stuck in da pitt

His gap-toothed smile was visible even from the other end of the hallway, making the nurse raise an eyebrow before they finally went their separate ways. What a weirdo, she thought. Ella was always so serious, although Lando swore he had once seen her eyes well up when she had to give an injection to a three-year-old.

Lando opened the door to his office, set his folders down on the desk, and took the white lab coat embroidered with his name from the hook on the wall, slipping it on. His work uniform.

But there was still one thing he needed to do, and it couldn't wait. Coffee!

The best thing about Lauda Hospital was that the staff break room, where everyone could squeeze in a few precious minutes to drink their coffee, happened to be in one of the nicest spots in the entire building.

All things considered, it was a pretty great place to work.

Not only did Lando get to help people, but he also got to drink an excellent cup of coffee. That was saying something, coming from a guy who, before medical school and the long journey to becoming the doctor he was today, had genuinely believed energy drinks and caffeine patches were the best way to stay awake far beyond what the human body was ever meant to endure. At some point in life, you have to grow up, right? Apparently, that included accepting a certain amount of bitterness every day, preferably in the form of a steaming mug.

A silly little irony.

As the dark liquid streamed into the dinosaur mug Lando always kept in his office, he was already reaching for three sugar packets sitting at the corner of the counter.

Yeah, he really wasn't built for bitter things.

"Should we ask someone from General Medicine to check your blood sugar levels? I hope you're not actively trying to die," Max Verstappen said from behind him in the flat tone of someone who was still nowhere near the end of his shift.

He was holding a mug remarkably similar to the one Lando had in his hands now, except his didn't have a little triceratops printed on it with a speech bubble that read, You're awesome, Dr. Lando!

Lando let out a laugh.

"Mate, you look like you've been hit by a truck," he said, stepping aside so his colleague could use the coffee machine and setting his mug down on the counter beside it.

Lando tore open the sugar packets and emptied them into his mug one by one, completely ignoring Max's previous comment.

Max answered with nothing more than a grunt.

Lando smiled.

"You're way too happy," Max said, the complaint clear in his voice.

That only made Lando smile wider.

"Do cheerful people bother you that much?" the British doctor asked, finally bringing the mug to his lips.

The coffee settled warmly inside him, chasing away the last traces of sleep and making him feel ready to function. It was like pouring lubricant into a rusty machine and watching it finally sputter to life, ready to take on another long day at work.

"You specifically bother me," Max replied before taking a long sip of his coffee. Not a single gram of sugar. Lando pulled a face. "I think I have a theory."

Lando didn't answer. He simply raised an eyebrow over the rim of his mug as he took another sip.

"It's Theo's routine check-up today," Max said, wearing the smug tone of someone who knew he'd hit the mark.

Lando remained silent. He narrowed his eyes, finished the last of his coffee, and set the mug beneath the machine again.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Dr. Verstappen," he replied as he selected another cup of coffee.

Max let out an amused huff through his nose and leaned against the counter. The room, empty only moments ago, was slowly beginning to fill with nurses just arriving for their shifts and doctors from other departments. It really was a busy hospital.

"I just think it's funny, the way you get whenever she's about to come in."

"She?"

"The woman who brings Theo."

"She's his mother."

"She's pretty."

Lando met Max's gaze as he picked up his mug again. He had already taken two steps toward the door when Max called after him.

"Aren't you going to add your daily dose of diabetes to that one?"

His feet came to an immediate stop. With an exaggerated sigh, he turned around and walked back to grab his sugar packets.

Mornings and afternoons at the hospital weren't always this peaceful. As much as Lando genuinely loved his job, he knew it wasn't exactly the happiest place in the world. After all, nobody liked going to a hospital, let alone staying in one.

The wail of ambulance sirens always made him glance around the corridor, wondering if there was anything he could do to help, and the sound of stretchers rattling past on their way to the operating theatres or the ICU was never a pleasant reminder of why they were all there. Every member of that staff had to be incredibly strong. Lando himself had witnessed more tragedies than he ever cared to remember, but he also knew he worked in one of the hospital's more fortunate departments, and that thought stayed with him throughout the day.

When he stepped into the hallway with the patient charts in hand and called for Dolores West, he found himself wondering why a five-year-old girl had such an old-fashioned name. Then he spotted a short, chubby elderly woman holding hands with a timid little girl wearing her hair in two braids, a Frozen dress, and a matching pair of Crocs. Suddenly, it all made sense.

"Dolores?" he asked, looking at the little girl, who immediately ducked behind her grandmother's legs.

The elderly woman smiled, and Lando couldn't help laughing.

"We have the same name, you see?" she said, gently brushing a hand over her granddaughter's hair. "But what do you like to be called? Go on, tell the doctor."

The little girl looked down at the floor, blinking once... then twice. Lando crouched until he was at eye level with her.

"You don't have to call me Doctor, you know," he said, his voice warm. "You can just call me Lando."

She slowly lifted her head, eyeing him with quiet suspicion. After a hesitant nod, she carefully stepped out from behind her grandmother.

"I like it when people call me Lola..." she whispered, her tiny voice barely above a murmur.

Something in Lando's expression softened. He held out his hand. Lola looked at it, then at his face, and finally back at her grandmother, who gave her an encouraging nod. The little girl reached up with her tiny hand and wrapped it around his.

"It's nice to meet you, Lola," Lando said. "Shall we go inside? I think we've got a few things to talk about, don't you?"

The rest of the day unfolded much the same way. Children came and went. They laughed, they cried, or stubbornly refused to cooperate in that way only children could. Besides Lola, Lando had two new patients who had recently joined the hospital through their health insurance plan, and they took a little longer than his usual appointments.

One of them was Lucca, a four-year-old with shoulder-length hair. Lando ended up reaching for his emergency toy kit because the boy wouldn't stop crying, convinced the doctor was about to give him one of those enormous injections that hurt more than anything in the world. After a five-minute break during which Lando played Woody and Lucca insisted on being Buzz Lightyear, it was unanimously decided that the doctor was, in fact, trustworthy. After all, both of their names started with the letter L, and only cool people had names that began with L.

Children really were fascinating little creatures.

The rest of the appointment went by without a single problem.

Even so, for all his professionalism, Lando couldn't ignore the thin layer of anticipation that lingered at the back of his mind every time he glanced at the clock and realized it was getting closer to four o'clock in the afternoon.

Alone in his office five minutes after his last patient had left, Lando picked up the stack of patient charts on his desk, only to confirm what he already knew.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

He'd promised himself this time would be different.

Get a grip, Lando Norris. For God's sake.

Right.

It was fine.

He would see Catherine first, the patient who had been transferred to his care after her longtime pediatrician retired. After that...

After that, it would be Theo's turn.

Then he would take a short break before handing the evening shift over to Nico, the night pediatrician.

"Catherine, you can come in," he called toward the half-open door.

The seventeen-year-old stepped inside with her mother. It would be one of her last appointments in pediatrics before turning eighteen in less than three months. Nothing was wrong. She had been born with a respiratory condition and still came in every now and then for routine follow-up appointments, just to make sure everything was progressing exactly as it should.

She was a lovely girl. Every visit inevitably turned into a conversation about tennis, with her mother occasionally chiming in, proudly insisting she was trying to keep up with the tournaments alongside her daughter. They were a wonderful family.

Lando was going to miss them when they finally moved on to the adult side of the hospital.

"Doctor, we have something for you," her mother said, reaching for the gift bag that had been resting beside her chair ever since they'd walked in.

Catherine stepped over to stand beside her, slipping her phone into her pocket before giving him a small smile and a nod.

"We know we still have three appointments left with you," her mother began, "but ever since Dr. Stella had to retire and you took over his patients, you've taken such wonderful care of my Catherine."

Her eyes glistened as she held the bag out toward him.

"We wish we could give you something more, but..."

Lando blinked once. Then again. His eyes moved from the two of them to the gift bag they were holding out, and after a brief hesitation, he slowly reached over to take it. Receiving gifts wasn't exactly uncommon, but he was certain it would never stop catching him off guard.

"Oh my God... you really didn't have to," he said, blinking quickly to keep his own tears at bay. Honestly, Lando was far more emotional than he probably needed to be. He cleared his throat and carefully peeked inside the bag.

A box of Belgian chocolates and a shirt, still neatly folded inside its box, though he could already tell it was a soft shade of light blue.

"If the shirt doesn't fit, you can always exchange it," Catherine's mother said.

A quiet laugh escaped Lando as his shoulders relaxed, almost as though he were surrendering.

"That's... incredibly kind of you." He looked between the two of them, still struggling to find the right words. "Honestly... thank you. Thank you so much."

For a moment, the warm glow of gratitude lingered in the room as the two of them left, so much that Lando completely forgot what was coming next. He carefully tucked the gift bag away inside his cabinet, the happy smile still lingering on his lips before turning around and realizing someone was already standing in the doorway.

His breath almost caught.

"Hi, Uncle Lando!" Theo called, his voice bright with excitement.

Ah. He simply couldn't resist.

A quiet laugh escaped Lando as he crouched down and opened his arms. Theo ran straight into them, giggling all the way before wrapping him in a tight hug.

"There you are, you little menace," Lando said with a grin.

"I told him you'd call us in a minute, but Theo wouldn't listen to me. You know what he's like."

There it was. That melodic voice Lando had been waiting to hear all day. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to find you closing the door behind you as you stepped into the room.

The smile resting on your lips wasn't a broad one, just a small, content curve that somehow made every other feature even more beautiful. Even your perfume filled the office, gently pushing away the sterile scent that seemed to cling to every corner of the hospital as though it were part of the building itself.

Lando was completely, utterly screwed.

"Oh... hi, you," he said, getting to his feet as he affectionately ruffled Theo's hair.

A soft laugh slipped past your lips before you lifted a hand in a small wave.

"Hi, you," you replied.

You walked over at an unhurried pace before gently guiding Theo toward one of the chairs across from Lando's desk.

Lando was already making his way back to his own chair, settling into the professional composure he was trying very, very hard to maintain. Mostly because he was trying very, very hard not to look at your face the way a compass needle always finds north.

"So..." Lando began, lowering his attention to Theo. "How have things been since your last appointment?"

"Hmmm... good," Theo answered with the effortless simplicity only children seemed capable of, somehow leaving out every important detail.

A quiet laugh escaped you.

No.

Lando hated that sound.

He nearly let out a groan.

"Love, Uncle Lando's asking about your health," you said with an amused smile. "Tell him what you told daddy yesterday on the way to school."

Theo nodded before looking back at Lando with complete sincerity.

Lando listened carefully, pretending the word daddy was nothing more than an inconvenient detail he could simply choose to ignore.

"Oh... my tummy really, really hurt..." Theo said, lifting his green T-shirt to point at his stomach. "Right here. I even cried."

The doctor leaned forward across the desk, his full attention now on what Theo was saying. A faint crease of concern appeared between his brows.

"Really?" Lando asked, his gaze lifting to you, hoping you could fill in the rest of the story.

You nodded, resting an arm along the back of Theo's chair.

"He didn't even go to school yesterday. We brought him into the Emergency Department. We asked if we could see you, but the receptionist told us you were out on a home visit and wouldn't be back until later. They gave him some medication, and he stayed home to rest. Thankfully, he seemed much better afterward. But since he already had an appointment today, we thought we'd keep it."

Your eyes drifted back to Theo, a fond little smile appearing on your face.

"He was so brave through all of it, wasn't he?"

Theo nodded enthusiastically several times, making Lando laugh.

"I'm sure you were," he said warmly. "But would it be alright if I had a look, just so we can figure out what's been going on?"

Theo was more than willing.

Before anyone could say another word, the little boy had already jumped down from his chair and was climbing up the small set of steps leading to the examination table.

The examination was quick, as it usually was with Theo, but somehow it always took longer because of the questions. "Uncle Lando, what's this called again?" The stethoscope. He never remembered. "Is it going to eat my heart?" No, Theo. It's just going to listen to your heart. It doesn't like the taste of hearts. "After this we're meeting my dad for ice cream, you know?" Oh, really? Wow, Theo, that's great. That's really great. Sounds like so much fun. Fantastic, even. "Uncle Lando, I wish you'd come have ice cream with us, but you're always so busy." I'd like to have ice cream with you too, Theo... but I can't.

And so it went.

When the two of them made their way back to the desk, you were patiently waiting with your legs crossed, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone. Theo was happily distracted by the strawberry lollipop he'd earned for being so brave, which gave Lando a moment to look at you.

It wasn't one of the most professional moments of his life, he had to admit.

Every little thing about you was so beautiful that he had to remind himself there was still a consultation to finish.

"Theo seems perfectly fine," he said, finally drawing your attention.

The little boy wandered over to you, proudly showing off his lollipop before promptly popping it back into his mouth.

"My guess is that it was something he ate, since I can't see anything concerning during the examination. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'd like him to have some blood work done. Bring the results with you at his next appointment, alright?"

Lando had already sat back down at his desk and started typing up his notes and the lab request when you spoke.

"When's the next appointment?"

The words came out much too quickly, as though your brain had stopped working for a second. The moment you realized what you'd said, your entire face turned bright red.

"No — sorry, that's not what I meant." You let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "I... I meant to ask whether your available appointments are usually very far out, or if, when I book it at reception, we'll be able to come back sooner."

Lando paused for a moment, partly because the printer was busy spitting out the lab request, but he would have stopped either way. Whenever you were around, his brain had an unfortunate habit of wandering off in unpredictable directions, twisting every little thing into exactly what it wanted to hear. It was downright treacherous, which was precisely why he had to stop every now and then, gather himself, and make sure he wasn't reading into things he had absolutely no business reading into. After all, you were a married woman. There was no chance you were flirting with him.

His brain wholeheartedly disagreed.

"Well..." Lando began, "since Theo's appointments are usually fairly straightforward, I can ask reception to schedule you around whatever works best for you. It'll mostly depend on when he's able to have the blood test done."

His attention dropped back to Theo, who was carefully throwing the lollipop stick into the bin.

"Can Daddy come next time?" Theo asked innocently, blinking up at you.

Lando pulled a face. Thankfully, he managed to hide it by turning to collect the paperwork.

"It'd be better if he didn't, Theo," you replied gently. "He'll be at work."

This time, Lando didn't react. He simply handed the papers over, and you accepted them with a grateful smile.

Together, you walked toward the door.

Lando crouched one last time to give Theo a hug before waving goodbye to you.

When you reached the end of the corridor, you turned back one last time and waved again.

"Now that is embarrassing."

Gabriel Bortoleto, the newest pediatric resident, was leaning against the wall two doors down. Like everyone else in the hospital, he had his own coffee mug in one hand and the other tucked into the pocket of his white coat. The grin on his face was the same one everyone seemed to wear whenever they watched Lando finish one of Theo's appointments.

"Oh, shut up," Lando muttered, shaking his head as he disappeared back into his office, leaving Gabriel's laughter echoing through the hallway.

Your brother was waiting for the two of you in the hospital car park by the time you finally came out after scheduling Theo's blood test for two days later. The moment the little boy realized what had actually been arranged, having spent most of his conversation with Dr. Norris happily distracted by his lollipop, the protests were immediate. As soon as he spotted Marcus waiting on the other side of the parking lot, he took off running.

"Daddy!" he cried. "Auntie says they're going to poke me with that horrible needle to take my blood! You promised that would never happen again!"

He threw his arms up, demanding to be picked up. Marcus scooped him into his arms without hesitation, a laugh already escaping him before he looked over at you, only to find you rolling your eyes.

"This little drama king knows perfectly well nobody ever promised him that," you said. "He's making things up now."

Even so, a smile found its way onto your lips as you walked past the two of them and opened the car door to buckle Theo into his car seat.

"But as compensation," you said, stepping aside so your brother could settle Theo into his seat, "I'm buying him ice cream."

As Marcus buckled him in, Theo shot a tiny fist into the air.

"Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"

The two of you burst into laughter.

"I definitely didn't teach him that," Marcus said as he finally closed the back door.

You shook your head, walking around to the passenger side before climbing into the car.

"Oh, I'm absolutely certain you did," you replied, your voice full of affection. "You're a terrible influence."

Marcus dropped into the driver's seat and started the engine before putting on his seatbelt. Immediately, a chorus of horrified voices erupted from both the front and the back of the car.

"Daddy! Your seatbelt! Oh my gosh!"

"Seriously, Marcus? Seatbelt!"

"Dad, put your seatbelt on!"

"Come on, Marcus! Seatbelt!"

Completely unfazed, Marcus let out a long sigh, silently gathering every ounce of patience he could find while you and Theo dissolved into laughter. You reached your hand over the back of your seat. Theo slapped it with an enthusiastic high-five. Only then did Marcus finally buckle up.

It didn't even take eight minutes after the car pulled away for Theo to fall completely asleep in his car seat, his head lolling forward and his mouth hanging slightly open. Marcus glanced at him through the rearview mirror, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he turned his attention back to the road.

"Thanks for taking him while I finished up a few things at the office," he said as they stopped at a red light. "I know it was last minute."

You looked at him as though he'd just said something deeply offensive and simply shook your head.

"Oh, stop it. You know I adore the little guy. I always go with him to his appointments. And I'll always help you, too. That's what siblings are for, isn't it?"

"That and annoying each other."

"Annoying each other, definitely."

"Your specialty."

You nodded without a trace of shame, making him laugh.

The car started moving again, and Marcus continued, his voice slipping into that suspiciously casual tone that immediately put you on alert.

"So... how's Dr. Hot Stuff doing?" he asked.

"Oh, don't start." You lifted a hand to cut him off.

His grin only grew wider.

"Wasn't that his name?"

Your eyes drifted toward the ceiling, pretending you couldn't hear him.

"What was his name again?"

Idiot.

Complete idiot.

"You know his name."

"Do I?"

Your fingers came up to your forehead, as though measuring just how much of this you actually wanted to confess. Finally, with your eyes still squeezed shut, you let out a defeated sigh.

"I said, 'When's the next appointment?' Like a complete idiot." You groaned, shrinking a little more with every word as the moment replayed itself in painfully vivid detail. "I mean... everyone knows he's not the one who schedules follow-up appointments, and... oh my God. He's never going to look me in the eye again."

There was simply no way you'd actually done that.

No way.

Marcus pulled into a parking space outside the ice cream shop, wearing the kind of grimace that said he fully understood the magnitude of the situation.

"So... what did he say?" your brother asked.

Slowly, you looked over at him, your shoulders curling in even further.

"I tried to fix it. I told him I knew he wasn't the one who handled the appointments, and that I just wanted to know whether he'd have availability over the next few weeks or if we'd have to wait longer."

You paused.

"For Theo's health, you know?"

Marcus didn't even try to hold it together. His shoulders began shaking uncontrollably as he clapped a hand over his mouth in a hopeless attempt to stop himself from laughing.

"For Theo's health," he echoed solemnly.

"God, this is a disaster," you groaned, burying your face in both hands.

When Marcus finally reached over and gave your shoulder two sympathetic pats, you knew you were in far too deep for there to be any coming back from this.

"Marc?" you called through your fingers.

"Yeah?" he answered sympathetically.

"He's so handsome..."

That was the end of it. With a defeated groan, your brother climbed out of the car to finally wake Theo. He was laughing, though, because you are such an idiot.

The first time Lando saw you wasn't anything extraordinary. In fact, it was a day very much like this one. Ordinary. Just another clinic day at Niki Lauda General Hospital, somewhere in the middle of a partially booked schedule after countless other appointments.

Maybe you were wearing that burgundy sweater that somehow made your hair look even prettier. No. Not maybe. He knew for a fact that was what you were wearing.

The memory had stayed with him because you'd worn it several times since, and every single time he found himself thinking, strangely enough, that you looked even more beautiful than the time before. Not that he'd ever said so. He couldn't. Lando would never cross that line with a woman who, in every practical sense, was part of his day-to-day clinical practice. That would be unethical, wouldn't it?

None of that stopped him from finding you beautiful. Not just for the obvious reasons, either. For all the less obvious ones he could never quite find the words to name.

On one of those afternoons, he couldn't seem to get his signature right on a prescription. And you noticed. Of course you noticed. What didn't you notice, anyway?

"Everything alright over there, Dr. Lando?" you asked.

That was all it took for his brain to stop functioning. Utterly pathetic. It wasn't flirting. It wasn't a pickup line. It was just… A sentence. A sentence directed at him that had nothing to do with work. Nothing to do with Theo.

"Mm-hmm," was all he managed, the smile spreading across his face less as an involuntary reaction than as a shield.

Even now, months and months after the first time you'd walked into his office with the little boy by your side, Lando still didn't have an answer for any of it. What he did know was that most of the hospital seemed to have a fairly good idea of what was going on inside his head. And, as far as everyone was concerned, you were married to Theo's father.

No one had ever actually said it. They didn't have to. It wasn't exactly a difficult conclusion to reach. The tall, broad-shouldered man who was always impeccably dressed in a suit, wearing an easy smile, accompanied the two of you to most of Theo's appointments. Today had been one of the rare occasions you'd come on your own.

Lando had already felt bad before. The moment he realized all of that, he felt even worse. It wasn't fair. He didn't even want to be attracted to you.

During the weeks when Theo didn't have an appointment, surviving was much easier. Work settled back into its usual rhythm. He met plenty of beautiful people throughout the week and, without a doubt, more than a few single mothers who made no real effort to hide that they were flirting with him. Lando certainly wasn't an unattractive man, and some things simply couldn't be helped.

He knew perfectly well how to sidestep those situations.

But then, sooner or later… you would come back. Beautiful. Affectionate with Theo. Always so present, making his job easier as though you instinctively knew exactly what to do.

Maybe there wasn't anything particularly extraordinary about it, if he was being honest, but it felt like there was.

You behaved the way so many other mothers did, and yet... Well. Every time you came... and every time you left, this was where Lando ended up: eyes closed, slumped in one of the chairs in the staff lounge, looking for all the world as though he were meditating.

"Everything alright, mate?" Oscar asked, slipping into the staff lounge as quietly as he always did before heading straight for the fridge to grab one of the cans of zero-sugar soda he kept at work simply because he didn't like coffee or tea.

Lando seriously doubted those fizzy things did anything for him, but perhaps Oscar was just built differently. Made of whatever material was stubborn enough to survive more than fourteen hours of brain surgery without collapsing from exhaustion.

"I'm alright," Lando replied, rubbing a hand over his face as he straightened up in his chair.

He hadn't even taken off his lab coat yet. He'd been wondering whether he should take this one home to wash and wear the spare hanging in the back of his locker instead. The gift bag he'd received earlier was resting on the chair beside him, and he started to move it when Oscar walked over, but the neurosurgeon simply lifted a hand to stop him and took the empty chair next to it instead.

"How'd the surgery go?" Lando asked cautiously. Judging by the way Oscar looked, though, he figured it probably wasn't a bad question to ask.

Oscar nodded, took a sip of his soda, then set the can back down on the table.

"It went well. Delicate, but it's over. Helena's staying with the nurses tonight, and I..." He paused to yawn, covering his mouth with one hand. "...I'm going to sleep."

Lando let out a quiet laugh and folded his arms across his chest.

"That's fair. I'm glad it all went well."

Oscar answered with a quiet hum of agreement, his silent way of saying thanks. He took another sip of his soda, then tilted his head to one side, stretching his neck. It was almost as though Lando could watch his body shutting down in real time.

"Yeah... I'd better get going before something truly tragic happens," Oscar announced as he pushed himself to his feet.

Lando followed him with his eyes before standing as well, already holding out a hand.

"Alright, mate. Sleep well," he said, his voice carrying the kind of humor that was second nature among the hospital staff.

Oscar shook his hand and offered a lopsided smile. Sleep-deprived as he was, there was something about that expression that Lando had been seeing everywhere lately.

"So... I heard Theo came in today..."

Before Oscar could finish the sentence, Lando was already pushing him toward the door.

Oscar laughed.

"Alright, alright! I'm going."

An entire day passed after that, and it was a busy one. Busy enough that Lando didn't have a single moment to let outside thoughts distract him from his work.

He saw thirteen patients in total, and every appointment went smoothly. His fourteenth patient, however… That one came as a genuine surprise. Lando knew something was wrong the moment young Alice walked into his office. She looked pale, exhausted, and distinctly unwell. Her mother explained that she'd been like that for the past two days and that nothing they'd tried at home had made any difference.

Lando examined her, then arranged for further imaging. When the results came back later that afternoon… Yeah. This wasn't good.

Alice was transferred to the Emergency Department, where the pediatric surgery team was called in to assess her. By the end of the afternoon, she had been taken into surgery.

It was late at night, and Lando was still there, sitting outside the operating theatre with Alice's mother, who refused to leave or get any sleep. Alice's stepfather was there as well, still wearing the clothes he'd rushed over in straight from work.

It wasn't a particularly complex operation. It wouldn't take more than a few hours. The preparation had taken longer than the procedure itself. But every surgery left parents anxious. Lando knew that.

He was anxious too.

It was four o'clock in the morning by the time he finally got home.

Alice was alright.

The surgery had been a success. She would spend just one night under observation before going home to finish her recovery with the proper medication and care. It was remarkable that, despite everything, she already looked so much better than she had before going into surgery.

The magic of medicine.

It was all rather wonderful, but Lando barely had time to think about it. Still wearing the clothes he'd spent the day in, he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

This wasn't going to be easy. You knew that much. Still, bringing Mr. Whiskers, the stuffed cat Theo had received from his grandma for his last birthday, had turned out to be a good idea. Now, in the phlebotomy room, he was curled up on the chair, clutching the little plush toy as though it could make everything better and help the whole ordeal end a little faster.

It broke your heart to see him like that, especially with the tiny pout on his face that did nothing to hide just how upset he was. Theo was such a sweet little boy that, for him to dislike something this much, it really had to be awful.

"Hey..." you said softly, gently nudging his arm. Theo looked up at you with those frightened eyes that would one day melt your heart. "It'll be over before you know it, I promise. Then we'll go to the little playground you like here at the hospital, remember?"

He shook his head before stretching forward to bury himself against your chest.

"For as long as I want?"

You nodded, wrapping an arm around him.

"For as long as you want."

From across the room, the nurse called his name. Theo shifted uneasily on the chair, almost as though he were hoping you hadn't heard, but you stood anyway, gently taking his hand until both his little feet were back on the floor.

"I'll hold your hand, and Mr. Whiskers will too, alright?"

With a small, miserable whimper, he nodded.

Alright, Theo might not have been quite as cooperative as everyone had hoped. He hid behind the trolley with the medical supplies, cried quite a bit, and only settled down once you picked him up and sat with him in the chair. Even so, the moment the needle did its dreadful job, his whole little body tensed, and he cried louder than you'd ever heard before.

In the end, though, everything went well enough because Nurse Doriane was truly wonderful at what she did. She gave him a toy from the Courage Box, a bottle of bubbles, and even a certificate saying he'd done a perfect job. Sniffling, his face still bright red from crying, he accepted them, but he didn't linger for long. Before you even had a chance to finish signing the paperwork, he was already tugging you away from the room.

"Can I... sniff... take my bubbles to the playground?" Theo asked as the two of you stepped outside, already catching sight of the brightly coloured play equipment near the patient waiting area.

For a brief moment, you considered it. There were far too many ways that could go wrong, and even though Theo was still a little shaken, you weren't particularly eager to clean soapy water off the rubber flooring. Clearing your throat, you took the bottle from his hands and slipped it into your bag.

"How about this? You take Mr. Whiskers to the playground, and I'll look after your bubbles. Once we get to your house, you can blow as many as you want, alright? I promise they'll be nice and safe in here," you said, tapping the bag hanging from your shoulder.

He was clearly not thrilled with the arrangement, you could tell, but he accepted it anyway. He nodded, took your hand, pressed a little kiss to it, and then ran off towards the playground, where the play specialists were watching over the children.

You watched him go with a small smile on your face.

"Was today blood test day?" a voice asked from somewhere nearby.

You were so focused on whatever Theo was doing that the answer came automatically.

"Oh, yeah. I booked it for today and—"

The moment you turned around and found yourself face to face with Dr. Norris, you nearly jumped out of your skin. It took every bit of self-control not to let out a startled yelp.

"Oh my God."

A quiet laugh escaped him, landing squarely in your chest like a bullet.

"I know I look terrible, but I didn't think it was that bad," he said, slipping one hand into the pocket of his white coat.

Only then did you really take him in. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes, his hair was a little more tousled than usual, and his shoulders were subtly tense, as though he couldn't quite afford to relax. In his other hand, he was holding a mug that looked very, very warm...

"Where did you get that?" you asked, glancing around in search of a coffee machine.

"Oh, this?" Lando asked, glancing down at the mug as though he were seeing it for the first time. "I got it from the staff break room. I can grab you one too, if you'd like. It's much better than the coffee from the vending machines."

For the briefest moment, your mind drifted back to the conversation you'd had with your brother in the car two days ago. Your hands fidgeted together because, apparently, you still had no idea how to behave around this man, but... well. He was offering...

"The vending machines have cappuccino, don't they?" you asked.

Lando gave a small shrug, the kind that seemed to say, they do.

"That, I'm afraid, I can't offer you from the doctors' lounge. We survive on coffee."

"But I kind of want coffee. Not cappuccino."

Another laugh slipped out, quieter this time, barely more than a soft breath through his nose.

"Then I'll grab you a coffee.”

A broad smile spread across his face as he headed off to get the coffee. It softened the exhaustion etched into his features and somehow made him feel a little more willing to keep going. Lando had never walked to the staff break room quite so happily, especially not after a night that had left him running on barely three hours of sleep.

Unhurriedly, he picked up a paper cup and filled it with coffee from the machine. Only then did it occur to him that he'd forgotten to ask whether you took it with sugar or not. To solve that particular problem, he grabbed one of the small paper bags from the counter and tucked in three packets of sugar, three packets of sucralose, and a couple of plastic stirrers.

The walk back was just as cheerful. He found himself quietly humming a tune he couldn't quite place, paying no mind to the curious glances from the staff as he made his way through the corridors.

There you were, waiting for him while taking pictures of Theo playing on the playground. The little boy was pulling funny faces and striking dramatic poses for the camera as you laughed and encouraged him to come up with even more. Before long, he grew tired of the game and happily wandered back to the slide.

Lando took a step forward. Just one...

From the hospital's main entrance, someone else took a step too. Then another. Towards you. You stood the moment you saw him, greeting the man with a soft smile and a warm hug before pointing over to Theo. Oh, no. The smile faded from Lando's face almost as quickly as it had appeared. He looked down at the coffee, then at the little paper bag, swallowing hard.

Oh, no. What was he doing?

For a moment, he considered turning around and walking away without giving you any of it. He had no right. He didn't want to be a part of... this. Especially not after...

But then you spotted him. You waved.

And there was nothing left for him to do except put on the polite smile he always wore and walk over with everything he'd brought.

"Here's your coffee," he said, holding out the paper cup as he reached you. Then he offered you the little bag as well. "I wasn't sure whether you preferred sugar or sweetener, so I packed both. You can... you can have it however you like.”

Your eyes widened, and the look of surprise on your face was so genuine that Lando couldn't quite hold back the small laugh that slipped out, despite everything.

"You really didn't have to do all this. Oh, thank you so much. Today's been a hard day," you said softly as you sat down, reaching into the little bag for a packet of sugar. "I was just telling Marcus... Theo didn't exactly behave himself."

Marcus. Huh.

Lando shifted slightly to get a better look at the man and greeted him with a polite nod, which was returned with a small wave.

"Yeah, he doesn't usually handle this sort of thing very well," Marcus said, rubbing the back of his neck before turning to you with effortless familiarity. "Remember when he had to get his last round of vaccines? He cried all the way home. That's the only time he cries like that."

You let out that same laugh of yours, and Lando quietly exhaled. His gaze drifted from you to Marcus, then over to Theo playing behind the fenced-in playground.

Alright.

"Well, I'd better leave you to it. I've got an emergency to get back to. But I hope I'll see you all again at Theo's follow-up, alright?" he said, his tone polite and composed.

"Thank you. Really, thank you so much. It's delicious," you said, lifting the paper cup with a smile. "See you at the follow-up, Dr. Norris."

Once again, he answered with a nod before turning his back on the three of you, still smiling together. Lando didn't have an emergency waiting for him anywhere.

That afternoon, Lando had no appointments. It was one of his support shifts, meaning he simply had to stay available in case another department needed an extra pair of hands. No one did, so all he had to do was wait until it was time to clock out. On any other day, it would have been boring. Today, it was unbearable. Which was why, four hours after you'd left, Oscar returned to the staff lounge only to find Lando curled up on the sofa, fast asleep like a child.

He understood that better than most people in the world. Professional exhaustion.

Except it wasn't just professional exhaustion: Lando was hiding.

People came and went from the staff lounge, grabbing their things, eating, drinking, chatting for a while, and leaving again. Through it all, Lando remained exactly where he was, in exactly the same position.

He slept for so long that he never even heard his alarm go off. It was Max who finally pushed his chair back from the table where he'd been eating dinner, walked over, silenced the alarm, and gave Lando's shoulder a gentle nudge.

"Mate... your shift's over," he murmured, waking him as gently as he could.

He stirred awake, thanked Max, gathered the things he'd left in his locker, said goodbye to the few colleagues still around, and headed home.

By the time he got there, though, he had enough energy for only two things: a shower and changing into whatever pair of shorts he could find before climbing straight back into bed.

Lando slept until the following morning. It was his day off.

Determined not to spend the day becoming part of the furniture, Lando was now standing outside a small bakery, holding a paper bag filled with mini muffins. Every now and then, customers came and went, passing by him with a friendly wave while Lando simply remained there, standing in the sun.

He was watching the other side of the street, where a group of teenagers laughed together as they made their way to school. A quiet, amused huff escaped him. Teenagers were always funny in groups.

His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts.

It was a photo from his sister on a trip to Patagonia with her latest boyfriend. He probably won't be around next week. It's temporary, and he knows that! she'd written. Lando didn't even question it anymore. He simply reacted to the photo with a heart before reading the messages their mum had sent, reminding her to be careful on the hiking trails.

Distracted, Lando barely noticed as you made your way towards him.

Deciding to walk over hadn't been nearly as simple as it sounded. You'd seen him the moment he walked in because you were already there, tucked away at one of the tables near the back of the bakery. The instant those familiar curls and easy smile appeared, you had no idea what to do with your own hands.

When he walked out with his order, you thought you'd missed your chance.

Alright. Fair enough. It happens.

You sent Marcus a message telling him Theo's doctor apparently frequented that little bakery, making sure to add that he looked adorable in his white jacket and that he really did suit white. That earned you nothing more than an eye-roll emoji, and your thoughts drifted back to the day before, when he'd brought you coffee and worried about what kind of sweetener you used.

It was difficult dealing with an attentive man, wasn't it?

By the time you stepped outside, though, you hadn't expected to find him still standing there, bathed in sunlight like some sort of revelation. So, taking advantage of the fact that the two of you were no longer at his workplace, you decided that maybe it would be a good idea to... well. You still weren't entirely sure what would be a good idea, but you'd already missed one opportunity to walk over. It almost felt as though life itself was nudging you in his direction.

So you did.

Lando turned towards you slowly, both eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Oh... hi! Wow," he said, blinking.

A little laugh slipped from your lips, and you almost scolded yourself. Too much? Oh, don't be ridiculous. Your hand adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

"Hi!" you greeted him back, unable to hide the smile spreading across your face. "I saw you in there. I didn't get a chance to say anything — you were so quick. Do you come here often?"

Easy. One sentence at a time. That was far too much all at once. And... Do you come here often? Oh, no. No, no, no. Of all the things you could have said, that had to be the worst.

Lando looked at you with quiet amusement, turning fully to face you.

"I do, actually. I live over there." he pointed towards a tall, elegant apartment building two blocks away.

Your eyes followed the direction he was pointing.

Lando took advantage of your momentary distraction to steal what he could.

The surprise of finding you there.

The fact that you were talking to him.

The way your hair was tied up, leaving the back of your neck exposed, and your neck...

Dear God.

Lando took a slow breath and quickly looked away, fixing his gaze on his apartment building instead.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

Your eyes settled on him again, and you nodded.

"I do. Sarah, the owner of the bakery, has been seeing my brother for... about five months?" you said, frowning as you tried to remember. Eventually, you gave a small shrug. "She's really lovely, so I come here quite often. We chat for a bit, eat nice things... you know."

Fascinating. Everything you said was fascinating. A broad smile spread across Lando's face as he nodded.

"That's nice. I'm glad you like her. That'll be good." He slipped his phone out of his pocket again, opened the family chat, and held it out for you to see. "My sister just sent me this. She says they won't be together by next week."

You stepped a little closer to look, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Lando would never admit it, but his eyes followed the movement from beginning to end before he forced himself to look back at your face, waiting for your reaction.

"Yeah... they make absolutely no sense together," you concluded. "Although... she looks just like you. She's beautiful.”

He blinked once. Then again. You... you hadn't even realized what you'd just said, had you?

Lando swallowed slowly.

Maybe he could… No. Dear God. Lando, please. Don't say anything. Don't do anything else. You need to stop doing things.

"So... how's your family?" he asked, trying to recover at least a little of his dignity. "Theo... his... his dad?"

The last question left his mouth tasting almost like poison, bitter on his tongue. This time, it was your turn to blink, though not out of confusion. It was a perfectly reasonable question.

"Oh, I haven't seen either of them today. Maybe later. But from what Marcus has told me over text, Theo's doing well," you replied with a small shrug. "He didn't cry anymore after the blood test.”

Lando nodded, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"Yeah... he can be a little dramatic."

"A little," you agreed, scrunching your nose. "But I try not to... not to give him too hard a time about things like that, you know?"

Of course. Lando understood.

Even so, he tilted his head slightly, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Theo's already been through enough.”

Now that was new information.

Lando knew everything there was to know about Theo's medical history, yet so little about his life beyond the day-to-day. A slight frown settled on his face.

Your head tilted ever so slightly, as though asking, “You didn't know?” Your eyes dropped to the ground as you thought for a moment.

Then you bit your lip.

It wasn't exactly your favourite subject in the world. It still hurt to think about.

"Oh..." you began quietly. "Theo... Theo lost his mum when he was three.”

Lando's lips parted slightly in surprise. His fingers tightened around the paper bag of mini muffins, the crinkling paper the only thing keeping his restless hands occupied.

"I... I didn't know," he said, his voice as quiet as yours, as though speaking any louder would somehow be disrespectful.

You nodded, folded your arms, and let out a slow breath.

"No, it's alright. It's not exactly something we go around telling people, especially not when he's nearby," you explained, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder once again.

"Of course..." he murmured, the information still settling somewhere unfamiliar in his mind.

When Lando looked back at you, your attention had drifted across the street, as though you were watching something that wasn't really there.

Suddenly, he felt even worse than he had before.

"They were coming back from a trip. Theo was so little, and they were playing some sort of game... The lorry didn't see them. It was..." You swallowed hard. "It was really bad.”

A long sigh slipped past your lips before you smiled at Lando again.

"Wow... I kind of killed the mood there, didn't I? I... I'm sorry," you said, trying to lighten the atmosphere before clearing your throat. Then, with one hand, you pointed gently at him. "You look much better than you did yesterday, by the way. Did you manage to get some sleep?”

Flustered, uncertain, and thoroughly confused, Lando nodded. The movement was quick and awkward, as though he were trying to return to the present just as you had.

"Yeah... I got plenty of sleep after I got home. And today's my day off, so I'm making the most of it," he said, absently tightening his grip on the paper bag still hanging from his hand.

For what Lando promised himself would be the last time, his eyes drifted back to you.

He remembered every little glance he'd stolen, the trace of your perfume that seemed to linger wherever you went, and the attentive way you listened to every word he said. He remembered the delighted expression on your face when he'd brought you that coffee, as though it had been far more than just something to keep you awake. He remembered the sweet little voices you put on whenever you pretended Theo's stuffed animals were talking to him.

It was as though you were a painting he was destined to admire, but never touch. Separated by a velvet rope.

It was alright. He could be content with that.

When your eyes met his, his shoulders finally relaxed. You kept talking, and he kept listening, grateful for the chance.

The next few days didn't pass. They dragged.

Lando felt like a shell of himself, and everyone noticed. No one ever brought it up, but someone was always finding a reason to do something that, eventually, even Lando began to pick up on.

He put on his pediatrician's smile, his mask of a man perfectly content with his life, and did the best job he could, just as he always had. But in between appointments, during breaks and the quiet moments, there was always someone talking to him about something completely ordinary or absentmindedly placing something into his hands.

Max talked to him about the match. Oscar brought lunch for the two of them, claiming he simply didn't feel like eating alone. Russell pulled him over to help with the newborns and their families, and somehow... it wasn't enough.

Gabriel didn't make his usual jokes. Instead, he asked thoughtful questions, taking advantage of Lando's experience and quietly treating him like a mentor. Lando didn't mind, nor did he complain when Oliver and Kimi wandered into Pediatrics for no apparent reason other than to distract Gabriel from his work.

Lando went home exhausted every evening and collapsed onto the sofa.

No one could figure out why Dr. Norris looked so utterly worn down. Had someone in his family died? They would have known. Was one of his patients seriously ill? He would have told them. Was he running out of clean lab coats? That had never upset anyone...

Nobody knew. Nobody knew. Not even Lando, really. All Lando wanted to do was work and sleep. Work and sleep. But… Niki Lauda General Hospital missed the soul of Lando. Where had it gone?

It was on the other side of the city, wandering through the streets while taking photographs of all the places she thought were the most beautiful.

He spent his life inside a hospital, and yet there was no cure for a man who truly believed, in the deepest part of his heart, that he was the most wretched of all — so cruel for longing for someone who was not only committed to another man, but who also kept alive the flame of a family that had lost its most important person.

Lando would never forgive himself. He was trying to forget. He had to. How was he supposed to do that?

Drinking wasn't enough. Working wasn't enough. Mindlessly swiping through dating apps and even agreeing to the blind date Franco had arranged wasn't enough either. Sleeping had already proven completely ineffective.

Nothing worked.

There was no cure for what ailed him.

It was on an otherwise ordinary morning that something rather weird happened.

Lando was in his office, finishing the last of the case notes that needed to be signed off that day, when one of the receptionists, Kelly, knocked on his door.

"Come in," Lando called without looking up, stamping a prescription before finally lifting his head. "Everything alright, Kelly?"

She nodded and handed him a sheet of paper.

"It's about Theo. His aunt stopped by to let us know that he and his dad had to leave on a last-minute trip. She asked if we could reschedule his appointment," she explained, simply doing her job. "Since she's usually the one who comes in with him, would you like to speak to her personally?"

Lando's hand froze halfway through the movement.

What did Kelly mean by "aunt"? And what was that about her always being the one who came in with Theo? She was probably mistaken. These things happened. The hospital was always busy, with patients and families passing through reception every single day. Lando nodded. Yes, it would be best to speak to the woman. Especially since there might simply have been this misunderstanding between Kelly and whoever had come in that morning. If she'd confused Theo's family with another patient's, someone would need to let her know, and perhaps he was the right person to make that judgement.

When the receptionist, came back to tell you that Dr. Norris was waiting to see you in his office, that wasn't exactly what you'd been expecting.

You'd only stopped by the hospital that morning to let the staff know that Marcus was about to leave on a trip with Sarah and Theo. When Kelly stepped away to let Dr. Norris know, you'd simply assumed she would come back with a new appointment date, not an invitation to his office.

The truth was, ever since the last time you'd run into him outside the bakery, you'd convinced yourself that nothing more would ever come of it. Despite your own small, almost insignificant attempts to get closer to him, and despite little moments like the coffee, Lando didn't seem particularly interested.

And perhaps he shouldn't be. He was your nephew's doctor, after all. You were fairly certain that was a line no doctor should ever cross, and Lando had always struck you as deeply ethical. It was, admittedly, a little humiliating to keep sending signals that would probably never be noticed. Worse still, you hated the thought of making him uncomfortable. The last thing you ever wanted was to become an inconvenience.

You went anyway.

Your shoulders were slightly hunched as you walked, offering a small wave to a friendly doctor passing by. His ID badge read Dr. Piastri, Neurosurgeon. He waved back, then raised an eyebrow when he noticed where you were headed. You had no way of knowing it, but his gaze met Dr. Verstappen's across the corridor, and the two of them exchanged a very clear, silent message. Here we go again...

Only then did you finally raise your hand and knock twice on the white door at the end of the Pediatrics corridor with your knuckles.

The handle turned. There he was, opening the door for you with a slight furrow in his brow.

"Oh... it's you!" Lando said, almost as though the sight of you had genuinely caught him by surprise. "Kelly said it was Theo's aunt. I think she got confused."

Hang on… What?

You rubbed the back of your neck before stepping into the office through the space he'd made for you.

"So... Theo's gone away?"

As you wandered around the office, your attention drifted from one thing to another.

"Oh, well... yeah. Marcus managed to plan a trip with Sarah so Theo could get to know her better, you know?"

Lando nodded. Right. A family trip.

"And... are you going too?" The question slipped out before he could stop it. Entirely unprofessional.

"Go with... them?" you repeated, a note of confusion creeping into your voice, as though the idea itself didn't make much sense.

Lando caught it. He looked you straight in the eye. His brows drew together even more, and Lando… Lando had never felt so strange in his life. So utterly confused. He rubbed at his forehead and let out a long breath.

"I'm sorry. I really am. I shouldn't be asking you this. It's your personal life, and what you do is entirely your business, but..." He lifted a hand, trying to piece together everything he thought he knew. His gaze drifted away from yours, falling to the floor. "Why would you let your husband and your son go on a trip with another woman?”

You actually took a step back, as though the question had physically thrown you off balance.

"...I'm sorry?"

Lando wanted to take it back. He wanted to erase the sentence from existence altogether. He had wandered into territory that had absolutely nothing to do with him.

Nothing at all.

He covered his face with one hand and shook his head. He didn't want to deal with any of this anymore, yet somehow, every time he opened his mouth, he only seemed to make everything worse. And he kept going.

"No, I... Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere in—"

He barely got the words out before you stopped him. Completely. Both hands came up between the two of you, cutting him off before he could say another word.

"Lando. Dr. Norris." You called his name, your voice gentle, touched with a kind of bewilderment that was entirely new. "I don't know what impression we've given you, or what the paperwork says, but... Marcus is my brother."

…

…

…

…

Lando's arms fell limply to his sides. His entire body seemed to lose all structure. He looked... oddly boneless.

…

…

"...Brother?" he echoed quietly, the word sounding completely unfamiliar on his tongue.

Your eyes blinked once. First because… Oh my God. He thought you and Marcus were... a couple? Then they widened. A little grimace crossed your face, one that made you look so, so much like Theo that Lando...

Laughed.

A loud, wholehearted laugh burst out of him as he leaned back, completely overcome by it.

You had never seen this version of him. Never heard that laugh before. It was loud, warm, completely unrestrained… Completely Lando.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

"Oh... Mint," he muttered. “Mint, mint. Mint.”

Still smiling, he made his way back around to his desk, pulled a sheet of paper from one of the drawers, and clicked his pen open.

"We can reschedule Theo for next week, if that works for you," he said, the smile still seemingly etched across his face.

You blinked again.

"...You thought Marcus and I were a couple?”

Lando closed his eyes, embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. After a moment, he cautiously opened just one of them.

"...Yes." A beat. "Could we... maybe never speak of that again?”

A smile slowly found its way onto your lips.

"Lando?" you called. He looked up at you. "Is it alright if I call you that?"

Somewhere between one flustered blink and the next, he nodded. Of course it was alright. Everything was alright. Everything was wonderful.

"Yes," he said. "You can call me that."

He set his pen down on the desk. You took a step closer. Then another.

Lando's eyes flicked briefly toward the security camera mounted in the corner of the office, and that alone made you stop, laughing like a child caught in the middle of a harmless prank.

But he wasn't about to scold you. No.

He lifted his chin ever so slightly, wearing that quietly proud expression and the small smile that offered you the briefest glimpse of something… Something for another time.

His hands searched across the desk until they found a business card. His business card. Your breath caught in your throat. You thought he was simply going to hand it to you. Instead, he turned it over and wrote something on the back.

Another number.

And beside it, in unmistakably Lando handwriting, enclosed in parentheses, were the words: (call this one instead).

"So... I wasn't crazy after all?" you asked, taking the card from his hand.

"You drove me crazy, actually," Lando replied, tilting his head to one side.

And with the slightly breathless laugh that escaped you, you knew something very good was about to happen.

"Mint?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed.

"Mint."

A moment later, there was a knock at the door, and Kelly poked her head inside.

"Dr. Lando? Your afternoon patients are starting to arrive."

"Alright, Kelly. Thanks," he replied, never taking his eyes off you.

"I... I should probably go," you said.

Lando nodded.

"Yeah. I think so."

Your smile widened. Lowering your gaze, you slowly turned toward the door.

"Bye, Dr. Lando."

His smile only grew.

"Bye, Theo's aunt.”

Right on cue, the door slid open. Max walked in, wearing his usual team kit, a cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn't look angry or unwelcoming, he just looked incredibly focused.

He glanced at Mekies, who gave him a brief nod, and then Max turned his full attention to you. He grabbed a bottle of water and walked over, pulling out a chair across from yours and sitting down.

"So," Max started, his voice casual. "It's official then."

"It's official," you replied, your voice steady despite the nerves humming under your skin.

Max nodded, a small smiles breaking through his face. "Good. Honestly, when we heard what went down, I told Laurent we should call you immediately. Your races this year? You were driving the wheels off that car, even when it looked completely un-driveable."

"Look, our car isn't easy," Max explained honestly. "It's fast, but it's really twitchy, especially in the corners. It takes some getting used to. But I think you're going to fit it really well."

Max stood up and held out his hand, his grip firm and welcoming.

"We're going to be a strong team. Let's go out there, work hard, and show them what they threw away."

There was a pause.

A very long pause.

“Wait. What?”

You laughed. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Lando sat up straighter from the couch, his whole expression changing.

“Y/n, you got promoted.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. Don’t ‘but’ this.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Because suddenly he sounded more excited about it than you were.

“You worked so hard for this,” he continued. “Do you even understand how cool this is?”

“It’s just work.”

“It’s not just work. It’s something you wanted. Something you earned.”

You went quiet.

Because Lando wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better.

He genuinely meant it.

Lando was celebrating you in a way you never thought to celebrate yourself.

“It’s nothing, really,” you shrugged. “Just a small thing. I’d honestly be kind of mad at myself if I didn’t get it.”

His eyebrows immediately pulled together.

“Would you say the same thing to me?”

You looked at him. He didn’t let you speak. 

“If I won another championship, would you tell me, ‘It’s basically nothing, Lan. You should’ve expected it’?”

The second he said it, you felt something twist in your chest.

Because no.

Never.

The thought alone felt wrong.

“That’s different,” you argued quietly. “Your work is not the same as mine. My work is not that serious.”

“Why?”

“Because, Lan… you’re literally a Formula One driver.”

“And?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“It is serious, baby,” he said, softer this time. “Your work matters. Your goals matter!”

And somehow, that was the moment.

Not when you got the promotion.

Not when you saw the email.

But when Lando looked at something you had already dismissed and made you see it the way he did.

Yeah.

You knew you chose right.

OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You knew Oscar hated shopping.

He had never tried to hide it.

The first time you dragged him along, he made it very clear that he didn’t understand how anyone could spend hours walking around stores just to “look.”

And yet, somehow, he kept coming with you.

Even today.

You were already in the third shop, holding up another outfit in front of him while he stood there with your bags, giving surprisingly honest opinions.

“Okay, what about this one?”

Oscar looked up from his phone.

“It’s nice.”

“You said that about the last one.”

“Because it was also nice.”

You laughed. “That’s not helpful!”

He shrugged. “You asked if it looked good. It does.”

You looked at him for a moment.

Oscar Piastri, who hated long shopping trips. Oscar Piastri, who would rather be doing almost anything else.

And yet he was still there.

“Isn’t this boring to you?” you asked.

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes. Very.”

You blinked.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

You laughed. “Then why are you here?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Because you wanted to go shopping.”

“But you didn’t have to come.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He looked at you for a second, like the answer was obvious.

“I like spending time with you.”

And somehow, that was it.

Not some huge romantic gesture.

Just Oscar willingly spending hours doing something he hated because he liked being around you.

That was the moment you realized.

Oscar wasn’t the type to say a lot.

He just showed up.

CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t think Charles was the kind of person who remembered small things.

Not because he didn’t care.

Actually, it was the opposite.

He cared about so many things that you assumed the little details would get lost somewhere between everything else.

So when you mentioned it once, you didn’t think anything of it.

You were sitting together after dinner, looking through the dessert menu, when you pointed at one of the options.

“Oh, I love that one,” you said casually. “But they never have it anywhere.”

Charles looked up from his menu.

“You like that?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s probably my favorite.”

And then the conversation moved on.

You forgot about it.

Completely.

Weeks passed.

Life got busy. Schedules changed. You had a hundred other things to think about.

Until one evening, Charles showed up at your door with a small box in his hands and a smile on his face.

“I brought you something.”

You looked at the box, then back at him.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Inside was the dessert.

The exact one you had mentioned weeks ago.

For a second, you just stared.

“Charles…”

He looked slightly confused by your reaction.

“What?”

“You remembered this?”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“Of course I remembered, chérie.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

“You know I only mentioned it once, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you still remembered?”

He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You liked it.”

That was his entire explanation.

You looked at him for a moment, realizing something.

Charles wasn’t remembering things because he was trying to impress you.

He remembered because when you spoke, he actually listened.

MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You knew Max loved padel.

Everyone knew Max loved padel.

It was one of those things that made him genuinely happy. A few hours where he could forget about everything else, joke around with his friends, and just enjoy himself.

So when you texted him about your IKEA disaster, you weren’t expecting much.

I think I bought a wardrobe that’s too complicated for me.

His reply came almost immediately.

I have padel tonight.

You smiled.

I know. I’m not asking you to come.

A few minutes passed.

Good.

You laughed at his very Max-like response and put your phone down.

You weren’t expecting him to show up.

Which was why you were completely shocked when someone knocked on your door an hour later.

You opened it.

Max stood there.

With a toolbox in one hand.

You blinked.

“Max?”

“Hey, schat.”

“What are you doing here?”

He looked past you, directly at the half-built wardrobe taking over your apartment.

“I’m fixing that.”

You stared at him.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at padel?”

“I was.”

“And?”

“I cancelled.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

He shrugged, already walking inside.

“I can’t risk that thing falling on you.”

You looked at the wardrobe, then back at him.

“That’s your reason?”

“Yes.”

“You cancelled padel because you’re worried my wardrobe might attack me?”

“It looks unstable.”

You tried not to laugh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

He picked up the instructions from the floor.

“But I’m also right.”

And annoyingly, he was.

You watched him sit down on the floor, completely focused on building something he had no responsibility for fixing.

“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”

Max looked up at you.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

For a second, he looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Because you needed help.”

Simple. No dramatic explanation. No making it a big deal.

Just Max showing up because, in his mind, that was the obvious thing to do.

And as you watched him fight with IKEA instructions instead of playing padel with his friends, you realized something.

Max loved you through choices.

© 𝐋𝐕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐒 ：𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. all works are my own. do not copy, translate, repost my works on any platform. requests are closed.

ooi. lewis hamilton

— unraveling his braids

The only sound filling the quiet spaces of the living room was the soft, ambient hum of your laptop, drifting through a playlist of low-fidelity tracks that felt more like a heartbeat than music.

You were melting into the cushions of the couch, while Lewis sat on the floor right in front of you. His back was settled firmly against your shins, your legs bracketing the broad, familiar frame of his upper body. It was a position you both knew by heart—the universal signal that the two-week mark had arrived, and his scalp was finally ready to be released from the tension of his cornrows.

"I look forward to these days," Lewis murmured, tilting his head back against your knees to look up at you upside down.

"Getting your braids undone?" You laughed softly, your fingers already finding their rhythm at the crown of his head. "We do this every fortnight, baby. You’d think the novelty would have worn off by now."

You leaned down, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his forehead. Lewis let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders visibly dropping an inch as his eyes fluttered shut.

"It’s not about the novelty," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register he only used when he was completely relaxed. "It’s just... it’s become our routine. I love it. I love you."

"So cheesy," you chuckled, though your chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. "But I love it too. And I love you more."

"Debatable," he muttered, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Maybe you two were growing older, or maybe the fast-paced, loud chaos of his world just made these quiet, domestic anchors feel incredibly sacred. It’s the mundane things—the unglamorous, repetitive bits of love—that wind up building the safest spaces.

Your fingers worked with practiced, gentle skill. You used the tail of a comb to meticulously loosen the tightly woven patterns, mindful of the sensitive skin near his nape.

"Ouch—okay, gentle, tiger," Lewis winced slightly as you hit a particularly stubborn knot near the back. "I need that hair for the weekend."

"Oh, stop being a baby," you teased, lightly tapping his shoulder. "If you didn't leave the product in it for so long, it wouldn't be a bird's nest at the roots."

"It's a very expensive bird's nest," he shot back, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

"Well, the expensive bird's nest is currently shedding all over my sweatpants," you retorted, though your hands never stopped their soothing, rhythmic motion.

As the braids unraveled, his hair began to puff out in tight, crimped waves, full of texture and volume. You ran your fingers through the newly freed sections, massaged his scalp with the pads of your fingers, and watched the tension leave his face entirely.

Lewis let his head fall completely back against your lap, staring up at the ceiling with a look of pure, unadulterated peace. The world outside could wait; right here, in the quiet swell of the music and the soft tangle of his hair, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.

oii. carlos sainz jr.

— cooking

The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Carlos’s knife against the wooden cutting board was the heartbeat of the kitchen. In the background, a pot of water sent up a lazy, rolling simmer, a low hum that softened the quiet evening. You stood at the stove, gently turning over ingredients in a pan that filled the room with a rich, savory aroma—something that smelled so good it felt almost too perfect for a Tuesday night.

You shifted your weight, balancing like a flamingo with your left hand braced against the cool marble counter and one foot tucked against your opposite calf.

Suddenly, the rhythmic chopping stopped.

The abrupt silence made you glance over. Carlos was leaning against the counter, the knife resting idle beside a pile of perfectly diced onions. He was just looking at you. His eyes, warm and dark, held a distinct, soft sparkle of pure adoration.

"What?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Can you pass me the salt?" You pointed with your wooden spoon toward the shaker sitting just behind him.

He reached back, grabbed it, and handed it over without once breaking eye contact. He just kept standing there, a soft smile playing on his face.

"Carlos," you said, shaking your head.

"Hm?" he hummed, the sound low in his chest.

"You're staring," you raised your eyebrows, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pan. "Do you need something? Am I burning it?"

"Nothing. No, it smells perfect," his smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I... you look really good cooking."

You glanced down at yourself, let out a soft laugh, and gestured to your outfit. "Carlos, I'm wearing oversized gym shorts and a t-shirt that has a literal bleach stain on the hem. Mi cariño, what exactly is special about this?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounded register he only used when it was just the two of you. "You're standing in my kitchen, making dinner. I love it."

He closed the distance between you, his footsteps quiet on the tiled floor. Stepping up behind you, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smelled like garlic, clean laundry, and the faint, woody scent of his cologne.

"We do this almost every day now," you murmured, leaning back into his solid warmth but keeping an eye on the pan.

"And I love it every single day."

"Don't you ever get bored of it, though?" you asked. You tilted your head sideways, lifting your chin to look up at his jawline. "The routine of it all?"

"Do you?" he countered softly.

Before you could answer, he pressed a tender, lingering kiss into the crown of your head, then rested his chin right there, using you as his personal headrest.

"No," you admitted, your heart doing a familiar, happy flip. "I love cooking with you."

"And I love watching you do it," Carlos said, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the quiet, domestic safety of the room. "I love you."

"I love you more," you said, turning off the burner. "Now move your chin, giant, or we're going to be eating burnt garlic.”

iii. max verstappen

— grocery shopping

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed a quiet, sterile tune, casting a bright glare over the polished linoleum floors.

Logically, you and Max didn't need to be here.

Max had a team of people who could orchestrate a full pantry restock with a single text message, but you had insisted. To you, love wasn’t just built in the quiet corners of his Monaco apartment or amidst the deafening roar of the paddock; it was built here, arguing over breakfast brands in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. It was the only place where no one expected him to be a champion—just a guy holding a wire shopping cart.

Max had whined about it the whole way down, of course, offering a theatrical sigh as he grabbed a cart. But you knew him. You saw the way his shoulders dropped the moment you walked through the sliding glass doors, the way he subtly shielded you from the occasional wandering glance of a stranger. He loved the mundane reality of it just as much as you did.

Right now, you were anchored in the frozen aisle, standing before a wall of glass freezers lined with a colorful mosaic of frozen comfort food. You pulled open the heavy door, a rush of artificial winter spilling out against your skin. You reached in and grabbed a bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, a box of breakfast sausages, and a sleeve of frozen hash browns, stacking them neatly in your arms.

"We don't need all of that, schat," Max said from behind the cart, his hands loosely gripping the handlebar. He looked entirely out of place among the frozen peas and waffles, yet completely at home next to you.

"I don't need it, but you do," you countered, sliding the freezer door shut with your elbow before drifting toward the next section. "Have you seen the inside of your fridge lately? Because I have. It looks like a vending machine sponsored exclusively by Red Bull. It’s becoming hazardous to your health. What would your trainer say?"

Max let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, rolling the cart a few inches closer to follow your steps. "And you think processed food is a health cure?"

"Don't complain," you smiled, opening another freezer door and unceremoniously tossing a pack of premium hot dogs into the cart. They landed with a dull thud right on top of the hash browns. "I know for a fact you eat these when you think I'm not looking."

Max opened his mouth to defend his honor, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. He let out a soft huff, a quiet surrender. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. They're efficient."

You let out a laugh—hearty, light, and completely unbothered by the chilly air of the aisle. It was a sound that seemed to cut right through his usual guarded exterior, and you watched the remaining tension leave his jaw. He melted, his expression softening into that private, boyish warmth he only ever showed you.

"You're very lucky I love you," he murmured, shaking his head as he nudged the cart forward, his eyes locked onto yours.

"I should hope so," you teased, turning around to face him fully, a playful glint in your eyes. "You did just asked me to marry you a few weeks ago. It would be a bit awkward if you changed your mind over frozen sausages."

Max rolled his eyes—a dramatic, harmless gesture—but the sudden, bright flash of the silver band on your finger caught the grocery store light, making him smile anyway.

"I love you," you added softly, your tone shifting from teasing to something deeply tender as you reached out to lightly tap the tip of his nose.

"I know," he said, catching your hand for just a brief second, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before letting go so you could keep scanning the shelves. He followed a step behind you, content to be the keeper of the cart, navigating the small, ordinary aisles of a life you were building together, one grocery trip at a time.

oiv. charles leclerc

— bathing leo

The quiet luxury of the bedroom was suddenly pierced by a very distinct, very un-luxurious aroma.

“Baby, you smell bad!” you dramatically exclaimed, extending your arms to lift Leo into the air before his fluffy, four-legged self could collapse onto your clean duvet. The little dog blinked innocently down at you, completely oblivious to the fact that he currently smelled like a walking diaper disaster. “Oh, sweetie, what did you roll in?”

“What? I literally just showered!” Charles’s voice echoed from the hallway, dripping with wounded pride.

You heard the distinct rustle of a wrapper—he was undoubtedly in the kitchen, hunting down his afternoon chocolate stash. A moment later, he walked into the bedroom, his brows furrowed in deep offense, a half-eaten bar of chocolate in hand.

“Not you,” you laughed, shifting the furry culprit so he was propped against your hip. “It’s Leo. I think he desperately needs a bath.”

Charles took one step closer, caught a whiff of the air, and visibly winced. “Ah. Mon dieu. Shit, I forgot to book his appointment at the groomer’s, didn't I?” He immediately fished his phone out of his pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen. “I’ll call them now. They can take him, surely.”

“Nah, don't bother,” you said, cooing softly at Leo, who was trying to lick your chin. “It’s already late, Charles. The vet and the groomers are probably closed by now anyway. It's totally fine, I can just wash him here.”

Charles paused, looking up from his phone with a frown. “Bébé, you don't need to do that. It’s a mess. He’s a nightmare when he’s wet.”

“C’mon, it’s just a little water,” you insisted, giving him a reassuring smile.

After a few more rounds of gentle arguing, Charles finally succumbed to your stubbornness. You marched into the master bathroom, armed with a tiny plastic basin you had painstakingly excavated from the depths of Charles’s hallway closet—a chaotic storage space filled with old racing trophies, random charging cables, and far too many unnecessary gadgets.

You set the basin in the center of the spacious shower, adjusted the water temperature until it was perfectly lukewarm, and gently lowered Leo into it. The moment the detachable shower head clicked on, the little dog froze, looking at you with the ultimate betrayal written all over his face.

Unbeknownst to you, Charles hadn't gone back to his chocolate. He was leaning casually against the marble doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, quietly watching the scene unfold.

He had seen you wash Leo once before, months ago, after a chaotic, muddy run through the park when the groomers were fully booked. Seeing you do it again now—completely unbothered by the impending mess, your sleeves rolled up, talking to the dog in that soft, ridiculous voice you only used at home—made something shift in his chest.

A heavy, sweet wave of adoration hit him so fast it almost made his knees weak. The fast-paced, loud, adrenaline-fueled chaos of his racing world completely faded into the background. This was the real stuff. It was so incredibly mundane, yet so profoundly grounding.

“Okay, buddy, just a little soap,” you murmured, massaging the puppy shampoo into his fur until he looked like a tiny, pathetic polar bear.

Suddenly, Leo tensed.

“No, no, Leo, don’t you dare—”

Before you could finish the sentence, the dog executed a violent, full-body shake. A torrential downpour of soapy water spray erupted across the bathroom, covering the glass mirrors, the tiled walls, and most notably, the entire front of your shirt.

“Non!” you gasped, throwing your hands up too late.

From the doorway, Charles let out a bright, melodic laugh that echoed off the tiles.

“You’re going to need a shower of your own after this,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he walked over to hand you a dry towel.

You wiped a stray bubble off your cheek, shaking your head as you shot him a playful smirk. “Shame. You’ve already showered and changed.”

Charles stepped into the shower enclosure, completely unbothered by the wet floor. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your damp back, ignoring the fact that your shirt was soaked. He tilted his head down, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“I will gladly take another shower just so I can join you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register that made your heart skip. “I love you like that. Mess and all.”

“Mhm? Is that an offer, Leclerc?” you chuckled, turning your head slightly to catch his lips.

“Always,” he whispered, smiling into the kiss while Leo whimpered below you, demanding to finally be dried off.

oov. george russell

— folding laundry

The low, rhythmic chime of the dryer signaled the end of its cycle, leaving a heavy, comforting silence in its wake. It was a Monday morning, the kind where the world outside felt entirely distant. Inside, the bedroom smelled deeply of lavender detergent and warm fabric.

You pulled the massive, plastic basket into the center of the room, tipping it over until a mountain of fresh laundry tumbled out onto the carpet—a warm, chaotic heap of cotton, linen, and soft knits.

George was sitting on the edge of the mattress, scrolling idly through his phone. He wasn't busy, a rare occurrence in his tightly scheduled life, so when he saw you drop down onto your knees to tackle the pile, he quietly slipped his phone into his pocket and slid down onto the floor beside you.

He had never really given much thought to the anatomy of a household chore. To him, laundry was a functional necessity, a task usually relegated to the background of his hyper-focused world. But as he sat there, picking up a rogue pair of socks, a sudden, heavy wave of warmth caught him entirely off guard.

There was a strange, poetic architecture to the scene. You were already in your element, efficiently turning a chaotic jumble of fabrics into neat, sharp-edged squares. You reached into the pile and pulled out one of his oversized, faded team t-shirts. Instead of folding it, you set it aside in a distinct, isolated pile on your left.

“George,” you called out softly, breaking his trance. He had been staring at your hands. “Can you hand me the other basket for the whites?”

He shook himself out of his daze, immediately reaching for the plastic handle. “Here. Actually, let me take over. I'll do them.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you took the basket. “No way. We can do it equally. Team effort, Russell.”

“I am highly efficient at folding,” he pointed out, his tone shifting into that signature, slightly posh, competitive register. “My straight lines are unmatched.”

“We’ll see about that,” you teased, tossing a crumpled pair of his sweatpants into his lap. “Prove it.”

For the next ten minutes, the bedroom was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of domesticity—the crisp snap of fabric being shaken out, the smooth slide of hands smoothing out wrinkles against the carpet, and the quiet sliding of the dresser drawers.

George watched you out of the corner of his eye. You were completely unbothered, sitting cross-legged in a pair of soft shorts and a sweatshirt that you had undoubtedly stolen from his closet six months ago. As you leaned forward to organize his sweater drawer, sliding his knits by color, the domestic safety of the moment hit him again, sharper this time.

“You look incredibly pretty,” he blurted out. The words left his mouth entirely without his permission, completely bypassing his usual analytical filter.

You paused, a half-folded polo shirt suspended in your hands. You turned your head, looking at him with an amused, raised eyebrow.

“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself,” you teased, nudging his knee with your foot. When his expression remained intensely earnest, your smile softened. “I’m kidding, handsome. What’s with the random compliment?”

“Nothing,” George said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more grounded register. He rested his forearms on his knees, a pair of folded boxer shorts still held loosely in his hand. “You just look really... homey. Sitting there, folding my clothes and arranging them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don't know. It caught me by surprise.”

You chuckled, a warm, hearty sound that echoed softly against the wooden furniture. You set the polo shirt into the drawer, smoothing the collar down. “So, seeing me handle your laundry is highly romantic to you, is it? Good to know my domestic skills are so deeply appreciated.”

“Extremely,” he insisted, a boyish, un-studied smile breaking across his face. The rigid, professional posture he held at the racetrack was completely gone, replaced by a soft, relaxed slouch that he only ever used when it was just the two of you. “It’s very special.”

“Very special, huh?” You smiled, turning back to the mountain of clothes. You reached for the isolated pile on your left—the one containing his oversized t-shirt—and moved it a few inches further away from his reach.

George’s eyes tracked the movement. He frowned slightly, his analytical brain immediately spotting the anomaly. “Wait a minute. Why is that shirt going over there? That’s my favorite grey one.”

“It was your favorite grey one,” you corrected smoothly, not even looking up as you picked up a pair of socks. “It is now my official bedtime shirt for the week. The fabric has reached peak softness.”

“That is blatant structural theft,” George laughed, reaching across the pile to try and reclaim it. “I’m helping you fold, and you’re actively robbing my wardrobe in broad daylight.”

“It’s the tax for my labor,” you shot back, slapping his hand away playfully. “Consider it a rental fee.”

He let out a soft huff, surrendering immediately as he sat back on his heels. He didn't care about the shirt; in fact, there was a ridiculous sense of pride that came with seeing you swim in his clothes. He watched you tuck the stolen prize safely away.

“I love you so much,” he murmured, the teasing tone evaporating into something profoundly tender. His eyes were locked onto yours, completely steady.

You paused, holding a pair of rolled-up socks, matching his gaze. The playful air between you softened into something quiet and sacred.

“I love you so much more,” you challenged softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Statistically impossible,” George replied, a faint, adoring smirk returning to his lips as he reached into the basket for the very last piece of clothing. “But I’ll let you believe it for now.”

ovi. lando norris

— eating breakfast

The rhythmic click-clack of a computer keyboard and the neon glow of dual monitors used to be Lando’s entire definition of a late night—and conversely, the reason his mornings barely existed. Before you, breakfast wasn't a meal; it was a conceptual myth. He woke up far too late for his manager’s liking and well past his trainer’s patience, usually rolled out of bed with dry eyes from staring at his PC until 4:00 AM, playing whatever game Max Fewtrell had dragged him into.

Now, he was sitting fully conscious at a solid oak dining table he couldn’t actually remember ever using for its intended purpose, eating actual food with you.

He had woken up early—not because of a screaming phone alarm or a demanding schedule, but because the warm, buttery aroma of toast and brewing tea had drifted into the bedroom and gently nudged him awake. Bleary-eyed and pulling a hoodie over his head, he had padded down the hallway to find you in his kitchen. You were completely barefoot on the cool tiles, wearing nothing but one of his oversized team shirts that swallowed your frame and pooled halfway down your thighs.

Watching you stand there, completely at ease in his space, a sudden, quiet epiphany had struck him right in the chest: You needed to live here. It wasn't just about the luxury of a home-cooked meal; it was the realization that he wanted you anchored in his life on this exact level. He wanted the ordinary, unglamorous, beautiful routine of sharing an apartment with you, talking about absolutely nothing and everything all at once while navigating the quiet corners of a normal day.

“You're up early,” you said, turning around with a wooden spatula in hand and offering him a soft, sleepy smile. “Did the kitchen noises wake you? I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Lando murmured, his voice incredibly groggy, deep with sleep as he pulled out a chair and slumped into it. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to blink away the haze. “Smells amazing, honestly.”

“Thank you,” you said, a happy little lilt in your voice as you plated up the eggs. “Tea?”

Lando blinked. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he’d willingly consumed tea in the morning. Usually, his breakfast consisted of a cold, neon-green liquid from a can that probably defied several health codes.

“Yes, please,” he smiled, the sleepiness in his eyes melting into pure warmth as he looked at you. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, baby,” you replied smoothly, pouring the hot water into a mug.

That first morning had been the catalyst. After that, Lando made sure you were in his Monaco apartment every single chance he got, counting down the days between race weekends just to get back to this specific quietness.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to shift. The welcome mat by the front door, which had spent years greeting only one pair of muddy sneakers, now held a second, much smaller pair of slides. The ceramic cup in the bathroom that used to hold just his lonely electric toothbrush was now tangled up with yours. Even the refrigerator, which had previously looked like a commercial storage unit sponsored exclusively by energy drinks, was suddenly stocked with actual, perishable groceries, vegetables, and milk that hadn't expired three months ago.

He loved every single bit of it. For a guy whose life moved at two hundred miles an hour surrounded by screaming engines and constant public scrutiny, this quiet, ordinary domesticity was the ultimate luxury. He trusted you completely, and the changes you brought into his world didn't feel like a compromise—they felt like coming home.

Lando watched you set the steaming mug of tea in front of him, followed by a plate of perfectly done eggs and toast. He reached out, his fingers catching your wrist gently before you could pull away, tugging you just enough so you’d lean down. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin.

“What’s this for?” you asked, a playful smile tucking at the corners of your lips.

“Just making sure you’re real,” Lando teased, his voice finally losing its morning gravel. He picked up his fork but kept his eyes locked on yours. “And to make sure you aren't going to charge me a service fee for the tea.”

“Oh, the tea is free,” you chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his messy, uncombed curls. “But if you stay up until 4:00 AM on the simulator again tonight, I’m locking you out of the kitchen tomorrow.”

Lando let out a bright, boyish laugh, pulling you a little closer by the waist of his oversized shirt. “Deal. But only if I get a bite of your toast right now.”

vii. oscar piastri

— watering plants and flowers

Oscar’s apartment used to look less like a home and more like a high-end corporate waiting room. It was a study in aggressive minimalism—stark grey lines, industrial concrete, and furniture that seemed designed more for architectural symmetry than actual human bodies. He had never taken the time to decorate it; he simply didn't possess the domestic bandwidth. Even his sister, Hattie, had once staged a minor intervention, pacing through his living room and threatening to forcibly mail him a colorful rug because the sheer, unyielding bleakness of the space was "painful to look at." Oscar had just shrugged, entirely content with his empty shelves.

Then, came you.

You arrived with a quiet, stubborn mission fueled by soil, greenery, and an abundance of fresh flowers. Before you officially moved in, you began staging a slow, hostile takeover of his minimalist haven, one small pot at a time. Every time you visited, you’d slip a new plant onto a bare surface—resilient, low-maintenance varieties that could survive on nothing but pure spite, clean water, and the faint glow of the LED strip lights beneath his kitchen cabinets.

When the day finally came for you to officially unpack your bags, you brought out the big guns.

Suddenly, the cold corners of the living room were anchored by massive, leafy Monsteras that stretched toward the ceiling. The concrete balcony became a cascading waterfall of hanging pothos, their vines dancing in the Monaco breeze. Delicate orchids appeared on the dining table and the sleek marble coffee table, their structured blooms mirroring his love for precision, while a vase of vibrant tulips sat permanently on your bedside table, catching the morning sun.

But the undisputed crown jewel of the entire collection sat squarely on his bedside table: a small, dark ceramic pot holding a single, meticulously nurtured hibiscus plant. It was the moving-in gift you had ceremoniously handed him, and despite Oscar’s usual hands-off approach to nature, he took agonizingly great care of it. He checked the soil moisture with the gravity of a race engineer analyzing telemetry data. He loved it fiercely.

Lately, Oscar’s absolute favorite thing to do when the racing world paused was simply to sit and watch you tend to your kingdom. There was something profoundly hypnotic about the way you moved from room to room with your small, copper watering can. The fast-paced, high-adrenaline chaos of the paddock—the screaming engines, the media scrums, the constant pressure—all of it completely evaporated against the quiet, rhythmic sound of water hitting soil. It made him feel entirely grounded. He had lived in this apartment for a long time, but it wasn't until he watched you meticulously wipe dust off a broad green leaf that he realized he was finally home.

He had never imagined that something so intensely mundane could become the anchor of his entire week.

“Did you water Mrs. Hibby?” your voice drifted in from the balcony, light and slightly muffled by the glass door.

Mrs. Hibby was, of course, the bedside hibiscus. You had christened the plant on day one, a naming convention that Oscar had initially resisted with a look of pure, deadpan horror. He had complained that calling a flower 'Mrs. Hibby' made him feel like he was trying to get it with an elderly schoolteacher, but like the rest of the greenery, the name had stubbornly grown on him.

“Already did, baby,” Oscar called back, his deep, relaxed Australian drawl cutting through the quiet apartment. He was stretched out on the couch, his long legs draped over the armrest, his eyes tracking you as you stepped inside.

“And did she get any sun—” you started, tilting your head as you nudged a stray strand of hair away from your forehead with the back of your hand.

“Yep,” he cut in smoothly, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Gave her twenty minutes of direct morning light right by the window, checked the drainage, and gave her a polite nod of encouragement. She’s thriving.”

You let out a soft, melodic chuckle, stepping closer to the couch and setting the copper watering can down on the floor. “A polite nod? Wow. You’re really leaning into the plant-dad persona, Piastri.”

“I have a reputation to uphold,” he murmured, reaching out and catching your wrist as you stepped past him. With a gentle, effortless tug, he pulled you down onto the couch, adjusting his position until you were tucked securely against his chest, your back resting against his ribs.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, fresh scent of your shampoo mixed with the earthy fragrance of wet soil.

“You know,” you said softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his forearm where it rested against your stomach, “Hattie called me yesterday. She wanted to know if the apartment still looked like an underground bunker.”

Oscar let out a quiet huff of a laugh, his chest vibrating against your back. “And what did you tell her?”

“I told her it’s a jungle now. I told her her brother spends his mornings talking to a tropical flower.”

“I don’t talk to her,” Oscar corrected defensively, though the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his smile. “We just have a mutual understanding. She stays alive, and I don’t get yelled at by you.”

“Mhm. Sound strategy,” you teased, turning your head slightly so you could look up at his sharp jawline.

Oscar shifted, his gaze dropping to meet yours. The playful sarcasm in his dark eyes softened, melting into that private, fiercely protective warmth he only ever reserved for the quiet spaces inside these four walls. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your lips—soft and unhurried.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your mouth, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the warm, sunlit safety of the room.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.

“For bringing some color in here,” Oscar murmured, his eyes scanning the vibrant room before settling back onto your face. “For making it real.”

viii. oliver bearman

— reading

Reading had never been high on Oliver Bearman’s list of priorities. In fact, it usually ranked somewhere between sitting through data telemetry meetings and watching paint dry. If things got boring, his immediate reflex was to look for a steering wheel, a simulator, or at the very least, a video game controller. Pages of dense, unmoving text just couldn't compete with a life lived at two hundred miles an hour.

But then, the universe decided to shift gears during the British Grand Prix at Silverstone.

The Haas garage was its usual symphony of controlled chaos—air guns whining, mechanics shouting over the roar of engines, and engineers staring intensely at banks of monitors. Yet, tucked away in the furthest, quietest corner of the garage, sat an entirely unfamiliar face. You were completely oblivious to the high-stakes madness around you, your knees tucked up to your chest, your nose buried so deeply in a paperback book that the rest of the world might as well not have existed.

As it turned out, your mum was one of the senior trackside engineers, and you had tagged along to visit her at work. Ollie had spotted you the second he walked into the garage, and for a moment, his racing brain completely locked up. You looked so entirely peaceful amidst the roaring machinery. When you finally left later that afternoon, you accidentally dropped your bookmark—a simple, slightly frayed piece of cardstock covered in little painted wildflowers.

Instead of doing the sensible thing and just handing it to your mum to give back to you, Ollie had been stubbornly persistent. He tracked your mum down under the guise of "just being a helpful, polite guy," asking around for your contact information or if you'd be coming back the next day. Your mum, utterly charmed by his polite, boyish demeanor, assumed he was just being an extraordinarily friendly driver welcoming a colleague's family. She had absolutely no idea that Ollie had been completely captivated from the exact moment his eyes landed on you.

It took a year of slow-burning text messages, shared book recommendations that Ollie secretly struggled through just to have something to talk to you about, and a patient, quiet courtship. He waited for you to see him as more than just her mum's polite young driver. He waited until you finally loved him back.

Now, a year into being yours, the fast-paced world of his felt miles away from the quiet sanctuary of his apartment. The rain was drumming a soft, rhythmic beat against the windowpanes, matching the low hum of the city outside, but inside, everything was warm.

You were both squeezed onto his too-small couch, tangled together in a messy, comfortable heap. You were lying on your side, the heavy hardcover book propped up in your hands, while Ollie was molded perfectly against your back. His long arm was draped heavily over your waist, anchoring you to him, his thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin exposed by the hem of your sweatshirt. His chin was resting right on top of your head, his dark curls mingling with yours, his eyes tracking the lines of text simultaneously with yours. He was supposed to be reading along, but his focus kept fracturing, slipping from the printed words to the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, to the soothing cadence of your voice vibrating against his torso.

“You’re not even processing what we’re reading, are you?” you accused him softly, pausing mid-sentence. You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him with a knowing, playful smirk.

Caught red-handed, Ollie didn't even try to deny it. A sheepish, boyish smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You were right, of course. The last three paragraphs had been a total blur of syllables that meant absolutely nothing to him. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The sound of your voice reading aloud was a melody he never wanted to turn off; it was a gentle, grounding anchor that could effortlessly send him straight to cloud nine after a grueling week on the track.

“I love your voice,” he reacted, his voice dropping into a calm, quiet register that felt almost foreign compared to his usual upbeat, energetic tone. It was a soft, vulnerable admission, heavy with the comfort of being entirely at ease.

“Just my voice?” you teased, a soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest as you nudged his arm with your elbow.

Ollie’s smile softened, turning into something profoundly tender. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer against him, solid and real. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss into the crown of your head, letting his lips rest there for a quiet beat before he spoke.

“I love you. You know that.”

The tease melted away from your expression, replaced by a warm, private sweetness that only ever bloomed when it was just the two of you in the quiet spaces of his home. You rested your hand over his where it lay on your stomach, your fingers interlacing with his.

“I know,” you murmured softly, turning your head just enough to catch the edge of his jawline with a tender smile. “I love you, too, Mr. Bearman.”

ix. andrea kimi antonelli

— cleaning

Cleaning from top to bottom was a sacred, albeit exhausting, monthly ritual inside the sun-warmed walls of the apartment you shared with Kimi in San Marino. It was a chore born out of necessity, but over time, it had evolved into something entirely yours—a rhythm of spray bottles, damp rags, and bare feet sliding across freshly scrubbed tiles.

You and Kimi had known each other since the diaper days, a lifelong bond forged by fate and the fact that your parents were practically attached at the hip. For a long time, you were just an inseparable duo, the best friends who shared secrets and scrapes. But somewhere between the clumsy growing pains of adolescence and the quiet realization of adulthood, the lines had shifted. The comfortable gravity of friendship deepened, pulling you both into something profoundly romantic, soft, and lovely.

Growing up, whenever your families would escape to the coast to the summer home your parents had built together, the chore assignments were always entirely predictable. You and Kimi were invariably banished to the living room and hallways, tasked with scrubbing every baseboard until it gleamed, while the adults held court in the kitchen, seasoning the grill, and prepping the pool and hot tub. Back then, the coast trips were heralded by the sounds of the two of you aggressively whining, dragging your feet, and turning a simple dusting session into a dramatic, coordinated protest.

But now? Now, you were doing it entirely willingly. There was no parental oversight, no grumbling over unfair divisions of labor. You had chosen a life of independent together-ness, and taking care of these few square meters of the world felt less like work and more like a quiet celebration of the home you were building.

The deep, melancholic swell of Hozier was blasting from the Bluetooth speakers, a familiar fixture from your personal playlist that Kimi had grown to secretly love, even if he pretended to only tolerate it. You were currently armed with a microfiber cloth, aggressively wiping down the surface of the coffee table, while Kimi was leaning on the handle of the mop, supposedly tackling the hallway but mostly just watching you move.

The transition from cleaning to chaos happened entirely without warning. As the melody shifted into a slow, sweeping rhythm, Kimi dropped the mop against the wall with a hollow clack. He sauntered over, his heavy socks sliding effortlessly across the slick floor, and caught you by the waist before you could finish polishing the wooden surface.

"Oh, so we're abandoning our responsibilities now?" you teased, though you didn't pull away as he tucked your hand into his.

"Just taking a mandated union break," Kimi murmured, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He didn't wait for your approval. With a sudden, playful burst of energy, he pulled you into his chest, counting a completely fabricated rhythm under his breath as he began to lead you in a clumsy, slow dance. The space between the sofa and the television became your ballroom. Kimi guided you with a theatrical flourish, his hand firm on your back as he twirled you around, the fabric of your oversized t-shirt swirling around your thighs. You were laughing now, the breathless, genuine kind of giggle that always bubbled up whenever he let his guarded, quiet demeanor slip into something entirely silly.

Emboldened by his own rhythm, Kimi grinned, his eyes sparkling with a sudden, competitive spark. "Hold on," he warned.

"Kimi, wait—"

Before you could brace yourself, he attempted a dramatic, sweeping dip. The execution, however, lacked structural integrity. His sock lost its grip on the freshly polished tile, his knees buckled slightly under the sudden shift in weight, and instead of a breathtaking, cinematic swoop, the two of you went down in a tangled, undignified heap. The living room rug cushioned the blow, but the sheer gravity of the failure had you gasping for air from laughter.

"Absolutely terrible," you gasped, resting your forearm over your eyes as you lay flat on your back, your shoulders shaking. "I am deeply offended. You cannot dip me to save your life."

"I absolutely can!" Kimi retorted defensively, sitting up and brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He looked entirely unbothered by his bruised ego, a boyish, stubborn grin spreading across his face. "That was a practice run. The floor is a hazard zone."

To prove his point, he scrambled back to his feet, stretching a hand down to you. You took it, letting him hoist you back up into his space. Your feet had barely found their footing before he pulled you flush against him again.

"Watch and learn," he whispered.

This time, his footing was secure. With a deliberate, smooth sweep of his leg, he leaned you back over his arm. It was a perfect, steady dip—the kind that suspended you in mid-air, your heart doing a familiar, dizzying flip as you looked up at him. Your hair brushed the floor, but you felt entirely weightless, anchored completely by the solid, unwavering grip of his arm around your waist.

"See? I told you I could," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, private register reserved only for the space between the two of you.

Before you could offer a witty comeback, Kimi leaned down, and his lips found yours. Your arms instinctively found their way around his neck, fingers tangling into the short hairs at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. The playful energy of the living room instantly softened, melting into something deeply romantic and tender. The music continued to hum in the background, a beautiful soundtrack to a completely ordinary afternoon, but right there, suspended in his arms on a half-cleaned floor, everything felt perfectly, beautifully still.