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Framboisine

What begins as a pit stop becomes something far less temporary as Lando finds himself tangled in the quiet rhythms of rural life, complicated histories, and the unexpected pull of a woman who has no patience for charm and even less for goodbyes.

Genre: Smut, Contemporary Romance, Small-Town Fic, Slice of Life Found Family, Soft Angst, Post-Grief Healing, Gentle Comedy, Fluff

NSFW warning: 18+ Explicit sexual content, Oral (f. receiving), Unprotected sex, Praise kink (if you squint), Mild angst, Grief mentions, Single parent dynamics

Inspired by Turning Page by Sleeping At Last

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The heat had finally broken, but the walls still sweated. She stood barefoot in the doorway, one hand on the chipped frame, watching the horizon shimmer above the lavender fields. The old inn creaked around her, the kind of creak that meant the stone was settling or maybe protesting. She hadn’t decided which. Behind her, the sound of a cheap cartoon echoed faintly from the kitchen. Her daughter was lying on the cool tile floor, chin in hands, humming to herself between mouthfuls of cereal that absolutely did not belong to dinner. It was nearly six. Too late for new guests, too early for the good kind of silence.

Then the car came. She heard it before she saw it, wrong rhythm, high and irregular, like something imported trying to survive on rural backroads. She stepped off the stoop, squinting down the gravel drive as a sleek, unfamiliar shape cut through the late dust and heat haze. Silver. Low to the ground. Out of place. The car coughed once, then died. She waited. Arms crossed. The driver’s door opened slow. Out stepped a man in a white t-shirt, creased in the wrong places like he’d slept in it. He was maybe mid-twenties, unshaven. Sunglasses still on. He looked around like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stalled halfway up a hill. Then he caught sight of her.

“Excusez-moi,” he called out. “Je suis en panne-“ She said nothing. Just raised one brow. He tried again, slower, more hopeful. “Euh panne de voiture? Vous avez une chambre, peut-être?” Still nothing. He hesitated, switched gears. “Eh, misschien, Nederlands? Spreekt u?” “Nope,” she said flatly, in clipped English. “Try again.” He blinked, like she’d smacked him in the face with a towel. “Oh,” he said, straightening. “You’re British?” “Partly.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Right. Well. My car’s dead.” “Dead how?” “Bit of smoke. Some noise I’m choosing to pretend didn’t happen.” She narrowed her eyes. “Sounds terminal.” “It might be sulking. Or French.”

That earned the faintest twitch of her mouth.

He stepped forward. “Is this a hotel?” “Inn.” “Not to sound like Joseph, but do you have a room?”

She looked him over. Sunglasses, trainers too clean, a backpack that didn’t belong to someone who stayed in places like this. There was something about him that didn’t sit right. Not dangerous. Just wrong kind of tired. Like someone used to being looked at who didn’t want to be.

She paused. Then nodded toward the side entrance. “One. Upstairs. Cash only.” He looked relieved. “I’ve got cash.” “Then you’ve got a room, as long as there isn’t a pregnant woman with you, about to pop in my inn.” He hesitated at the steps. “Do you want my name or?” “I don’t care.”

He blinked at that. Then smiled. Not a performance, just surprise. Inside, her daughter peeked out from behind the doorway, clutching a stuffed bear and eyeing him like he might be another delivery. The man smiled, slow and natural. “Hey, little one.”

Margaux didn’t answer. Just tilted her head.

He adjusted his bag. “I’m Lando, by the way.” She didn’t blink. “Good for you.” Then turned, barefoot on the cool stone, and led him inside.

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The inside of Maison du Pin was ever so slightly cooler. Stone floors. Whitewashed walls. A tired ceiling fan that turned like it had a grudge. He ducked under the archway, shoulder brushing the wood, and followed her past the little sitting area where a bookcase slouched under its own weight and the couch had the look of something that had been re-stuffed more than once. She moved quickly, without ceremony, one hand catching a light switch, the other already halfway up the stairs. He hesitated, still blinking at the space, the way it smelled of lemon soap and old varnish.

"Coming or what?" she called, not looking back.

He followed. Upstairs was narrower. Low ceilings, creaky steps, a small window at the end of the hall with its shutter propped open by a paperback copy of Rebecca. She pushed open the third door on the left. “It’s not fancy.” The room had a bed, a window, a fan that might’ve once worked, and a single chair too close to the radiator. The bedsheets were clean, if a little sun faded. The walls were uneven plaster. A bee buzzed lazily against the glass.

Lando stepped in, nodded slowly. “Looks like it doesn’t know what century it’s in.” She leaned on the doorframe. “Neither do I. You want it or not?” He turned toward her. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She didn’t reply. Just crossed the room and snapped the window open. The bee escaped. The air shifted. “There’s no aircon,” she said, pointing. “Fans got two moods: moody and possessed. Don’t touch the radiator, it hisses when it’s bored. And if you break the bedframe, I don’t want to know how.” Lando blinked. “That was oddly specific.” She gave him a look. “This is a working inn, not a Netflix romcom.” He grinned despite himself. “Right. No touching haunted radiators, no bedframe acrobatics.” “You get one towel. You can ask nicely for more.” “I always ask nicely.” “Mm.” He took a slow lap of the room, ran his fingers along the edge of the desk. “You clean all this yourself?” “No,” she said flatly. “The mice pitch in.”

He turned. She was still standing in the doorway; one hip cocked like she was already halfway back downstairs.

She nodded once, unbothered. “Right. You’ll need a key. And your passport.” He raised an eyebrow. “You serious?” “Welcome to France.”

He laughed softly, the kind that said he wasn’t sure if she was joking. From the hallway, a tiny voice broke the tension.

“Maman?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?” Margaux appeared around the corner, one hand dragging a soft toy across the floor, curls wild, socks mismatched. She eyed Lando like he was some particularly shiny wildlife. He smiled. “Hi again.” The girl held up her bear in silent reply. “Don’t stare,” her mother said gently, brushing a hand over her daughter’s head as she passed. “Come on. Time for your bath.”

The little girl stuck close to her leg, but kept glancing back at him, clearly filing him under interesting things to ask about later. Lando watched them go, then turned back to the room. It was still hot, still slightly musty, still humming with the kind of stillness you only got in old buildings and empty hearts. He let his bag drop by the bed, then opened the window wider. Somewhere in the garden, cicadas screamed like they had something to prove.

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He gave it ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Sat on the edge of the bed. Checked his phone. No bars. Held it up. Turned in place like a lost dog. Still nothing. He headed back downstairs. The front door stuck when he pulled it, like it had swollen with pride. Outside, the sun had started to dip, casting long gold streaks across the gravel. The swing in the side garden creaked once in the breeze. No traffic. No movement. Just cicadas and the distant clink of someone setting out glassware next door. He walked a little way up the road. Then down. Then back again. No bars. Not even a flicker. Behind him, the screen door swung open with a protesting groan.

“You looking for something?” she asked. He turned. She had a tea towel over one shoulder and a screwdriver in her hand. “Signal,” he said, holding up his phone like it was self-explanatory. She made a face somewhere between pity and amusement. “Ah. That.” She pointed with the screwdriver. “There’s a café bench two streets down under a fig tree. Sometimes if the wind’s right you get a bar. One. For a minute.” He stared at her. “You’re joking.” “Nope.” He blinked. “Is that legal?” “In this village?” she said. “Legal’s just a suggestion.”

He almost smiled at that. Almost. She didn’t wait. Just turned back inside like she hadn’t derailed his entire digital reality with a screwdriver and a shrug. He stood there for another few seconds, watching the road like it might suddenly sprout a 5G tower just for him. It didn’t.

Inside, he could hear Margaux laugh. Not loud. Just enough. It cut through the quiet like something fragile and warm. He let out a breath. Looked up at the inn again, tired shutters, old vines, walls the colour of toast. Maybe one night wouldn’t kill him. Maybe two.

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By noon, the village had started its slow, predictable hum. A pair of cyclists took the bend outside the inn too wide. Someone’s goat had gotten loose again and was chewing on the post box. The air smelled like thyme and dish soap. Inside Maison du Pin, the inn was doing what it did best: pretending to be quiet while everyone pretended not to listen. Willem stood behind the bar like he had been born there, arms folded, leaning comfortably against the wood, polishing a glass with the kind of patience only retirement could buy.

“Your tap’s loose again,” he said, in his thick Belgian accent, without looking up. “I know.” “And your barrel’s nearly empty.” “Also know.” He set the glass down, satisfied. “You never let me complain properly.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel and gave him a look. He chuckled, deep and fond. “Lieveke, if you were mine, I would have married you off by now. Or locked you in the cellar for your own good.” “Lucky for both of us,” she said, “I’m not yours.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t push. They had this rhythm. Her and Willem. Like an old, bickering clock. At the end of the bar, Margaux was colouring furiously with a box of half-snapped crayons, her legs swinging off the stool. A glass of orange juice sat untouched beside her, already sweating in the heat. From the kitchen came the faint clang of metal and the sizzle of something that was either a very aggressive omelette or Bas showing off again. She didn’t need to go check. Bas always cooked like someone was watching.

“He’s a good boy,” Willem said eventually. She shrugged. “So’s the postman. Doesn’t mean I want to marry him.” Willem snorted into his tea. “You’re a menace.” “I’m tired.”

The door creaked open before he could answer. Lando stepped inside like someone testing the temperature of the air. Fresh t-shirt. No sunglasses this time. His hair was still damp, like he’d dunked his head under the tap. She nodded toward the bar. “You want coffee, or do you just enjoy standing in doorways looking confused?”

“I enjoy options,” he said, stepping in. “Is one of them breakfast?” “You missed it.” He raised his eyebrows. “By how much?” “Four hours and an attitude.” “Right,” he said. “Lunch, then.” She turned, called toward the kitchen, “Bas, feed the lost boy!”

A muffled clang. A low reply. Something vaguely enthusiastic. Lando glanced toward the child at the bar, who was now drawing with one crayon in each hand and narrating something under her breath about dragons and laundry.

“Is she always that focused?” he asked. “Only when she’s ignoring everything important.” He smiled faintly. “Wonder where she gets it from.” She glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You want to see the village later?” He looked surprised. “Sure. If you’ve got time.” “I don’t. But come anyway.” She stepped out from behind the bar, wiping her hands again. “Finish your food. You’ve got ten minutes.” Lando watched her go, then turned to Willem, who was watching him like a man who already knew all his secrets. Willem held up the glass he’d just cleaned. “Good luck, boy.” Lando blinked. “Thanks?” “She’s more work than the whole village combined.” Lando smirked, glancing toward the open door. “Noticed.” Then Bas appeared, apron stained, blonde hair a mess, eyes narrowing just slightly when he saw where Lando was standing. He said nothing. Just set a plate down with more force than necessary and disappeared back into the kitchen. Lando stared at the food. Then at the door she’d gone through. Ten minutes.

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They took the back way, through the orchard where the trees leaned like gossiping aunts and the ground was all dust and apricot pits. She didn’t walk slowly. He just kept pace. She pointed with her chin as they passed the first stone wall. “That’s the café. If you sit on the right bench under the fig tree, you might get signal.” He glanced at the table, two old men were already there, phones held high like offerings to a stingy god. She added, “Don’t lean too far back or the bench tips.” “Let me guess,” he said. “You learned that the fun way?” “No,” she said. “Bastien did. I laughed.”

She pushed open the café door. Inside, the air was cooler, thick with espresso and that faint, nostalgic scent of old croissants and printer paper.

“Order something,” she said. “They won’t give you the Wi-Fi code unless you pay first.” He pulled out his wallet, already amused. “And what do I get if I charm them?” “You won’t. They hate Parisians and footballers.” “I’m neither.” “They’ll assume.”

He smirked, but didn’t argue. She sat by the window while he ordered. Watched him try to pronounce noisette. Didn’t help. He returned with two tiny cups and a scrap of paper with the Wi-Fi code scribbled in green pen. “Victory,” he said. He opened his phone, connected, and stared at the notifications for a long time without touching any of them. She didn’t comment. Outside, the men under the fig tree were arguing softly in Occitan. A moped buzzed past like a drunken bee. After a few minutes, he locked the phone again. “Right,” he said. “Where to next?” She stood. “The river. Then the mechanic. You should at least pretend you want your car fixed.”

The river was low. Summer always did that. The kids had dammed it up with stones again, building miniature worlds between the reeds. A few barefoot teenagers were lying on the bank with their headphones in, sun-drunk and indifferent. She pointed toward the footbridge. “We used to jump off that as kids.” He glanced at it. “Looks painful.” “It was. That’s why we did it.” She crouched briefly to pick up a stone Margaux would want, flat and speckled, good for a pocket. Then straightened. “Come on.” They passed the épicerie. The post office. The old man with the newspaper stands who saluted without looking up. She returned it without thinking. The village moved around them like clockwork, like the whole place was one big, dusty machine she was part of.

He, meanwhile, stuck out like a misplaced brushstroke. At the mechanic’s, a squat, oil-streaked building with an open yard, she called out in French. A teenager in a vest and too-short shorts waved from under a bonnet, shouted something back.

“He’ll look at your car tomorrow,” she translated. Lando nodded. “Should I be worried?” “No more than usual.” “Reassuring.”

They started back, uphill this time. Slower.

“You don’t really want it fixed, do you?” she asked suddenly. He didn’t look at her. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing, staying here a little.” He added, “It’s quiet.” She didn’t smile. But she didn’t argue either.

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The sun had shifted by the time they made it back. The inn looked different in late light, gold on the shutters, the vines glowing a little. The world hadn’t moved much, but the edges had softened. She unlocked the side door with one hand and dropped the stone she’d picked up into the blue bowl by the stairs. It joined a dozen others. Her daughter’s collection. All named, probably. All sacred. Lando hesitated by the doorway. “So, I suppose I should call that guy?”

“You’re not going to.” He looked at her. “Excuse me?” She dropped her bag on the bench. “You’re not going to call. Because you don’t actually want to leave.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty big assumption.” She turned, arms crossed. “Is it wrong?” He opened his mouth. Then didn’t answer. She gave a humourless smile. “That’s what I thought, everyone here, didn’t originally plan to stay here forever. Willem was on his gap year, and now look at him, 40 years later and he’s still here.” “I’m just tired,” he said, softer now. “It’s been a long few months.” “Mm.” She didn’t press. Just nodded toward the back. “Come on. We’ve got leftover frittata if you’re brave.”

The garden was mostly shade now. A single wooden table sat crooked under the cherry tree. The swing moved once, lazily, like it had been told a joke. She brought out two plates. He didn’t offer to help. She didn’t ask. They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand filling. Just two people eating slightly soggy frittata, listening to the hum of the air. She took a sip of something cold and homemade. Lemon. Mint. Regret.

He stabbed a piece of onion and said, “You really don’t ask questions, do you?” “You look like you don’t answer them.” “Touché.” She finished her bite before adding, “I don’t care about your family drama, job or women troubles or whatever story you’re trying to outrun.” “Harsh,” he said. But he was smiling now.

From the far end of the garden came a thud, then a shout. Margaux came barrelling around the hedge with a plastic sword and one sock on.

“Maman!” she cried. “The swing’s broken again!” She didn’t look up. “Is it broken or dramatic?” “It squeaks!” “Then don’t swing so hard.” “I wasn’t!” Lando was already standing. “I’ll look at it.” She glanced up. “You know swings?” “I know a lot of things,” he said, stretching lazily. “Like physics. And leverage.” Margaux eyed him sceptically. “Are you a knight?” He blinked. “I- I don’t think so?” She handed him the sword anyway. “You can help, if you don’t ruin it more.” He took it like it might explode. “Noted.” She watched him walk across the grass, sword in one hand, the kid in the other, already explaining swing angles with the kind of patience only people trying not to think too hard tend to have. Margaux laughed. He joined in. She didn’t smile, she watched. Too long.

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She was already at the sink, rinsing a small plastic lunchbox that had once been white but now looked like it had survived a war. On the counter beside it, an apple, a triangle of cheese, and a folded napkin with a poorly drawn frog. Margaux’s idea of a joke. The front door creaked open. She didn’t need to look.

“You’re early,” she called, still drying the box.

Willem’s voice drifted in, gravelly and smug. “And you’re welcome.” He came in with his usual rhythm: two steps, a dramatic sigh, a muttered comment about arthritis that never quite seemed to slow him down. Behind him, Bas was quieter, more precise, carrying a crate of fresh eggs under one arm and looking very pointedly not toward the back stairs.

“Morning,” Bas said, barely. She nodded. “Coffee’s fresh. Just don’t touch the lemon cake.” Willem grunted, already reaching for the pot. “That for your little Framboisine?” She glanced up. “Obviously.” Margaux padded in moments later, wearing a dress backwards and one shoe. Her curls were wild, her mood even more so. “Your dress is inside out,” her mother said without turning. “No, it’s custom,” Margaux replied solemnly. Willem laughed, scooping her up with surprising ease for someone who claimed to have a bad back. “My little Framboisine! You’re going to rule the school.” “Framboisine,” Lando repeated from the doorway, rubbing sleep from his face. “What does that mean? Like… jam?”

The whole room turned to look at him.

He blinked. “Just asking.” “It’s a word Willem made up,” she said, adjusting Margaux’s collar. “Technically means nothing.” “Means everything,” Willem corrected. Lando raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a perfume.” Bas cleared his throat but didn’t speak. Margaux was now arranging a small army of sugar packets into a battlefield across the bar. She grabbed her keys. “We’re walking. I’ll be back in ten. Try not to burn anything.” Willem saluted with his mug. “We’ll keep the walls standing.” “Bas, check the back freezer, yeah? It’s humming again.”

He nodded, already disappearing into the kitchen. Outside, the morning was crisp, the air laced with rosemary and woodsmoke. Margaux skipped two steps ahead, humming something off-key. Lando followed them halfway down the drive.

“Do you walk her every day?” he asked. “When I can,” she said. “It’s not far.” He hesitated. “Can I come?” She gave him a sideways glance. “You planning on enrolling too?” He grinned. “Just curious.” “You’re nosy.” “Same thing.”

Margaux had already run ahead to collect a rock she’d named yesterday. She looked at Lando again, barefoot in trainers, eyes still soft with sleep, not asking the right kind of questions.

“Fine,” she said. “But don’t complain if someone throws a baguette at you.”

They walked on, past shuttered windows and crooked doors, her daughter darting in and out of shadow like a fish in clear water. At the school gates, Margaux turned just once to wave, already tangled in conversation with a friend. Then it was quiet again. Just the gravel underfoot and the lazy hum of a town not in a rush. The épicerie sat like it had grown there, wedged between the café and the church, shutters flaking, lavender in old jam jars on the sill. She opened the door with the same touch she used to quiet her daughter at night. Inside, it smelled of thyme, newspaper ink, and twenty years of salted butter.

Jacky popped her head up from behind the counter like a startled badger. “Ma petite veuve!” she cried, arms flung wide. Lando, mid-step behind her, froze. “Sorry your what?” “Little innkeeper,” she muttered. “It’s a long story. Just smile.” Jacky swept around the counter in a blur of floral fabric, clutching her by both arms and kissing each cheek with the force of a small riot. “You never visit anymore,” Jacky scolded. “I thought you’d eloped with a plumber.” “I don’t have time to elope.” “Well, that’s depressing,” said a new voice, higher, sharper, amused. Chloé strode in from the back room, hair buzzed on one side, eyeliner theatrical. Behind her trailed Romain, in a crochet tank top and sandals, carrying an open bag of lentils and looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of gravity. Chloé blinked at Lando. “Oh, he’s pretty.” Romain tilted his head. “He’s famous.” “I knew I recognized the jawline,” Chloé said, snapping her fingers. “Racer?” “Relax,” Romain said, waving a lentil at him. “We’re anarchists.” The innkeeper was already moving toward the back shelves, ignoring them. “I need juice boxes and batteries.” “Romantic,” Jacky called after her. Chloé leaned across the counter toward Lando. “She raised that kid alone, you know. Moved back five years ago. Took over the inn. Her parents gone, the baby’s dad too, some freak accident, boat crash or something. Didn’t even speak for the first month.”

Lando’s stomach twisted.

“She never talks about it,” Romain added, like it was fascinating. “Doesn’t mean we don’t.” “She’s good,” Jacky said firmly, tapping the counter. “Solid. Doesn’t ask for help. Too proud, probably. But the girl’s got backbone.” “She used to cry behind the wine crates,” Chloé offered helpfully. “Chloé,” Jacky snapped. “I’m saying it nicely.”

Lando said nothing. Just glanced toward the far aisle, where she was crouched, choosing the least dented juice box with surgical precision.

“Look at her,” Romain murmured. “Like nothing touches her.” Lando nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I see that.” She returned with an armful and a frown. “You’re all talking about me, aren’t you?” Jacky fluttered a hand. “Just saying you should visit more. And eat more. And maybe date someone not terrible.” She sighed and dropped the groceries on the counter. “Add bread. And whatever Margaux got here on Wednesday.” Chloé slid a jar of olives toward her. “Your kid’s a genius. She re-alphabetized the spice rack.” “She’s five.” “Exactly.”

While they packed the bag, Lando moved toward the till.

“Don’t,” she said. “I’m just-” “You’re a guest.” He looked at Jacky. Jacky looked at her. Then took his card anyway. “I’m ignoring her,” Jacky said brightly. “You’ll die first,” she warned, with a straight face. Jacky smiled. “Maybe. But not today.” As they left, Chloé called out, “Don’t let him fix your swing, by the way! He’s too pretty. He’ll break it.” Lando looked back once. Jacky gave him a nod he didn’t understand but felt anyway. They walked in silence. The bag in her hand was heavy. The words in his throat, heavier.

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That night, the bar was finally quiet. Bas wiped down the counters with slow, steady movements, the familiar rhythm grounding the end of the day. She moved between bottles and glasses, locking up, her thoughts elsewhere. Outside, the air had cooled, sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the garden. Lando caught her just as she stepped out the door, the last lock clicking shut behind them.

“You still here?” she asked, half-smiling, trying to hide the tiredness beneath. He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.” She studied him in the low light, the lines of his face softer without the day’s sun or the buzz of the inn around them. “So,” she said, voice light, “I just found out you’re an F1 driver.” He blinked, surprised. “You didn’t know?” “Of course I did,” she said, shaking her head. “You just never mentioned it. Didn’t seem relevant, sometimes, it’s easier to keep things to yourself. The stuff you don’t want people to see.” Her fingers twitched with something unspoken, the weight of years she’d carried alone, of losses too sharp to name, I lost people,” she said, voice low. “Not in a way you talk about. Not aloud. Just in the silence that follows.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something slipped out, a truth he hadn’t meant to say. “I get that.”

She glanced up, surprised by the honesty. No judgement. No trying to fix it. They stood close, the cool night wrapping around them like a whispered secret. He reached out almost without thinking, brushing a stray leaf from her braid, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes flickered down to his lips, soft, tempting, and then back to his eyes, caught between wanting and holding back. Their breaths mingled, shallow and uneven, the space between them charged, electric and fragile, balanced on the edge of something neither dared to cross. His eyes searched hers, silent questions tangled in the dark. She tilted her head, lips parted slightly, heart quickening. Then, from just down the path, a small voice called out, clear and bright. “Maman?” The spell broke. He stepped back, but the air between them still hummed with all the words left unsaid.

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The kitchen was already hot. The fan above the stove turned like it regretted being alive. A pan sizzled too loudly. Coffee steamed in a chipped white mug by the sink, untouched. She was slicing tomatoes. Bas was too quiet. He moved like he always did, clean, efficient, sleeves rolled, apron already stained. But there was something about the way he stacked the bread this morning. Like it had personally offended him.

“Did you check the fridge door?” she asked, without looking. “It clicks now,” he said. “Good.”

Silence. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, “You and the Englishman were talking late.” She wiped juice off her hands with a tea towel. “I run an inn. Talking happens.” “He’s still here.” “He’s waiting on his car.” Bas turned, slow. “Fancy cars don’t wait well in this village. Not with the mechanic we’ve got.” She met his eyes for a beat too long. Bas shrugged, casual like a knife. “You should tell him to see Henri today. Parts take forever.” From the hallway: footsteps, light and loose. Lando, hair still damp, a different T-shirt, holding two empty mugs. “Coffee?” he offered. Bas turned back to the stove. She took one mug. “Kitchen’s full.” “I can go.” “No,” she said. “You should go see the mechanic.” Lando raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there was a rush.” “There is,” she said flatly. “Here.” She handed him a slip of paper with a number on it. Henri’s. “Tell him I sent you. He’ll know the car.” Lando looked between the two of them. “Everything alright?” “Perfect,” Bas muttered.

She didn’t answer. Lando nodded slowly. “Right. I’ll call him.” He turned to go but paused at the door. “Tomatoes smell good,” he said, almost as an afterthought. Bas didn’t look up. “They’re not for you.” Lando blinked, then smiled. “Noted.”

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The sound of Henri’s van backfiring up the hill was impossible to miss. She wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped outside just as Lando met the mechanic at the gravel edge of the drive, where the silver car sat sun-baked and miserable. Henri climbed down with a groan, jean shorts and a sweat-stained cap, followed by one tall, serious boy, maybe eighteen, clearly the one who actually fixed things, the one they’d seen on Lando’s tour; and Romain, holding a glass bottle of fizzy lemonade and absolutely no tools. Lando looked from one to the other. “I’m guessing he’s not the assistant?” he asked, nodding toward Romain.

“Assistant in vibes,” Romain said cheerfully, adjusting his crochet top. “But I supervise aggressively.” Henri clapped Lando on the back, already peering under the hood. “She tells me you broke this beauty somewhere between bravado and a bad decision.” “She’s not wrong.” Romain leaned against the car like he’d posed for a perfume ad. “The village is very interested in this, by the way.” Lando looked up. “In what?” “Your car. Your arrival. Your face.” “I thought they didn’t care about famous people.” “They don’t. That’s why they love talking about them.”

The older boy, Henri’s eldest son, was already under the hood, muttering in rapid French. She stayed back by the doorway, arms crossed. Lando looked over his shoulder, caught her eye. He came toward her, brushing his hands on his shorts. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “That guy in the kitchen, Bas. You two alright?” She raised one eyebrow. “You asking personally or for the guestbook?” “I’m asking because he looked like he wanted to put my head in the fryer.” She tilted her head slightly, weighing the honesty in his voice. “We’re fine,” she said. “He just has a long memory.” Lando nodded slowly. “Right.” She studied him. “You’re not in a rush, are you?” He looked back at the mechanic, the car, the two sons now half-arguing in French over whether something was cracked or just French by nature. “Not really,” he admitted. “Honestly, if they said it’d take two weeks, I’d probably thank them.” She smirked. “Dangerous thing to say in this town.” “I’m full of dangerous things lately.” From across the garden, Romain shouted, “We’re going to the florist in ten!” Henri groaned. “Don’t yell in front of the vehicle, Romain. It’s fragile.” “It’s English,” Romain corrected. She turned to Lando. “You want to stay for the postmortem?” “I feel like it’s already being live-streamed.”

He followed her back inside just as Margaux came barrelling down the stairs, sunhat backwards and one shoe on, holding a flower drawing like it was an international treaty.

“Maman,” she announced. “I need violets.” Romain spun dramatically. “Then you shall have them! I’m going to meet Chloé and Jacky. Margs can come.” She hesitated. “You sure?” Romain pressed a hand to his heart. “I would die for the Framboisine.” Margaux beamed. “Yay!” Romain grabbed Margaux’s hand. “To the florist, small queen!”

Then they were off, skipping toward the road, leaving behind the car, the argument, the inn. Lando exhaled. She did too, but quieter.

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The door had barely shut behind Romain and Margaux before the house fell quiet again. Too quiet. She stood in the hallway a moment longer than she meant to, watching the swing of the empty coat hook where Margaux’s sunhat usually hung. It was silly. She knew that. But still. Lando didn’t say anything. Just hovered nearby, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than usual.

“She’ll be fine,” she said finally. “I wasn’t worried.” “You were.” He smiled, faint and lopsided. “Maybe a little.” They drifted back outside. The sun was slanting low, burning everything gold. The mechanic was still under the hood, muttering and swearing. The serious son nodded once and disappeared inside for a cold drink. Romain’s echo had long faded down the road. “I keep thinking about that grocery shop,” Lando said after a moment. “Oh?” “They all know everything. Or think they do.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept her arms folded.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly. “It’s just intense.” She looked at him then. Really looked. “You’re not used to people seeing you, are you?” He thought about it. “They see the wrong parts.” “They always do.” Henri banged something metal against something louder. “C’est de la merde de luxe, ça!” “Translation?” Lando asked. She smiled. “Luxury bullshit.” “Fits.”

A silence stretched out between them. Not tense. Just there. Honest.

He glanced toward the road. “What happened to her dad?” She didn’t flinch. “Fishing accident. Small boat. Bad storm. No signal. By the time they found them.” She trailed off. He nodded, not pushing. “And your parents?” he asked gently. She shrugged. “Same storm. Same boat, I didn’t go because I was pregnant, I couldn’t be on the boat without throwing up.” He looked at her. “Jesus.” “Yeah.” Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.” “You don’t have to say anything.”

Another pause.

“She was born two months later,” she added quietly. “That’s why the name stuck. Framboisine. My mum used to call me that. I hated it. But Margaux, she makes it work.” He swallowed. “That’s a lot.” “Mm.”

The sun touched the tree line. The mechanic packed up with curses and promises to return. Lando stood beside her like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to move or stay.

“I didn’t come here for any of this,” he said. She met his eyes. “Good. Then maybe you’ll stay for the right reasons.”

That hung in the air between them. Close. Too close. Then Bas pushed open the bar door behind them. “Need help cleaning up?” She stepped back. “Yeah.” Lando exhaled. “I’ll be upstairs.”

She nodded, already walking. He paused at the door, glanced back once. The garden was quiet. The house even quieter. He didn't know what he wanted. But he was starting to know where it was.

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Lando was still supposed to be a guest. That was the rule. Unspoken, but sharp-edged. Guests paid. Guests passed through. Guests didn’t fix things or fold tea towels or make children laugh like they’d been there all along. And yet. By midweek, he was wearing one of Bas’s spare aprons, slightly too small, while retying the back of a chair cushion for the third time. He hadn’t asked permission. He just started. Margaux trailed after him like it was her job. She sat cross-legged on the counter while he stacked glasses. Gave him running commentary while he restocked the ice. Played sous-chef while he chopped strawberries, mostly just to steal them.

“Are you working here now?” she asked with full-mouthed curiosity. He grinned. “Depends. Do I get paid in juice boxes?” “Yes,” she declared. “And also, one of my rocks.” “Then it’s a deal.”

She watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, towel slung over one shoulder. It was unnerving how easily it had happened. One day he was a stranded guest. The next he was teasing Margaux into brushing her hair without protest or rewiring the dodgy switch in the hallway with a screwdriver he borrowed from Willem.

She liked it. Not just the help. Not just the extra hands when the bar got too full or Bas got moody. She liked him there. The way he made her daughter laugh from the stomach. And that scared the hell out of her. Because she'd spent five years turning this house into a fortress of competence. Because she knew how easily kids attached.

Willem eyed Lando like a stray dog who kept coming back to the porch. Not hostile. Just cautious. Bas wasn’t so subtle. He stopped speaking to Lando altogether, except for clipped one-word exchanges that came sharp as a snapped string. He spent more time than necessary in the cellar. And when he passed Lando in the hallway, he did it with the silence of a man actively choosing not to shove someone.

Jacky, of course, was the opposite. “He carries things,” she said while dropping off a crate of soda. “With his arms, and not his ego. That’s rare.” Chloé chimed in later with, “I don’t trust his hair. But he’s polite.” And Romain, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. Like a sad puppy with a credit card.”

She rolled her eyes at all of them. But Margaux, Margaux called him “Sir Lando” now, like he was in a storybook. And when he lifted her onto the garden wall so she could watch the bats at dusk, she laughed so hard she hiccupped. That night, after closing, she found the rock Margaux gave him sitting on the windowsill by his room. Carefully placed. Like it meant something. She didn’t touch it. But she didn’t stop looking either.

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The first time he tried, it was mid-morning. She was hauling empty bottles out to the recycling bins behind the kitchen. He followed her out, grabbed one of the crates before she could. “Can I ask you something?” She didn’t look up. “If it’s about the coffee machine, the answer’s probably ‘swear louder.’” “It’s not.”

That made her pause. Then the door banged open behind them.

Willem, wiping his hands on a cloth, stuck his head out. “Do we have any more of that dark rum, or has Bas hidden it again?” She groaned. “Bottom shelf. Far left.”

Willem disappeared again.

She turned back. “What was your question?” He hesitated. “Nothing.”

The second time, it was in the garden. He was fixing the lantern. She was moving chairs. “Tonight,” he said, half-breathless. “You busy?” She raised an eyebrow. “Always.” “No, I mean, not work. I was thinking dinner. Maybe. If you wanted.”

Bas slammed the bar door open at exactly that moment, muttering something in Dutch about inventory and missing aprons. Lando sighed. “Never mind.”

She said nothing. But her mouth twitched like she almost smiled.

Third time was technically the worst.

She was in the kitchen. Margaux had just fallen off the garden bench and cut her toe on a pebble. There was blood. There were tears. There was the kind of chaos only a child can generate in under eight seconds. By the time Lando found them, she was crouched with a wet cloth and soothing voice, and Margaux was hiccupping in dramatic pain.

He hovered in the doorway, helpless. “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Not unless you’re secretly a surgeon,” she said, not looking up. He retreated.

Fourth time. Evening. Light fading. Tables set. The projector screen already hanging from the side of the shed. She was behind the bar, arranging wine bottles. He didn’t delay this time. Just said, “Do you want to go out with me?”

She paused. Looked at him. Really looked. Then, “I can’t.” He blinked. “Oh.” “No, I mean, I can’t tonight. It’s movie and karaoke. I run it. I’ve got wine to pour, kids to keep from falling into the firepit, and at least one guy who always throws up after singing Céline Dion.” Lando relaxed. Just slightly. “So not a no.” She smirked. “Just bad timing.” “Seems like I’m cursed.” “I told you this village was a nightmare.” He tapped the bar. “Then I guess I’ll come. Sit in the back. Heckle you during karaoke.” “You heckle me,” she said, “you’re next on the mic.” He grinned. “Deal.”

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The garden transformed just before sunset. Willem strung up the lights like he’d been rehearsing for a wedding. Bas moved chairs with grim efficiency. Chloé painted faces on the kids who asked, then on a few who didn’t. Jacky brought champagne. Romain brought cake. Uninvited, but no one said no. The screen, an old white sheet, tugged tight against the side of the shed, flapped in the breeze until Lando pinned the corners with bricks. By the time the projector warmed up, there were thirty people settled on mismatched chairs, beanbags, and picnic blankets. Dogs barked in the distance. Someone had brought a saxophone, just in case. She moved through it all like a conductor. Directing, calming, pouring, smiling when necessary. But never still. Never quiet. Lando watched from a low wooden stool with a plastic cup of Jacky’s punch and a slight buzz in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

She never sat down. But she laughed, real and open, when Margaux spilled popcorn on the headteachers feet. She high-fived Chloé after catching a stray wine cork mid-air. She mouthed the words to the movie from behind the bar like someone who knew every scene by heart.

When the credits rolled, the real chaos began. Someone dragged a speaker inside. Jacky shouted something about Céline Dion. Willem groaned. Bas disappeared. Lando stayed.

He stood at the edge of the room, near the wine rack, half-shadowed, watching. The karaoke list was a mess of scribbled names and inside jokes. Half the village seemed to have chosen “their” song. Margaux was already dancing barefoot on a chair.

Then someone shouted, “Madame la patronne!” The room erupted in cheers. Someone pushed a microphone into her hand.

She raised it, horrified. “No.” “Yes!” Jacky barked. “It’s tradition!” Margaux jumped down, grabbed her hand. “We practiced!” “Oh god,” she muttered.

Lando leaned against the wall, smiling now. The music started. Off-key. Too loud. One of those French pop songs from the 90s that sounded like fizzy water and heartbreak. She sang badly. So badly. Flat on every chorus. Late on every verse. But Margaux belted along like she was headlining Glastonbury, and somewhere between the second verse and the bridge, they were dancing. Just the two of them, mother and daughter, spinning in a swirl of terrible notes and wild joy.

It was awful. It was perfect.

Later, when the room thinned out, when Jacky had fallen asleep sitting up and someone was mopping up what might’ve been cider, he found her stacking chairs with one hand, wine glass in the other.

“You survived,” he said. “Barely.” “You were-” “Don’t.” He held up both hands. “Okay.” They stood there for a beat. Then he asked, quieter now, “Tomorrow night?” She didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah.” A second passed. “Just don’t pick karaoke.” He grinned. “Deal.”

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Chloé had arrived , armed with a velvet scrunchie, three mismatched eyeshadow palettes, and the absolute conviction that she was born for this moment. “I’ve seen ‘Amélie’ twelve times,” she declared. “I know what whimsy looks like.”

Romain trailed in behind her with a bowl of something green and ominous. “Spirulina face mask. Organic. No preservatives. Smells like regret.” “You’re not putting that on my face,” she said. “It’s for me, obviously,” he replied, already smoothing it across his cheekbones with two fingers and a spoon. “I want to look radiant when your child inevitably braids my hair.” Chloé shoved her down into a chair and started attacking her braid with a brush like it had personally offended her. “This isn’t just a date. This is post-parenthood redemption.” “I don’t need redemption.” “You wore the same hoodie for three days last week.” She opened her mouth to argue but Romain held up a finger. “To be fair, it was a good hoodie.” Margaux skidded into the room wearing fairy wings and socks that did not belong to her. “Can I have a sword?” “No,” her mother said. “Too late,” said Romain, pulling one out from behind a cushion.

Somehow, between the chaos and the laughter, she ended up in a dress she hadn’t worn in years, her lips slightly glossed, her nerves trying not to show.

“You look like you belong in a romantic comedy,” Chloé said proudly. “I don’t know what that means.” “It means perfect.” Romain, lying sideways on the sofa with Margaux climbing over his back, gave a thumbs-up. “Go seduce the race car capitalist. We believe in you.” She tried not to smile. “You’re both insane.” “And babysitting for free,” Chloé added. “Don’t forget.”

Downstairs, the inn was quieter. Bas was restocking the wine shelf, half-crouched with a crate against his knee. He looked up as she stepped off the last stair. And then, paused. “You look,” he started, then trailed off. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Nice. It suits you. I mean, the Englishman. He’s lucky.” There was no bitterness in it, just something soft and true.

She gave a half-laugh, brushing a hand down her skirt like it could shake the moment off. “Don’t start being sweet now, Bas. It’s confusing.” He shrugged. “Maybe I like confusing you.” For a beat, she didn’t know what to say. She took one last breath, tucked a curl behind her ear, and stepped out into the night. Lando was waiting just outside the door, leaning against the fence, like he’d only just remembered how to stand still. When he saw her, whatever words he’d been holding vanished. His mouth opened, then closed again, helpless. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.” “I, yeah,” he said, blinking. “I am.” The corners of her mouth curled, despite herself. “We’re not staying in town.” He nodded quickly, still caught somewhere between surprise and something heavier. “Okay.” “The next village’s quieter,” she added, reaching for the keys. “Less likely to be interrogated over dessert.”

He followed her out to the gravel drive, where her father’s old Peugeot sat hunched like an aging cat, sour yellow, dented in one door, and always smelling faintly of varnish and memory.

“You’re kidding,” Lando said. She tossed him a look. “This car has climbed the Alps.” “Recently?”

She didn’t answer. Just got in. It rattled over the roads like it remembered them better than she did, every turn filled with the soft squeal of age. The radio refused to tune properly, spitting out fragments of chanson and static. Lando didn’t complain once. Dinner was at a tiny bistro a village over, the kind of place that didn’t bother with menus or music, just wrote the day’s offerings in chalk and let the chef decide who was worth impressing.

“Don’t make that face,” she told him as they sat down. “I’m not making a face.” “You’re definitely making a face.”

Lando looked around, at the rusted lanterns hanging like forgotten fruit, the cracked tiles underfoot, the old man behind the bar aggressively ignoring them. “I’ve just never eaten anywhere with this much personality.” She smirked. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” He leaned in. “You think I’m pretty?” “I think you’re going to cry when the wine arrives.”

He did. Almost. It was cold, red, and unapologetically sour. She drank hers without blinking. The food was rough and honest, lentils with sausage, a hunk of bread that could double as a doorstop, and something involving mushrooms that might have been soup, or might have been a dare. They ate all of it. Or most of it. Lando gave up on the soup halfway through and fed it covertly to a cat under the table. She pretended not to notice.

“You always like this?” he asked, somewhere between the second basket of bread and a piece of walnut tart that flaked apart when you looked at it too hard. “Like what?” “Sharp. Funny. Impossible to read.” She tilted her head. “You always this forward?” “No,” he admitted. “But I like it when you look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you already know how this ends.”

She didn’t answer. Just stood, tossed a few coins on the table, and said, “Come on. I want to show you something.” They walked without touching. The streetlights were dim, flickering like they couldn’t quite commit. He watched her as she led them off the main road, down a side path edged with wild thyme and silence. There was an old bridge there, no longer used. Just stone and shadow and the sound of water below. She leaned against the railing, arms folded and looked out like it meant something. Like it always had. He joined her, close but not too close.

“I used to come here when I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Still do, sometimes.” He nodded, gently. “Margaux too?” “She thinks it’s haunted.” A pause. “It probably is.” He laughed quietly. “You’re hard to figure out.” “That’s the point.”

They stood like that for a long moment. Then she looked at him, really looked, and something in her softened. Her guard shifted. Just enough. He leaned in, but not all the way. She didn’t meet him. Not yet. Their breaths tangled, shallow and hesitant. A pause stretched between them, just long enough to feel heavy. His hand brushed hers, just their pinkies touching.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low, like if he said it louder it might ruin the moment.

She nodded. Once. Then again, more vigorously. They both hesitated anyway. And then, barely, a kiss. A soft press. Tentative. Unsure. Not even long enough to count, but it bloomed in the quiet between them like something delicate and unspeakably rare. When they pulled apart, neither of them opened their eyes. Her forehead found his. Their pinkies still hooked. Neither moved. Like they could stay in that breathless, suspended space just a little longer.

“You’re extremely red,” he murmured. “Shut up.” “Like actually vermilion.” She groaned. “Go to hell.”

He smiled. Wide. Pleased with himself. She leaned in and kissed him again. Quick. Impatient. Right on the mouth. He blinked.

“Stop talking,” she said. His grin only grew. “Make me.”

She shoved his shoulder. He caught her wrist. Neither of them let go.

“This scares me,” she whispered. He didn’t move. “Yeah.” “I have a kid. A business. A whole life. I don’t have space for guesswork.” He exhaled slowly. “I know. And I won’t pretend I’ve got it figured out. I travel a lot. My life’s a mess most of the time. But I really like you.”

She looked up.

“And I like Margaux, too,” he added. “She’s a great kid. Batshit crazy, like you, but brilliant.” That did something strange to her chest, like grief and hope had decided to share a drink and settle in together.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile either. But she touched his hand. And didn’t let go.

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He drove them back along narrow, winding roads framed by dark cypress and whispers of lavender. She let him, fingers loosely resting near the gearshift, close enough to touch but not quite daring to. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was electric, humming beneath the quiet, charged with all the words neither wanted to say aloud.

The engine thrummed low, steady, like a heartbeat. When the inn appeared ahead, bathed in soft golden light from the porch, she hesitated, caught between the safe and the unknown.

Then, “Fuck it,” she whispered to herself.

Before he could ask, she reached out, fingers tangling in the soft curls at his neck, pulling him down. The kiss was different now, heated, urgent. Their breaths came in short huffs, warm and tangled, slipping between mouths in desperate rhythm. Hands fumbled and grabbed at clothing as they spilled out of the car, bodies pulling impossibly close, like magnets that refused to let go. They stumbled inside, still wrapped around each other, every step an excuse to lean in, to touch, to feel. A sudden quiet pulled her back just long enough to check on Margaux. Through the cracked bedroom door, she saw the small figure curled under soft blankets in a unicorn onesie. Chloe was beside her, wings spread like a fragile guardian angel, and Romain was slumped on the beanbag, his face a mess of “fairy-turned-pirate” makeup, utterly asleep.

She smiled softly, heart pinching.

The moment passed and they melted back together.

“Your room, or mine?” she whispered, voice thick with breath and promise.

“Either, if, you are sure?” His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer still, as she nodded energetically.

Her hands found his hair, fingers threading through curls, then trailing down to the front of his shirt. Soft sounds escaped her lips, half moans, half laughter. They broke apart just enough to giggle when he discovered a ticklish kiss on a sensitive spot at her neck. Smiling, laughing into the kiss, they backed onto the bed. He slipped her dress off slowly, eyes dark and full of wonder for a few seconds before he covered every inch of her face with gentle, teasing kisses, grinning all the while. He traced slow, feather-light kisses down her jaw, his smile mischievous but eyes burning with something deeper.

“You’re too beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Makes me want to forget everything else.”

She laughed softly, breath hitching. “Oh, really? Maybe I should take advantage of that.” He grinned, fingers slipping under the hem of her underwear, thumbs brushing the skin beneath. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

There was a pause, electric, full of promise, before he eased her back, lips finding the sensitive curve of her neck again, softer this time, coaxing. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, voice playful but breathless: “Well, then, show me how much you mean it.” She swallowed, heart racing, but her mouth still found the words. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a professional race car driver, you’re surprisingly clumsy with buttons.”

Nervous, but not enough to stop teasing, she raised an eyebrow. “So, uh, you’re sure about this? Because last time I checked, I wasn’t exactly the ‘date-of-the-year’ type.” He bent down, breath warm against her skin, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you kidding? You’re the only one I want to be here with.” Her breath hitched, a mix of nerves and something fiercer stirring inside. “I haven’t done this in ages. Like, real dates. And this? Not what I expected.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, voice husky. “Neither did I. But maybe that’s what makes it perfect.” She bit her lip, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Perfectly terrifying, you mean.” His hands slid down, tracing the lines of her ribs, and she felt the electricity of his touch teasing and certain all at once. “Terrifying, maybe. But I promise I’m good at taking care of terrifying things.” She let out a shaky breath, a laugh breaking through. “Well, Mr. Caretaker, start showing me then.” His grin was wicked, hands moving with purpose as he leaned in again, every kiss and touch laced with a hunger tempered by something gentle like he was learning every curve, every shiver, every word she didn’t say. He paused, eyes locking with hers, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “So, where exactly do you want me to start? Because I’m good at multitasking.” She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “Wow, confident. I like it. But let’s not get too ambitious, Romeo.” His fingers trailed down her side, light and deliberate. “Ambition’s kind of my thing. But I can take it slow. Very slow.” She swallowed hard, heart pounding louder than any engine. “Slow’s good. Slow’s safe. For now.” He dipped his head, breath warm against her skin, and she couldn’t help but shiver. His mouth found the delicate curve just below her hipbone, lips teasing, then pressing with more intent.

“Okay, multitasking starts now,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, breath hitching between quiet laughter and soft gasps. She bit her lip, trying to sound unimpressed but failing spectacularly. “Smooth talker. I’m warning you.” He pulled back just long enough to grin up at her, eyes dark and serious. “Only for you.” Then he went back, slower this time, like he was memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every whispered word she didn’t dare say out loud. And she let herself fall into it, nervous, teasing, and utterly alive under his touch. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending sparks through her nerves. She arched beneath him, fingers tightening in his hair as a breathy gasp escaped her lips.

"Fuck!" The word came out ragged, half-laugh, half-moan, as his mouth pressed harder, hotter, like he was savouring the taste of her. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady, but there was no rush, just the slow, maddening drag of his tongue, the way he paused just to feel her tremble. "Still terrifying?" he murmured against her skin, the vibration of his voice making her hips jerk.

She let out a shaky exhale, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. "More," she breathed, barely a whisper, and he obeyed, his tongue dipping deeper, coaxing out a broken sound as her back arched off the sheets.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, possessive and grounding, while his mouth worked her with relentless precision. His tongue curled in a way that made her thighs clench around his shoulders. A whimper caught in her throat as he dragged his teeth lightly, just once before soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue.

"God," She arched, her heel digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating against her, and she could feel his smirk.

"Told you I multitask," he murmured, before one hand slipped between them, thumb pressing in slow circles just above where his mouth had been.

Her breath hitched as his fingers and tongue worked in perfect, devastating rhythm, slow, then relentless, then slow again, dragging her toward the edge with agonizing precision. Every nerve burned, every gasp came sharper, until her hips jerked against his mouth, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Lando" His name tore from her throat as the tension snapped, pleasure cresting in slow, shuddering waves.

He didn’t let up, drawing it out until she was trembling, until her thighs clamped around him in helpless oversensitivity. Only then did he pull back, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before crawling up her body. He hovered over her, forearms bracketing her head, sweat-damp curls falling across his forehead as he studied her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, rough and deliberate.

"Still with me?" he murmured, voice roughened.

She nipped at his thumb, breath uneven. "Depends. You planning to talk all night or?" Lando exhaled a laugh, shifting his hips just enough to tease, the heat of him pressing where she ached. "Just checking," he said, dragging his nose along her jaw. "Wanted to hear you say it."

Her nails scored down his back. "Now," she demanded.

His laugh was dark and hungry as he caught her wrist, pinning it above her head.

"Demanding," he murmured, but there was no protest in it, only heat. His hips rolled forward in one slow, deliberate stroke, filling her with a groan that tore from his throat. She arched beneath him, breath catching as he pressed deeper, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

She dug her heel into his back, urging him on. "Shut up and move." Lando obeyed, dragging out almost completely before thrusting back in with a sharp snap of his hips. His thrusts turned punishing, the slick slap of skin filling the room as he drove into her with raw, unfiltered need. She met him stroke for stroke, her back arching off the mattress, nails raking down his shoulders as pleasure coiled tight in her gut.

"Look at me," he growled, fingers tightening on her hip. Her eyes flew open, locking onto his, dark, hungry, ruined, just as his thumb found that perfect spot between them, circling hard.

The pressure snapped, her cry tearing through the air as she shattered around him, muscles clenching so tight he groaned through gritted teeth. His breath was ragged against her neck as he slowed to a torturous pace, hips rolling in deep, deliberate circles that made her toes curl.

"Think you can handle one more?" he murmured, teeth grazing her earlobe.

Her laugh came out breathless, half-moan, half-protest. "Mmf you," a sharp gasp cut her off as his thumb pressed down again, ruthless and perfect, "are insufferable." Lando grinned, all teeth and wicked intent, before snapping his hips forward hard enough to steal her next words. "That a yes?" Her nails bit into his shoulders as she arched, voice fraying at the edges, so she nodded instead.

"Say it," he said, fingers tightening in her hair as his hips stuttered against hers. "Gotta hear you say it."

Her breath hitched, lips parting around the words he wanted, needed. "I'm close," she gasped, arching as his thumb circled that sweet, torturous spot again. "So close." "Good." His praise was rough, possessive, mouth crashing against hers in a messy kiss. “Do it, come now."

The command, the way his voice broke on the words, unravelled her completely. A sharp cry tore from her throat as pleasure ripped through her, waves of it, relentless, stealing the air from her lungs. His own release following after. The room was quiet, except for their breathing. Not soft. Not yet. It still came in waves, uneven and catching in the throat like it didn’t quite know how to settle. And then he grinned.

She barely caught the flash of it before he shifted, kissed her cheek once, then again, and again, all over her face in quick, silly bursts. Her forehead. Her nose. Her jaw. A smattering of affection that felt like he couldn’t stop if he tried. She let out a laugh, sudden and breathless, covering her face with one hand. “What are you doing?” He kept going. “Showing off,” he said against her temple. “Victory lap.” “God, you’re unbearable,” But she was laughing too hard to make it convincing. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You love it.” She huffed, wrapping her arms around him, letting herself be pulled back into his chest, both of them breathless now for a whole different reason. They lay tangled, smiling into each other’s skin, hearts racing but slowing with each second. Then, like a tide creeping in, the quiet returned. The curtain shifted with the breeze. The distant bark of a dog. The faint creak of the house settling.

And just like that, her thoughts began to catch up. She shifted, sitting up a little too fast, the sheet slipping from her chest as she turned away, legs over the side of the bed. The cool air against her skin felt like a jolt. Lando lifted his head. “Hey,” “I just need a second,” she said, voice tight. Not angry. Just threadbare. He sat up too, tugging his boxers back on. He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, hands resting gently on her knees. “You’re not a mistake,” he said quietly. “This, whatever this is, it doesn’t scare me.” “It scares me,” she whispered. He nodded once. Didn’t flinch. “Because of her?” She nodded, throat tight. “Then let it scare you,” he said. “Just don’t shut it down before it starts." She looked at him. Really looked. He looked open. Steady. Not perfect. Not certain. But here. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. “We figure it out.” “And if you leave?” “I will,” he said honestly. “Eventually. That’s my job. But I don’t want to leave this, not you.” Her heart ached at that, split down the middle between hope and something sharper. “You say that now, you barely know me.” “I’ll say it tomorrow too,” he said. “Promise?” He gave her a small, crooked smile. “Ask me tomorrow.”

She smiled. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t easy. But it was real. She reached for his hand. “Stay,” she said. And he did.

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The light came in soft and golden through the thin curtain, like it knew not to rush them. She stirred first, one arm across Lando’s chest, her leg tangled with his under the sheets. He was warm, calm. Still mostly asleep. And it was tempting, dangerously tempting, to stay that way. To let the world wait. But the world didn’t wait. She slipped out of bed quietly, pulled on the shirt he’d worn last night, her underwear from the chair, and padded over to the window. The village outside was already beginning to stir. Lando shifted behind her.

“Hey,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

She turned. “Hi.” A beat passed. Then she crossed to the bed, sat beside him, and said softly, “We need to keep this quiet.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Right. For how long?” “Just until I talk to Margaux. And Bas.” “Bas?” His face shifted, confused. “You don’t owe him that.” “I don’t,” she agreed. “But I’ll give it to him anyway.” Lando nodded slowly, watching her carefully. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.” She squeezed his hand, then stood. “Let’s get downstairs before anyone notices.”

They almost made it. The hallway was clear. The stairs creaked once, but quietly. She glanced back at Lando with the ghost of a grin, and when she turned forward again, Bas stood at the bottom step, towel slung over one shoulder, crate of glasses in hand. He clocked her first. Then Lando. Then her shirt, Lando’s shirt.

His jaw twitched. Nobody moved. Lando took one more cautious step, catching the tension too late. Bas didn’t speak. Just muttered something in Flemish, something creative and very much not church-appropriate, and walked off, fast, through the kitchen and into the storeroom. She closed her eyes briefly. Then handed Lando the crate. “Can you find Margaux? Keep her distracted?”

He nodded, already setting off. She followed Bas.

The storeroom smelled like lemon oil, aging potatoes, and quiet resentment. Bas was stacking bottles with too much purpose.

“Knock, knock,” she said, not bothering to. “I heard you coming,” he muttered. “You always do.” He didn’t look up. “You sneak around like someone who’s never owned a squeaky floorboard in her life.” “I wasn’t sneaking.” Bas dropped a bottle into the crate with a little too much force. “No?” “I was delaying.” He turned to face her finally. “That’s worse.” She folded her arms. “I didn’t mean for it to be a secret.” “No, Capitaine,” he said, with a dry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You just meant to keep the ship sailing while I clung to the side.” She winced at the old nickname. “Don’t call me that.” He shrugged. “Hard habit to break. You always were the bossy one.” “You never minded that before.” “Yeah,” he said. “Well. I minded it the morning after you left my bed and never looked back.”

The words hit sharper than she expected, even now. She didn’t flinch. “That night was a mistake.” “You didn’t say that then.” “I didn’t want to hurt you.” He looked at her, tired. “You just wanted someone who wouldn’t ask questions.” Silence stretched. Then she stepped forward. “You know me, Bas. You’ve always known me. Since we were kids throwing rocks at the school bell. Since you dared me to kiss Luc Delacroix and I broke his nose instead.” “God,” Bas said, a laugh catching in his throat. “Luc cried so much, his snot got on my shirt.” She smiled, briefly. “You let me wear that shirt for a week.”

“I was in love with you.” He didn’t say it with any drama. Just a flat, sad truth that hung in the air like humidity. “I know,” she whispered. “And I waited,” he said. “Like an idiot. I thought if I stayed, maybe you'd look at me the way you used to look at her dad.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “You were never an idiot. You just wanted something I didn’t have to give.” Bas looked at her hand. Then her face. “Is he serious?” “I don’t know yet. But he’s kind to her.” “That counts.” “It’s everything.”

He gave her a long, quiet look. Then nodded, slow. “You gonna make me work tonight?” “Absolutely.” “Even karaoke?” “You’ll sing if I say so.” “Still the Capitaine, then.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Only because you let me be.”

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Margaux was holding a wrench. This alone should have been cause for concern “Are you sure this goes there?” she asked, standing on the swing’s wooden seat with one foot and pointing like a dictator at the bolt Lando was tightening.

“Nope,” he said. “But if it breaks, I’ll blame you and flee the country.” Margaux giggled. “You’d never get away. I’d tell Jacky.” He gasped in mock betrayal. “You wouldn’t.” She grinned. “She knows everything. She’s probably watching right now.” “Do you think she spies with binoculars?” “She uses birds,” Margaux said, deadly serious. “Little ones.” Lando laughed. “Noted. No escaping village surveillance.” They were halfway through rebuilding the swing, old rope, new bolts, wood that had been sanded unevenly by someone who clearly had more confidence than tools. Lando was sweating through his shirt, kneeling in the grass, holding a power drill that clearly did not belong to him. Margaux, meanwhile, had appointed herself site supervisor, snack overseer, and honorary Empress of the swing.

“Can I try it now?” she asked. “Give me two more bolts and a miracle.” She sat cross-legged in the grass beside him. “You’re funny.” He grinned. “You always like bossing people around?” “I learned it from my mum,” she said, with absolutely no shame. Lando paused, glancing toward the inn. “She’s good at that.” “She’s good at everything.” His smile softened. “Yeah. She is.” Margaux lay back in the grass, arms stretched wide like she was making a snow angel in summer dust. “She used to push me on the swing after dinner. But it broke. So, we just kind of stopped.” Lando didn’t answer. Just picked up the last bolt and quietly locked it in.

Inside, she watched them through the kitchen window. The way Margaux gestured, all drama and limbs. The way Lando crouched beside her, nodding solemnly, pretending to follow every mad idea she pitched. He didn’t talk down to her. He didn’t perform. He just was. And her daughter was laughing. That sound, light, high, unguarded, it pulled something tight in her chest and unwound it, slow. Maybe she didn’t know what this was yet. But she knew what it wasn’t.

It wasn’t chaos. Or damage. Or a quick fix. It was better. And that was terrifying. She stepped away from the window. Her hands were still damp from scrubbing breakfast plates. But her heart was louder than the tap and the clock and the whisper of her own second-guessing.

It was time to ask the question that mattered most.

Margaux was still flushed from playing, hair full of bits of grass, shirt damp with whatever had been in Romain’s garden spray bottle. They were upstairs now, the window cracked open to the lavender breeze, the stars just beginning to prick the sky. She was tucking the sheet up under her daughter’s chin when Margaux blinked up and asked, “Can Lando come to story time tomorrow?”

Her hands stilled. “I’m not sure,” she said gently. “He might be busy.” Margaux shrugged. “He tells stories funny. Not like a teacher. Like he forgets the ending and just makes one up.” She smiled at that. “That sounds about right.” She sat beside her on the edge of the bed, smoothing the blanket. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest. Like when I asked if you brushed your teeth and you said technically no.” Margaux’s eyes sparkled. “Okay.” “It’s always been just us. You and me. For a long time.” Margaux nodded. “Because we’re a team.” “Exactly,” she said, her voice thickening slightly. “But if someday, there was someone else. Not instead of you. Just with us. Would that be okay?” Margaux blinked. “Like another teammate?” “Yes. Maybe. Someone who made us laugh. Who was kind. Who cared about you as much as I do.” Margaux pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then: “Is he like Lando?” She stilled. “Maybe.” “Then it’s okay.” Her heart twisted. “But if he’s like Luc Delacroix,” Margaux added gravely, “then absolutely not.” She let out a laugh, quick and cracked. “You remember Luc?” “He told me broccoli was dessert. He can’t be trusted.” They both laughed, and her eyes stung. Margaux reached for her hand. “You can be happy, Maman. I don’t mind.”

That broke something open, soft and unbearable. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispered something into her curls she couldn’t even hear herself. Then Margaux yawned. “Can I swing tomorrow?”

“Only if it doesn’t rain.” “Lando said it’s strong now. He said we could fly.” “He’s good at making people believe that.”

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Later, she found him in the garden, sitting on the swing he’d just rebuilt, head tilted back toward the stars. When he heard her footsteps, he turned, smiling, warm, expectant. She didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him, letting their shoulders brush.

Moments later, Margaux burst through the door in pyjamas and boots, arms flung out like wings.

“You’re meant to be asleep, Framboisine!” “You said we could fly! I want to try.” Lando laughed, standing. “Alright then. Strap in.”

He lifted her gently onto the swing. And the two of them, him on one side, her on the other, began to push. Slow, rhythmic, steady. Margaux squealed as her feet kicked higher and higher.

The stars above twinkled. The garden swayed in quiet motion. And for the first time in a long, long while, it didn’t feel like letting go. It felt like moving forward. Together.

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The inn was alive by midday. Weeks had passed since the date, and Lando had integrated himself further and further into the village life. Chloé had brought a speaker, and a playlist called happy-sad but mostly wine, which was already blasting through the garden. Jacky swept through the kitchen like she owned the place, dropping off a tray of almond croissants with strict instructions not to warm them, unless you want the almonds to go sad, and no one wants sad almonds. Willem brought wine. Six bottles. Two chilled. “I figured we’d need two for each ghost,” he said, and no one corrected him.

Henri showed up in his mechanic overalls, grease still on his arms, dragging his two sons behind him, one helpful, Romain purely here to eat, dressed entirely in black, sunglasses included. “I’m here for emotional solidarity,” he announced, then immediately burst into tears after one of the kids handed him a flower.

Lando stayed close, hands busy all day. Carrying chairs, pouring drinks, letting Margaux boss him around with a flower crown and a plastic sword. He was supposed to be training. Two weeks left before the next race. But today, this day, he stayed. No hesitation. Bas was there too, quieter than usual. He helped without asking. Set up the sound system. Cut bread in silence. Watched her from the edges like he always did, present but not reaching. The music built as the sun sank lower. Not sad songs. Not hymns. But the sort of music you could dance to barefoot, with a wine glass in one hand and your grief folded like a napkin in your pocket. She moved through the garden like someone being held up by everyone. Laughed at Romain’s melodrama. Hugged Jacky too tight. Let Willem kiss her cheek. And every time she passed Lando, she touched his arm. Just briefly. Like a tether. Later, when the plates were nearly cleared and people were starting to steal cushions for the grass, he caught her just behind the bar, stealing a swig of something stronger from a coffee cup.

“Hey,” he said, sidling up beside her. “Hey yourself.”

They stood like that for a moment, the music drifting through the open windows. He glanced at her. “Do you like dancing?” She arched an eyebrow. “No.” He mock-winced. “Oh. Okay.” She smirked. “Ask me anyway.” His grin returned. “Will you dance with me?” She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” They stepped out into the garden, where Jacky was already dragging Henri into a swaying sort of half-waltz. Lando didn’t lead. Not really. He just let their hands find each other, let the rhythm carry them. She didn’t move much, just enough to match him. Enough to stay close. She looked up once. His smile was soft, not quite steady.

“You’re bad at this,” she whispered. “So are you.” “Good thing we’re pretty.” He laughed. “Exactly.”

Around them, the village spun on, buzzing with old jokes, remembered names, shared wine and long-held love. But between them, under the strings of lights and the weight of memory, it was quiet.

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By the time the sun had dipped fully behind the trees, the garden was glowing. Not just from the string lights or the candles tucked into empty jam jars, but from the warmth of people who had made this day what it was, what it always was. A celebration. A tether. A refusal to forget. Margaux, sugar-hyped and pink-cheeked, was falling asleep under a table with a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. Chloé had drawn a heart on her forehead in pink pen, and no one had stopped her.

One by one, the goodbyes began. Jacky was first, of course. She pressed two kisses to each of their cheeks, then pulled her into a hug that was longer than necessary, tighter than expected. When she finally let go, her voice was thick. “Your mother would’ve been proud. You’re still her girl. Just with more wine and worse posture.” She laughed through her nose. “I’ll work on that.” Chloé kissed the top of Margaux’s head and whispered something in her ear. Margaux nodded solemnly. It was probably a secret. Or a threat. Romain tried to go next but burst into tears halfway through his goodbye speech. “You are the village’s backbone,” he sobbed. “The soul! The very croissant crust of this place!” “No more pastries for him,” someone muttered. Henri and his eldest shook her hand, formal, warm. “Strong girl,” he said in that soft way of his, like a mechanic who knew how fragile engines really were. Then came Willem. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her for a long time, eyes full of something ancient and gentle. Then he kissed the top of her head.

“You did good, Lieveke.”

That was all. She nodded, throat tight. Bas was behind him, hands in his pockets, gaze low. He lingered a second longer than he had to, then looked up at her, not quite smiling, but close.

“Same time next year,” he said, pecking her temple. She nodded. “Same time.” He glanced once at Margaux, still curled up under the blanket, then gave Lando a look. Not threatening. Not warm. Just measured. Then he turned and walked out, no fuss, no backward glance. And then it was just them.

She and Lando stood there in the quiet, the garden littered with empty glasses and folded napkins. Margaux asleep in the corner. The stars coming out without asking. Lando exhaled, hands in his pockets.

“This village,” he said. “They don’t just love you. They carry you.” She looked at him, eyes rimmed pink, smile flickering. “Sometimes I think they are me.” “I’ve never seen anything like it.” “It’s not always good.” “I know,” he said. “I want you even when it’s shit.” She blinked. “But this,” He gestured to the night around them, the candles still flickering, the music now faded into the hum of cicadas. “This isn’t shit. This is love in its truest form. A whole village remembering for you. Celebrating for you. And I,” He stopped, like the words had gotten too big. “I’m just lucky I got to see it.”

She looked away, but her hand found his. Held on. For a long time, they said nothing. Then she whispered, “She’s waiting.” He nodded. “Then let’s go.”

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The churchyard was quiet in the way only old places can be. The gate creaked on its hinges as they pushed it open. Gravel crunched under their shoes. The stones glowed pale in the moonlight, rows of names and dates, all softened by time and lichen. Margaux walked ahead, her blanket still draped around her shoulders like a cape. She knew the way. She always did. She stopped at the same three stones, side by side beneath the rowan tree. Bent down. Touched the middle one with both hands. Then started talking. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Today was busy. Everyone came. Bas made your favourite cake, Romain cried again. Maman didn’t sing this time, but she danced a bit. Also, the swing’s fixed now. Lando helped. He’s not bad. Bit weird. But funny.”

Her voice drifted on the breeze, steady, almost cheerful. She sat cross-legged between the graves, humming as she pulled a handful of pebbles from her pocket and started sorting them by colour. Her mother stayed standing a little back. Still. Tense. Lando moved beside her. Didn’t speak. It was only when Margaux started humming something soft and off-key that she said, “That one on the right. That’s him.”

Lando nodded.

“He was meant to propose. That fishing trip. My dad was there too. I think he wanted to ask for permission properly then. He was old-fashioned like that. Romantic in a weird, boyish way.” Lando didn’t interrupt. “I was supposed to go with them,” she added, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t. I was too sick. Morning sickness. All-day sickness, really. I stayed in bed, and he kissed my forehead and left.”

Her arms crossed over her chest, pressing into her ribs. "They never came back. The storm-” her voice cracked. She inhaled through her nose, sharp and fast. “No one found them for days. And even then, pieces. Just pieces.”

Lando stepped closer. Close enough to offer something but not take anything away. She looked at the graves, then up at the sky. Her voice cracked on the edges, almost breaking before the words even made it out.

“It was hard, Lando. It was so hard. I used to walk around all day thinking,” she paused, breath trembling, “I was even jealous of euthanised dogs, why can they be put out of their misery?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was sacred. Weighty. Lando didn’t flinch. But his face shifted, like the words had lodged somewhere deep, somewhere that would ache later.

He stepped closer, not touching her yet, but there with her. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I mean, I knew it must’ve been hell. But not like that.”

She didn’t respond. Her arms were still wrapped tight around herself, like she was holding something in, something vast and ancient and screaming.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he added. “Except, fuck. I wish I’d known you then.” “Why?” “Because no one should ever feel that alone,” he said. “And if I couldn’t fix it, I could’ve sat beside you while it stayed broken.” Her eyes met his then, wet, tired, guarded. He held her gaze, steady. Then, softer now: “What do you want from me?”

She blinked. The honesty of it undid her a little. Not pity. Not a fix. Just the willingness to be asked. She turned fully toward him. “Anything you’re willing to give me.”

Silence stretched long between them. But it didn’t feel empty. She watched Margaux press pebbles into the dirt like tiny gifts. Then let herself smile, barely. Just enough. “You know,” she said, her voice returning to something lighter, “for a guy who’s paid to drive fast, you walk really slowly.” He smirked. “I like the view.” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus.” They didn’t move. Just stood there. But somehow, it still counted. He looked at her. Really looked. “You’re tough.” She nodded. “I can take care of myself.” “I know you can. You have. You still do. You always will.” Then his hand found hers, fingers warm in the cool air. “I’ve just joined in, too,” he added softly. “Now we’ll share. And take care of each other.”

She squeezed his hand. Then turned her face toward the gravestones. And cried. Not loudly. Not broken. Just real. And this time, she didn’t cry alone.

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The day he left was warm. Too warm for the end of August, the kind of heat that made people slower, quieter. Everything shimmered just slightly, like the village was holding its breath. His car was parked outside the inn, packed but not cluttered, he travelled light. Always had to be ready to go. Margaux was crouched on the front step in her socks, poking at the gravel like it might spell something out for her if she looked long enough. She didn’t say much. But she kept inching closer to him every time he moved, like if she stayed near enough, he might not leave. She stood by the door, arms crossed, mouth tight.

“You don’t have to look like I'm going to war,” Lando said gently, slipping his sunglasses onto his head. “It’s just Zandvoort.” She didn’t smile. “You say that like it doesn’t matter.” He moved closer. Not touching her, but near, “It matters. That’s why I’m coming back.” “People say that all the time.” “I’m not people.” She gave him a long, wary look. "I know.” He let the silence stretch. Then added, “You can still watch me screw up from here. That’s not nothing.” Her smile finally cracked through, thin, but there. “Be safe,” she said. He nodded. “Promise.” Then he crouched down to Margaux’s level. “You gonna keep your mum in line while I’m gone?” Margaux nodded solemnly. “She makes weird noises when she’s cleaning. I’ll record them.” “Perfect.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck without warning. Tight. Quick. Then let go and darted back inside like nothing had happened. He stood, eyes on the door she disappeared through. The rest of the village had gathered out front. Jacky with a basket of snacks for the road. Romain already misty-eyed. Chloé holding a homemade sign that read, Zandvoort = Hot Dutch Sand + Fast Pretty Men. Henri shook Lando’s hand like a father. Willem clapped his shoulder like a soldier. Bas just gave him a quiet nod. When Lando looked back at her, she was still on the step. Still watching. He opened the car door, then paused.

“You know where to find me,” he said. She nodded. “Go win something.” He grinned. “No pressure, then.”

Then he got in, started the engine, and drove. Everyone waved. She didn’t. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she wasn’t ready.

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The inn was full again but not like it had been two weeks ago. This time, the noise came from the screen. Friday morning. Free Practice One. She stood behind the bar, dish towel in hand, screen pulled up on her old iPad propped against the register. Margaux had made a paper cutout of Lando’s helmet and taped it to the corner.

He went fastest. Top of the table. Her heart surged before she could stop it. It wasn’t pride, exactly, it was relief. Like watching someone she loved balance on a wire and land without a wobble.

“Alright then,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “That’s one.”

Free Practice Two was wetter. Rain slicked the track. The spray off the rear tyres turned the screen into abstract art. She had a cloth napkin clenched in one fist, half-folded. Forgot about it halfway through. Lando finished fourth. Oscar was second. Coming into the pit lane, the camera cut just in time to catch his front wing brush against Lewis Hamilton’s rear tyre. She stopped breathing. The screen didn’t show panic. The commentators didn’t either. No damage. No drama. Still, her fingers were locked around her tea mug like it might break loose and sprint.

“You alright?” asked one of the regulars at the bar. She blinked. “Fine.” Saturday morning. FP3. She was in the kitchen, watching from a corner near the coffee machine. Then the screen went black for a second, red flag.

Logan Sargeant has gone off at Turn 10. When the cameras returned, the car was in flames. She gasped, dropping a spoon into the sink with a clang. The whole inn seemed to go still for a second. But the voice in her ear was calm. He was okay. He was out. Still, her hands trembled.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.

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Qualifying arrived with sun. The air in the inn had shifted. Tighter. Lighter. She let herself sit down for once, flanked by Chloé on her left and Romain on her right, both buzzing like caffeine and mischief. Bas hovered near the edge of the room. Pretending not to care. Watching everything. Margaux was in Jacky’s kitchen, elbow-deep in cookie dough, apron covered in flour.

Q1—easy. Q2—fine. Q3—flawless. The lap was smooth, poised, sharp at the edges. Controlled fury. Lando went purple in every sector and crossed the line ahead of Verstappen. Pole position. The inn erupted. Chloé screamed. Romain jumped up and knocked over an entire tray of glasses. Someone behind the bar whistled like it was a wedding. Even Bas, quiet, watchful Bas, grinned.

She didn’t cheer. She just exhaled. One deep, long breath she hadn’t realised she was holding all day.

They decided before the cookies were even cooled. Romain suggested it. Chloé seconded it. Jacky made it law. The race will be at the inn, they declared. Everyone’s coming.

Willem brought out the good wine. Someone found the extension cable from the mairie. Jacky promised to make her “emotional support tarte.” Everyone had a job. She didn’t argue. But that night, when the kitchen was half-clean and the house had gone mostly quiet, she lingered at the counter with Jacky beside her, wiping glasses by hand like it mattered.

“I’m scared,” she said. Jacky didn’t look up. “Of what, ma fille?” “That Margaux will get attached. That I’ll let her. And then,” Jacky placed the towel down slowly. “Are you really scared for Framboisine? Or is that just the excuse that feels safer?”

She didn’t answer. Jacky waited. “I’m scared to touch happiness,” she admitted. “Only to have it ripped away again. I’m scared that he might not understand, it’s always Margaux first. She is the pinnacle of my every action, my every word, my entire being. And yeah, I can learn to love him, but she comes first.” Jacky nodded like she’d expected nothing less. “And why does that scare you?” She hesitated. “Because what if he doesn’t understand that? What if he puts me first?” Jacky smiled, soft and sharp. “Is that not allowed?” She looked down at the bar. “I don’t know.” “If he loves you,” Jacky said, “then he will put you first. But if your entire being is her, then surely that translates. Everything he does will also be for her. Because of you. Love doesn’t divide; it expands. And I do not think you need to worry. That man, he adores her.”

They both turned, as if on cue, toward the window. Outside, Margaux stood in the garden, orange ribbons in her hair and face paint sloppily smeared on her cheeks. Chloé’s handiwork, no doubt. She was holding a tiny Dutch flag and staring at the screen like it was sacred.

Afternoon arrived. The garden was full. She didn’t sit. Just stood near the bar, arms folded. Watching. The race was chaos. Safety cars. Strategy calls. Overtakes that made people scream. And in the end, Lando won. Not just won. Owned it. Pole to flag.

The garden erupted like the sky had cracked open. Romain nearly passed out. Bas high-fived a child. Willem declared Lando “one of us now,” and no one disagreed. She didn’t cheer. Just smiled. Quiet. Proud. When no one was looking, she slipped out to the bench by the cafe, where the Wi-Fi was stronger.

She pulled out her phone. Typed: Well done, Lan. It was beautiful x Sent it. And went back.

The music had started, soft and swingy. Someone had dragged the old speaker out and wired it to the inns power supply. Kids ran barefoot, chasing leftover confetti. Jacky danced with Romain. Chloé spun in place like no one was watching. She found Margaux near the table of pastries, still sugared up, still bright-eyed.

“Dance with me?” she asked. Margaux grabbed her hand like she’d been waiting all day. So, they danced. Not well. Not gracefully. But together. And that was more than enough.

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The car pulled up just before ten. Same engine. Same dust kicked up off the gravel. But something about it still made her breath catch in her throat like it was the first time. He stepped out wearing sunglasses, trainers that still had flecks of Dutch sand on them, and the kind of casual confidence that made you forget how many cameras followed him daily. The village erupted before he could knock. Jacky pushed a croissant into his hand and declared him a national treasure. Henri gave him a thump on the back and said he should consider switching careers to cheese-making, because “only a man that calm under pressure can work with rennet.” Willem saluted with a glass of something definitely not juice. But Lando barely saw any of it.

He saw her. She was standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, trying not to smile too much. Or maybe too early. Margaux beat her to it. She ran, socks slipping on the gravel, arms flung wide. He caught her with ease and spun her once. “You won,” she yelled.

“Not without my lucky charm,” he replied.

She giggled, then scrambled down, grabbing his hand. “You have to come. Everyone has to know. Chloé said she’d paint a whole mural of you!” “Oh god.” Margaux tugged him toward the road. “Come on, hurry!” Lando glanced at her once, briefly. She nodded. So, he let Margaux drag him away. That left her on the step. And Bas. He was by the gate, arms folded. Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching. “Don’t,” she said before Bas could speak. He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “I wasn’t." She gave him a look. Bas shrugged. “Fine. I was going to say, he looks like a man about to propose in the middle of a bakery.”

She rolled her eyes and turned inside.

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They were upstairs fifteen minutes later. The room hadn’t changed. Same sheets. Same dusty window. Same space between the bed and the wardrobe where she sometimes dropped laundry and forgot about it for two days. But now he was in it. And she couldn’t stop moving. Picking things up. Straightening. Folding. He stood by the door, watching.

“I don’t need croissants,” he said softly. “I didn’t offer you any.” “Then why won’t you look at me?”

She froze. She wasn’t sure how to answer.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t know how much I missed you until I saw you again. And then,” She turned to him. “It’s not you.” “Okay.” “It’s me.” “Still okay.” She exhaled, tight and sharp. “I watched every session. Every lap. I didn’t breathe during Q3. And when you crossed the line, I wanted to scream.” “You didn’t?” “I made a cup of tea.” He tilted his head. “That sounds very British, not very French.” She finally smiled. Briefly. “I was scared, Lando. Really scared. I was proud, too. So proud. And that made it worse. Because it was so much. And I didn’t know where to put it.”

There was a pause. Then, gently, “Put it here.” He reached for her hand. Not demanding. Just offering. “Come to me when you’re afraid,” he said, voice low and careful. “Let me be the one to steady the ground when it starts to shake. Let me hold that weight too.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Then whispered, “You weren’t here.” He nodded. “Ask me to be. And I will.” “You’re busy.” “I don’t care if I’m racing. If I’m halfway through a lap. If you need me, call. And I will be here.” She swallowed, her throat thick. Then, softly, “Bit dramatic.” He grinned. “I have a flair for it.” “Maybe you missed your calling.” “Opera?” “Soap opera.” “Bold. But fair.” She laughed, finally. He stepped forward fully then, arms slipping around her waist. “I really did miss you.” “I made tea,” she said again, like it meant more now. “I’ll drink it,” he promised. “Even if it’s terrible.” “It is.” “Perfect.”

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Wednesday night came slow and golden, the air still clinging to the last of summer. Margaux was wriggly in bed, a tangle of knees and elbows and too many questions. Lando sat beside her, letting her braid his fingers into her stuffed rabbit’s ears. “Will you be gone for a long time?” she asked.

“Less than a week,” he said gently. “Next race is in Italy. I’ll be back before you miss me too much.” “I don’t miss people,” she lied. He smiled. “That’s okay. I’ll miss you enough for both of us.” She squinted at him. “Bring me something Italian.” “Like pizza?” “No. Like earrings.” Her mother choked on a laugh. “You don’t have your ears pierced.” Margaux shrugged. “Future planning.” They both kissed her goodnight. She clung a little longer to Lando’s neck before letting go, eyes already heavy.

“I’ll come say hi when I get back,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “Okay,” she murmured. “But you better knock.”

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Later, the house was still. The kitchen light was off. The garden dark. The window cracked open to let in the sound of crickets and the faint smell of earth cooling down. They lay in her bed, legs tangled under a light sheet, the silence between them thick, but not heavy.

“You know,” she said into the hush, “you’ve already been here longer than any man I’ve ever slept with.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Bold of you to assume you’ve seen the peak of my staying power.” She laughed, quiet, tired. “Gross.” “Flattering.” She shifted to face him. “You’re really going tomorrow?” “Unless I fake an engine failure.” “Tempting.” “I’m good at making exits dramatic.” She reached out, traced a line across his chest with the tip of her finger. “And entrances.” He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles. “You’re softer now.” “Don’t tell anyone.” “Especially not Willem. He’ll cry.”

They laughed into each other’s skin. Then the quiet settled again. He kissed her shoulder, slow and unhurried. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat. She didn’t tense. Didn’t joke. She just let him in. There was no rush. No burn of urgency. Just a kind of mutual exhale, like they both knew what they were doing this time. What it meant.

His hands moved with certainty. Hers didn’t flinch. They kissed like people who had already chosen each other, who had made peace with the fear and decided to touch anyway. No promises were made. But none were needed.

Lando's fingers trailed across her skin, tracing the contours of her collarbone. Her shoulder rose in a gentle arc, offering him access, and he took it, claiming her with a soft, plodding kiss. Their lips touched like autumn leaves rustling against each other, the soft hiss of their breaths mingling as they savoured the moment. The air was thick with anticipation, but there was no rush. No frantic heartbeat. Only the gentle acceptance that this was their time, and they were finally ready to surrender.

Her hands drifted up, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, her fingertips dancing across his skin like raindrops on a hot pavement. He didn't flinch, didn't tense up. He just let her in, allowed her to claim him as her own. Lando's fingers found her waist, his thumbs tracing the soft curves of her hips. She didn't squeeze his hand, didn't lean into him. She just let him guide her, let his touch become the axis around which she revolved.

Their bodies met in a slow dance, skin against skin. Lando's hands explored every inch of her body, as if he were mapping out new territory. She arched into his touch, moaning softly as he traced patterns on her stomach and hips. He kissed his way down her torso, stopping to nip at her chest before trailing his tongue down to her navel. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. His rough hands slid down her thighs, parting her legs as if he'd always know where to go. She gripped the sheets, her knees falling apart as he teased her entrance with gentle fingers. She trembled beneath him, lost in the sensation of being claimed.

They moved together, their rhythm in perfect sync. Lando nudged against her wet entrance, and with a groan, he thrust inside. She gasped, her back arching as he filled her completely. He moved slowly at first, savouring the feeling of being inside. She met his thrusts, their hips slapping together in a primal rhythm. Their skin slick with sweat, they moved together in a dance that was both familiar and new. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she drew him deeper inside her.

He hummed against her neck, his hair tickling her sensitive skin. She arched her back, her nails digging into his shoulders as she rode him harder. He groaned in approval, his hands finding her ass, squeezing and massaging as he thrust into her. Their breathing grew ragged, their gasps and moans filling the room. It wasn't fast or rough, but it was intense.

Every touch, every look, every whispered word held a world of meaning. They were lost in each other, consumed by the heat of the moment. Finally, they finished together, their bodies shuddering as they reached their peak. Lando spilled into her, and she cried out his name as her walls clenched around him. They collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. They lay there afterward, wrapped around each other, limbs tangled and warm, skin cooling beneath the sheets. The room was quiet again, but not empty. Her head rested against his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths. For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then. “You’re squashing my leg,” she mumbled, voice muffled. “You’re squashing my chest.” “You don’t need your chest for driving.” “I literally do.” She snorted softly, shifting just enough to poke him in the ribs. “You make the worst pillow.” “Funny. I just set a lap record. Felt very supportive at the time.” “Oh, so now you’re a mattress and a show-off.” He grinned into her hair. “Multitalented.”

They lay in the haze of post-everything comfort, their bodies still humming with leftover heat and something more dangerous: peace. Eventually, she whispered, “Do you think it’ll always feel like this?” Lando tilted his head. “Good?” She nodded. “And scary.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, “Probably. But you’re allowed to be scared, you know.” She exhaled through her nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Tell that to my spine every time you touch me.” He chuckled. “Should I leave it a note next time?” “No, just carve it into the inn’s headboard. With a pocketknife.” He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her properly. “You’re ridiculous.” She shrugged, smiling a little. “And yet, here you are.” “Here I am.”

He brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek, then leaned in, not for another kiss, not this time. Just to rest his forehead against hers. “I really don’t want to leave.” “I know, I don’t like you leaving either.” “But I will come back.” “I know,” she repeated, more quietly now. He kissed her gently, once on the cheek, once near the corner of her mouth, and then one last time, right in the middle of her forehead. His lips lingered. “Sleep,” he murmured, and she grinned.

He was halfway to the door before he turned around. “Come.” Her eyes shot open, “What?” He stepped closer, “I mean, I know you can’t come to Italy, its too late notice. Come to Azerbaijan. It’s in two weeks. Willem and Bas can look after the inn, Jacky and Chloé can babysit Margaux for the weekend. Come.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “It’s Margaux’s birthday.” His smile reappeared. “Okay, so come to Singapore. Its three weeks away. Plenty of time to prepare. Please.” “Okay." “Okay?” “Okay, I’ll come.” She said, grinning. Her brain hadn’t thought it through, but she wouldn’t let it. The smile on Lando’s face was worth any consequence.

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She had three lists. One for the inn. One for Margaux. One titled Things I Will Definitely Forget and Panic About in the car. It was still pinned to the fridge, half-smeared with marmalade.

Lando had left the night before, already en route to Singapore, something about a brand sponsorship. She could still smell his cologne faintly on her suitcase handle. That shouldn’t have been comforting. But it was. Now it was up to her.

She zipped up her case for the fourth time, grabbed her notepad, and marched downstairs into the organised chaos of the inn. “Willem!” she shouted, already halfway into the kitchen. Willem popped up from behind the bar like an ageing meerkat. “If this is about the wine order-” “It’s about everything,” she said. “You have the calendar?” “I’m sixty, not senile.” “That’s not what I heard,” Bas muttered from the back fridge. She spun around. “Bas. Do you have the supplier codes?” “I’ve memorised them.” “You say that like you don’t make them up every time.” Bas smirked. “Still works.” She stared at them both. These men. These chaotic, loving, half-feral village uncles who had held this place together more times than she could count. “You’ll call me if something happens?” Willem gave her a look. “You’re not going to the moon. You’re going to Singapore. With a man who makes driving look like ballet.” “Yes, and ballet is dangerous,” she replied. Bas crossed his arms. “Go. We’ve got this.”

As she wrestled Margaux’s backpack over one shoulder and checked her coat pocket for the fifth time, she turned back to Bas and Willem. Willem took the inn keys from her like they weighed more than they did.

“Don’t burn the place down,” she said, deadpan. “Pretty sure my favourite driving man would like our Inn intact when we get back.” Bas smirked. “Which one’s your favourite again?” She rolled her eyes. “The one currently halfway to Singapore and pretending he didn’t forget his sunglasses.”

They both laughed. And as she stepped out into the crisp morning air, Margaux skipping ahead of her, she realised she hadn’t needed to say his name for them to know exactly who she meant. She still checked the door locks. Twice.

Jacky’s house was already full of glitter and noise when she and Margaux arrived. Chloé was trying to learn how to make lanterns out of tissue paper. Romain was dancing with a colander on his head. It felt like leaving Margaux in a well-organised circus.

“You packed snacks?” she asked. “Two lunch boxes,” Jacky confirmed. “Emergency numbers?” Jacky pointed to a laminated sheet on the fridge. “Margaux’s bedtime?” “I’ll fight her into pyjamas with my own two hands,” Jacky said solemnly. She crouched down in front of Margaux, who was already tugging off her shoes and reaching for the glitter glue. “You good, Framboisine?” Margaux nodded seriously. “Tell Lando I said hi.” “You’ll see him next week.” “I know. Just in case he forgets.” She hugged her tight, then stood and immediately double-checked her overnight bag. Jacky placed a hand on her arm. “Go.” “But-” “Go,” Jacky said again. “Bring me back a photo of that boy in bad lighting. With a tan line.”

She laughed, against her better judgment. Hugged Jacky too. Then walked out the door. Her chest was tight. Her legs moved anyway. She was going. Singapore was calling. And Lando was already waiting.

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The city hit her like a wave, hot, dense, humming with electricity. Singapore was nothing like the village. There were no gravel paths or hanging flower baskets. There were glass towers, neon lights, and heat that clung to your spine. It smelled like sugar and spice and melted rubber. The hotel was too clean. The bed too square. She stared at the bathroom sink for five minutes, trying to figure out how it worked. By the time Lando knocked on her door Wednesday night, she’d changed outfits three times, cursed the humidity twice, and had no idea if her hair was supposed to look this big.

He wore a simple shirt. Linen. Open at the collar. No fanfare. “Wow,” he said, eyes flicking over her. “You look-” “Sticky,” she cut in. He grinned. “Yeah. That.” The restaurant was on a rooftop, quiet and tucked away, not a flashbulb in sight. There was a candle on the table and too many forks. Lando made a face at the menu, then ordered two things at random and shrugged. “You’re not nervous?” she asked. He sipped his drink. “I’ve survived Monaco dinner service with three Michelin chefs and a vegan on fire. This is nothing.” She stared at him. “That feels like it needs more context.”

He just smiled. They talked about nothing, mostly Margaux’s glitter obsession, Jacky’s tarte rulebook, whether or not frogs had knees. But somewhere beneath the joking, there was a softness. An unspoken we’re doing this. When they returned to the hotel, she stood outside her door for a second too long. Lando leaned on the wall beside her.

“You know you don’t have to impress anyone tomorrow,” he said. “I’m not trying to.” “You are.” She didn’t deny it. “I already like you,” he added. “You’re very confident.” “I like you nervous too.” She rolled her eyes. “Go to bed.” “Yes, Framboisette.” He winked and disappeared down the hall.

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Thursday morning came loud. Her hotel room buzzed with nerves as she pulled on a sundress, twisted her hair up, and hesitated twice before putting on her sunglasses. Too much? Not enough? The paddock was chaos. People. Cameras. Equipment being wheeled past her with military precision. Heat shimmering off the asphalt. Lando met her at the entrance. He was in his team gear now, walking fast, phone in hand, smiling like he wasn’t about to be dissected by every journalist on site.

“You alright?” he asked. “I’m good.” “Liar, but you look gorgeous.” He reached out, briefly, gently, and took her hand. Just for a second. But it was enough.

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Media Day was a masterclass in misdirection. Lando walked in with a grin, answered questions about tire degradation and race strategy like a seasoned diplomat, and completely deflected any attempts to dig into his personal life.

When a Sky Sports reporter asked, “Are there any special guests with you this weekend?” he shrugged and said, “Just my trainer and a very dramatic jetlag.” She was watching from the hospitality area, arms folded, sunglasses on indoors. The smirk on her lips was subtle but deeply satisfied. “Dramatic jetlag,” she muttered under her breath. “You should hear yourself at 3 a.m.”

She hadn’t expected to be handed a lanyard that said GUEST: FULL ACCESS, but Lando had slipped it into her hand that morning with a wink.

“VIP treatment,” he’d said. “Even comes with unlimited fizzy water and watching grown men scream into headsets.”

FP1 was hot. The air shimmered. The walls felt closer than usual. She watched from the McLaren pit wall, tucked beside an engineer who handed her a headset that wasn’t even connected. Lando went second quickest. Charles Leclerc topped the timesheets.

Not bad. Not perfect. Her fingers tapped nervously on her knee the whole time. FP2 was chaos. She flinched when Lando’s rear end kicked out of Turn 8, brushing the wall. He caught it, just. Slid, corrected, kept going. By the time the session ended, he was top of the board. She didn’t speak for a while.

“Is he always like this?” she asked the engineer beside her. “Only when he’s having fun.” She rolled her eyes. “He has a very strange definition of fun.” Saturday morning, FP3. She was in the back of the garage now, sunglasses perched in her hair, holding a cup of too-hot coffee she wasn’t drinking.

Lando was flying. No brushes. No drama. Just clean, confident speed. When the session ended, he was top again. She didn’t cheer. But her hand found her chest and stayed there, steadying the thing inside it. He came back to the garage, helmet off, sweat-slick curls everywhere. He looked for her first. Always.

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She stood just outside the McLaren garage, watching mechanics dismantle a floor like it had personally offended them, when someone stopped beside her. Quiet. Tall. Polite smile.

“Hi,” the guy said, accent sharp but soft. “Oscar.” She blinked. “Oh. You’re the-” “Yeah. That one.” She laughed. “You’re so calm. Is that an Australian thing or just you?” Oscar tilted his head. “Might just be the trauma.” Before she could respond, Lando jogged over, still in race boots, holding a banana and looking mildly sweaty.

“Oh no,” Oscar said. “He’s in snack mode. Run.” “You’re just jealous,” Lando replied, half-breathless. “My potassium levels are elite.” “He talks a lot,” Oscar said to her, deadpan. She smiled. “Tell me about it.” Lando looked between them, eyes narrowing. “This feels like an ambush.” Oscar nodded. “Correct.” Then, from behind them: “Are you plotting, or just bullying Lando?” Max Verstappen appeared like a heatwave, cocky grin, hands in his pockets, very much wearing his media-mandated shirt correctly. “I think it’s both,” she said. Max grinned. “Smart girl.” Lando groaned. “Why do all my rivals flirt with my-?” She raised an eyebrow. “With my guest?” Max winked, purely to annoy Lando. “If you’re not claiming the noun, I might.” She chuckled. “Bas back home will be thrilled you’re making moves. He was rooting for you at Zandvoort.” Max lit up. “Bas? I like him already.” Oscar deadpanned, “Does Bas want a grid penalty?” Max snorted. And just like that, they stood there, her, Lando, Oscar, Max, joking like it was normal. Like this glittering world had always been part of hers.

Until a camera clicked. Then another. Someone behind the barrier angled their lens, zoomed in. She stepped back, just slightly. Lando caught it. Didn’t make a show. Just leaned in and murmured, “They’d panic if you so much as sneeze beside a Red Bull.” “Do I look sneezy?” “You look like a problem.” “Thanks.” “I like problems.” She gave him a look. “Don’t make me shove you into the pit lane.” “I dare you. They’d definitely take your photo then.”

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Qualifying didn’t start well. Lando looked frustrated in the garage. Her own nerves buzzed like static. Q1 was tight. Q2, worse. And in Q3, the first two laps were scruffy, hesitant, like the car was dancing one beat off rhythm.

Oscar was purple in sector one. Max was fast everywhere. She stood off to the side, chewing a straw from her drink cup like it was personal. Then, on his final flying lap, something shifted.

He crossed the line and lit up the timing screen, P1. Ahead of Max by a tenth. The radio crackled in his helmet: “You’ve done it, mate.” He whooped. Loud and happy. The car rolled back into parc fermé. She didn’t run to him. But when he walked past the barrier, still in his helmet, he slowed. Leaned in. Kissed the side of her head. No words. Just that.

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Race day. The city steamed in the heat. Tyres squealed. Hearts inched up throats. She watched every lap like a prayer she hadn’t written but desperately hoped would land. He had a near miss on lap 16, brushing the barrier so close it left her breathless. Lap 28, he dove into the pit lane late, almost too late. Still, he held it. Every restart. Every threat. He didn’t just win, he owned it. Over twenty seconds clear at the chequered flag. Max second. Oscar third.

In parc fermé, Max pulled off his gloves and grinned. “I thought you were going to lap me, mate.” Lando shrugged. “That was the plan.” Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look like you were sweating.” Lando winked. “Secret weapon.”

Later, on the podium, champagne flew. Lando didn’t even flinch when Max sprayed his face with it. She watched from the garage. Smiling. Not wildly. Not like the others. Just steady. Whole.

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In the post-race interview, a reporter asked: “You’ve been on incredible form lately. Three poles. Two wins. What’s changed?” Lando scratched the back of his neck and smiled. “Well,” he said, “my team’s amazing. Car’s feeling good. I’ve started eating better. Superfoods and all that.” “Oh?” the reporter laughed. “Kale? Spinach?” “Nah,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Two raspberries a day. That’s all I need to win.”

She choked on her drink. Framboisine. Framboisette. She didn’t need him to say it. He already had.

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They celebrated with the team. Champagne. Dancing. Someone played an ABBA remix too loud. By the time they reached the hotel, it was well past midnight. They were both too drunk to think, too happy to care.

They didn’t make it past the edge of the bed. They just kissed. And laughed. And kissed again. And when sleep finally pulled them under, it did so with their fingers still laced together.

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It was one of those dusky afternoons where the air inside the inn smelled like warm wood and simmering garlic. Outside, Margaux was chasing a cat that definitely didn’t want to be caught. Inside, Lando was leaning against the counter like he belonged there, which was dangerous. Because he didn’t. Not really.

“You’re doing the face,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “What face?” “The one you do when you’re about to ask me for something.” “I don’t have a face.” “You absolutely have a face.” He paused. “I might have a face.” She arched an eyebrow. “Out with it.” Lando crossed his arms. “Abu Dhabi.” “No.” “You didn’t let me finish.” “I don’t need to.” He tried to look casual. “It’s the last race of the year. Big one. Kind of a thing.” She started stacking clean plates. “Congratulations.” “You should come.” She laughed, short and flat. “You’re adorable.” “I’m serious.” “That’s the problem.” Lando pushed off the counter, moving closer. “Look, it’s not Monaco. It’s not yacht parties. No flashbulbs in your face. It’s all inside the paddock. It’s got childcare. Snacks. Shade.” “Not convincing.” He leaned in. “Max is bringing Penelope.” She froze. “The five-year-old?" "The one who called Helmut Marko a dusty broom with a driving licence? Yeah.” Her lips twitched. “That was iconic.” “She and Margaux would get on.” “That’s not the point.” “Also, Hulkenberg’s kids will be there. They’ve got a whole crafts setup. Oscar’s planning to bring colouring books to the driver briefing.” She rolled her eyes. “Lando-” “You’d have your own suite. Full privacy. I’ll sneak you in the side gate if I have to.” “You make it sound romantic.” “It is romantic.” “Jetlag and tantrums are romantic?” “They are when you’re around,” he said, grinning now. She laughed despite herself. “You are unbelievable.” “And yet, here I am. Still asking.” She turned back to the sink. “I have a business to run. A child to wrangle. A life that doesn’t pack into a carry-on.” Lando moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, let his chin rest on her shoulder. “I know all that,” he said quietly. “And I love all that. But maybe just this once, let the village take care of it. Let someone else carry the list.”

She sighed. Margaux stormed in with two mismatched shoes, a backpack, and a fistful of toast. “Do planes have Netflix?” she demanded. Lando didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you promise not to chase Oscar.” Margaux blinked. “No deal.” He turned to her mother. “You’re outvoted.”

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Two days later, she handed over the keys to the inn. Willem took them like a holy relic. “I expect a full report on Abu Dhabi snack options.” “I’m more concerned about the bar tabs,” she said. Bas smirked. “Don’t worry. Willem’s cutting himself off after his third glass.” “Of the week,” Willem added helpfully.

She hugged them both, tightly. Bas more than necessary. Willem like a daughter. Then she turned to Margaux, who had packed her sunglasses, and an entire tea set.

“You ready?” Margaux gave her a look. “I was born ready.” Lando, leaning in the doorway, smiled like he was already halfway on the plane. “Let’s go,” he said.

And just like that, they did.

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The paddock was too clean. That was her first thought as they stepped in Thursday morning, everything shined. Floors polished to mirror brightness. Every logo crisp. Every team member walking like they knew they were being watched. Margaux, on the other hand, looked like a walking sticker book, hair in plaits, orange cap too big for her head, and a McLaren lanyard around her neck like it was a royal sash. By the time they’d made it ten metres, Penelope had already found them.

“You’re the toast girl,” she announced, eyes wide. Margaux blinked. “Yes?” “Come on, we’re making slime behind the Red Bull motorhome.” Margaux turned to her mother. “I have to go now.” “You haven’t even-” “Slime.” And that was that.

She spent the next two hours walking laps of the paddock with an iced coffee that kept melting, trying to keep her daughter in sight while dodging TV crews, photographers, and someone who definitely just mistook her for an Alpine strategist. When she finally found Margaux again, she was sitting cross-legged beside Oscar Piastri, explaining the plot of Frozen 2 in worrying detail. Oscar looked up with the expression of a man facing his greatest challenge yet.

“She’s very thorough,” he said. “She’s auditioning you for the role of Uncle,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “I gathered.” Margaux looked between them, then back at Oscar. “You’re in.” Oscar blinked. “Was there a vote?” “No.”

He accepted it with a quiet sigh, pulling out a snack pouch from his pocket and handing it to her like it was part of the job description. During FP1, Oscar wasn’t driving, rookie Hirakawa had taken the seat. Oscar sat beside them in the hospitality suite, watching telemetry like it owed him money. Margaux curled into his side, legs swinging. Lando finished second, just behind Charles Leclerc.

“Not bad,” she said quietly. Oscar didn’t look up. “He’ll pretend it doesn’t bother him. It absolutely does.” She smiled. “You’re funnier than I expected.” “I save it for special occasions. Like being hijacked by small humans.”

FP2, both cars were back out. She watched Lando top the table. FP3, Oscar returned the favour, first place. Lando a breath behind. They didn’t speak much about it. But she noticed the way Lando grinned when he saw Oscar’s time. Not threatened. Just thrilled for his team. It was strange, this world. Loud. Sharp-edged. Hyper-controlled. But it was also soft in places. And her daughter had never looked more at home.

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Saturday. Qualifying. She stood behind the screens, nerves balled so tight in her chest they might’ve had their own pulse. Lando went fastest in Q3. Oscar followed. A McLaren front-row lockout. The garage went wild. Mechanics whooped. Someone behind her cried.

Lando pulled into parc fermé like it was instinct. And when he climbed out, helmet still on, he scanned the crowd, found her, and didn’t even hesitate. Just reached for her, curled a hand around the back of her neck, and kissed the side of her head like it was something he did every day. She didn’t breathe for five full seconds.

Sunday. Race day. The air hummed with heat and nerves.

Lap 1 was chaos. Max lunged into Turn 1 and clipped Oscar’s front wing. It wasn’t malicious. But it was reckless. Oscar’s voice crackled over the radio, dry as bone, “Move of a world champion, that one.” She nearly choked on her water. Oscar dropped to P20. But he clawed his way back, smooth, strategic, inching past car after car until he crossed the line in tenth. Max found him post-race, helmet off, head down. They spoke quietly. Then fist bumped.

Done. Squashed. No drama. Meanwhile, Lando was flying. Not just leading. Commanding. Lap after lap. Gap growing. When he crossed the line, twenty seconds ahead, McLaren exploded.

Screams. Airhorns. People jumping into each other’s arms. The drivers’ championship was theirs. Not just the race. Everything.

Oscar had joined them for the team photo. Champagne sprayed like firecrackers. And when they cut to Lando’s interview, he was already grinning, hair soaked, champagne in his ear.

“You looked completely at ease out there today,” the interviewer said. “Was it the car? The strategy? Or something else?” Lando wiped his face with his sleeve, still breathless. “Honestly? I just felt settled. Like I knew where I was going.” “That a new mindset?” He glanced off-camera, just for a second. His grin softened. “Not new. Just real. Finally.” She stilled. The crowd was still cheering, the lights flashing, people shouting his name. But she just stood there.

Hands loose at her sides, pulse racing.

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That night, the paddock was a rave. Lights. Music. Champagne on tap. Penelope had invited Margaux for a sleepover, complete with four types of popcorn and a movie tent. She hesitated. But Jacky’s voice echoed in her head: Let her go. Let her live a little.

So, she did. And with her daughter safe, she let herself breathe.

She and Lando partied with the grid. With mechanics. With rivals. Everyone.

Drunk. Joyful. Messy. He kissed her like the world had ended and this was the afterlife. And at some point, voice low in her ear, he said, “Next time the grid needs a break we’ll all come to your village. Hide out. Drink wine. Let Willem lecture everyone about cheese.” She laughed into his neck. “Pretty sure Max would end up running the bar.” He smiled against her skin. “Then It's definitely happening.” She kissed him again, grinning now, her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt. For a moment, just one beat, they weren’t at the centre of the racing world. They were already there. Back home.

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The inn had never looked so alive. It shimmered with frost on the windows and firelight from inside, garlands strung across the beams, tables covered in wine, bread, laughter. Every time the front door opened, someone new stepped through, and every time, the whole room seemed to shift to make space. It was winter break. But it felt more like Christmas and midsummer had collided and decided to throw a party.

At the centre of it all was Lando. He stood behind the bar, because of course he did, pouring glasses of cider like he hadn’t just won the constructors world championship three weeks ago. He was laughing with Charles and George, dodging Yuki’s elbow as he tried to balance three tiny plates of food and a dangerously overloaded fondue stick. Franco was already on his second round of wine; cheeks pink and animated. Ollie Bearman had brought a snowball inside, claiming it was a "guest of honour." Esteban and Pierre were locked in a debate about who looked better in flannel. Neither did, and she told them so. Margaux darted between people like a spark in human form, wearing a paper crown and dragging Penelope along by the hand. They’d already covered one wall in sticky stars and half-finished lanterns. Max, watching them from a corner near the fire, had the softest look she’d ever seen on his face. Even Daniel Ricciardo had arrived, too loud, too charming, already asking for shots and hugging people like he owned the place.

“I brought tequila,” he declared. “And several questionable life choices.” Jacky, from behind the buffet, shouted, “Leave the choices at the door. The tequila can stay.” The room roared. It should’ve felt surreal, these men, these names, these lives, folded into her tiny village like it was just another pit stop. But somehow, it didn’t.

It felt right. Because Lando didn’t stand out like a visitor. He moved through the space like he’d grown up here. He held her hand when no one was watching. Shared a joke with Willem. Whispered something to Bas that made him shake his head and smile. It had only been four months since they’d officially started this. Since he’d kissed her in the quiet of her room, in the space where grief had once lived. But he fit. So completely, so easily, it made her wonder how they’d ever not been this.

And the inn, her inn, glowed from the inside out. Like it knew.

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It didn’t take long for the drivers to start collecting villagers like souvenirs. Willem had claimed Carlos Sainz within ten minutes, dragging him into a debate about whether real wine should ever be served chilled. Carlos looked both alarmed and enchanted. Kimi Antonelli, quieter than most, had somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor with Jacky’s cat in his lap and three of the village kids building a tower of marshmallows on his shoulders. Lewis Hamilton helped Henri carry firewood out back, both deep in conversation about meditation and French bread. When they returned, Lewis had his sleeves rolled and flour on his hands. Henri looked like he’d just discovered religion.

Pierre Gasly flirted shamelessly with Chloé until Romain tossed a tinsel scarf around his neck and said, “She’s taken, you Christmas elf.” Pierre bowed dramatically and offered to help serve drinks instead. Chloé and Romain started making TikTok’s, singing wildly off-key. Lando wandered past in the background mid-laugh, arm slung lazily around her shoulders, and almost didn’t even notice the camera. She did. For a moment, she almost told Chloé to cut it. But then she didn’t. Let it post. Let it live. It wasn’t hiding anymore; it was just life.

Oscar, with Margaux attached to one hand and a mug of cider in the other, was cornered by Madame Lefevre, the elderly postwomen, who declared she’d once been proposed to by a Belgian race car driver in 1962. “Told him no, of course,” she said. “He was allergic to cheese.” Charles ended up playing piano, poorly, while Alex Albon and Yuki sang along with alarming confidence. Even Max joined in for one off-key chorus, Penelope on his shoulders and shaking a tambourine like her life depended on it. Esteban discovered the village had a homemade chili sauce competition and immediately entered. George Russel was last seen walking into the garden with a tray of drinks and three grandmothers hanging off his arm. Similarly, Daniel had made it his mission to charm every single person over the age of seventy. Within half an hour, he was seated at the centre of the dominoes table with four elderly women, each of whom referred to him exclusively as mon petit soleil. One had braided a sprig of rosemary into his hair. Another was feeding him slices of quince from a napkin. He didn’t question any of it.

“This is the most powerful coven I’ve ever joined,” he told Lando, very seriously. “If I disappear tonight, it’s because I’ve been adopted.” “Fair,” Lando said. “You always said you wanted a French retirement.” Daniel gestured dramatically with his wine. “I shall open a vineyard. Play boules. Write a memoir.” “You can’t speak French.” “I don’t need to. They feel me.” From across the room, his new fan club raised their glasses in unison. He winked.

It wasn’t just chaos. It was community. And she watched it all from behind the bar, heart full to the point of ache, knowing this wasn’t just a party.

It was a moment. And it was hers.

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The kitchen was somehow even warmer than the main room, steam rising from pots, wine bottles cluttering the counters, and flour on every surface like it had snowed joy. Jacky stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled vaguely of cloves and rebellion. She slipped in quietly, half-hoping for a quiet breather, half-hoping Jacky would read her mind and pour her something strong. Without turning, Jacky said, “He fits.” She smiled. “I didn’t say anything.” “Didn’t have to.” Jacky tapped her temple. “I’ve got a radar.” She stepped beside her, leaned against the old wooden counter. “You were right.” Jacky made a satisfied noise. “Say it again. Louder.” “You were right,” she groaned. “There it is.”

They laughed. And then, Jacky reached over and pulled her into a one-armed hug, apron and all. Flour transferred onto her jumper. She didn’t care.

“I’m glad you let yourself have this,” Jacky murmured. “You’ve been giving to everyone else for so long, it’s about damn time someone gave something back.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.” “Still.” Jacky nodded once. “Alright then. But next time, bring more chocolate to the village party.”

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Later, outside, she stood by the garden gate, the cold air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. Lanterns bobbed overhead. Margaux was on tiptoes, arms outstretched, helping Lando tie one above the archway. He held her steady, laughing quietly, eyes only on her. Beside her, Bas sipped from a mug, quiet as ever. “You look like you’ve got something to say,” she murmured. “I usually do,” he replied. She turned to him. He didn’t look away from the scene in front of them. “He’s good. Especially with Framboisine.” She nodded. “You did good. He’s good. I’m happy for you.” He paused, then added, softer, “I held on for a long time, thinking maybe you’d come back to what we were. But it wasn’t real. Just two people keeping warm in the dark. He’s your light now.”

Something shifted in her chest.

Bas glanced sideways at her, smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m happy for you. I mean it.” She bumped his arm gently. “I know.” They stood there in silence a moment longer, lanterns glowing gold above them. Then Bas added, “Still think he over-salted the potatoes at dinner, though.” “Get out.”

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Near the fire pit, Chloé and Romain swayed lazily to music only they seemed to hear. Fairy lights tangled around their shoulders, wine in one hand, each other in the other. Romain dipped her too far. Chloé screamed with laughter. Someone clapped. Someone else tried to join and tripped over a log. It was messy. Loud. Full of love. She watched them with a full heart. Willem found her just before midnight, when the music softened and the stars took over the ceiling. He pressed a kiss to her temple, the scent of wine and firewood lingering on his jumper.

“You did it,” he said. She smiled, eyes glassy. “I knew you’d make it work. I’m proud of you, girl.”

She leaned into him. Just for a second. That was all she needed.

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The party trickled out like candlelight, flickering down to embers, one laugh at a time. Empty glasses lined the tables. Someone had fallen asleep under a pile of scarves. The fire pit had shrunk to a soft orange glow, snapping every so often like it still had something to say. Margaux had made her rounds like royalty, hugged Oscar tight, fist-bumped Max, told Daniel she was “still thinking about the rosemary ladies.” She yawned through it all but refused to be carried. When she was finally tucked into bed, crown slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, she wriggled under the blanket and declared, “Next time we do this, I’m driving. Lando can sit in the back.”

She snorted. “Sure. I’ll let him know.” Margaux was already half-asleep. “Tell him I want music.”

She and Lando sat on the old stone bench just outside the inn, coats over their shoulders, legs pressed together. The cold was settling in, biting gently at their cheeks, but neither of them moved. Behind them, the inn still glowed, gold light in every window, laughter echoing faintly from the kitchen. The stars had come out sharp, white, endless. Lando shifted slightly, reaching across the space between them. His fingers found hers. Threaded. Held.

“I love you, you know.” No hesitation. No big lead-in. Just that.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just leaned into him, rested her head against his shoulder. “I know,” she said. Then, softer, “I love you too.”

He let out a breath. Not relief. Not surprise. Just something he’d been holding since the moment she let him in. They kissed, slow and certain. When they pulled apart, their hands stayed joined. Behind them, the inn glowed quietly. Alive with music, memory, and everything they’d built together. Home.

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