hand into frame to rub the pad of his thumb over your clit, making your body jolt. He chuckled lowly and took his hand back, giving all his focus to the camera and making sure it was filmed just perfectly. 

Younger Lando was greedy with it and he could never get enough of you so he couldn’t help himself but lean in to let his tongue take your clit again in messy strokes while his fingers pumped inside you steadily. You moaned to the ceiling gladly and the camera zoomed back out to capture your entire body plus Lando still on his knees at the side of the bed, with a straight shot of your pleasured expression and writhing body on perfect display. 

Older Lando kept a steady hold of the camera with his right hand while his left dropped to the button of his jeans and he popped it open easily. He kept his eyes on you as he nudged his pants and underwear to his thighs to let himself grab hold of his hard cock, giving himself a few gentle pumps just to take the edge off. He stared through the display screen of the camera as it showed the recording in progress and captured you angelically, every inch of your body with your legs bent back towards your chest to the blissful expression across your face. He couldn’t let all the fun happen without him. 

The dip of the mattress forced your curious eyes open and you peered up at your boyfriend kneeling on the end of the bed right beside you, pants and underwear discarded so his dick was free and in front of your face. The camera was focused down towards you although you didn’t need that incentive to take what he was hinting at. With the nineteen-year-old still tonguing at your clit and fingering you messily, you propped yourself up on your elbow and used your other hand to wrap around your boyfriend’s cock. He shuffled a little closer and let his left hand drift into the back of your hair as you lowered your mouth around him slowly. 

It was hard for you to focus on him with the ripples of pleasure that shot up your back from the younger of the two still working between your legs but you still kept your mouth moving lazily on him with a hand secure around the base to hold him steady. 

“Oh, good girl,” Lando said lowly, angling the camera down his body to watch how you took his thick cock in your mouth through the display screen. You moaned quietly around him and when you had to pull back to breathe properly, you let your hand around him pick up the slack. The camera caught your gaze for a brief moment and you licked away your blissful smile before letting the sensations of the younger’s mouth on you take you over again and your eyes fluttered closed with bliss. 

Older Lando panned down your naked body to get another shot of his younger self between your spread legs, his face smeared in your arousal as his fingers pulled more of that beautiful squelching wet sound from inside you until you were leaking down the side of his hand. The camera moved back to your face and the sight of your fingers wrapped around Lando’s cock and stroking him lazily like he was meant to be in your hand. Your expression was pure erotica and the whimpered moans that fell from your pouted lips were only slightly exaggerated for the sake of the film. 

“Don’t let her come,” your boyfriend told his younger self sternly. 

“No, please,” you choked out, “Please, I’m a good girl.” 

Older Lando hushed you tauntingly and simply pulled your head back towards him, shutting you up with a mouthful of dick. You gagged around him as he held you deeper and let his hand in your hair start to move your mouth on him himself until you took over messily. He wiped your hair out of your face and caressed your flushed cheek, keeping your sweet gaze to the camera in the centre of the frame. 

When younger Lando leaned away from you, you whimpered at loss of contact and pulled your mouth away from your boyfriend’s dick to look back at him with a pout. The nineteen-year-old tapped your ankle, “Scoot back.” 

You did as told and older Lando moved back off the bed to let the younger do as he pleased. It was honestly a bit of a rare occurrence for the older Lando to be so lenient and drift to the backseat in such situations but the addition of the camera in his hand seemed to be the trick. Younger Lando wasn’t going to complain. He would gladly take this rare opportunity to take the lead. 

He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them off and as he climbed onto his knees on the mattress, you reached up to pull his hoodie off for him. Strip naked, the nineteen-year-old dipped down to kiss you sloppily, letting you taste yourself on his tongue until he was shoving your legs apart again so he could get closer.

“Move her how you want her,” older Lando instructed from the sidelines, finding a spot that captured the entire scene progressing on the bed. 

“Just like this,” younger Lando mumbled, keeping you on your back with your legs spread and bent. 

He spit in his hand and dropped it down to stroke his cock a few times as he angled it against your pussy. You kept your arms draped over your head prettily and let your eyes flick between where he teased you and his lust filled eyes, waiting for that push. 

“Ask nicely,” he whispered to you tauntingly, voice soft and kissed in inexperience and a slight lack of confidence, slipping the head of his dick between your slick folds. 

You shuttered at his hints of dominance, “Please, sir. Please, fuck me.”

Although the nudge of the tip inside you was slow, the rest followed quickly and your mouth dropped open with a stiff gasp at how he filled you, one of your hands raising quickly to the back of his neck to hold onto him. 

“Sh-Shit, you feel so good,” he shuttered, easing back out of you before shoving back in just enough to hear how you sopping wet pussy squished around his cock. 

The soft moan from your chest only grew louder as he started to fuck you in a steady rhythm, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back into you hard. He wasn’t fast with it but he was insanely deep and you were rendered speechless by it, merely gaping up at him as he fucked the moans from your body over and over, getting you louder and louder. 

“Oh my God,” you groaned loudly, face scrunched up in pleasure as you held onto him by the back of his neck and stared up into his sweet face. 

The camera framed you professionally, your body cradled by the bed and laying back angelically under the nineteen-year-old's perfect figure. The strength of his every thrust was obvious and the way his teeth were sinking into his bottom lip was only proof of his efforts right down to the way he pulled his hips back again and again, only to shove back into you roughly in a consistent rhythm. 

Tense with pleasure underneath him, your eyes were nearly rolling back in your head with one hand gripping the sheets and the other locked at the back of his neck, keeping him there. Your moans shuttered in your chest just long enough for you to cry out shakily, “You’re so fucking deep, I’m gonna cry. It feels so good.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he told you lowly, moving one hand off the mattress beside you to wrap his fingers around your throat, just how you liked it. 

“Yes, please, choke me,” you pleaded, lifting your legs back wider for him in thanks which only had the clap of his balls against your ass growing louder with each thrust. 

“Good girl…” he whispered. 

Hardly aware of the camera on you anymore, you were ignorant to the way your boyfriend stood just out of line of the sunlight, allowing natural warm light to bathe the scene on the bed. He was just out of your sightline, giving the camera a perfect view of your spread legs and welcoming pussy taking everything his younger self was giving you with just enough of an angle to still catch the dizzying look on your face.

Younger Lando shifted slightly and bent your legs right up to your chest, pinning you down in half with his hands on the backs of your thighs, shuffling a little closer to start to thrust into you again in those same hard, deep strokes. You were sopping wet and you all could hear it and your aching clit was pleading for attention, urging your left hand to drop down to touch it as the ninteen-year-old fucked you deliciously. 

Your boyfriend drifted to the other side of the bed slowly, making sure to capture every angle on his way, until the lens was focused down your body from a top right angle to frame the look on your face, your hand rubbing your clit, and the full length of his younger self’s cock ploughing itself inside you. His tight breaths were nothing compared to the moans he fucked out of you, filling the sunkissed bedroom with pleasure. 

The shadow of your boyfriend’s toned figure by your head had your gaze shifting to peer up at him and the camera, licking away your bashful smile as he filmed you getting fucked by another version of himself. You reached your free hand up to stroke his dick messily, trying to keep the same rhythm as the thrusts from the younger of the two despite the way he took the air from your lungs. 

But when younger Lando got faster, both of your hands reached up to grab onto his biceps instead, squealing as he fucked you rougher until your face was screwing up in esctacy.

“Yes!” you sobbed out, “Yes! Fuck, don’t stop! That’s so fucking good, baby!” 

“Good girl. Are you gonna cum?” the nineteen-year-old taunted. 

“Yes, sir. Yeah, you’re gonna make me cum!” 

So he pulled out. 

Your thighs clenched together as you groaned in frustration to the ceiling, eyes screwed shut and lips pouted pleadingly as your pussy throbbed for orgasm. He shoved your legs to the side to urge you to turn over and he shifted you onto your hands and knees facing the full length mirror on the wall off the opposite side of the bed, just past where your boyfriend was standing You stared at your reflection with flushed cheeks and a flick of your hair over your shoulder, obediently spreading your knees wider so he could shuffle closer and spank you across your ass. Not quite as hard as your boyfriend might have, but just enough.

“Oh-” you moaned out, flinching at the impact. 

He spanked you again, this time a little harder, the sound echoing through the room and your boyfriend stepped around the bed and moved closer to capture one more full-handed spank across your ass right down to the way your flesh jiggled from it and a faint pink handprint was left behind. Younger Lando’s hands slid up your hips and your back and he grabbed onto your shoulders to slowly pull you back onto his dick. 

“Oh my God,” you withered, keeping your hands flat on the mattress as you arched your back for him. 

He filled you again easily, the creamy sound of your pussy taking him in only urging him to move slowly to savour it. 

Your boyfriend zoomed the camera with a request, “Spread her open…let me see.”

Younger Lando took two handfuls of your ass and tugged at your flesh to spread your cheeks open for the camera, shifting himself slightly at an angle for a better view of his dick hidden deep inside you. The twenty-six-year-old zoomed in closer and shifted the lens to focus, earning a clear picture of his younger self’s slick cock buried in your swollen, leaking pussy.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he mumbled, spanking you once more for himself.

Whimpering, you started to fuck yourself back on the younger Lando messily, pleading for him to take you again as the camera zoomed out to capture the whole scene again. But he simply let you take control for a second, basking in how needy you were. It made for good footage. 

Your boyfriend spanked you again, “Tell me you like his cock in you.”

“I love it,” you mumbled. 

He spanked you again, “You love what?” 

“I love his cock in my pussy,” you whimpered, squaring your shoulders back to try and find yourself a comfortable way to push yourself back on him. 

But younger Lando was easier to break than the older—he never liked to let you work for it for long—so he gave you one more hard slap to your ass before he was grabbing your waist and starting to fuck you himself again. 

“Oh, God, yes—” you groaned. 

In that same addicting rhythm of depth and passion, he was back to fucking the moans from your chest as you stared yourself down in the mirror. The camera followed your gaze into the full length mirror and your eyes shifted to your boyfriend’s reflection and you smiled cockily at him through your uncontrollable moans. 

“Look at that perfect little whore,” he tisked almost proudly, panning the camera away from the mirror again to see the real thing right in front of him, following the tumble of your hair over your shoulders and along the perfect arch of your back. He paused at your bum, zooming in slightly to capture the entire length of his very own dick pounding into your eager body time and time again, the rough impact making your ass jiggle with each slap of skin on skin. 

“Fuck, you’re so big,” you choked out, slumping down onto your forearms against the bed. 

Your boyfriend was playing director again, instructing his younger self, “Put your thumb in her ass.”

Without missing a beat, the nineteen-year-old raised his right hand up to slide his thumb in his mouth to suck on for a second to get it wet before he was easily obeying the orders and slid it slowly into your ass. Your head dropped forward against the sheets with a loud moan, the camera and both young men focused on the way your muscles gripped around it snugly. It earned you another proud spank. 

“Such a good girl. Such a pretty little slut.” your boyfriend praised, taking a step back to get another shot of the entire scene again. 

Your voice was wavering in overwhelm, “Feels so fucking good, sir.” 

“You’re taking it so well,” younger Lando whispered, his voice barely picked up by the camera. 

You reached one hand back to try and grab his thigh as he fucked you, pleading to him sweetly, “Harder. Faster. Please, give me more.” 

“Naughty girl,” he tisked quietly, spanking you with his free hand again before giving you what you wanted. 

The sound of his skin clapping with yours only grew louder and your eyes literally rolled back in your head, mouth agape, and you gave him a pleasured moan through the bedroom. Your head fell forward onto the sheets once again and he held you tightly as he fucked you rougher just how you begged for it. 

You were a mess of incomprehensible sounds, stumbling out for him a string of “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, mm, mm-” in time with his thrusts, blind to the movement of your boyfriend until he was petting a hand through your hair. You lifted your head up only to see him directly in front of you, standing at the edge of the bed with his hard cock in your face. The way your body was being rammed into had your mouth easily falling around his dick and you moaned contently around it as the way the ninteen-year-old fucked you had your mouth nudging forward into a consistent pace. 

The camera lingered on the way you took him in your mouth, messy moans and whimpers muffled by his size as you took him hands free. Your eyes were closed almost peacefully and the camera focused on your face and the curve of your lips wrapped around him for a few more seconds. 

“I’m close,” the nineteen-year-old whispered from behind you. 

“Mm,” you pulled off your boyfriend’s cock with a sloppy pop, calling sweetly over your shoulder, “come inside me.”

“F-Fuck,” younger Lando swallowed back, leaning over you slightly as his thumb was taken from your ass so he could rest one hand down on the mattress again for stability. His thrusts were getting sloppier and more desperate and you offered him your best whimpers and moans to spur him on. 

“Please, sir,” you pleaded, “Please come inside me. I need you to cum inside me.”

He tensed for a second, his breath catching in his throat, and he shoved hard into you one more time before he was coming, filling you with warm spurts and making your head spin with sweet moans of his own from behind you. 

“Good boy,” you giggled, wiggling your ass back against him, “Keep coming. It feels so fucking good.”

His hands tightened on the sheets as he almost slumped on top of you, grinding strongly against you to fill you up as much as he could offer. But your boyfriend didn’t waste a second before he was gliding smoothly back around the bed with the camera held steadily in his hand and he crouched down to get a perfect view of your swollen pussy as his younger self pulled out of you slowly with a little whimper. The nineteen-year-old shifted across the bed to give him room to his place behind you and without a word, the twenty-six-year-old was kneeling behind your flushed body. 

He spread your pussy lips between two fingers and kept the camera still to focus on how a thick drip of creamy white slipped out of you and fell faintly onto the head of his cock that was right there, angled and impatient. You barely had a second to prepare yourself before he was pushing inside you himself, a perfect match to the one that had just taken you, and you arched your back lower for him. 

“Fuck, Lando, yes.” you whimpered. 

Your boyfriend slapped his hand down hard against the blush red handprint that had already claimed your left ass cheek and he started to fuck your sloppy pussy. With you already having been filled once, he could glide so easily inside you and the wet warmth that encapsulated him had his eyebrows furrowing and teeth sinking into his bottom lip in near concentration. 

His younger self held out his hand, offering quickly, “Want me to film? Pass it here.”

He didn’t wait for a response before taking the camera from the twenty-six-year-old’s hand and turned it to capture the two of you perfectly. It gave your boyfriend two handed reign of your body and he grabbed your hips to pound you hard, letting the camera have a perfect view of the way your eyes rolled shut and your nails clawed at the sheets in perfect silence. The clap of his balls against your dripping pussy was dizzying and you spread your legs wider and arched deeper to feel them against your clit in steady rhythm. 

“Fuck, yeah,” you sobbed out. 

Lando spanked you once more before leaning over you, one hand anchoring himself on the mattress while the other took your chin in a firm grasp and he forced two fingers in your mouth, holding your head up to look right into the camera lens right in front of you. His jagged breaths were panted against your ear and he spoke to you lowly, tauntingly, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Smile while I fill your pussy with cum just how you like it.”

“Please,” you mumbled through his fingers, making you drool down your chin, “Please come inside me.”

“That’s my good little cumslut. Wanting us to fill you right up…dirty whore.” 

“Yes, please, sir,” you whimpered. 

Lando’s words lessened as he got closer, his hand slipping from your mouth to grip your throat instead, “That’s my good girl.” 

Younger Lando shifted across the bed to get a perfect angle of the position you were in and when his older self straightened up and nodded him over, he shuffled closer. You were held down by your boyfriend’s two strong hands as he fucked you roughly until you were sobbing into the sheets and clenching down around him. The nineteen-year-old held the camera above, angled down to get a perfect view of how deep his older self was getting inside you and the blush red of your ass from all that perfect pounding. 

With a tight grunt, older Lando came inside you, tugging you right back onto his cock to get as deep as he could go. You gaped into the sheets, stretching your arms out to grab onto the edge of the mattress as you took every last drop gladly, moaning blissfully into the bed and the warm air of the bedroom. You felt so full with two identical loads inside you and you hid your smile into the sheets, grinding back on him sweetly to earn another proud spank. 

“Good fucking girl,” your boyfriend caressed your hips tenderly. 

He then grabbed his younger self’s wrist and guided the camera closer, encouraging the nineteen-year-old to zoom and focus on your messy pussy as he slowly pulled out. The camera was held steady in place, waiting a few seconds, and as older Lando spread your glistening lips with two fingers, a thick drop of cum slipped out of you and fell onto the bed, quickly followed by a second. 

“Oh my God,” nineteen-year-old Lando breathed. 

You were achingly sensitive and so edged that you felt like crying and even the fainted touches from your boyfriend’s hand had you jolting for more. He turned you onto your back smoothly and took the camera from his younger self with one more demand,

“Hold her down. Let’s make our pretty girl come.” 

You licked away your excited smile as you situated yourself in front of him and gladly spread your legs, giving him permission to have you however he pleased. His younger self scooted across the bed to kneel beside you on the mattress and held down your wrists above your head. With the camera in his left hand and the shot focused on your messy cunt and glistening skin that had been claimed by both Landos only moments before, he used his right hand to slide three fingers inside you. They squelched inside you with how wet you were and the fullness they offered you and forced some more of their shared cum to slip out of you and down your puffy folds. 

He didn’t hold back as he started to finger you roughly, keeping his fingers curled at that perfect angle to hit your g-spot head on every time. You shrieked to the ceiling, held down by the nineteen-year-old who watched intently with a lick to his lips as your flushed body drew closer to orgasm for the nth time that morning. 

“Fuck, Lando, please, baby!” you sobbed to the ceiling, “Please, sir, let me come!” 

“Whenever you need, pretty girl. Come for us,” older Lando coaxed. 

You could feel the tension pulling within you and it only grew more powerful as the seconds passed and your arms strained against the grip of the younger man by your head. It was coming on strong and you could feel the warmth filling you quickly and your toes curled with rising pleasure as your face screwed up in ecstasy, uncontrollable moans pouring from your lips, higher and louder. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Lando spoke beautifully, “Come for us. Give it to us, baby. Come on.” 

“Yes-“ you sobbed out through your teeth, letting yourself go for them. 

You could feel it building inside you but you didn’t speak to it in order to let the clear bursts of liquid happily surprise them instead. You writhed on the bed sheets as the two young men moaned in appreciation for you and your boyfriend kept his fingers going, staying right where he was even as you squirted right up across the camera lens. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.” older Lando praised loudly to top your moans, keeping his fingers going quickly to pull more bursts out of you. 

“Fuck!” you gasped sharply, pulling your legs up towards your chest in overwhelm, forcing his fingers to start to ease their attack on your throbbing pussy. 

He chuckled lowly and pulled them out as his younger self let your arms go and he leaned down to kiss you upside down despite how you struggled for breath. The camera was zoomed out and refocused on the last of your few kisses and you turned your head away to breathe, your cheeks dusted red and your once neat hair and makeup a complete mess, your bra still wrapped meaninglessly around your middle. 

“That was so fucking hot, baby,” your boyfriend rubbed your shin. “Anything you wanna say to the camera before we turn it off?”

You shyly turned away to hide your bashful smile against the younger Lando’s thigh, “Nope.” 

“You weren’t so shy a few seconds ago,” he chuckled. 

“It served its purpose,” you muttered. 

Lando smiled at you through the viewfinder and then stopped the video with the final frame of younger Lando petting his hand over your hair. The camera was set to the side and you were tended to adoringly by both young men, showered in kisses and praised until you had to nearly push them off you to let you get up and get redressed for the day. Walking back around the corner into the ensuite on wobbly legs, the two Lando’s watched you with identical proud smiles and when they looked at each other, all they could do was share a fistbump. 

Sitting in the cramped backseat of the twenty-six-year-old’s car, nineteen-year-old Lando was wiping the lens of his DSLR camera for the fourth time since leaving the apartment and you all hadn’t even left the parking garage yet. He had a frown on his face as the cloth wasn’t doing much to rid the smudge that had found its way onto the lens from your morning adventure. You passed him a small bottle of glasses cleaning solution from your purse which seemed to do the trick and he thanked you sheepishly. 

When you were all set—only an hour behind schedule for your Saturday plans—older Lando pulled his car out of the parking garage and into the Monaco sunshine. It was a beautiful day and with the three of you still buzzing off pleasure hormones, the vibes in the car were immaculate and the music was loud as you headed for the coast. 

You had barely gotten out of Monte Carlo before there was a grumbled “fuck” from the backseat. 

Glancing back at younger Lando, you asked him worriedly, “What is it?” 

He had his camera in hand and directed out the window as if in anticipation for a picture of the crystal blue ocean and view of the Monaco harbour in the distance. He turned it to show you the display screen housing a pop-up, explaining in an unimpressed voice, “My memory card is full.”

His elder counterpart just smirked to the narrow road ahead. 

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"Radio check, Y/N. Loud and clear," Tom Stallard’s voice came through, calm and professional. He was Oscar’s race engineer usually, but today, he was yours.

"Loud and clear," you replied, forcing your voice not to shake.

You glanced at the monitor mounted on the halo. In the garage next to you, Lando was already strapped in, his eyes visible through his open visor. He looked over, gave a quick, sharp nod, and then turned his focus forward. He wasn't your brother right now; he was the benchmark.

"Okay, Y/N. Track is green. Bite point find, launch when ready."

You dropped the clutch. The McLaren MCL39 surged forward, the anti-stall kicking in smoothly as you rolled down the pit lane. The world vibrated, a low, angry hum of the Mercedes power unit behind your spine.

"Pit limiter off."

Bang.

The G-force hit you instantly. The difference between F2 and F1 wasn't just the speed; it was the violence of it. The braking efficiency, the downforce—it felt like the car was clawing into the tarmac.

For the first thirty minutes, you were sensible. You built up the temperature in the tires, learned the braking points, and kept your nose clean.

"Pace is looking good, Y/N," Tom said, his voice sounding genuinely pleased. "You’re matching Lando’s sector one times. Boxing for Softs now. We’re going to do one push lap before the session ends."

"Copy," you breathed out.

You boxed, the crew swarming the car like angry bees, swapping the Mediums for fresh, red-walled Softs. This was it. The glory run. The chance to show the world that you weren't just Lando Norris’s little sister.

You went back out. You warmed the tires. You found your gap in traffic.

"Mode Push. Charge on," Tom instructed. "Give it everything."

You flew.

Turn 1 was perfect. You hit the apex so cleanly you barely felt the curb. Through the high-speed section, the car felt glued to the floor. You saw the delta on your dash turn green. You were two-tenths up. Two tenths.

Adrenaline flooded your system. You were doing it. You were actually doing it.

"Purple sector two, Y/N. Keep it up," Tom said.

You approached the final sector. It was a tricky, high-speed corner entry, requiring absolute commitment. You knew you could take it flat out; the data said the car could handle it.

You turned in.

Maybe you carried too much speed. Maybe a gust of wind caught the rear wing. Maybe you hit a patch of dust just millimeters off the racing line.

The rear of the car snapped. Violent and instant.

"No!" you gasped.

You counter-steered, your hands a blur of motion, trying to catch the slide. For a millisecond, you thought you had it. But the McLaren had become a pendulum, the weight swinging back the other way with terrifying force. The tires shrieked, a high-pitched wail that cut through the engine noise.

The gravel trap rushed up to meet you, but you were moving too fast. The gravel didn't slow you down; it just skipped you across the surface like a stone on water.

The tech-pro barrier filled your vision.

CRACK.

The impact knocked the wind out of you instantly. The world spun in a sickening blur of orange and gray. The car ricocheted off the barrier, spinning twice before coming to a halt in a cloud of carbon dust and smoke.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your hands were still gripping the wheel, knuckles white. The front of the car was gone. The front wing, the suspension, the nose cone—shattered. The front left wheel was dangling by a tether.

"Y/N? Red flag, red flag," Tom’s voice was urgent now, stripping away the calm veneer. "Y/N, are you okay?"

You tried to inhale, but your lungs felt like they had collapsed. A sharp pain radiated through your ribs and your wrists throbbed from the kickback of the steering wheel.

"I..." You coughed, the taste of metallic adrenaline in your mouth. "I... I lost it."

"Are you unhurt? Check your limbs."

You wiggled your toes. You moved your fingers. Everything worked, even if it hurt. But then you looked at the chassis. The floor—the expensive, crucial floor—was cracked down the side. The gearbox was likely toast.

The shame hit harder than the barrier.

"I'm okay," you whispered, your voice cracking, tears pricking your eyes instantly. "Tom, I’m... the car. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."

Back in the garage, the cameras cut to Lando. He had climbed halfway out of his car when the red flag dropped, watching the monitor. He saw the replay—the snap, the heavy impact. He saw his sister’s head slump forward against the halo.

He didn't look at the damage. He didn't look at Zak Brown, whose face had gone pale. Lando just ripped his gloves off, throwing them onto his seat, and stared at the screen, waiting for you to move.

"She's okay," Will Joseph, Lando's engineer, said quickly over the garage comms. "She’s speaking."

Lando let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, but his jaw remained tight. He knew what was coming next. He knew the media, and he knew the fans.

On the track, you unbuckled your belts, your hands shaking uncontrollably. You climbed out of the wreckage of the multi-million dollar machine, the Medical Car pulling up beside you. As you stepped onto the gravel, you looked back at the destroyed McLaren.

It wasn't just a crash. In your mind, it was the end of your career.

The Medical Center smelled of antiseptic and stale sweat. It was a sharp contrast to the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline that still lingered on your race suit.

"Follow my finger," the FIA doctor said, moving a pen light back and forth in front of your eyes.

You obeyed, sitting on the edge of the paper-covered examination bed. Your wrists were taped up—sprained, but not broken—and you had a nasty bruise forming on your left shin where it had slammed against the bulkhead. But the physical pain was a dull throb compared to the sinking, heavy stone of guilt in your stomach.

"Pupils are reactive. No signs of concussion," the doctor concluded, clicking his pen. "You’re cleared, Y/N. But take it easy. That was a 52G impact."

"Thanks," you mumbled, pulling your legs up to your chest.

The doctor left to file the paperwork, leaving you alone in the small, white room. You knew you should wait for your physio or Lando, but the silence was too loud. Your hand drifted to the side pocket of your discarded jacket. You pulled out your phone.

You knew you shouldn't. Every driver briefing, every media training session, they told you: Don’t look after a bad session.

But you couldn't help it.

You unlocked the screen. Twitter/X was already open. The trending topics were a list of nightmares:

#McLaren #FP1 #WasteofSeat Y/N Norris

Your thumb hovered, shaking slightly, before you tapped the first hashtag.

@.f1fan99 Imagine fighting for a Constructors' Championship and letting a girl wreck the car in FP1. What a joke. #McLaren

@.f1fan56 She literally only got the seat because she’s Lando’s sister. No talent, just vibes and a destroyed chassis. Stick to F2 or go home.

@.f1fan17 Cost cap hit: $2 million. Lap time: non-existent. Why do we pretend women can handle these cars? It’s biology. They panic.

You scrolled faster, your vision blurring.

"Diversity hire." "Embarrassing." "She ruined Lando's weekend."

A sob caught in your throat, a jagged, ugly sound. It wasn't just the crash. Drivers crashed all the time. Logan Sargeant had destroyed three cars this year. Lance Stroll hit the wall in Baku. But when they crashed, people called them bad drivers. When you crashed, it was proof that your entire gender didn't belong.

The door burst open.

You jumped, hastily shoving the phone under your leg, wiping your eyes with the back of your taped hand.

Lando stood there. He was still half-dressed in his race gear, his fireproof top tied around his waist, wearing a soaking wet t-shirt. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide, frantic.

"Y/N," he breathed out. He didn't walk; he ran.

He crossed the small room in two strides and pulled you into a crushing hug. He smelled of adrenaline and fear.

"I'm okay," you said into his shoulder, your voice thick. "Lando, I'm okay."

He pulled back, gripping your shoulders, scanning your face. "They said 50G. I saw the replay. I thought—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Are you hurt? Your wrists?"

"Sprained," you whispered. "I'm fine. But... Lando, the car. Did I crack the tub? Did I ruin the floor?"

Lando’s expression hardened. "Who cares?"

"Zak cares. The team cares. You should care," you argued, pulling away from him. "That comes out of the budget cap. I just cost the team development upgrades. I shouldn't have been in the car. I wasn't ready."

"Stop it," Lando said sharply.

"It's true! Look at what they're saying!"

You grabbed the phone from under your leg and shoved it at him. "Look! Everyone knows it. I’m a charity case. I’m just 'Lando’s sister.' And now I’ve proven them right."

Lando took the phone. He looked at the screen for three seconds. You saw his jaw clench, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His eyes went dark—a look you rarely saw on him. He was usually the joker, the guy who laughed at everything. But not now.

He didn't say a word. He just locked the phone and slid it into his own pocket.

"Hey," you protested weaky.

"You're not getting that back until Sunday," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "And you're not reading that garbage."

"It's not garbage if it's true."

"It's not true," Lando snapped. "You were purple in Sector 1. You were faster than Oscar’s sim data. You made a mistake. I crashed in FP3 in Spa my rookie year and totaled the car. Did they tell me to go back to the kitchen?"

You looked down at your taped wrists. "It's different."

"It shouldn't be," he said. He grabbed a towel from the counter and gently threw it over your head, rubbing your hair aggressively like he used to do when you were kids. It was a rough, clumsy gesture of comfort. "Wash your face. Put your team kit on. We have the media pen in twenty minutes."

"I can't," you said, panic rising. "I can't go out there. They're going to eat me alive."

Lando stopped. He lifted your chin so you had to look him in the eye.

"Let them try," he said. "I'm on first. And I’ve got a few things to say."

The press conference room was freezing, but the heat from the spotlights made the air feel stifling. You weren't on the stage—thank god. As a rookie in an FP1 session, you weren’t required to be part of the main FIA presser. Instead, you stood at the back of the room, hidden in the shadows near the McLaren press officer, wearing a fresh team cap pulled low over your eyes to hide the puffiness.

On the dais sat five drivers: Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen, Alex Albon, Charles Leclerc, and right in the middle, Lando.

Lando hadn't looked at the cameras once. He was staring at the table, spinning a water bottle between his fingers. He looked like a coiled spring.

The moderator opened the floor to questions. Immediately, hands shot up.

"Question for Lando," a journalist from a notorious tabloid shouted out, not waiting to be picked.

Lando stopped spinning the bottle. He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Go on."

"Lando, obviously a disastrous start to the weekend for McLaren. Given the budget cap constraints, how does the team justify giving a seat to an... inexperienced driver who causes that much damage in under thirty minutes? Do you feel Y/N was pushed into the seat before she was physically capable of handling an F1 car?"

The room went quiet. The "physically capable" comment hung in the air like a bad smell. It was the oldest dog whistle in the book: Women are too weak to drive.

You felt your face burn. You wanted to disappear.

Lando leaned forward slowly. He didn't blink.

"Justify it?" Lando repeated, his voice dangerously low. He pulled the microphone closer. "We justify it because she’s the current F2 championship leader. We justify it because she has four pole positions this season. Next question."

"But surely," the journalist pressed, sensing blood, "the crash suggests she wasn't ready. It was a rookie mistake that cost millions. Some are saying it’s a result of... affirmative action rather than merit. That perhaps the G-force was too much for her to control the snap?"

Lando snapped.

He slammed the water bottle down on the table. The loud thud made the journalist jump.

"You want to talk about the snap?" Lando asked, his voice rising, cutting through the room. "Let's talk about it. Did you look at the telemetry? Did you bother to check the data before you opened your mouth? Because I did."

Lando pointed a finger at the crowd.

"She was two-tenths up on my delta. She was purple in Sector One. She was taking Turn 12 flat-out, something half the grid struggles to do on a Friday. She hit a damp patch on a cold track. That is not a 'strength' issue. That is not a 'girl' issue. That is a racing issue."

"Lando, no need to be aggressive—" the journalist tried to interrupt.

"No, I will be aggressive!" Lando shouted, his face flushing. "Because I crashed in Spa my rookie year. I put it in the wall at 160 miles per hour. Max put it in the wall in Monaco. Did you ask if we were 'physically capable'? Did you ask if we were 'diversity hires'? No. You called it learning. You called it finding the limit."

Lando took a breath, his voice shaking with genuine anger.

"Y/N trains harder than I do. She’s in the sim when I’m gaming. She’s in the gym when I’m sleeping. She earned that seat. If you want to criticize her driving, fine. Criticize the entry angle. Criticize the braking point. But do not sit there and tell me she crashed because she’s a woman. It’s lazy, it’s pathetic, and frankly, it pisses me off."

He sat back, crossing his arms, glaring at the journalist.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but this time, it wasn't from sadness.

Before the moderator could try to salvage the situation, Lewis Hamilton, sitting two seats away, leaned into his microphone. The room went silent out of respect.

"If I may," Lewis said, his voice calm, deep, and authoritative. He turned his head to look directly at the journalist.

"Lando is right," Lewis said. "I’ve been watching Y/N in the junior categories for two years. She has a natural feel for the car that you can’t teach. We preach about 'We Race As One,' we talk about diversity, but the moment a woman steps into the cockpit, the media waits for her to fail so they can say 'I told you so.'"

Lewis paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with the cameras.

"That crash today? That was a driver pushing the limits. That’s what we are paid to do. If she was driving slowly to be safe, you would have called her slow. She pushed, and she bit the dust. That’s Formula 1. She belongs on this grid. And anyone who thinks otherwise because of her gender doesn't understand this sport."

Max Verstappen, who had been looking bored, leaned over to his mic.

"She was fast," Max said simply, shrugging. "Data doesn't lie. The car is broken, sure. But the speed was there. That is the hard part. Not crashing is easy—just drive slow. Being fast is hard. She is fast."

The journalist sat down, looking thoroughly chastised.

Lando looked over at Lewis, giving him a small, grateful nod. Then, Lando looked toward the back of the room. He couldn't see your eyes under the cap, but he knew you were there. He stared right at you, his expression softening just a fraction, communicating a silent message: I’ve got you.

You let out a shaky breath, wiping your face. The car was broken. The fans were angry. But for the first time that day, you didn't feel like quitting.

You wanted to race.

The gym in Monaco was quiet, save for the rhythmic clank of iron and your own ragged breathing.

It had been three months since the crash. Three months since the chassis snapped. Three months since Lando and Lewis stood up for you.

You stared at the mirror. Taped to the glass, right at eye level, was a printout of a tweet.

@.user74 Biology is biology. Women don't have the neck strength for 5G cornering. It’s unsafe.

You adjusted the harness on your head, attached to the weighted pulley system designed to train neck muscles. You loaded it to 25kg. Then 30kg.

"Biology," you grunted through gritted teeth, pulling your head to the side, fighting the resistance until the muscles in your neck screamed.

You held it. One second. Two seconds. Three.

Snap. The memory of the car hitting the wall flashed, but you didn't flinch this time. You pulled harder.

Woking, UK (2:00 AM)

The McLaren Technology Centre (MTC) was a ghost town at night, except for the simulator room.

"Again," you said into the radio.

"Y/N," Tom Stallard’s voice came through, sounding tired. "That’s lap 150. Your consistency is within three-hundredths. Go home."

"Again," you repeated, staring at the virtual track of Interlagos on the wrap-around screens. "I missed the apex at Junção by a meter. Reset."

You were possessed. You had turned off your social media notifications. You had stopped reading the articles. Instead, you poured every ounce of frustration into the data. You learned the MCL39 better than you knew your own apartment. You knew how the differential behaved when the tires were 20% worn. You knew exactly how much curb you could take before the floor stalled.

You weren't driving to have fun anymore. You were driving to survive.

Late October

You were in your kitchen, making a protein shake, when your phone buzzed on the counter.

Caller ID: Zak Brown.

Your heart stopped. Usually, if it was good news, Lando called you. If it was bad news—like being dropped from the Academy—Zak called.

You wiped your hands on a towel and picked up. "Hello?"

"Y/N," Zak’s American accent was brisk, business-like. "Where are you?"

"London. At the flat."

"Can you get to a private terminal at Luton in two hours?"

You blinked. "I... yes. Why?"

"Oscar is down. Food poisoning, looks like salmonella. It’s bad. He’s not flying."

The realization hit you like a physical blow. It was race week. Brazil. The penultimate round of the triple header.

"We need a reserve," Zak said. "And looking at your sim data from the last month... the team feels you’re the best option. We’re putting you in the car, Y/N. For the whole weekend. FP1 through to the Race."

Your hand gripped the phone so tight your knuckles turned white. This wasn't a rookie session. This wasn't a test. This was a Grand Prix weekend. In Interlagos—one of the most difficult, physical tracks on the calendar.

"Y/N? You there?"

"I'm here," you said. Your voice was steady. Cold, almost. The fear that had paralyzed you three months ago was gone, replaced by a steely, quiet rage. "I'll be at the airport in ninety minutes."

"Good. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about the car. Just drive it."

Interlagos – Thursday Media Day

Walking into the paddock with a papaya team kit on felt different this time. The cameras clicked furiously as you walked alongside Lando. The whispers started immediately.

"Is that her?" "They’re actually letting her drive again?" "Brave move by McLaren."

Lando kept his sunglasses on, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with you, acting as a physical shield. But as you approached the turnstiles, you stopped him.

"I’m good," you said quietly.

Lando looked down at you, sliding his glasses down his nose. "You sure? The press is going to be annoying."

"I know." You adjusted your collar. "Let them talk. I’m not here to talk."

You walked past him, head high, straight toward the McLaren hospitality unit.

You walked past the journalist who had mocked you three months ago. He held out a microphone, opening his mouth to ask a question about the crash. You didn't even break stride. You looked right through him as if he didn't exist.

You went straight to the garage. You found your mechanic, the one who had to rebuild your car last time.

"Hey," you said.

He looked up, a bit wary. "Hey, Y/N."

"I know I made you work late last time," you said, looking at the pristine MCL39 sitting on the stands. "I'm not going to apologize again. But I am going to promise you something."

"What's that?"

You ran a hand over the smooth carbon of the sidepod.

"This weekend, we’re bringing back points. Not carbon fiber scraps."

The mechanic cracked a smile. "Just bring it back in one piece, and we're good."

"No," you said, your eyes dark and focused. "I'm not here to bring it back in one piece. I'm here to put it on the podium."

The silence was the loudest part.

When you crossed the line in Q3, the timing tower lit up. 1. VER 2. NOR 3. LEC 4. HAM 5. Y/N

You had out-qualified a Red Bull and a Ferrari. You were P5.

"Solid job, Y/N. P5. That’s a mega lap," Tom said over the radio.

"Copy," was all you said. No celebrating. The job wasn't done.

Interlagos was a cauldron. The air was thick and humid, the sky a bruised purple color that promised violence.

The lights went out. Five red lights, then darkness. Your reaction time was 0.22s. Instant. You launched off the line, the McLaren hooking up perfectly. Tsunoda in the Red Bull (P6) tried to squeeze you into Turn 1 (The Senna S), but you held your nerve, keeping the inside line, wheels interlocking for a terrifying second before he backed out.

"Nice work. Elbows out," Lando’s voice would have said if he could talk to you, but you knew he was fighting Max for the lead ahead.

Lap 40/71: The sky opened up. It didn't just rain; it poured. The track temperature plummeted.

"Box, Box. Intermediates. Box now," Tom yelled.

The pit lane was chaos. Cars were double-stacking. You dove into the pit box just as Lando peeled out. The crew was flawless—2.4 seconds. You exited the pits in P4, having jumped Leclerc who had a slow stop.

Lap 68/71: The track was treacherous. Drivers were sliding everywhere. Albon had spun out. Russell was in the wall. A Safety Car had bunched the pack up, and now, with 3 laps to go, the Safety Car was coming in.

You were P4. Ahead of you was Carlos Sainz in P3. Behind you was Lewis Hamilton, closing fast on fresher tires.

"Safety car in this lap. Track is wet but drying in Sector 3. Watch for standing water," Tom warned. "You have Lewis behind, gap 0.8."

"I don't care about Lewis," you snapped, your focus narrowing to a singular point. "I want Carlos."

"Copy that. Mode Push. Overtake is available."

Green flag. Spray kicked up like a wall of white fog. You couldn't see anything but the flashing red rain light of the Williams ahead.

Sainz went defensive into Turn 1. You feinted right, then switched back to the racing line, getting a better exit.

"Come on," you screamed inside your helmet.

You dragged the car up the hill towards Turn 4. The Williams was faster in a straight line, but the McLaren had the downforce in the corners.

Lap 70. Penultimate lap. Turn 4 is a downhill left-hander. In the wet, it’s a nightmare. Sainz took the middle line, protecting the inside.

You didn't go inside. You went around the outside.

It was a move that defied logic. To go around the outside in the rain required immense trust in the car and insane bravery. If you slipped, you were in the gravel.

You braked later than him. Much later. For a heartbeat, the car floated, hydroplaning slightly. Don't crash. Don't crash.

The tires bit. You swept around the outside of the Williams, your rear wheel millimetres from his front wing. You held the slide, throttle control absolute, and rocketed out of the corner ahead.

"YEEEES!" you screamed, the sound raw and guttural.

"What a move! What a move, Y/N!" Tom shouted, breaking his usual calm. "P3! You are P3! Bring it home!"

One more lap. You held the gap. You saw the checkered flag waving through the mist. Max won, Lando was P2... and you were P3.

Two McLarens on the podium.

"Chequered flag, Y/N! P3! That is a podium on your debut! Absolutely fantastic drive!"

You didn't answer immediately. You just started crying. Ugly, shaking tears that soaked your balaclava. The relief was a physical weight lifting off your chest.

"That," you choked out, your voice trembling over the global broadcast, "was for the girls."

You pulled the car into the number 3 board. You shut the engine off. Before you could even unbuckle, Lando was there.

He didn't wait. He jumped on the front left tire and leaned into the cockpit, grabbing your helmet with both hands, shaking it.

"I TOLD YOU!" he was yelling, his visor up, eyes wild with joy. "I TOLD THEM! YOU LEGEND!"

You climbed out, your legs shaking. The crowd was roaring. You took off your helmet, your hair plastered to your forehead with sweat.

The cameras were all on you. Carlos Sainz walked over and shook your hand. "Brave move," he said, looking impressed. "Crazy, but brave."

Then Lando tackled you in a hug, lifting you off your feet. "Mum is going to be freaking out," he laughed into your ear.

You pulled back and looked at the camera. You remembered the comments. You remembered the hate. You remembered the fear in the medical center.

You looked right down the lens. You didn't smile. You just winked.

The Press Conference (Post-Race)

You sat in the center seat (usually for the winner, but Max let you sit there for a moment while he signed hats). The same journalist from three months ago raised his hand. He looked sheepish.

"Y/N," he started, clearing his throat. "Incredible drive. That move on the outside of Turn 4... talk us through it."

You leaned into the mic, picking up the heavy P3 trophy and setting it down with a solid clunk.

"Well," you said, your voice calm and steady. "I just closed my eyes and hoped for the best. You know how us women get panicked in high-G situations."

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Max cracked a grin.

"But seriously," you continued, your expression sharpening. "The car was perfect. The team did an amazing job repairing it after... last time. This trophy is for the mechanics who stayed late to fix my mistakes, and for everyone who told me I belonged in the kitchen."

You tapped the trophy.

"I think I like it better here."

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In a world where soulmates exist, Lando Norris simply did not believe in them.

He believed in lap times. In tyre degradation. In brake temperatures and strategy calls and the particular kind of silence that came over a garage in the seconds before a race start. He believed in data because numbers did not care how badly someone wanted something to be true. They simply were.

Soulmates, on the other hand, were different.

Soulmates belonged to the world of late-night conversations, drunk confessions, soft music, and people who stared too long at each other across crowded rooms. They belonged to people who needed the universe to approve of their love before they trusted it themselves.

And Lando had never understood that.

Not because he hated love. He did not. He liked love, in the abstract sort of way people liked holidays they never had time to take. Love seemed nice. Stable. Warm. A place to come home to after the noise. His parents had it, and they were not soulmates. They had built a life together without some legendary bond tying their hands behind their backs and dragging them toward each other.

They had chosen each other.

To Lando, that had always seemed more impressive.

Everyone knew that soulmates were supposed to exist. Two people, assigned by whatever cosmic system people wanted to believe in, connected by something deeper than attraction, deeper than affection, deeper than love itself. A bond impossible to compare with anything else. Some people described meeting their soulmate as recognition. Some called it peace. Some said it felt like a door opening inside their chest after years of not knowing it had been locked.

Lando thought it sounded exhausting.

He had spent his entire adult life being looked at, studied, analysed, slowed down, sped up, praised, criticised, and discussed by strangers who believed they knew him because they watched him drive on Sundays. The idea that somewhere out there existed one more person with some special, invisible claim over him did not feel romantic.

It felt inconvenient.

“Do you think soulmates are real?”

The question came near the end of media day in Monaco, thrown at him by a journalist with bright eyes and a microphone too close to his face.

Lando blinked.

He had been expecting something about McLaren’s upgrade package. He had even prepared himself for a few jokes about his latest helmet design.

But soulmates?

He glanced to the side, where Oscar was pretending very badly not to laugh.

“Sorry?” Lando asked.

The journalist smiled wider, as if this was all part of the plan. “Soulmates. With Charles and Alexandra being so open recently about their bond, people are talking about it again. Do you believe in them?”

Of course.

It always came back to Charles and Alexandra.

Lando should have known.

The paddock had been obsessed with this new information. They had shared publicly, a little after their engagment announcement, that they were soulmates.

Apparently.

According to the story, it had been obvious from the beginning. Charles had seen her, she had seen him, and the world had rearranged itself quietly around them. A connection so clear neither of them had been able to deny it.

Lando had heard Charles describe it once, years ago, with his hands moving helplessly in the air because words kept failing him.

“It was like…” Charles had started, then stopped. “Like I had been waiting, but I did not know I was waiting.”

Lando had told him that sounded crazy, Charles on the other hand had not found it funny.

Now, under the white lights of the media pen, Lando shifted his weight from one foot to the other and forced a smile.

“I think people can be very happy without all that,” he said.

It was a good answer. Safe. Diplomatic. Difficult to cut into something ugly, though he knew the internet would try.

The journalist tilted her head. “So you don’t believe in the bond?”

Lando huffed a laugh. “I believe people believe in it.”

Oscar made a strangled sound beside him.

Lando ignored him.

“I mean, look,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “If people find someone and they’re happy, then great. Good for them. But I don’t think you need fate or the universe or whatever to tell you who to love. You can just… love them.”

It was honest enough.

The journalist looked delighted. That was never a good sign.

“And if you met your soulmate?”

“I probably wouldn’t care.”

This time, Oscar actually laughed.

Lando turned his head and gave him a look.

The journalist leaned in slightly. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Lando said. “I travel all the time. I meet hundreds of people. I have other things to think about. Maybe I already met them and I missed it. Tragic, really. But I really though I just wouldn't noticed them.”

He gave the camera a small grin, the kind that usually softened anything too blunt into something playful.

The journalist laughed. Oscar laughed. Someone behind them laughed too.

And just like that, the answer became a joke.

That was what Lando was good at. Taking things that could become too serious and making them easy to swallow. A grin here, a sarcastic comment there, and suddenly no one had to look too closely.

No one had to ask whether he meant it.

By the time media duties ended, the sun had begun to lower over the paddock, turning the glass walls gold and making everything look softer than it was. Lando tugged his cap lower over his curls and walked beside Oscar toward the McLaren hospitality, both of them weaving through engineers, cameras and guests.

“You’re going to get destroyed online for that,” Oscar said.

“For what?”

“For saying you wouldn’t notice your soulmate.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Oscar glanced at him. “That’s actually a bit sad.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “No it's sad to you.”

Oscar only smiled. “I’m not saying I believe in it completely.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar said, which was very Oscar of him. Careful. Measured. Unwilling to commit to an opinion without enough evidence. “I just think enough people have talked about it that maybe there’s something.”

“People also talk about ghosts.”

“I’m not ruling those out either.”

Lando stopped walking for half a second and stared at him.

Oscar kept going.

“Unbelievable,” Lando muttered, jogging a step to catch up. “I work with conspiracy theorists.”

“You work in Formula One. That's worse.”

That evening, Lando called his mum because she had texted him three times, which usually meant she had either seen something online or wanted to remind him to eat something green.

This time, it was both.

“You told a journalist you wouldn’t notice your soulmate?” she asked after approximately forty seconds of normal conversation.

Lando dropped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Not you as well.”

“I raised you to be smarter than that.”

“You raised me not to believe everything I hear.”

“I raised you to have manners.”

“It was a joke.”

“It did not sound like a joke.”

“Mum.”

She sighed. He could picture her perfectly: phone held close, eyebrows drawn together, the particular expression she got when she wanted to scold him but also missed him too much to commit fully to it.

“I just think,” she said, softer now, “that you should not close yourself off to things simply because you do not understand them.”

Lando closed his eyes.

He loved his mum. He did. But sometimes she had the terrible habit of saying things that went exactly where he did not want them to go.

“I’m not closed off.”

“You are a little.”

“I’m busy.”

“You have always been busy. Even when you were small, you found ways to be busy.”

“That’s called ambition.”

“That is called avoiding sitting still with your own feelings.”

Lando groaned. “I liked this conversation better when you were asking about vegetables.”

She laughed, and the sound made his chest ache with homesickness so sudden he almost hated it.

“You know,” she said, “your uncle did not believe in it either.”

“Oh my God.”

“He didn’t.”

“The supermarket story again?”

“It is a good story.”

“It is a ridiculous story.”

“It was a normal Tuesday,” she continued, ignoring him completely. “He went in for milk and came out having met the person he would spend the rest of his life with.”

“That sounds like poor shopping discipline.”

“He said he knew within one minute.”

“He’s dramatic.”

“He is very dramatic,” she admitted. “But he knew.”

Lando opened his eyes again.

“What if he just wanted to know?” Lando asked before he could stop himself.

His mum was quiet for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He rubbed at his face. “What if people feel something because they want to feel it? What if they meet someone they like and decide it must be fate because that makes it more special?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because then it was not real.

Because then everything people built around it was just hope wearing a costume.

Because then Charles might be wrong, and his uncle might be wrong, and millions of people might be walking around believing they had touched something divine when really they had only fallen in love.

Because then, if it ever happened to him, he would not know whether to trust it.

Lando said none of that.

Instead, he shrugged, even though she could not see him. “I just think love should be enough without making it into some big universe thing.”

His mum’s voice softened again. “Love is enough, sweetheart. That does not mean there cannot be more.”

He swallowed.

More.

There was that idea again.

More than love. More than choice. More than ordinary happiness.

He thought of his parents in the kitchen at home. His dad making tea. His mum laughing at something stupid. The two of them moving around each other with the ease of years, not because the universe had pushed them together, but because they had stayed. Because every day, in tiny ways no one applauded, they kept choosing the same life.

What could be more than that?

“I have to sleep,” Lando said.

His mum let him go because she knew him well enough to hear the door closing in his voice.

“Eat properly tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“And be kind.”

“I’m always kind.”

She made a doubtful sound.

“Wow. Okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, love.”

The call ended.

For a while, Lando did not move.

Outside the window, Monaco carried on without him. Cars moved through the streets. People laughed somewhere below. The world continued its strange, endless motion, full of people searching for signs in everything.

He reached for his phone, which was always a mistake. The clip from the interview had already spread.

LANDO NORRIS SAYS HE WOULDN’T NOTICE HIS SOULMATE.

The comments were exactly what he expected.

Some people thought he was funny.

A few people seemed genuinely offended, as if his lack of belief was a personal attack on their marriages.

He had a race weekend to focus on. A car to understand. A team depending on him. He did not have time for soulmates.

He did not have time to wonder whether something was missing in his life.

The next morning, he arrived early in the paddock.

He was often one of the first there.

Monaco was already bright outside, the sort of bright that made everything look sharp and expensive and vaguely unreal. The air still carried some of the sea with it, that clean salt edge slipping in between the sterile smell of polished surfaces and machine oil. Inside the McLaren guest area, it was silent enough that he could hear the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint clink of someone working in the kitchen further back.

Practice day.

He needed his head clear.

He needed a few minutes where he did not have to be charming or quick or available. A few minutes before the radios, before the cameras, before the walls of Monaco closed in and demanded every fraction of his attention in return for letting him leave them untouched.

He sat down on one of the couches in the guest area and let himself sink into it, stretching his legs out slightly, tipping his head back. Then he closed his eyes.

The quiet gathered around him almost immediately.

It was never complete, not in a Formula One paddock, not even this early, but it was enough. Enough to feel his breathing steady. Enough to loosen the hard knot between his shoulders. Enough to let the noise in his head fade into something duller, further away.

For a moment, he could almost pretend the world had not been clawing at him for years.

He sat there with his eyes shut, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting across his stomach, and did what he had taught himself to do long ago: forget about everything for a moment. Even at rest there was always something restless under his skin, some endless current of thought and performance and pressure that never fully slept. But he knew how to imitate peace well enough to borrow it for a while.

And then the silence shattered, a loud, ugly bang came from the entrance.

Lando’s eyes snapped open.

He did not move at first. He just stared ahead, jaw tightening, hoping whoever it was would immediately realise the problem and fix it. A single mistake, fine. It was early. People were stupid in the morning.

Then came a second bang, and a scrape.

And then, somehow worse than both, the unmistakable sound of someone aggressively trying to force a door open in the wrong direction.

Lando closed his eyes again for a brief second, exhaling through his nose.

There was a sign on that door.

A clear one.

Pull.

Another thud.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He pushed himself off the couch and headed toward the entrance, irritation already spreading through him fast and familiar. There was something uniquely infuriating about having peace interrupted by avoidable stupidity. He had so little patience for it in the morning. Less so when he knew the rest of the day would demand more from him than he wanted to give.

The figure on the other side of the glass shoved at the door again, shoulder turned slightly.

Lando reached the entrance and yanked it open.

The person outside stumbled half a step forward, caught off guard by the sudden movement.

And then he saw her: Paula.

Of course it was Paula.

For a single moment, he only stared at her, as if his brain had refused to make sense of what his eyes were telling it. The bright blue of her eyes, the loose fall of her hair, the look of immediate offense that crossed her face the second she recognized him.

It had to be her.

It could never have been anyone else.

Because apparently whatever higher power existed had a vicious sense of humour, and if Lando had managed to steal ten quiet minutes for himself, the universe had clearly decided to correct that mistake.

Paula was one of Pietra’s best friends. Also, somehow, part of Max Fewtrell’s orbit in the way people became part of Max’s orbit and then stayed there forever. She had insisted on coming to Monaco with them that weekend, and he had only agreed to get her a VIP pass because he knew exactly how insufferable Pietra would become if he refused. Max would pretend not to get involved while absolutely enjoying every second of it, and Pietra would drag the whole thing out for days.

So he had said yes, not because he wanted to, certainly not because he was pleased about it.

He and Paula had known each other for years, and for reasons he genuinely could not remember anymore, they had always hated each other.

Or not hated, perhaps. Hate implied a kind of clean certainty. What existed between them was messier than that. Older. Sharper. Something worn down by repetition until it had become instinctive. Everyone in the friend group knew it. Everyone knew not to leave them alone unless they wanted a fight, or worse, one of those long stretches of icy silence where neither of them said a word but the anger still sat between them like a loaded weapon.

It wasn’t his fault, she was unbelievably irritating.

And right now, with one hand still on the door handle she had failed to understand, she looked exactly like the reason his morning had been ruined.

Lando held the door open and said, in a detached, flat voice, “There’s a sign here. Can’t read?”

Her gaze snapped to his face fully now, blue eyes narrowing.

“I can read,” she said. “It just didn’t work.”

He let out a disbelieving breath. “It says pull.”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“Then why the fuck were you pushing?”

She stared at him for half a second, like she couldn’t quite believe he was starting this. “I...” She stopped, shook her head once. “I don’t know. It’s the morning. Why are you messing with me already?”

Lando gave a short, humourless laugh and stepped aside to let her through. “Oh, I’m messing with you?”

She brushed past him, muttering under her breath, and the scent of her perfume caught him before he could step away. Something soft and expensive and annoyingly familiar. He ignored it.

He let the door shut behind her and followed a few steps into the room.

“Yes,” Paula shot back, turning to face him. “You are. Obviously.”

“Right,” he said. “Just so you know, I’m the driver here. You’re the guest. A guest here thanks to my kindness, by the way. And I was resting. You just woke me up.”

Paula stopped moving altogether.

Then she gave him a look so full of disbelief it was almost theatrical.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thin with sarcasm. “Am I supposed to what? Kneel and beg for your forgiveness?”

Lando folded his arms. “Would be a start.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Please.”

“You’re here because I let you be here.”

She laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “No, I’m here because you knew Pietra would make a scene out of it if you refused.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah? Maybe. Still, you are not welcome here.”

The second the words left his mouth, something changed.

It was subtle at first. Just a flicker in her face, a small stillness. But it was enough to cut through the rhythm of their usual argument.

Paula looked at him differently, her expression closed, then tightened, then opened again into something worse than anger.

That should have made him stop.

Instead he frowned, still too irritated to understand why she was suddenly looking at him like that. “What?”

“God, you really have to talk about this now?”

The room seemed to shift, becoming too bright, too sharp around them. Lando felt his annoyance falter, not disappear but lose some of its certainty.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Paula’s face changed again, and this time there was no mistaking it. There was something rawer, something darker. Something that did not belong in one of their usual stupid fights.

“You know what that’s supposed to mean,” she said.

He didn’t. That's the problem.

For a moment she just stared at him, then she gave a short, empty laugh and looked away, blinking too quickly.

“God,” she said, voice unsteady now, “I’m sorry about the door, okay?”

That stopped him more effectively than if she’d shouted.

Paula never apologized to him, never.

He looked at her properly then, and the anger inside him stumbled over itself. Her eyes were bright, not fully wet but close enough that he noticed. Close enough that it made something uncomfortable shift in his chest.

And immediately, defensively, his mind pushed back.

No, she was always like this. Too quick to react, too easy to offend, too willing to twist a conversation until he somehow ended up being the villain for saying exactly what he meant. She had always had that effect on him, dragging something harsher out of him than most people could reach. That wasn’t new. None of this was new.

Still, looking at her now, he felt wrong-footed in a way he hated.

Paula turned away from him, adjusting her bag on her shoulder with jerky, irritated movements, then she walked off.

Lando stayed where he was.

He didn’t call after her. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t ask what exactly he had said that had hit so hard. Pride stopped some of it. Confusion stopped the rest.

He just stood there in the middle of the guest area with the morning light spilling across the floor and the silence slowly closing back in around him, though it no longer felt peaceful. It felt stripped raw now, like the room had witnessed something ugly and was waiting for him to admit it.

He really didn't understand her reaction.

All he knew was that Paula had looked hurt, and that he hated the sight of it for reasons he had no intention of examining this early in the morning.

After a while, he exhaled and dragged a hand over his face, already irritated at himself now too.

Lando carried on with his day because there was nothing else to do.

He went to briefing. He listened to run plans. He answered questions about balance and tyre prep and the expected traffic for the session. He nodded at the right moments, looked at the screens, asked for clarification when needed.

Inside, though, the morning kept replaying.

It was not even a big fight, which only made it more irritating.

He had had hundreds of arguments with Paula before. Thousands, probably, if he counted every snapped remark, every glare across a dinner table, every tense silence in a room full of friends who were trying not to notice them noticing each other too much. He had no shortage of good memories where she was concerned.

Paula rolling her eyes at him in London because he had interrupted her. Paula telling him, in Barcelona, that he was insufferable even when he was in a good mood. Paula refusing to sit beside him at a birthday dinner because, according to her, she wanted one peaceful evening in her life. Paula in Ibiza, sun-drunk and sharp-tongued, laughing at him in a way that had made him want to say something cruel enough to wipe the smile off her face. Paula outside hotels, inside clubs, in villas, in hospitality suites, always there, always somehow managing to get under his skin before she had even done anything particularly offensive.

Every memory of her ended badly.

Because she was insufferable.

Because she had this incredible talent for saying exactly the thing that made him feel mocked, cornered, exposed, or stupid, and once he felt any one of those things, he could never seem to leave it alone. He always had to say something back. Something sharper. Something better. Something that reminded her she was not the only one capable of drawing blood.

And somehow no one else saw it.

That irritated him too. Maybe more than it should have.

People found Paula funny. Charming, even. They called her blunt, honest, difficult in an affectionate way that made Lando want to laugh. Difficult was one word for it. Unbearable was another. But when she made a comment, everyone found it entertaining. When Lando answered, suddenly it was: maybe don’t start, or for God’s sake, can you two not do this tonight?

As if he was the one creating something out of nothing, as if Paula did not stand there with her bright eyes and her cutting smile and act like his existence was a private joke.

So no, he did not understand why this particular fight kept returning to him, again and again, like a bruise he could not stop pressing just to make sure it still hurt.

It had been nothing.

A stupid door. A stupid conversation. Her being annoying. Him being annoyed.

That should have been all.

Instead, the look on her face kept coming back with a persistence that felt almost invasive.

By midday, the frustration was showing.

He knew it before anyone said anything, because he could feel it in the way people looked at him a fraction longer than usual, in the way conversations around him paused slightly before continuing. He was shorter in his answers. Sharper with the engineers, though not enough to be unfair. Less patient with the endless interruptions that came with being him. His smiles were thinner. His jokes, when he made them at all, had edges.

He had escaped the guest area for a while and drifted toward the back of the paddock, where the noise dulled slightly and people were less likely to stop him for something pointless. He had hoped the walk would clear his head.

It didn’t.

He found Max leaning against one of the barriers, coffee in one hand, scrolling through his phone with the kind of ease that came from not having to carry the weight of a team or a car or an expectation on his shoulders.

Max looked up as Lando approached and seemed to read something in his face immediately, because his expression shifted.

“What’s happened to you?” Max asked.

Lando stopped beside him and stared out toward the paddock for a second before answering.

“Paula,” he said through his teeth.

Max closed his eyes briefly, as if in prayer.

“Of course.”

Lando glanced at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Max said, taking a slow sip of coffee, “that every time you say her name like that, I know I’m about to hear the most avoidable problem in the world described like a national emergency. I'm sure she did nothing wrong again.”

Lando let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“Nothing wrong?” he repeated. “She disturbed my peace, I was basically asleep, and she was trying to open a door by pushing it when it was clearly meant to be pulled. There was a sign, Max. An actual sign. One word. Very simple. And then somehow she made it worse by getting clever with me.”

Max looked at him for a long moment, his brows slightly raised, the way they always were when Lando was saying something he clearly believed and Max clearly did not.

“Right,” Max said at last. “Because of course you just helped her. Opened the door. Said hello.”

Lando opened his mouth.

Somewhere behind the immediate defensiveness, something caught.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. Then, less certain: “Yeah, I did...I did that.”

Max made a quiet sound that was not quite disbelief and not quite amusement.

“Lando.”

“What?”

“I know you.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but Max kept looking at him with that same steady, unhurried expression that was somehow more annoying than open judgment. Max was one of the few people in Lando’s life who did not rush to fill silence, which meant he often just waited until Lando said the thing he had been trying not to say.

It was manipulative, frankly.

“I know,” Max said, setting his coffee down on the barrier beside him, “that you cannot help being disrespectful with her.”

Lando turned fully toward him. “I’m not disrespectful.”

Max gave him a look.

“I’m not,” Lando repeated, sharper now. “She disrespects me. I simply answer it.”

“Right,” Max said blandly.

“Why are you taking her side?”

“I’m not taking her side.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Max said again, calmer this time, which only made Lando feel more unreasonable. “I’m saying maybe she’s always annoyed around you because you speak to her like she has personally offended you by breathing.”

Lando said nothing.

Max sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not saying she’s perfect. She’s not. Paula can be a nightmare. But you...” He cut himself off and shook his head once. “You are not exactly making it easy for her either.”

Lando laughed without humour. “Easy for her?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not my job.”

“No,” Max agreed. “But maybe not making every interaction worse would be nice.”

Lando looked away.

The paddock moved around them in blurred fragments of colour and noise. Team kits, camera flashes, branded caps, lanyards swinging against chests, voices layered over voices until none of it meant anything anymore. He usually liked standing half inside that noise without really being touched by it. Today it all grated.

He could still hear Paula’s voice in his head.

Max lifted his coffee again. “Just breathe, okay? Relax. You probably won’t even see her again today. Focus on the car.”

Lando gave a small, bitter laugh. “Right. Yeah.”

But even as he said it, irritation tightened again behind his ribs.

“That’s why I don’t want her at the races,” he muttered. “It messes with my brain. It's really annoying.”

Max looked at him sideways. “I really don’t think Paula is powerful enough to destroy your entire race weekend.”

“She can, trust me, you say that because you’re not in my head.”

“Thank God I'm not.”

Lando shoved at his shoulder lightly, but there was no real force behind it. Max smiled, though it faded quickly when he looked at Lando properly again.

He wanted to stay irritated. Irritation was simple. Irritation had shape. It gave him something to hold. But under it there was something less clean and more dangerous, the sense that this morning had mattered in a way he did not understand. And if he didn’t understand it, he couldn’t control it, which was the sort of thing that made him meaner than usual.

Max seemed to recognise that some line had been reached, because he let the conversation go.

“Go get ready,” he said finally. “You’ve got FP2.”

Lando nodded once.

“Yeah.”

He left before Max could say anything else.

The walk toward the driver rooms should have helped.

There was comfort in routine, usually. Comfort in the repetition of it all. Corridor after corridor, turn after turn, security guards and engineers and hospitality staff nodding as he passed, everything arranged around the precise machinery of a race weekend. Even the team-only side of the garage had its own kind of hush to it, insulated from the more public parts of the paddock. The air there always felt cooler, touched with the faint sterile smell of clean floors, technical equipment, laundry detergent from freshly hung race suits.

He kept walking and turned a corner too quickly and nearly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.

He checked himself sharply, one hand lifting instinctively, his body already braced for impact that never fully came.

The other person jerked back too.

Lando’s irritation rose before he had even lifted his eyes.

Paula. Again.

For one beat they just stared at each other in the bright, too-clean corridor, both caught in the awkward half-second after almost touching. She looked startled, her hand still tight around the strap of her bag, her breath just slightly uneven. Up close, the morning seemed to have taken more out of her than he had realised earlier. There was tiredness under her eyes, faint but there. Something more guarded in the set of her mouth.

His annoyance recovered first.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the sharpness back in his voice before he had decided to use it. “It’s the team-only side of the garage.”

Paula blinked once, as if she had expected many things from him and somehow still not this.

“I was looking for the toilet,” she said. “I got lost.”

The answer was so mundane it should have softened him.

Instead he let out a short breath through his nose and glanced up toward the sign hanging clearly over the intersecting corridor.

“God,” he said. “You really can’t read signs, no?”

He turned halfway, lifting his hand to point down the left corridor. “It’s that way.”

She followed the direction of his finger with her eyes, then looked back at him.

“Right,” she said quietly.

"I swear you are the most annoying person ever."

The silence that followed was immediate.

Paula’s face did not change very much, which somehow made it worse. She did not glare. Did not snap. Did not laugh in that cutting way she usually did when she wanted him to feel how ridiculous he sounded. She only looked at him for a second longer, and in that look there was such clear, exhausted hurt that it made something in him recoil.

“Sorry. Don’t need to be this mean,” she said.

That was all.

No insult. No clever comeback. No deliberately sharpened smile meant to wound him back.

Just that.

Then she turned and walked in the direction he had pointed, her steps quick and neat against the polished floor, one hand still wrapped too tightly around the strap of her bag.

Lando stood where he was. He watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

The corridor felt suddenly too still, too bright.

What the hell was wrong with her today?

Because this wasn’t Paula.

Paula fought back. Always. Even when she was in a bad mood, even when she was tired, even when she had clearly had enough of him, she fought back. She had never been the sort of person who took a blow quietly. That was part of what made everything between them so exhausting. She never left him the satisfaction of the last word.

But twice now, in one day, she had looked at him like he had reached something raw in her by accident, and then walked away without trying to punish him for it.

That unsettled him more than any argument could have.

He leaned his head back against the wall behind him for a second and shut his eyes.

Because he was suddenly, inexplicably, ashamed.

The feeling was immediate and unwelcome. It moved under his skin like heat, like something exposed. He didn’t know what to do with it. Shame required clarity. It required knowing which line had been crossed, where, and why. But all he had was a series of sharp words and Paula looking at him as if he was proving something she had wanted very badly not to learn.

Lando pushed away from the wall.

He still had FP2. He still had to get changed. He still had a car waiting for him, a team waiting for him, another session of threading himself through Monaco’s walls with his pulse steady and his mind clean.

He started walking again.

But as he headed toward his driver room, one thought refused to leave him.

What is wrong with her ?

Tell me if you want to be add to the taglit !

Taglist : @drdbnkl2008 fartlover300 jademarlowboo realswimshaddy azeies fuckingsimp4azriel jasmineluvf1 viper-0800 elegancefr noneedtoaskhesasmoothoperatorr moonlight52moonlight lily234566 papayasolace13 f1fantasys hart-kinsella clovermoters emma-manuhpe

kimi.antonelli Dreams really do come true. Let's get to work!

user8 yall are pissing me tf OFFFFF

lewishamilton Huge congrats mate

user29 truly think kimi's gonna do wonders but this feels so wrong for y/n...

georgerussell63 Welcome, mate 👊 Can't wait to get started

user72 Remember when mercedes said they were "building around y/n?" where tf is that energy now

user12 everyone's blaming kimi when he's literally done nothing lol

user90 why did they let admin post this knowing the comments are going to be MESSY

user53 laurent mekies refreshing the comments like 😋

redbullracing

liked by maxverstappen1, redbull, and 6,329,340 others

redbullracing Oracle Red Bull Racing is delighted to announce the signing of Y/N L/N on a multi-year agreement ahead of the 2026 FIA Formula One World Championship.

A proven race winner with exceptional pace and determination. Welcome to the family.

#RedBullRacing #YNLN #F1

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yourinstagram new beginnings babyyy

user63 TOTO YOU FUMBLED SO BAD

user5 merc basically spoon fed redbull

lando LETS GOOOOOO

lewishamilton Proud of you.

user72 other drivers interacting here more than the other side is kinda...

danielricciardo oh? OH?

user21 how do you even explain horner getting fired then the new tp hiring y/n l/n to a normal person

user4 imagine dropping your race winner only for your rivals to sign her IMMEDIATELY.

user10 admin was READY to post this

Your phone vibrated against your bedside table at exactly 8 AM.

You ignored it, pulling the duvet tighter around your shoulders, trying to cling to the final moments of sleep. Then it buzzed again. And again.

By the time you finally rolled over and blindly reached into the cold air to grab it, the bright light of the screen illuminated the room. It displayed an overwhelming amount of notification.

Your eyes adjusted to the glare, and the first major headline locked into focus.

BREAKING: Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS F1 Team confirms Kimi Antonelli as race driver for the 2026 FIA Formula One World Championship.

For a long second, you forgot to breathe. You didn't like the post. You didn't read the caption. You didn't need to.

Deep down, in the quietest part of your mind, you had known this day was coming for months. But seeing it written out officially still felt like a punch to the face.

Before you could even fully process the quiet sink in your chest, the screen lit up with another notification, overriding the first.

Oracle Red Bull Racing is delighted to announce the signing of Y/N L/N on a multi-year agreement.

For the last six months, your stomach had been in a permanent, tight knot. You had spent half a year waiting for the axe to fall. There had been endless, grueling meetings behind closed doors, hushed conversations in the back of the units, and polite but entirely empty smiles from Toto whenever you passed him.

You had been living in a state of constantly performing while knowing your seat was actively being shopped around.

Mercedes had chosen their teenage prodigy, Kimi.

But Red Bull, the ruthless giants of the grid, had chosen you.

You unlocked your phone, knowing immediately that it was a terrible mistake to do so on a morning like this. Within half a second, your social media feed refreshed itself, instantly descending into madness.

RED BULL SNATCHES MERCEDES STAR Y/N L/N ANTONELLI PROMOTED. L/N DEPARTS IN SHOCK MULTI-YEAR DEAL. WOLFF'S BIGGEST GAMBLE?

You scrolled down, your eyes catching the comment sections, which were updating so rapidly that the text literally blurred.

"Mercedes absolutely bottled it. How do you let a proven race winner walk away just to gamble on a kid? Toto has lost his mind."

"Kimi is the future, it's the right move. Mercedes is playing the long game. People said the same thing about Lewis back in the day."

"This is going to age horribly for Mercedes. Y/N is going to have the biggest advantage on her shoulders now."

"Max is going to absolutely destroy her. No one survives the second seat. It's a career killer."

The official announcements had been live for less than five minutes, and the internet had already mapped out the entire trajectory of your career, predicting either your ultimate downfall or your greatest revenge.

Before you could read any further, an incoming call came. You swiped the screen to answer, immediately putting him on speaker and placing the phone back down on the bed as you sat up, wrapping your arms around your knees.

"You've seen it?" Luca's voice slightly muffled, the low hum of morning traffic in the background suggesting he was already driving to work.

You let out a dry laugh. "I mean it's kind of impossible to miss. I think my phone is about to explode."

"I've had six different journalist call my personal number already," Luca said, his tone in sheer disbelief. "Half of them didn't even say hello! They just started asking if I was going with you."

"Only six?" you teased, trying to put some lightheartedness into the morning. "You're losing your touch. Usually, you're the most popular guy in the paddock."

"Just give it ten minutes," he sighed.

Luca had been your race engineer since the very first weekend you had ever turned the wheel. He was the calm, steady voice in your ear through the highest highs of your first podium and the absolute, miserable lows of failures and bad pit stops.

You two had spent countless late nights locked inside cramped rooms, arguing over strategy, upgrades, and degradation until the security guards had to physically knock on the door and tell you to leave.

He wasn't just your engineer. He was your anchor in a sport that constantly tried to pull you under.

"You okay?" Luca's voice softened, dropping his usual tone.

"I'm relieved, honestly. I didn't think I would be, but the moment they released it, it felt like a massive weight was lifted off my chest."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"And you?" you asked. "How are you feeling about it all?"

"I'm furious," Luca admitted frankly. "You deserved a hell of a lot better than finding out once they've made their decision. They dragged their feet for months, keeping you on the hook while they finalized Kimi's contract. It's straight up disrespectful."

You didn't argue. Because he was entirely right.

Losing the opportunity to continue with Mercedes hurt. But the coldness of how they had handled it, making you play the role of the loyal team player while they secretly prepared your replacement, hurt a lot deeper.

"You know, I'm going to miss working with you," Luca said quietly, his voice cracking just a fraction.

Your throat tightened suddenly. "I'm going to miss yelling at you over the radio."

He laughed. "You mean ignoring my perfectly calculated strategy calls?"

"Luca, I love you, but they were usually terrible strategy calls."

"Hey, they won you races!"

lucaromano

liked by lewishamilton, yourinstagram, and 423,749 others

lucaromano I've been lucky enough to be there for the highs, the lows, the podiums, the celebrations, the frustrating sundays, and the little moments nobody sees.

Wherever you go next, I'll always be cheering.

P.S. Lucky misses you already. 🐶

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user16 oh i know LUCA HATES THEM

user47 race engineer subtweet is crazy

yourinstagram don't make me CRY

yourinstagram i don't think i'll ever find anyone who puts up with me like u do

yourinstagram im cryifn couldn't have asked for a better person next to me through all of this

user82 the fact everyone knows luca and y/n are a package deal 😭

user3 luca being the first person she looks for after getting out of the car will always be my roman empire

user29 they really broke up the best engineer-driver pairing for WHAT

user44 the fact that he NEVER posts and THIS is what he chooses to post

Three hundred miles away, in the heart of London, the cameras were already rolling in the Sky Sports studio.

Naomi Schiff leaned forward in her chair, her expression serious as she looked into the camera.

"I think Mercedes made the biggest gamble of the decade," Naomi said, gesturing with her pen toward the graphics on the screen.

"And let me clarify, this is not a criticism of Kimi. We all know he is an incredibly fast, generational talent. But Mercedes has allowed Y/N L/N, a driver who already knows exactly how to handle the immense pressure of a top-tier team, to walk straight out of their building and into their biggest rival's garage."

Nico Rosberg, sitting directly next to her with his arms crossed, nodded in agreement.

"If I was Red Bull," Nico said, a sharp, knowing smirk on his face, "I'm absolutely popping champagne today. You're getting a driver who's hungry, highly experienced, and massively motivated by how she was treated. Mercedes didn't just lose potential today, they lost guaranteed points to their rivals."

Jenson Button folded his arms, playing devil's advocate to keep the debate going.

"But you have to look at the long-term future here, Nico. Kimi represents the next decade for Mercedes. Sometimes you have to take a massive risk in the present to build the next era."

"The future doesn't score points in the constructors' today, Jenson," Naomi countered. "Red Bull just got significantly stronger, and Mercedes just handed them the perfect match."

By the early afternoon, you were walking through the doors of the Red Bull building in Milton Keynes.

As you walked through the main lobby, mechanics and engineers looked at you. Instead of the polite, formal nods you were used to, you were greeted with broad smiles and enthusiastic waves.

"About time you got here!" a voice shouted.

Another mechanic, dressed in team kit, held up a can of Red Bull, grinning widely. "Welcome to the dark side! I assure you that we have the better parties."

You couldn't help the genuine smile that spread across your face. It felt incredibly warm. It didn't feel like a PR stunt, and it didn't feel forced for the sake of the cameras.

For the first time in over a year, you felt like a driver who was actively wanted, rather than a driver who was simply being tolerated.

Mekies walked beside you, keeping his hands casual in his pockets as he guided you toward the simulator building.

"I told you," Mekies said in a reassuring voice, looking over at you with a small smile. "We wanted you here. We don't sign drivers just to fill a seat or to make up the numbers. We sign them because we believe they can help us win. Remember that."

Before you could reply, the doors of the simulator bay slid open with a soft hiss. Max stepped out, a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair slightly damp from a grueling simulator run.

He spotted you immediately. He didn't wait for his manager to introduce you, he didn't look around to see if any cameras were watching.

He just walked straight over to you and stopped, towering slightly over you.

"So," Max said, wiping his face with the towel.

"So," you replied, tilting you head up slightly and matching his tone.

"It's official, then."

"I guess. No turning back now."

He nodded once, his eyes analyzing your face, looking for any sign of hesitation. "You ready for this?"

"I think so," you said, keeping your voice steady.

Max shrugged, amusement appearing in his eyes. "I hope not. If you already think you're completely ready, this place gets boring very quickly. You have to keep pushing."

"Is that your way of a motivational welcome speech, Max?"

"Yeah," he said simply. "Pretty good, right?"

"Did you practice that in the mirror this morning?"

"No. I don't waste time on that."

"You probably should have," you retorted. "It needs a bit of work."

A grin broke across Max's face. He reached out, shaking your hand with a firm grip. "Welcome to the team, future champ."

yourinstagram via instagram story!

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user86 damn seeing her in any other color is giving me jumpscares honestly

user42 SHE LOOKS GOOD WITH IT IM SORRY YALL

user5 i just stared at this for 5 minutes in silence

lando finally got u in the right color

user21 and to think she was just mercedes' rookie

mercedesamgf1

liked by kimi.antonelli, yourinstagram, and 3,213,300 others

mercedesamgf1 Join us live from the Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team headquarters as we welcome Kimi Antonelli to the race team!

Kimi and George Russell will sit down with the media to discuss the new season, the challenges ahead, and the future of the Silver Arrows.

#F1 #Mercedes #KimiAntonelli #GeorgeRussell

Kimi stood in the main lobby, nervously adjusting the stiff collar of his brand-new team shirt. He looked incredibly younger under the lights that had been set up for the press day, his eyes wide and slightly overwhelmed as he took everyone crammed into the space.

George walked past the media pen, noticing the visible tension in the teenager's shoulders. He reached out, clapping a hand firmly on Kimi's shoulder with an encouraging smile.

"You'll be fine, mate. Just breathe and stick to the talking points."

"Yeah, I'm trying," Kimi muttered, offering a weak smile in return. "But there's so many people."

The moment Kimi sat down, a dozen microphones were instantly thrust into his face.

"Kimi! Do you feel any personal guilt taking Y/N L/N's seat, especially considering how much she has contributed to the development of the cars?"

Kimi blinked, the carefully memorized, media-trained answers completely evaporating from his mind. He looked down, swallowed hard, and tried his absolute best to find words that wouldn't cause a massive headline.

"Look... I don't think any driver ever wants to see another driver lose their seat," Kimi said, his voice quiet. "We all know how hard it is to get to this level. This was a dream opportunity for me and my family, and it was an opportunity I simply couldn't say no to."

Down in Italy, Lewis was sitting in the Ferrari lounge, dressed in his striking new team gear. He was quietly sipping a cup of espresso, watching the live coverage of the Mercedes press day on the screen.

Charles walked past, stopping to look at the screen before glancing at Lewis. "So? What do you think of the big swap?"

Lewis didn't take his eyes off the screen. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking his watch with a knowing smile. "I give it exactly an hour before they invent a rivalry between them. They love a good villain story."

He tapped his screen, scrolling through his contacts until he found your name, and hit dial. You answered on the second ring, your voice sounding a bit breathless.

"Congratulations," Lewis said immediately, his familiar voice instantly cutting through the noise in your head.

"Thanks?" you replied. "Congratulations to you, too. I have to say, seeing you in red is still going to take some getting used to."

Lewis chuckled softly. "They're acting like like the championship's starting today. The press is going absolutely crazy."

"It definitely feels chaotic," you admitted. "I haven't even sat in the car yet."

"It's all just noise," Lewis said, his tone turning serious and protective. "You have the whole year to write your story. Don't let them get inside your head."

"I'm trying not to. But it's hard when every second post is comparing my stats to his."

"And they're going to keep doing that," Lewis warned gently. "Every single weekend."

"I know."

"Don't play their game. Show them exactly why you belong in that seat."

f1

liked by redbullracing, mercedesamgf1, and 5,290,401 others

f1 The FIA has officially confirmed the media schedule for the upcoming Formula 1 Pre-Season Testing at the Bahrain International Circuit.

Teams and drivers will take to the track for the first time ahead of the new season, with media sessions, press conferences, and testing programmes scheduled throughout the week.

Full driver appearances and press conference timings are now available.

#F1 #Formula1

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user61 THISLL BE THE FIRST TIME WE SEE Y/N IN A RED BULL GARAGE AND KIMI IN A MERCEDES GARAGE

user3 i love how everyone already knows that the first conference is going to be the most watched non-race event in f1 history

user78 MAX AND Y/N IN MATCHING TEAM GEAR IM READY

By the late afternoon, the FIA officially released the media schedule for the upcoming pre-season testing in Bahrain.

Your phone buzzed again in your hand. It was your personal PR manager, who had been managing your media presence since your MotoGP career.

"Hey, do you have a quick second? I have a slight update regarding the media run."

"Please tell me it's actually a simple update, Ryland," you groaned, leaning your head back. "My brain is completely fried."

"Well... the media delegate just sent over a last-minute change to the seating arrangements for the main stage." Ryland paused, clearing his throat.

"Instead of seating us by teams like they usually do, they've decided to mix the order to create a more 'dynamic visual.' Their words not mine."

You sat up. "What do you mean? How are they mixing it?"

"It means... you'll be sitting directly between Max..."

He hesitated, letting the silence stretch for a beat.

"...and Kimi."

You closed your eyes, letting out a long, slow breath as you rubbed your temples. "You have got to be kidding me."

"I wish I was joking," Ryland said. "Everyone's throwing a party online. They know exactly what they're going to get."

After you hung up, you stared at your blank phone screen for a long moment. You locked your phone, tossed it onto the sofa, and looked out at the rainy night.

Tomorrow, the talking would finally stop. Tomorrow, you'd see them all again. And tomorrow, the real fight would begin.

━━━━━━━━━★

the pressure of fighting for a Formula 1 world championship is already familiar territory for Lando, but defending the title to become a two-time world champion seems to demand three times the oxygen of any normal human being.

the season is a proper war of attrition, a relentless test of nerves, endurance and sanity. it is entire weekends cooped up in the McLaren motorhome, the hum of the simulators echoing late into the night through the thin walls, the scent of strong coffee mingling with leather upholstery, and the constant tension of a point-to-point title fight that drags on, painfully, until this final race of the year.

the whole grid holds its breath; the motorsport world watches with bated breath, but for you, the focus has never been on the cars on track, but on the stubborn lad behind the dark visor.

for both of you, the last few years have been exactly like this: intense, fast-paced and completely intertwined, as if time has been running on a different scale since your paths first crossed. nobody would have thought that a chance bump in the paddock three years ago — back when you were still trying to make sense of the chaotic garage dynamics, the technical jargon and the non-stop stream of people, and he was just the talented driver with an easy smile and a stray curl falling over his forehead — would turn into each other’s anchor.

your romance is not a heavily guarded secret, but rather a safe haven built with patience and silence amidst the whirlwind of private jets, luxury hotels and tabloid flashes.

you learn to read his every shift in mood through the telemetry of his eyes. you know exactly when the frustration of a bad free practice session is about to turn into a sleepless night, spotting the slight narrowing of his eyes that the engineers miss. he, in turn, discovered early on that your embrace after a rubbish race — when you bury your face in his neck, still feeling the heat radiating from his fireproof race suit, isolating him from prs and media handlers — is worth far more than any hundred-page engineering report. it is a silent understanding, a synchronicity that grows stronger with every passing season.

the truth is, even though his career demands absolute focus, the future has always been a frequent topic between you during those rare summer break weeks in Monaco.

you can vividly remember the lazy early mornings on the flat balcony, with the harbour lights reflecting on the water and Lando pulling your body flush against his chest, tracing abstract circles on your skin. he has never hidden his desire to start a family. in fact, Lando is the sort of guy who completely loses himself around kids. you have lost count of how many times you have caught him playing with the mechanics’ children — or even P, who loves him — in the garage after the races, running around the pit box with a soapbox cart tyre or patiently signing mini helmets with his eyes shining brighter than the kids’ themselves. “i’ll be a cool dad, won’t i, baby?” he asked once, laughing, with his chin resting on your shoulder as you both watched one of his cousins take their first steps. “i’ll teach them to kart before they even learn to tie their laces.”

you both wanted this. you just did not know that fate had its own schedule.

the discovery happened just under two weeks ago, in the impersonal bathroom of a hotel in São Paulo, right after the penultimate grand prix.

the subtle suspicion, a missed period ignored due to the chaotic time zones, and finally, the two pink lines glaring back at you on the test while Lando slept like a log in the room next door, dead on his feet after hours of racing. the initial panic lasted a mere five seconds, instantly swallowed by a wave of tenderness so overwhelming it made your legs buckle. it was not planned for this exact month, not with the championship on the line, but it was your baby. a tiny piece of your story starting to take shape.

you chose a temporary silence; Lando needed a clear head to wrap up the championship. the confirmatory blood test, printed on a sheet of paper now folded into four, is tucked away in the right pocket of your official team jacket, burning against your skin like a golden secret.

being here today, in the McLaren garage with your headset drowning out the external roar of over a hundred thousand people in the grandstands, watching the timing screens as he carves through the corners of the track on these final laps, is the absolute pinnacle of everything you are building together.

there are only two laps remaining.

Lando leads with an uncomfortable two-second gap. the back-to-back world championship is just a few corners away, the McLaren box holding its breath in an almost religious silence, the mechanics’ hands clasped in quiet prayers, and only you know that the biggest surprise of the day is not going to come from the chequered flag.

★彡

the roar of the engines echoes off the garage walls, a deep mechanical vibration that makes the metal of the pit box tremble, but the sound that truly fills your ears is the silent countdown the team is making mentally for every sector of the track.

your fingers grip the edge of the engineering bench, your knuckles white from the tight squeeze, the tip of your shoes tapping lightly against the floor.

on the main broadcast screen, the orange dot representing his car carves through the final sequence of fast corners, the worn tyres throwing sparks off the tarmac.

it's the final lap.

the side monitor shows the mechanics already taking their positions along the pitlane pit wall, bodies leaning out, arms raised, faces covered by visors, everyone primed for collective catharsis.

when Lando finally crosses the finish line, the world seems to explode in slow motion before your eyes. the light signal on the screen switches to a brilliant green, fireworks burst into the sky above the track, leaving trails of coloured smoke, and the McLaren garage erupts into a unison roar of cheers, applause, tears and bodies colliding in desperate hugs.

Zak Brown punches the air with both hands, his face completely flushed with pure adrenaline and relief, while the engineers leap from their chairs, ripping off their headsets and throwing their clipboards into the air.

in your ear, the team radio channel is absolute chaos of static, celebratory screams and jagged breaths.

[Tom]: Lando Norris, you are a two-time world champion! i repeat, two-time world champion! you did it, mate! what a race, what a spectacular season! the car is safe, bring it home!

his voice comes through chopped by the helmet microphone, a mixture of genuine crying, the ragged breathing of someone who gave their life on the track, and cries of pure, unadulterated relief.

[Lando]: let's gooo! bloody hell, we did it! thank you, everyone, thank you for every single second of this year! the car was unbelievable through that final stint! i love you, i love every single one of you!

you watch the onboard camera fixed to the nose of the car. Lando releases one hand from the steering wheel to punch the air repeatedly, his helmet shaking from side to side as he tries to process the weight of the crown he has just defended against everything and everyone. the race engineer waits for the initial rush of adrenaline to subside a bit, wiping his own eyes before hitting the radio transmission button again. Tom Stallard glances at you, his eyes shining behind his glasses, and holds out the headset with a knowing smile.

[Tom]: Lando, the radio is clear. there's someone here in the garage who really wants a word with you before you bring the car into parc fermé.

Tom hands you the headset with the mic attached. your hands are shaking slightly, your cold fingers finding the transmission button.

your heart feels like it wants to leap right out of your chest, not just from the overwhelming euphoria of the championship, but from the weight of the folded paper in your pocket. you press the button, taking a deep breath to keep your voice as steady, soft and casual as possible, adopting the tone you usually use when you are completely alone.

[you]: congratulations, my love! i knew you could do it. i am so, so proud of you!

the radio crackles and his voice softens in the exact same second. the tough, focused, aggressive racing driver tone disappears completely, leaving only the Lando you know behind closed doors, the lad who hides away in your arms.

[Lando]: baby... oh my god, i couldn't have done it without you. you know that, don't you? you're my rock. i... listen, i've been thinking about this the whole season, i've been carrying this idea around for months, and there is no better moment in the world than right now.

there is a short pause, thick with anticipation. you can hear his car engine roaring in the background as he shifts down on the back straight for the cool-down lap, but his breathing is rapid in a completely different way now, heavy with nerves.

[Lando]: my love... will you marry me? do you want to be my official wife? do you want to spend the rest of your life putting up with my rubbish jokes?

in the garage, an automatic chorus of "aww" and shocked whispers starts to spread like wildfire among the data engineers and mechanics who are close enough to hear the main channel.

Zak Brown is already splitting into a massive grin from ear to ear, pointing at the screen, ready to celebrate the greatest marketing and romance coup in the team's history: a title and an engagement in the very same minute.

you let out a soft laugh, your eyes fixed on the orange dot moving slowly across the screen, knowing exactly how much chaos you are about to unleash upon Formula 1. you bring the microphone even closer to your lips, your eyes bright with playful affection.

[you]: it all depends very much on how good a dad you're going to be.

the silence that follows on the radio line is so absolute, so dense, that for a millisecond it feels as though the transmission has dropped completely or the FIA satellite has dropped out of orbit.

there is no radio static. there is no sound of breathing. just the continuous hum of the McLaren engine trundling along the empty track.

in the garage, Zak Brown's smile freezes instantly on his face, his eyes blinking as if trying to translate a foreign language.

Tom Stallard blinks three times in succession, staring at the telemetry screen and the tyre pressure graphs as though trying to decode a critical error in the car's system.

two data engineers stop with their hands hovering over their keyboards, mouths wide open. the shock is physical, palpable, as if you had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water right into the centre of the team's celebratory bonfire.

the radio crackles violently. Lando's voice jumps two octaves above his normal tone, a pure cocktail of panic, electric shock, joy and utter incomprehension.

[Lando]: what? hang on! what did you say, darling?! bloody hell, repeat that! what does that mean?! i'm going to be... i'm going to... you're... what?!

on the official broadcast screen, his car gives a slight swerve to the right, clipping the kerb of turn 4 in a completely untidy and dangerous manner, almost as if the driver had completely forgotten he is holding a carbon-fibre steering wheel at over a hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.

Zak practically rips the spare microphone out of an assistant engineer's hand, stepping all over the transmission with his voice trembling in pure, genuine fatherly panic.

[Zak]: Lando! Lando, look at the bloody track, for god's sake! focus on the white line, lad! bring that car and yourself back to the pitlane safely! you can lose your mind, cry, whatever you want afterwards, but do not crash the double-world-championship car on the bloody cool-down lap!

Tom takes control of the line, trying to claw back his professional head-of-engineering posture while his own voice cracks and wavers with nerves.

[Tom]: Lando, cool-down mode on, please. keep your eyes on the track. press the confirm button on your steering wheel if you copy the message. Lando? do you hear me?

no audible reply comes from the car. on the onboard camera, which is now being broadcast to the whole world, you can see Lando's gloved hands squeezing the leather of the steering wheel so hard the stitching looks ready to snap. he is shaking his head frantically inside his helmet, completely experiencing a system crash, his mental circuits entirely melted by the announcement.

[Lando]: baby! answer me! are you playing with my heart?! sweetheart, for god's sake, say something!!

you just smile with the utmost sweetness in the world, release the side button of the radio and hand the headset back to a Tom who is completely paralysed by shock.

you shrug your shoulders innocently, leaving your boyfriend — and future husband, and very soon the father of your child — in the most deafening, lovely and chaotic silence in the history of contemporary motorsport while the orange car slowly approaches the pit entry.

★彡

the turmoil in the McLaren garage turns into a sort of muffled hum under the weight of the deafening silence you just left on the radio line.

the engineers exchange perplexed glances, faces static under the cold light of the monitors; some cover their mouths with their hands, eyes wide, not knowing whether to laugh at the comical audacity of the moment or to panic along with the main pit wall command.

Zak still has his palm flat, heavily pressed against the carbon-fibre engineering bench, his breathing audible and ragged like someone who nearly saw the championship car go straight into the barrier due to a pure psychological distraction from the driver.

Tom, with trembling fingers, pulls at the fabric of his shirt to wipe a thick drop of sweat from his forehead, keeping his eyes glued to the digital telemetry graphs showing Lando’s heart rate skyrocketing, operating in a red zone that even the tightest wheel-to-wheel battle on track today didn't cause. his heart is racing faster than the engine itself.

you subtly step back from the data bench, feeling the adrenaline rip through your own veins, a tingling heat climbing up your neck.

your hands find the textured fabric of your official McLaren jacket, your fingers tracing, through the pocket, the exact rectangular outline of the paper tucked inside. the contrast is stark, almost poetic: outside, the world is celebrating a back-to-back world championship; inside you, an entire lifetime has just quietly shifted its axis.

outside, the pitlane is already a bubbling human anthill. mechanics in fireproof race suits rush from side to side dragging heavy sponsor boards, photographers aggressively jostle against the blue metal fences, and the international broadcast cameramen run with their heavy shoulder rigs, shoving past each other to get the best angle of the hero of the day.

you walk towards the team pit wall barrier, every step feeling like you are floating.

the air out here is thick, saturated with the distinct, sharp smell of burnt Pirelli rubber, high-octane fuel, and the humidity of the heated tarmac radiating an almost suffocating warmth against your face. the crowd in the grandstands across the track chants his name in a deafening chorus, thousands of voices united in a rhythmic beat that makes the ground beneath the soles of your shoes vibrate. but your attention is completely locked, narrowed onto the pitlane entry.

and then, the orange and black nose of his car comes into view.

normally, a driver who has just clinched the ultimate glory in motorsport enters parc fermé parading, weaving, waving to the crowd and savouring every inch of the slowdown.

Lando does none of that.

he brings the car in far too fast, at an almost reckless speed for the confined space. the carbon brakes let out a sharp, shrill squeal, and a puff of whitish, hot smoke escapes the front wheels as he turns the steering wheel abruptly, almost violently, towards the yellow sign with the number #1.

the car stops awkwardly, noticeably misaligned, the rear crooked and nearly touching the side tyre barrier. he doesn't care about symmetry for the official newspaper photos. he has an urgency. a vital urgency.

even before the engine is fully switched off and the mechanical silence settles in with the pops of the cooling exhaust, Lando is already disconnecting the radio cable from his helmet with a sharp jerk.

the movement to unlock and remove the steering wheel is frantic, almost clumsy from the nerves. he tosses it onto the cockpit dashboard without the slightest care, discarding the million-pound piece of kit as if it weighed a ton and were burning his hands.

the FIA marshals approach with quick steps, arms extended to guide him to climb onto the nose of the car for the traditional celebration pose for the cameras, but Lando completely ignores their presence. he plants his gloved hands on the narrow edges of the cockpit and hoists himself out with a physical force born of pure shock and adrenaline. his feet hit the tarmac with a dry thud. he rips off the HANS device with both hands, tossing it onto the pitlane floor without looking back, followed immediately by his racing gloves.

he doesn't even look to the sides, at the photographers who already form a wall around the car. his eyes, bloodshot from the physical exertion and wide behind the dark visor of his helmet, scan the human wall of orange McLaren shirts. he is looking for just one face. the only face that matters.

when the dark visor snaps up with a dry metallic click, his beautiful green eyes — completely damp, overflowing with a mixture of victory tears and bewilderment — lock onto yours. and the world around you simply ceases to exist in the blink of an eye.

the frantic clicking of digital cameras firing at ten frames per second, the deafening roars of the crowd in the grandstands, the protocol congratulations from the other two podium drivers who have already climbed out of their cars and watch the scene from a distance — everything turns into blurred background noise. Lando walks towards you with long, heavy, unsteady strides, his race suit covered in dark rubber soot and sweat marks across his back and chest, looking like a warrior who has just emerged from the toughest battle of his life, but whose single, desperate goal is to completely disarm himself before you.

he shoves past the rigid structure of the metal barrier with his hip, pushing his way through in a blunt but subconscious manner among the mechanics trying to pat him on the back. and before you can form any coherent sentence, his hands — still damp with sweat, warm and visibly shaking — grab your waist with a needy, desperate grip.

Lando pulls your body against his with such impetus that the impact of his chest against yours knocks the wind out of your lungs for a second.

in the next second, your feet completely lose contact with the pitlane tarmac. he lifts you into the air as if you weigh nothing at all, his strong arms locking around your back like unbreakable steel clamps, and starts spinning you right there, in the epicentre of parc fermé, under the frantic flashes of the entire world.

"my love... my love, for god's sake", his voice comes out completely muffled, a trembling, crushed sound, caught between a hysterical laugh and a legitimate sob of disbelief. his heavy helmet bumps lightly against your shoulder, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. "tell me it's true, darling. tell me i didn't get it wrong. tell me you didn't use the bloody Formula 1 radio to give me the biggest shock of my entire life."

you bury your hands in his broad shoulders, feeling the thick, warm fabric of the fireproof suit, and laugh out loud, a laugh mixed with the tears that finally give way and stream down your face. you press your forehead against the opening of his helmet visor.

"i would never, ever joke about something like that, baby", you whisper right next to the opening, knowing that the directional microphones of the TV cameras are pointed at your embrace, trying to capture any sound. "you got the back-to-back championship... and you're going to be a daddy. and yes, obviously i'm going to marry you, Lando. i accept being your wife. but only if you promise you'll change nappies quicker than the team does a pitstop."

Lando lets out a guttural sound that is half uncontrolled laughter, half pure crying of a fulfilled boy.

his body shakes against yours. he lowers you down slowly, allowing your feet to touch the ground, but refuses to move his body even a millimetre away from yours. your hands hurriedly move to his helmet, your trembling fingers undoing the tight buckle under his chin with blind haste.

you help him pull the helmet off, and he simply lets it drop onto the tarmac, without the slightest consideration for the custom gold design or the historical value of that piece. his hair is a complete mess, curls plastered to his forehead from the intense sweat of the race, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining with an emotional intensity you have never seen in any moment of your three-year relationship.

he holds your face with his two newly bare hands, his thumbs tracing your tear-stained cheeks with an almost painful urgency, pressing his forehead against yours. his tears now flow freely, clearing the track dust on his face.

"a baby..." he whispers against your lips, his voice breaking completely, his eyes scanning every millisecond of your face as if trying to etch your reaction into his soul forever. "we're going to... we're going to have a baby, my love. a little us running around. i can't... my brain has simply melted, darling. i am the happiest man on the entire planet. i swear to god, i'm going to be the best daddy this world has ever seen. i'll give my life for you both, i swear."

he tilts his head and kisses you in front of the entire grandstand. it is a chaotic, deep kiss, salty from his sweat and the tears of both of you, filled with a passionate urgency that makes your heart hammer violently against your ribs. the crowd in the grandstands, realising the sheer sweetness of the moment — even without understanding the secret of the pregnancy —, explodes into a roar of applause and cheers.

around you, the human barrier of McLaren finally breaks, but not by PR handlers, but by the team itself who cannot contain their emotion.

the mechanics start jumping around the two of you, throwing water into the air, clapping and crying along.

Zak emerges like a proper tractor of emotion through the sea of orange shirts. the team boss has eyes completely red and swollen from crying so much. he doesn't think twice: he steps forward and wraps you both in an overwhelming bear hug, squeezing you and Lando against his massive chest at the same time.

"congratulations, you beautiful things! bloody hell, congratulations!" Zak shouts, his voice thick with tears, swaying the two of you in the group hug. he kisses the top of Lando's head and then yours. "what a day! what an unbelievable day for this team! i'm going to be the rich uncle to this baby, do you hear me?! but Lando... for god's sake, lad..." Zak steps back a bit, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, shifting his tone to desperate comedy. "get to the bloody scales before the FIA comes to confiscate our trophy!"

the romantic bubble is filled with the laughter of the mechanics. Tom approaches right behind, grinning from ear to ear, holding his clipboard.

"Lando! Lando, the scales! now!" Tom's voice rings out, trying to maintain a rigid posture that he has clearly already lost. "the official weigh-in! if you don't weigh yourself in the next two minutes, the stewards will open an investigation for a post-race protocol breach! they could take your championship points away for this!"

"screw them!" Lando grumbles playfully, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand, but without letting go of your fingers. "screw the scales, Tom! i just found out i'm going to be a dad! do you think i care about car weight?"

"Lando, please, love", you intervene, laughing at his comical defiance, but using your hands to give a firm push against the chest of his race suit. "they're right. go on. do what you have to do for protocol. the championship is yours by right, don't let them take it away over something silly."

"i'm not going anywhere without you", he protests with a childish pout on his lips, his eyes still bright with tears, looking like a stubborn boy who is afraid the dream will vanish if he lets go of your hand for a second.

"i'll be right here, waiting for you with the team", you reassure him with all the sweetness in the world, standing on your tippets to give a quick, smacking kiss to his lips. "go, champion. go get weighed. go to the cooldown room, have some water and calm down. the other drivers have already gone up to the room, you're delaying everything. we'll meet in a bit."

the mechanics and Zak himself make a playful human wall, physically nudging Lando towards the official FIA scales while he walks backwards, pointing his index finger in your direction with a goofy smile, completely radiant and tearful, making a silent promise in the air.

★彡

Lando complies with the weigh-in protocol as if operating in an absolute trance, on the soul's autopilot.

he steps onto the metallic platform, holding the helmet an assistant retrieved from the ground, but his feet seem to have wings of their own.

the moment the marshal gives the electronic green light on the screen, he practically runs, ignoring the questions from reporters with extended microphones, disappearing towards the entrance of the pit building where the top three drivers isolate themselves.

and when Lando gets there, he shoves the frosted glass door of the cooldown room with entirely unnecessary force, making the whole metallic structure rattle on its tracks.

he steps in like a proper orange hurricane but halts abruptly right on his very first step, arms hanging loosely by his sides, his fireproof race suit half-undone to expose a sweat-drenched undershirt, and his gaze completely fixed on thin air, pupils still dilated from the sheer electric shock of reality.

seated on the black leather sofas under the dim light of the room are Carlos Sainz and George Russell.

Carlos has a wet white towel draped over the back of his neck, methodically drinking water with his eyes glued to the big screen replaying the best moments of the race in slow motion. George, maintaining his pristine posture even after more than fifty laps of pure physical and mental demands, fixes his hair in front of the wall mirror while checking the final lap times on the secondary monitor.

both lift their eyes in perfect sync the moment the McLaren silhouette invades the space, smiles already forming on their faces, ready for the traditional, loud round of back pats, playful shoves and formal congratulations for the back-to-back world championship.

but the static expression on the new champion's face makes them both freeze mid-motion.

Lando does not have the triumphant, expansive, loud look of someone who has just conquered the world. he genuinely looks like someone who has just been struck by lightning beneath a clear blue sky.

"mate... are you alright?" Carlos is the first to break the silence, setting his bottle down on the coffee table and knitting his brows, his spanish accent instantly thick with a deep, brotherly concern. he leans forward. "you look like you saw a ghost on the warm-up lap, man. did Zak give you a proper bollocking over the radio? i saw your rear end give a very strange twitch on the back straight, thought you'd snapped your suspension."

Lando does not reply. he walks almost in a trance, dragging his racing boots across the non-slip floor to the stainless-steel bench where the official podium caps are arranged.

his trembling fingers brush the black fabric of the cap carrying the World Champion inscription proudly embroidered in gleaming gold threads, but his hands are shaking so much, with such a lack of steadiness, that he almost drops the piece back onto the table.

he plants both palms on the edge of the bench, arching his back, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy, audible breath that echoes off the clean walls of the silent room.

"we were just talking about exactly that a moment ago, Lando", George interjects, abandoning the mirror and crossing his arms over his chest, analysing his long-time friend with that characteristic analytical, observant gaze of his. "the international feed cut the audio of your team radio out of nowhere. there was this absurd silence, a radio vacuum for nearly half a lap before you opened your mic again. did you have some sort of critical communication failure?"

Lando finally turns around to face them both. he lets out a huffed, sharp, uncontrolled laugh that flirts dangerously with the fine line between hysteria and pure happiness.

he rubs his wet face with both hands, pushing his messy, damp curls away from his forehead, and looks right into the depths of each of their eyes.

"she... she's pregnant", Lando lets out all at once, without any anesthesia or prior warning, his voice breaking in a lovely, choked way right on the very last syllable.

the silence that settles over the cooldown room following the statement is so instantaneous, so thick and absolute that he can actually hear the hum of the air conditioning system.

Carlos freezes with his hand suspended mid-air on his way to grab his towel, his mouth completely agape, his dark eyes wide as he tries to process the exact meaning of those words in spanish and english within his mind.

George blinks five times in succession, his ultra-organized GPDA director brain trying to recalculate the route of a piece of information that definitely was not part of any pre-race briefing or FIA protocol.

"wait... what?" Carlos leaps off the sofa in a single bound, the wet towel slipping from his neck and dropping straight to the floor, entirely forgotten. "you are taking the piss. don't joke about something like that, cabrón! on the radio line? is that what she told you over the team radio?"

"i proposed to her!" Lando explains, the words tripping over one another at an absurd speed as he begins to pace in frantic circles around the room, gesturing wildly with his hands. "i spent the last seven races planning the perfect moment, guys. i thought to myself: 'i'll win the championship in the final race, i'll open the radio and make the most epic, beautiful, romantic proposal in Formula 1 history, right in front of everyone.' i thought i was going to be the most incredible guy in the paddock! then i ask over the radio if she wants to marry me, heart in my mouth, and she snaps back: 'it all depends very much on how good a dad you're going to be.' she destroyed me! she gave me a lovely checkmate on global television! i nearly crashed the car because i forgot how to bloody drive!"

George lets out a loud laugh, a clean sound of pure shock and amusement mingled with an instant surge of deep affection. he covers his mouth with his hand, shaking his head as his eyes begin to gleam with genuine emotion. George wipes the corner of his eye, taking a step forward.

"my god, Lando..." George laughs, his voice softening into an incredibly tender tone as he looks back on their journey together. George steps up and plants both hands on Lando's shoulders, looking at him with the warmth of someone who has known him since they were boys in karting. "the lad i saw enter Formula 1 in 2019 right alongside me, who until last year only knew how to eat instant noodles in the motorhome and play video games on the simulator until four in the morning... is going to have a baby! i've watched you grow up, mate. we've lived through all of this here together from the start! i can't even tell you how proud and happy i am for you right now. you're going to be a phenomenal dad, honestly. you guys are going to be amazing parents."

George pulls Lando into a tight, sincere embrace, clapping his back firmly while Lando buries his face in his friend's shoulder, letting a few more tears of pure happiness escape.

before George can even step away, Carlos practically lunges at them both, crashing into them and turning the moment into an overwhelming, massive bear hug.

Carlos has his eyes visibly welling up, his voice thick with the immense fondness he has always held for Lando.

"¡no me lo posso creer! a little Norris running around the McLaren garage... the world is not ready for the chaos and the cuteness that child is going to inherit!" Carlos squeezes the hug so hard it elicits a laughing groan from Lando. Carlos pulls back slightly, cupping Lando's face with both hands, looking at him with the massive pride of an older brother. "congratulations, papa! holy fuck, world champion and a dad on the same day! do you have any idea that you've just ruined the podium for every other driver for the next ten years? nobody, in the entire history of this sport, is ever going to top what you and your girl did today. i love you, mate. i am so happy for you both that my chest feels like it's going to burst!"

Lando grins from ear to ear, the crying finally giving way to a golden, warm, vibrant euphoria that fills every inch of his chest. he looks from George to Carlos, the two guys he has shared podiums, defeats, travels and dreams with since he was just a teenager trying to carve out his space in the world.

the reality of the championship was massive, but the reality of the family he was starting with you was infinitely bigger. he looks down at the golden champion's cap in his hands and realises the metal of the trophy doesn't come anywhere near the value of the folded paper you are carrying in your jacket pocket out there.

and while the three of them huddle together in jokes and affectionate taps, the fixed camera of the official FIA broadcast, installed right in the top corner of the room's white wall, keeps capturing and transmitting absolutely everything live.

Lando knows perfectly well it is there.

he sees the little LED light flashing a vivid red, indicating that the signal is feeding the global broadcast, heading straight into the homes of millions of fans, journalists and screens all around the circuit.

and he doesn't give a single toss about protocol.

Lando breaks away from his two friends with a mischievous smile, walks resolutely until he is face-to-face with the lens of the TV camera, and points to his own chest with both thumbs, flashing the most radiant, goofy, love-struck grin of his entire life. then, he brings his arms together in front of his body and makes the classic, sweet, universal gesture of rocking a baby, swaying from side to side before blowing a loud kiss directly into the camera, pointing an index finger at the lens as if speaking straight to you in the middle of the garage.

"SHE SAID YES!" he bellows at the top of his lungs to the camera, making Carlos and George explode into laughter in the background, with Carlos throwing his arms in the air and George celebrating as though he had just won at life himself. "i'm getting married and i'm going to be a dad, world! screw your telemetry! my best championship is on the way!"

outside that glass room, across social media, absolute hell has formally broken loose. because the audio from the McLaren radio had been cut abruptly right after the marriage proposal, the global audience watching live had no clue about the real context of the mysterious response you gave. the commentators across every country's broadcast try to fill the silence with the most wild theories possible.

"has Lando Norris just announced impending fatherhood or was that a McLaren inside joke?" asks the main commentator on the british broadcast, completely dazed by the rocking gesture on screen. "we saw the gesture... have they adopted a puppy or have McLaren signed a sponsorship deal with a pram brand?" speculates an italian commentator, totally lost in the middle of the euphoria.

on twitter, tiktok and instagram, your name and Lando's already comfortably hold the number one spot among the most talked-about topics on the entire planet. slow-motion videos of the moment he sweeps you off the pitlane floor and spins you through the air gather tens of millions of views per second, with thousands of fans attempting to lip-read the exact moment he ripped his helmet off to kiss you.

the frosted glass door clicks open at the hands of an FIA official with a rigid expression, pointing firmly to his wristwatch and indicating that the national anthems and the podium ceremony must begin immediately.

Lando takes a deep breath, feeling the weight and the sweetness of that unforgettable sunday settle onto his shoulders. he adjusts the black and gold world champion cap on his head, takes one last look at Carlos and George through the reflection of the mirror, receiving one final proud nod of the head from each of them.

he is ready.

ready to climb the steps of that podium to the roars of thousands of people, raise the most important and coveted metal trophy of his professional career toward the sky, and seek out your eyes shining in the middle of the sea of orange shirts in the crowd.

he is going to step up there knowing, with the most beautiful certainty, that the biggest, loudest, most perfect victory of his life story had absolutely nothing to do with the tarmac on the track.

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