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Papaya Problems | Oneshot

Pairing Lando Norris × Fan!Reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, family dynamics, idiots in love, landos nan, smut but not too horny lmao

Description: You befriend a lovely woman named Cisca at a Sainsbury's over coffee beans, never realizing she's Lando Norris's grandmother. Months of tea dates and Bake Off sessions later, you find yourself at a family Christmas dinner sitting across from the McLaren driver you've been watching race for years. Between papaya hoodies, hot chocolate at midnight, and a nan who's definitely, totally not plotting, you and Lando navigate the complicated space between being a fan and being someone he could fall for.

Notes: the softest nan ever, four orange hearts, terrible coffee orders, and a victory kiss that breaks the internet, finally writing something not angsty, as mentioned in the fic, landos nans name is cisca (which i made up) JUST like his mom and sister it is addressed in the fic

WC: 25k

You grow up believing in a few absolute truths. One: tea is always better with two sugars, no exceptions. Two: the Northern Line during rush hour is a form of actual damned psychological warfare. Three: your nan would have loved London, and you're doing this whole university thing for her.

The third truth is what keeps you going through your mechanical engineering lectures at Imperial, even when your professor drones on about thermodynamics like he's trying to bore the entire class into an early grave. Your nan always said you were clever with your hands, good at fixing things. She'd wanted to see you graduate. But, cancer had other plans.

So here you are, in South Kensington, in a tiny flat that costs more than it should, eating Tesco meal deals and pretending you're not lonely.

That's when you meet Cisca.

It happens at the Sainsbury's near your building. You're reaching for the last bag of decent coffee beans—the Ethiopian ones, because you're not an animal who drinks Nescafé—when another hand shoots out at the same time. You glance over and see an older woman, maybe in her sixties, with kind eyes and a warm smile.

"Oh, sorry, love," she says, pulling her hand back. "You take it."

"No, no, it's fine," you insist, because your nan raised you right. "I can just get the Colombian."

"The Colombian is rubbish," she says matter-of-factly, and you bark out a laugh because she's absolutely right. She tilts her head, studying you. "You look like you need a proper coffee. Tell you what—I know a place that stocks these beans in bulk. I'll tell you the address if you give me your number?"

This is how you make friends in London, apparently. In a Sainsbury's, fighting over coffee beans with a woman who reminds you so much of your own nan that your chest aches.

Her name is Cisca, and she lives in a gorgeous townhouse in Richmond that makes your flat look like a broom cupboard. The first time she invites you over for tea (with two sugars, she remembered from your first encounter), you feel something unknot in your chest. She asks about your courses, your life, and actually listens to your answers. She tells you about her family, her kids, her grandson who's "always traveling for work, the poor dear, barely home."

You start visiting every week. Sometimes twice a week. She teaches you to make a proper roast, you help her figure out her iPhone, and you both watch Bake Off together while critiquing the technical challenges.

"My grandson would love you," she says one evening, completely out of nowhere. You're both watching Paul Hollywood tear into someone's soggy bottom. "You're about the same age, and he's into cars too. Well, more than into them. It's his whole life, really."

"Yeah?" you say, not really paying attention because Paul is still going on about the soggy bottom.

"Mmm," she hums. "Though he's rubbish at baking. Can't even make a proper cuppa."

You laugh. "Sounds like a catch."

What you don't mention to her is that you're a massive F1 fan. Have been since you were sixteen and your best mate Shauna forced you to watch the 2016 season. You'd fallen in love with the sport immediately—the engineering, the strategy, the drama. You'd picked McLaren as your team because of their history, their iconic papaya orange, and, well, because of their driver.

Lando Norris.

You've got a papaya hoodie you wear on race weekends. You'd watched him almost win in Russia and wanted to cry. You think he's funny on streams, fit in photos, and brilliant in the car. You maybe, possibly, have a fan account on Twitter with 3,000 followers where you post McLaren stats and defend him in the comments.

But Cisca doesn't need to know this.

One evening, you're helping Cisca set up her new smart TV (why do old people buy technology they don't understand?) when she casually mentions, "Oh, my grandson's coming home tomorrow. Finally. He's been gone for weeks."

"That's nice," you say, squinting at the HDMI ports. "I'm sure you've missed him."

"Terribly," she says. "He's stopping by for dinner tomorrow evening. You should come."

You freeze. "Oh, I don't want to intrude on family time—"

"Nonsense," Cisca says firmly. "You're here almost as much as he is. More, actually. He'll be happy to meet you."

You agree because you can't say no to Cisca.

The next evening, you show up at six with a bottle of wine and a nervous stomach. You're wearing your good jeans and a plain black jumper—nothing fancy, because it's just dinner with Cisca and her grandson.

Cisca answers the door, beaming. "Oh, perfect timing! He just got here. Come in, come in."

You follow her into the kitchen, and that's when you see him.

He's standing by the counter, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, his back to you as he rummages through the fridge. Brown curly hair, tall, broad shoulders. Something about him seems familiar, but you can't quite—

"Lando, love, come say hello," Cisca calls.

He turns around and your brain short-circuits.

Standing in front of you, holding a carton of orange juice and smiling that stupidly beautiful smile you've seen in about a thousand photos, is Lando Norris.

Lando. Fucking. Norris. Your Lando Norris. Well. Not yours. McLaren's Lando Norris. Formula 1 driver Lando Norris. The man whose face is your phone lockscreen Lando Norris.

"Hi," he says, and oh god, his voice is even better in person. "I'm Lando."

You stare at him. He stares back, still smiling.

Cisca is his nan.

You've been having tea and watching Bake Off with Lando Norris's nan for three months and you had no idea.

"I—" you start, and your voice cracks. You clear your throat. "Hi. Yeah. I'm—I'm—"

Cisca frowns. "Are you alright, love? You look a bit peaky."

"I'm fine," you squeak. "Just. Yeah. Hi. It’s nice to meet you."

Lando's smile widens, and he steps forward to shake your hand. His hand is warm and calloused and you're going to die.

"Nan's told me loads about you," he says. "Says you're the only person who appreciates her coffee snobbery."

"Right," you manage. "Coffee. Yes. I—yes."

Smooth. Very smooth.

This is going to be a disaster.

You manage to survive the handshake, though your palm is sweating so much you're worried he's going to think you've just run a marathon. He doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he's polite enough not to mention it. He just gives you that easy, comfortable smile that you've seen in a hundred post-race interviews and turns back to help his nan with dinner.

You stand there in the kitchen doorway like an absolute idiot, watching him move around the space like he's done this a thousand times before, because of course he has, this is his nan's house, he grew up here probably, and oh god you've been coming here for months and you never even thought to ask what Cisca's last name was because who asks that? Who asks their elderly friend's surname? That's weird, right? That would have been weird. But now this is weirder because you're standing in Lando Norris's nan's kitchen and you're supposed to be acting normal but you're not entirely sure what normal looks like anymore.

Cisca ushers you to the dining table, and you sit down robotically, clutching the wine bottle. Lando follows a moment later with three wine glasses, and he sits down across from you, still smiling, still looking unfairly attractive in the warm kitchen lighting. You're suddenly very aware of your appearance—are you wearing the jumper with the hole in the sleeve? No, that's the grey one. This one's fine. You're fine. Everything is fine.

Except nothing is fine because you've spent the last three months telling Cisca about your love for McLaren, about how you think their strategy calls are sometimes questionable, about how you stayed up until three in the morning to watch the Japanese Grand Prix, about how you think their lead driver is one of the most talented people on the grid, and she never once thought to mention that said driver is her literal grandson.

"So," Lando says, pouring wine into your glass with the ease of someone who's done this at fancy team dinners and sponsorship events, "Nan says you're studying engineering at Imperial?"

You nod, not trusting your voice. Then you realize that nodding isn't actually a response, so you force words out. "Yeah. Mechanical engineering. Third year." You take a massive gulp of wine. "What do you do?"

The question comes out before you can stop it, and you immediately want to die. What do you do. What does he do. He's a Formula 1 driver. You know what he does. You could recite his entire career history from memory, including his karting days. You know that he started in the McLaren Young Driver Programme, that he made his F1 debut in 2019, that his first podium was in Austria, that he nearly won in Russia but got the call wrong on slicks versus inters, that he finally won in Miami in 2024 and you cried actual tears watching it at half six in the morning in your flat.

But he doesn't know that you know this. He thinks you're just some normal person who's friends with his nan. So you have to pretend. You have to pretend you don't know.

This is hell. You're in hell.

"I'm a racing driver," he says, and there's something almost careful about the way he says it, like he's waiting to see how you'll react. "Formula 1."

"Oh," you say, and you try to make your face do a thing that suggests mild interest but not overwhelming excitement. You think you fail spectacularly. "That's cool. Like, the fast cars?"

Cisca snorts into her wine. "Yes, love, the fast cars."

Lando grins. "Yeah, the fast cars. I drive for McLaren."

McLaren. He said McLaren. Your team. Your papaya boys. You're going to pass out. You take another gulp of wine and nod like this is all brand new information. "Nice. That's the orange one, right?"

"Papaya," he corrects, and his grin widens. "But yeah."

Cisca gets up to check on the roast, and you're left alone at the table with Lando Norris, who is looking at you with those stupidly pretty eyes and an expression that you can't quite read. The silence stretches on for a beat too long, and you're scrambling for something to say, anything to say, but your brain has apparently abandoned ship because all you can think about is that one photo shoot he did for McLaren where he wore the papaya hoodie and looked so soft and perfect that you reblogged it six times on your Tumblr.

"Nan really likes you," he says finally, and his voice is warm, genuine. "She talks about you all the time. Says you're good company."

Something in your chest loosens a bit at that. "She's lovely. She's been—yeah. She's been really kind to me."

"She says you help her with her phone," he continues, and there's a teasing edge to his voice now. "Which is more than I can do. She still doesn't know how to use FaceTime."

You laugh despite yourself. "I tried to teach her last week. She kept accidentally switching to the back camera and filming the ceiling."

He laughs too, and it's such a nice sound, bright and genuine, and you feel yourself relaxing slightly. Maybe this won't be a complete disaster. Maybe you can just have a normal dinner and act like a normal person and not like someone who has a Twitter thread saved about his best overtakes of the 2024 season.

Cisca returns with the roast, and the conversation flows more easily after that. You talk about university, about London, about the nightmare that is the Northern Line during rush hour. Lando tells you about his travels, about how strange it is to be in a different country every other week, about how he misses proper English food when he's away. He's funny and charming and surprisingly down-to-earth, and you can see why people like him so much. You're trying very hard not to stare at him, but it's difficult when he's sitting right there, right across from you, talking and laughing and being an actual real person and not just pixels on a screen.

Cisca watches you both with a knowing look that makes you nervous. She's got that expression on her face, the one she gets when she's pleased about something, like when her bread rises perfectly or when someone gets sent home on Bake Off and she'd predicted it three weeks ago.

"You know, Lando," she says casually, cutting into her roast, "you should take her to one of your races. She'd love it."

You choke on your wine. Lando glances at you, concerned, and you wave him off, coughing. "I'm fine. Just—went down wrong."

"I don't know, Nan," Lando says, and there's something almost apologetic in his tone. "It's pretty hectic. And besides—"

"Oh, don't give me that," Cisca interrupts, and there's a sharpness to her voice now, the same sharpness she uses when she's telling off cold callers on the phone. "You could get her a pass easily. She's interested in engineering, it would be educational."

"Nan," Lando says, and he's got that tone now, the one that suggests they've had this conversation before in different contexts. "You know I've got a girlfriend."

Your stomach drops. Of course he has a girlfriend. You knew this, actually—you'd seen photos of them together on gossip pages, though he keeps his private life pretty private compared to some of the other drivers. But knowing it intellectually and hearing him say it out loud are two very different things, apparently, because you feel something sink in your chest that you don't want to examine too closely.

Cisca rolls her eyes so hard you're worried they might get stuck. "That girl," she says, and there's a whole world of disapproval in those two words. "Lando, darling, you know I love you, but she's not right for you."

"Nan," Lando says again, firmer this time, but there's a flush creeping up his neck. "Can we not do this now?"

"I'm just saying," Cisca continues, undeterred, "you need someone with a good head on their shoulders. Someone smart and kind."

You want to melt into the floor. This is worse than choking on wine. This is so much worse. You're sitting here at this dinner table while Cisca essentially tells her grandson that his girlfriend isn't good enough and that you, the random university student she's befriended, would be better. You can feel your face burning, and you stare down at your plate like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Nan," Lando says, and he sounds tired now. "Please."

"I'm just saying what everyone's thinking," Cisca says primly, and she takes a sip of her wine. "You're perfect for each other. She's clever, she's lovely, she appreciates a good cup of coffee—"

"Oh my god," you mutter into your hands.

"—and she's not one of those girls who's only interested in you because you're famous," Cisca finishes triumphantly.

There's a horrible silence. You keep your face buried in your hands. Lando clears his throat. "Nan, I appreciate the thought, but I'm in a relationship. A serious one. And I'm sure she's—" he pauses, and you peek through your fingers to see him gesturing vaguely at you, "—very nice, but I'm not looking for—I'm happy where I am."

Cisca sniffs disapprovingly but doesn't push further. You finally lower your hands and reach for your wine glass, draining half of it in one go. Lando catches your eye and mouths an apology, and you shake your head quickly because it's not his fault his nan has decided to play matchmaker at the worst possible moment.

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of forced conversation and lingering awkwardness. You help Cisca clear the plates, and Lando disappears to take a phone call, and you seriously consider just climbing out the bathroom window and never coming back. But Cisca is lovely, and she's been so good to you, and you can't just abandon her because her grandson happens to be the man you've been low-key obsessed with for the past few years.

When Lando returns, he grabs his keys from the counter. "I should head out," he says. "Early flight tomorrow."

"Where are you off to now?" Cisca asks, and she's back to being her normal warm self, like she didn't just try to set him up with you fifteen minutes ago.

"Qatar," he says. "We have testing, nan.."

Your brain unhelpfully supplies the fact that Qatar testing is in November and that it's for pre-season prep and that the temperature there is going to be significantly better than London right now. You shove the thought down and smile politely.

"Drive safe," Cisca tells him, pulling him into a hug.

"Always," he says, and he kisses her cheek and whispers a soft ‘I love you’. Then he turns to you and extends his hand again. "It was nice meeting you. Really."

You shake his hand, and this time your palm is less sweaty. Progress. "Yeah, you too."

He leaves, and you and Cisca are alone in the kitchen. She immediately turns to you with a gleeful expression. "Well? What did you think?"

"Cisca," you say slowly, "please tell me you didn't befriend me just to set me up with your grandson."

"Of course not," she says, affronted. "I befriended you because you're lovely and you make me laugh. The fact that you're perfect for Lando is just a happy coincidence."

"He has a girlfriend," you remind her.

"For now," Cisca says mysteriously, and she pats your hand. "These things have a way of working themselves out."

You go home that night and lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what just happened. You pulled up Instagram and scroll through your feed, and of course the first thing you see is a photo from one of the F1 gossip accounts: Lando at dinner with a pretty blonde girl, both of them smiling at each other. Posted two days ago. The girlfriend, presumably.

You close the app and roll over, burying your face in your pillow. This is fine. Everything is fine. You're not going to develop feelings for your elderly friend's grandson who is a literal Formula 1 driver with a girlfriend and a life that exists in a completely different stratosphere from yours. You're going to be normal and rational and you're going to keep having tea with Cisca because she's important to you and that's all that matters.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from Cisca.

You smile despite everything. You'd taught her how to text properly just last week, showed her how to use emojis and everything. She's still got the habit of sending them in groups of four because she doesn't realize she's supposed to tap once, not hold the button down. You'd tried to explain it to her three times, but she'd just waved you off and said that four was a nice number anyway. You scroll up through your previous messages and see evidence of this scattered throughout: four thumbs up, four hearts, four tea cups, four smiling faces. It's endearing, really, even if it does make every text look slightly chaotic.

You laugh out loud in your empty flat, the sound echoing off the walls. Then the reality of the situation settles back over you like a weighted blanket. You've just had dinner with Lando Norris. Lando fucking Norris, who has a girlfriend. Lando Norris, whose nan thinks you're perfect for him. Lando Norris, who you've been low-key obsessed with for years and who now knows you exist as an actual human person and not just a faceless username in his Twitter mentions.

You're absolutely and utterly doomed.

November bleeds into December, and London transforms into something almost magical, all twinkling lights and Christmas markets and the smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner. You're walking back from a particularly brutal exam on thermodynamics when Cisca calls you, and the sound of her coughing immediately sends a jolt of panic through your chest.

"It's nothing, love," she wheezes into the phone, but you can hear how rough her voice sounds, how labored her breathing is. It’s most definitely not nothing. "Just a bit of a cold."

It's not just a bit of a cold. By the time you get to her house—letting yourself in with the spare key she'd given you in October, the one that sits on your keychain next to your flat key and your Imperial student ID—you find her on the sofa, wrapped in blankets, shivering despite the heating being on full blast. Her face is flushed, and when you press your hand to her forehead, she's burning up.

"Right," you say firmly, channeling every bit of your own nan's no-nonsense energy. "We're calling your doctor."

"Don't fuss," Cisca tries to say, but it turns into a coughing fit that has you reaching for your phone immediately, forcing her to give you her contact book and finding ‘Doctor Emmanuel’ within the array of names. Your fingers hover over ‘Lan Lan’ and you do your best to avoid the digits staring back at you.

Pneumonia, the doctor says after a house call that evening. Not severe enough for hospital, but she needs rest, fluids, antibiotics, and someone to keep an eye on her. You don't even hesitate. You pack a bag with enough clothes for a week, tell your flatmate you'll be gone for a bit, and install yourself in Cisca's guest room—the one with the floral wallpaper and the ensuite bathroom and the bed that's far too comfortable for someone who's supposed to be playing caretaker.

You learn Cisca's routines, her preferences, the specific way she likes her tea (four sugars, a splash of milk, steeped for exactly four minutes). You make her soup—nothing fancy, just the chicken soup your own nan used to make when you were sick, with extra ginger because Cisca mentions she likes it. You sit with her while she watches her programs, half-dozing on the sofa while you work on your laptop, finishing up coursework and trying not to fall behind in your classes. You monitor her temperature obsessively, make sure she takes her medication on time, fluff her pillows, and bring her books from her shelves when she gets bored of the television.

Lando calls every day. Sometimes twice a day. You can hear the worry in his voice even through the phone, the way he asks if she's eating enough, if she's sleeping, if she needs anything. Cisca always tells him she's fine, that you're taking excellent care of her, that he shouldn't worry. After the first few calls, she starts putting him on speaker, and you find yourself in these strange, stilted conversations where you give him updates on her progress while studiously avoiding thinking about the fact that you're talking to Lando Norris about his nan's mucus production.

"Thank you," he says one evening, and he sounds tired, worn thin. There's noise in the background—voices, laughter, the sound of what might be a restaurant or a bar. "Really. I'd be there if I could, but—"

"It's fine," you interrupt, because you know he's in Abu Dhabi for the final race of the season, and even if he wanted to fly back, it wouldn't make sense. "She's doing much better. The antibiotics are working."

"Still," he says. "Thank you. I owe you."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just make a noncommittal noise and hand the phone back to Cisca, who immediately starts asking him about the race, about the car, about whether he's been eating properly. You retreat to the kitchen to make tea, and you definitely don't think about the way his voice had sounded, all soft and genuine and grateful.

By the time the second week of December rolls around, Cisca is almost back to normal. The cough lingers, but her energy has returned, and she's starting to complain about being cooped up in the house, which you take as a good sign. You're packing up your things, getting ready to head back to your own flat, when she catches your hand.

"You're a good girl," she says, and her eyes are a little watery. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You'd have been fine," you say, but your throat feels tight. "You're tougher than you look."

"Still," she says, squeezing your hand. "Thank you."

You go back to your flat, back to your normal life, but you still visit Cisca twice a week. She's fully recovered by mid-December, back to her usual self, baking and fussing and watching Bake Off with the kind of critical eye that would make even Paul Hollywood nervous. The Christmas decorations go up—tasteful, elegant, nothing like the chaotic explosion of tinsel and lights that your own nan used to favor—and the house smells perpetually of cinnamon and pine.

It's during one of these visits, less than a week before Christmas, that Cisca brings it up. You're sitting at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee (the good beans, the Ethiopian ones from the bulk shop she'd told you about) and listening to her talk about her plans for the holiday.

"I'll be going to my daughter's," she says, and there's something careful about the way she says it, like she's testing the waters. "Cisca—well, we call her CC to avoid confusion, but it's the same name. She's a junior, you see—she lives in Glastonbury. Lovely place, very artsy. She's got the space for the whole family, and Lando will be there, and his sisters, and—" She pauses, watching you over the rim of her teacup. "What are your plans, love?"

You freeze. You'd been trying very hard not to think about Christmas, actually. Your dad lives in Greenland now—he'd moved there three years ago for work, some research position studying climate change and arctic ecosystems. He'd asked if you wanted to fly out, said he'd pay for the ticket, but the thought of spending Christmas in a place that wasn't home, that didn't have your nan, that was all wrong and unfamiliar, made something in your chest constrict.

You'd told him you had too much coursework, which wasn't entirely a lie. Your friends had all gone home to their families. Your flat would be empty. You'd been planning on a quiet Christmas alone, maybe a Tesco ready meal and a Love Actually marathon, and you'd been telling yourself it would be fine.

"Oh, you know," you say vaguely, staring down at your coffee. "Just a quiet one. Nothing special."

Cisca's expression softens. "You're spending it alone, aren't you darling?"

You shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "It's not a big deal. My dad's in Greenland, and it's just too far to fly for a few days, you know? And my nan—" Your voice catches, and you clear your throat. "Well. She's not around anymore."

There's a long silence. Cisca reaches across the table and takes your hand, and when you look up, her eyes are fierce.

"Absolutely not," she says firmly. "You're coming with us."

"What? No, I couldn't possibly—"

"I've already cleared it with CC," Cisca continues, steamrolling right over your protests. "I told her about you weeks ago, about how you looked after me, and she insisted. We've got plenty of room, and it's the least we can do after everything you did for me. You nursed me back to health, love. You're not spending Christmas alone in that flat eating sad sandwiches."

"I was planning on a Tesco ready meal, actually," you mutter, but you can feel your eyes getting hot, your throat getting tight.

"Even worse," Cisca says decisively. "No. You're coming to Glastonbury. It's settled."

"Cisca, I really don't want to impose on your family Christmas—"

"You're not imposing," she says, and her grip on your hand tightens. "You're family. As far as I'm concerned, you've been family since September. Now, the train down is on the twenty-third, and we'll be there through Boxing Day. Pack warm clothes, it gets cold in that house, and CC's heating is temperamental. Oh, and bring something nice for Christmas dinner, we do dress up a bit, nothing too fancy, but you know. Festive the least."

You stare at her, overwhelmed. Part of you wants to refuse, to insist that you'll be fine on your own, that you don't need charity. But the larger part of you, the part that's been dreading Christmas alone, the part that still aches for your nan every time you see fairy lights or smell pine, is desperately, pathetically grateful.

"Okay," you whisper. "Thank you."

Cisca beams at you and pats your hand. "Wonderful. Oh, this will be lovely. You'll adore CC, she's a bit eccentric but in the best way, and the girls are sweethearts. And Lando—well." She pauses, her smile turning slightly mischievous. "I'm sure you two will get along just fine."

Your stomach drops. You'd been so focused on the idea of not spending Christmas alone that you'd completely forgotten about Lando. Lando, who will be there. Lando, who you'll have to spend multiple days with. Lando, who probably still has his girlfriend and definitely doesn't need some random university student crashing his family Christmas.

"Oh god," you mutter.

"What was that, love?"

"Nothing," you say quickly. "Just—thank you. Really."

Cisca just smiles at you, and you have the distinct feeling that you've just walked into something far more complicated than a simple Christmas invitation. But it's too late to back out now, and honestly, you're not sure you want to.

You text your dad that night to let him know you won't be alone for Christmas after all. He sends back a string of heart emojis and a photo of a polar bear he'd seen that day, which is very on-brand for him. Then you open Instagram—a mistake, always a mistake—and scroll through your feed. There's a post from one of the F1 gossip accounts: Lando at some sponsorship event, wearing a suit, smiling at the camera. The girlfriend is conspicuously absent from the photos, but the caption speculates about whether they'll spend Christmas together.

You close the app and toss your phone onto your bed. This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just going to spend Christmas with your elderly friend and her family, one of whom happens to be a Formula 1 driver you've been obsessed with for years. It's completely normal. People do this all the time. Right?

The train to Glastonbury is packed with Christmas travelers, all of them laden with bags and wrapped presents and that specific kind of exhausted excitement that comes with going home for the holidays. You and Cisca manage to snag seats together, and she spends most of the journey telling you about her daughter's house, about the town, about how you'll love it there.

You nod along, trying to focus on her words and not on the growing knot of anxiety in your stomach. You've packed and repacked your bag three times, agonizing over what counts as "festive" for Christmas dinner with people who are essentially strangers, people who are also related to Lando Norris, people who probably spend their Christmases doing things that are far more sophisticated than your usual routine of watching telly in your pajamas.

You'd settled on a dark green dress that you'd worn to your university's winter formal last year, the one that makes you look marginally more put-together than you actually are. You'd also packed two jumpers, your jeans, some trainers, and your toiletries, all crammed into a duffel bag that's seen better days. Cisca had assured you that casual was fine, that the family wasn't formal, but you can't shake the feeling that you're going to show up and be wildly underdressed or overdressed or just generally wrong for the occasion.

The house, when you finally arrive after a taxi ride through winding country roads, is not what you expected. Well, no, that's a lie. You hadn't known what to expect, really, but this—this is something else entirely. It's massive, for one thing, all stone and large windows and the kind of architecture that screams money, an understated way that's somehow more intimidating than outright ostentatiousness. There's a long driveway, a sprawling garden that probably looks incredible in spring, and enough space that you could fit your entire flat in just the entryway.

You know Lando's family has money—his dad owns Pure Electric, the company that does something with electrical goods that you should probably understand better given that you're an engineering student—but knowing it intellectually and seeing it are two very different things.

"Here we are," Cisca says brightly, and she's already out of the taxi and heading toward the front door before you've even managed to pick up your bag. You follow her, your duffel slung over your shoulder, trying not to gape at the house like some sort of Victorian orphan seeing wealth for the first time.

The door swings open before Cisca can even knock, and a woman who looks remarkably like an older version of Cisca appears, all warm smiles and open arms. "Mum!" she says, pulling Cisca into a hug. "You made it! How was the journey?"

"Lovely, dear," Cisca says, and then she turns to you, gesturing for you to come closer. "CC, this is the girl I told you about. The one who looked after me.."

CC's face softens immediately, and before you can even introduce yourself properly, she's pulled you into a hug that smells like vanilla and something spicy, maybe cinnamon. "Thank you," she says, and her voice is thick with emotion. "Mum told me what you did. We're so grateful."

"It was nothing," you manage to say, your voice muffled against her shoulder. "Really, she's—she was very easy to look after."

"Don't be modest," Cisca says, and she's already heading inside, leaving you to follow with your bag. "She was an absolute angel, CC. Made me soup every day, wouldn't let me lift a finger."

The inside of the house is just as impressive as the outside—high ceilings, warm lighting, tasteful decorations that look like they've been carefully curated over years rather than panic-bought at a Christmas market. There's a massive tree in what you assume is the living room, decorated with ornaments that catch the light and throw little rainbow reflections across the walls. It smells like pine and cinnamon and something baking, and it's so quintessentially Christmas that you feel something in your chest ache a little.

CC shows you to your room—"Just up the stairs, second door on the left, there's an ensuite so you'll have your own space"—and it's lovely, all cream-colored walls and a bed that looks like something out of a hotel, the kind with too many pillows and a duvet that's probably filled with actual duck feathers. You set your duffel bag on the chair by the window and take a moment to just breathe. You can hear voices downstairs, laughter, the sound of footsteps on hardwood floors. You're really doing this. You're really spending Christmas with Lando Norris's family.

When you head back downstairs, the house has filled with people. There are two girls in the kitchen with CC, both of them with the same dark hair and bright energy that seems to run in the family. Lando's sisters, you realize. Flo and Cisca—the younger Cisca, not CC, this family really needs to work on their naming conventions. They're chatting animatedly with their mum about something, gesturing with their hands, and they both look up when you enter.

"Oh, you must be Nan's friend!" Flo says, and she's got a warm smile that immediately puts you at ease. "We've heard so much about you. I'm Flo, and this is Cisca, but everyone calls her Cissy to avoid the confusion."

"Hi," you say, and you give them an awkward little wave that you immediately regret. "Thanks for having me. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Don't be silly," Cissy says, and she's already pouring you a glass of wine without asking if you want one. "Anyone who looked after Nan the way you did is family. Besides, Mum's been dying to meet you. She's been going on about you for weeks."

You take the wine glass, grateful for something to do with your hands, and settle into a chair at the kitchen table. The conversation flows easily around you—talk of Christmas plans, of who's arriving when, of what still needs to be done for tomorrow's dinner. You learn that Lando's dad, Adam, is out picking up some last-minute items from town, that Lando himself is due to arrive later this evening, that the family has a tradition of watching a Christmas film together on Christmas Eve. You sip your wine and listen, feeling like an anthropologist observing some foreign culture, taking mental notes on the family dynamics, the easy affection, the way they all seem to genuinely enjoy each other's company.

Dinner is a casual affair—CC makes a massive pot of pasta with homemade sauce, and everyone crowds around the dining table, passing garlic bread and salad and talking over each other in that way that big families do. Adam arrives halfway through, a tall man with graying hair and an easy smile, and he greets you with the same warmth that everyone else has shown. You're seated between Cisca senior and Flo, and you find yourself relaxing despite your earlier anxiety. These are good people, normal people, even if they do live in a house that probably has more bathrooms than your entire apartment building.

It's nearly nine when you hear the front door open, followed by the sound of a bag dropping in the hallway. Your stomach does a complicated flip that you're choosing to ignore, and you focus very intently on your pasta as footsteps approach the dining room.

"There he is," Adam says, grinning. "Thought you'd got lost."

"Traffic was mental," a familiar voice says, and then Lando appears in the doorway, wearing a black puffer jacket and an Hermes cap, looking tired but happy. His eyes scan the table, landing on his family first—his mum, his sisters, his grandparents—and then they find you. He stops, just for a second, and something flickers across his face. Surprise, or confusion. You can't quite tell.

"Oh, Lando, you remember my friend," Cisca says, gesturing to you with her wine glass. "From London."

"Yeah," Lando says slowly, and he's staring at you with an expression you can't read. "Yeah, I remember. Hi."

"Hi," you manage, and you give him a small wave that's only slightly less awkward than the one you gave his sisters earlier. "Thanks for—um. For letting me crash your Christmas."

"You're not crashing," CC says firmly, before Lando can respond. "You're our guest. Our very welcome guest. Now sit down, love, and I'll make you a plate."

Lando shrugs off his jacket and takes the empty seat directly across from you, which is just perfect, just exactly what you needed. He's wearing a black hoodie underneath, and his hair is messy from the cap, and he looks unfairly good for someone who's just spent hours in traffic. He catches your eye and gives you a small smile, and you smile back, and then you both look away quickly, and this is going to be a long few days.

Dinner continues, and Lando catches up with his family, telling them about the end of the season, about the team, about his plans for the winter break. You learn that he's going to be doing some training in Monaco after Christmas, that he's got some sponsor commitments in January, that he's trying to convince his trainer to let him have at least one week of doing absolutely nothing. His sisters tease him about something—an interview he did where he forgot what he was saying mid-sentence—and he takes it good-naturedly, laughing at himself. You watch him when you think he's not looking, cataloging little details: the way he gestures with his hands when he talks, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way he's got a small scar on his chin that you've never noticed in photos.

After dinner, everyone migrates to the living room for the promised Christmas film. You end up squashed on the sofa between Cisca senior and Flo, with Cissy curled up in an armchair and Lando sprawled on the floor in front of the telly. CC and Adam take the other sofa, and someone—you think it's Flo—suggests Elf, which is immediately vetoed by Lando on the grounds that they watch it every year and he's sick of it.

There's a brief debate, and then they settle on Home Alone, which is perfect because you've seen it a thousand times and you don't have to focus on it, which means you can focus instead on not focusing on Lando, who is sitting close enough that you could reach out and touch his shoulder if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to do.

The film starts, and you try to pay attention to it, you really do, but your brain keeps wandering. You're hyperaware of Lando's presence, of the way he laughs at certain scenes, of the way he shifts position every so often like he can't quite get comfortable. At some point, Cisca senior falls asleep against your shoulder, snoring softly, and you don't have the heart to wake her. Flo nudges you and grins, and you grin back, and it feels nice, being here, being part of this, even if you're also acutely aware that you're an outsider, a temporary addition to their family Christmas.

When the film ends, everyone slowly disperses. CC and Adam head to the kitchen to clean up, the girls disappear upstairs, and Cisca senior wakes up with a start and immediately insists she wasn't sleeping, just resting her eyes. You help her up the stairs, making sure she gets to her room safely, and then you retreat to your own room, closing the door behind you and leaning against it with a long exhale.

You change into your pajamas—ratty old joggers and a university hoodie that's seen better days—and brush your teeth in the lovely ensuite bathroom with its heated floors and rainfall shower. You're just about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock on your door.

You freeze. It's nearly midnight. Everyone's gone to bed. Who would be knocking?

You open the door cautiously, and Lando's standing there, still in his hoodie but with his hair wet like he's just showered. He looks uncertain, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Sorry, I know it's late. I just—I wanted to say thanks. For looking after Nan. Mum told me how bad it really was, and I just—yeah. Thank you."

You blink at him, your brain struggling to form words because he's standing in front of your door, in his family home, at midnight, thanking you, and his eyes are very blue even in the dim hallway lighting. "It's fine," you finally manage. "Really. She's lovely. It wasn't—I was happy to do it."

He nods, and there's a pause, and you should probably say goodnight and close the door but you don't. You just stand there, looking at him, and he looks back at you, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

"Right," he says eventually. "Well. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," you echo, and he turns to leave, and you're about to close the door when he glances back at you.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and before you can respond, he's disappeared down the hallway.

You close the door and lean against it again, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. You climb into the too-comfortable bed and stare at the ceiling, and you think about the way he'd smiled at you, about the way he'd said he was glad you were here, and you know, you absolutely know, that you're in trouble.

You wake up to the sound of chaos downstairs—laughter, music playing, what sounds like something clattering in the kitchen. For a disorienting moment, you forget where you are, and then it all comes rushing back. Glastonbury. The massive house. Lando's family. Lando standing outside your door at midnight saying he was glad you were here, which you definitely didn't spend an hour overthinking before finally falling asleep.

You check your phone. It's half eight, which is practically the middle of the night by university student standards, but you can hear that the entire house is already awake. There's a text from your dad—a photo of him in a truly terrible Christmas jumper surrounded by snow, with about fifteen heart emojis (he's gotten better at emojis than Cisca, which is saying something). You send back a quick Merry Christmas and drag yourself out of the world's most comfortable bed.

The green dress feels too formal for Christmas morning, so you opt for your jeans—the ones without any questionable stains or holes—and a cream-colored jumper that's cozy without being completely ratty. You look at yourself in the mirror and try to do something with your hair, which has decided to stage a rebellion overnight.

Eventually you give up and just leave it down, figuring that bedhead is probably fine for Christmas morning. It's not like you're trying to impress anyone. You're definitely not thinking about Lando and whether he's the kind of person who looks good in the morning or if he's one of those people who needs an hour to look human. You're not thinking about that at all.

When you make it downstairs, the kitchen is a flurry of activity. CC is at the stove doing something complicated with what looks like bacon, Cissy is setting the table, and Cisca senior is sitting at the breakfast bar with a cup of tea, directing everyone like a general commanding troops. The Christmas tree lights are on in the living room, and there's a truly alarming number of presents underneath it, all wrapped in expensive-looking paper with perfect bows.

"Merry Christmas, love!" CC calls when she sees you, and she's got that same warm smile that everyone in this family seems to have. "Did you sleep well? I hope the room was alright. Adam keeps saying we need to update the guest rooms but I think they're perfectly fine."

"It was perfect," you say, and you mean it. You're pretty sure you had the best sleep of your life in that bed. "Thank you again for having me."

"Oh, stop thanking us," Cissy says, bringing over a plate of croissants that look homemade. "You're doing us a favor, really. Nan won't stop going on about you. I think you're her favorite grandchild now, Lando's been replaced."

"I heard that," a voice says from behind you, and you turn to see Lando padding into the kitchen in joggers and a hoodie, his hair sticking up in about seventeen different directions. So he is one of those people who looks a mess in the morning, which is somehow unfair because he still looks good, the bastard. He heads straight for the coffee maker like a man on a mission.

"It's true though," Flo says, appearing from somewhere with her phone in her hand. "Nan literally said last night that if she could swap you for Lando, she would. Her words, not mine."

"Nan's going senile," Lando mutters, but there's no heat in it. He pours himself a massive cup of coffee and takes a sip, then makes a face. "This is shit coffee. No offense, Mum."

"Then make your own coffee, you ungrateful sod," CC says cheerfully. "And Merry Christmas to you too."

Lando turns to you, still making that face. "Nan says you're a coffee snob. Please tell me you can make better coffee than this."

You blink at him. Is he asking you to make him coffee? On Christmas morning? In his family home? "I—I mean, I could, but—"

"Perfect," he says, and he's already reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bag of beans that look significantly better than whatever CC had been using. "These are the good ones. Dad got them from some fancy place in Bath. Do your worst."

So that's how you end up making Lando Norris coffee on Christmas morning while his entire family watches with varying degrees of amusement. You try not to think about the fact that you've made him coffee dozens of times before, back at your café with Cisca, but this feels different somehow. More intimate.

You can feel him watching you as you measure out the beans, as you adjust the grind, as you go through the process that's become second nature to you after years of being particular about your coffee.

"You really are a coffee snob," Lando observes, leaning against the counter next to you. He's close enough that you can smell his shower gel—something clean and fresh, maybe citrus—and you have to focus very hard on what you're doing to avoid thinking about the fact that he's standing there in joggers and a hoodie, hair a mess, watching you make coffee like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

"I prefer 'coffee enthusiast,'" you say, and you pour the finished product into his mug. "There. Try that."

He takes a sip, and his eyebrows rise. "Oh, that's actually good. Like, really good."

"Don't sound so surprised," you mutter, but you're pleased despite yourself. You make another cup for yourself and one for Cisca senior, who accepts it with a knowing smile that makes you nervous.

Breakfast is a chaotic affair—everyone talking over each other, passing plates, stealing food off each other's plates in that way that families do. You learn that they have a tradition of opening stockings before breakfast but saving the main presents until after Christmas dinner, which is apparently going to be a full production. CC is already stressing about the turkey, and Adam keeps reassuring her that it'll be fine like this is a conversation they have every year. Flo is showing Cissy something on her phone, both of them dissolving into giggles. Lando is inhaling bacon at an alarming rate while simultaneously texting someone, his phone face-up on the table. You definitely don't try to see who he's texting. You're definitely not wondering if it's his girlfriend, if she's texted him Merry Christmas, if he misses her.

After breakfast, everyone migrates to the living room for the stocking opening, which is adorable and wholesome and makes you miss your own family traditions with an ache that sits heavy in your chest. You didn't expect a stocking—you're just a guest, after all—but CC presents you with one anyway, a cream-colored knit stocking with your name embroidered on it in gold thread.

"CC, you didn't have to—" you start, but she waves you off.

"Of course I did," she says firmly. "Everyone gets a stocking. It's tradition.

You open it with shaking hands, feeling like you might cry, and inside there are little things—nice hand cream, some fancy chocolates, a pair of fuzzy socks, a small candle that smells like vanilla. It's thoughtful and kind and so much more than you expected, and you have to blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

"Thank you," you manage, and CC just pulls you into a hug.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of wrapping paper and laughter and tea. You stay mostly on the periphery, watching the family interact, feeling like a nature documentary narrator observing a species in its natural habitat. Lando gets a frankly ridiculous number of presents—designer clothes, expensive headphones, something from his sisters that makes him go red and shove it back in the box before anyone else can see. He's sitting on the floor by the tree, surrounded by torn wrapping paper, looking younger than his twenty-five years, and you think about all the times you've seen him on your screen, in interviews, in race suits, and how different he seems here, in his family home, just being someone's son and brother and grandson.

Around eleven, Flo catches your eye. "Want to come see the horses?" she asks. "I need to check on them anyway, and it's a good excuse to escape before Mum ropes us into Christmas dinner prep."

"You have horses?" you say, which is a stupid question because of course they have horses, these people have everything.

"Just two," Flo says, like that's a completely normal thing to say. "They're sweethearts. Come on, I'll introduce you."

You follow her outside, grateful for the excuse to get some air and some space from the house, from the family, from Lando, who you're trying very hard not to think about. The property is even more impressive in daylight—rolling hills, bare trees stark against the gray winter sky, and in the distance, a stable that's nicer than most people's houses.

The horses are in the paddock, two massive creatures who come trotting over when they see Flo. She greets them like old friends, pulling treats from her pocket, and they nuzzle against her with obvious affection.

"This is Pepper," she says, gesturing to a gray mare with a white blaze down her face. "And this is Basil. Yes, we named them after seasonings. Cissy was seven when we got Basil and thought it was hilarious."

You reach out tentatively to stroke Pepper's nose, and she huffs warm air against your palm. You've never been around horses much—London isn't exactly known for its equestrian opportunities—but there's something calming about them, about being out here in the cold with the sound of them moving and breathing.

"So," Flo says, and there's something sly in her tone that immediately puts you on alert. "Lando seems to like you."

You nearly choke on air. "What? No. We barely know each other."

"He made you make him coffee," Flo points out. "Lando doesn't let anyone make his coffee. He's weirdly particular about it. Well, I guess you are too, but still."

"That doesn't mean anything," you say, focusing very intently on Pepper's face. "He just—Cisca probably told him I know about coffee. That's all."

"Mmm," Flo hums, unconvinced. "And I suppose it doesn't mean anything that he asked Mum about six times yesterday what time you were arriving and whether you were definitely coming."

Your heart does a traitorous little flip. "He was probably just being polite."

"Lando's not that polite," Flo says, grinning. "Trust me. I've known him his whole life. He's my brother, I can tell when he's interested in someone."

"He has a girlfriend," you say, and it comes out sharper than you intended. "So even if he was interested, which he's not, it wouldn't matter."

Flo's expression shifts into something more serious. "About that," she says slowly. "I don't know if Nan told you, but they broke up. Like, two weeks ago. It was—well, it wasn't great. She was nice enough, I guess, but they weren't right for each other. Anyone could see it."

Your brain short-circuits. They broke up. Lando is single. This information should not matter to you as much as it does. You are not going to think about what this means. You are going to continue standing here petting a horse and acting like a normal person.

"Oh," you manage. "That's—I'm sorry. That must have been hard for him."

"I think he's fine," Flo says. "Honestly, I think he's relieved. She was—" She pauses, like she's choosing her words carefully. "She wanted him to be a certain way, you know? Like, the Formula 1 driver, the celebrity, the whole thing. She didn't really care about just... him. Lando. The guy who plays Tarkov until three in the morning and can't cook to save his life and once cried watching Marley & Me."

You laugh despite yourself. "He cried at Marley & Me?"

"Sobbed," Flo confirms. "He was sixteen. We've never let him live it down." She's quiet for a moment, stroking Basil's neck. "Anyway. I'm just saying. He seems happy you're here. And Nan clearly adores you. And you looked after her when she was sick, which means a lot to all of us. So... yeah. Just. Don't write him off completely, I guess."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just nod and continue petting Pepper, who seems perfectly content to stand there and be admired. You stay out there for a while longer, Flo telling you stories about the horses, about growing up here, about Lando as a kid—how he was always racing something, go-karts and bikes and once, memorably, a shopping trolley down a hill that ended with a trip to A&E. It's nice, hearing about him like this, getting a picture of him as a real person with a real childhood and not just the version of him that exists on your screen.

When you finally head back to the house, your nose is cold and your cheeks are probably red from the wind, but you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't as overwhelming as you thought. Like maybe you can do this—spend Christmas with these people, with Lando, and come out the other side intact.

Of course, that's when you walk into the kitchen and find Lando at the counter, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, determinedly trying to peel potatoes under CC's supervision. He looks up when you enter, and he smiles—a real, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle—and you think, oh no. Oh no, no, no.

What have you gotten yourself into?

Christmas dinner is a production, just as promised. The table is set with proper china and crystal glasses ordained in all different colors, and there are candles everywhere, casting everything in a warm, flickering glow. CC has outdone herself—the turkey is golden and perfect, there are more side dishes than you can count, and everything smells incredible. You're wearing the green dress, and you'd managed to do something with your hair that looks intentional, and when you'd come downstairs Cisca senior had told you that you looked beautiful, which had made your throat tight.

Dinner is loud and chaotic in the best way. Everyone talks over each other, there are multiple conversations happening at once, and you find yourself laughing more than you have in months. Adam tells terrible dad jokes that make everyone groan. Cissy and Flo bicker about something that happened years ago, some childhood grievance that's been blown completely out of proportion for comedic effect.

Lando keeps stealing roast potatoes off Flo's plate when she's not looking, and she keeps catching him and smacking his hand away. It's warm and bright and everything that Christmas should be, and you think about your flat in London, about how you would have spent today alone with a Tesco ready meal, and you're so grateful you could cry.

You're seated next to Cisca senior and across from Lando, which means you spend most of dinner very carefully not looking at him, which is difficult because he's right there, directly in your line of sight. He's wearing a dark blue button-up that makes his eyes look even more green and blue than usual, and he'd actually done something with his hair so it wasn't sticking up in seventeen directions, and you're trying very hard to focus on your food and not on the way he laughs at something his dad says, head thrown back, completely unselfconscious.

After dinner, everyone's too full to move, so you all collapse in the living room with coffee and chocolates and the kind of pleasant exhaustion that comes from eating too much. You end up on the sofa next to Cissy, who's scrolling through her phone and showing you photos from past Christmases—Lando as a tiny child in a race car costume, the family on holiday in Portugal, the horses when they were younger. It's nice, being included like this, being treated like you're part of something rather than an outsider looking in.

Around ten, people start drifting off to bed. CC and Adam first, then Cisca senior, who kisses your cheek and tells you again how lovely you look. Flo disappears upstairs with her phone, and Cissy follows shortly after, which leaves you and Lando alone in the living room with the dying fire and the glow from the Christmas tree.

You should probably go to bed. It's late, and you're tired, and being alone with Lando feels dangerous in a way you can't quite articulate. But he's just sitting there on the other sofa, scrolling through his phone, and it feels rude to just get up and leave without saying anything.

"Thanks for today," you say eventually, breaking the silence. "Your family is really lovely."

He looks up from his phone and smiles. "They like you. Flo said you're good with the horses."

"I mostly just stood there while she did all the work," you admit. "But they're beautiful. I've never really been around horses before."

"Yeah, Flo's obsessed with them," he says. "Has been since she was little. She's the one who convinced Dad to get them in the first place." He sets his phone down and stretches, and you very determinedly do not look at the strip of skin that appears when his shirt rides up. "You want some hot chocolate or something? I'm probably going to be up for a while anyway, jet lag's still messing with me."

You should say no. You should go to bed and maintain a safe distance and not spend more time alone with him than absolutely necessary. But instead you hear yourself saying, "Yeah, that sounds nice."

The kitchen is quiet and dark except for the light over the stove. Lando moves around the space with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times, pulling out milk and cocoa powder and sugar. You sit at the breakfast bar and watch him work, and there's something intimate about it, being here in the dark and quiet while the rest of the house sleeps.

"So," he says, whisking the cocoa powder into the warming milk, “Are you enjoying your studies?"

You launch into a rambling explanation about your course, about thermodynamics and fluid mechanics and the project you're working on about aerodynamics, and you're halfway through explaining Bernoulli's principle before you realize you're probably boring him to death. But when you glance over, he's listening intently, nodding along, and when you finish he asks a question about downforce that's actually intelligent and shows he knows what he's talking about.

"Sorry," you say, feeling your face heat. "I tend to ramble about this stuff."

"Don't apologize," he says, pouring the hot chocolate into two mugs. "It's cool. I like that you're passionate about it." He slides a mug across to you and leans against the counter across from you. "Plus, I spend my entire life around cars and engineering, so I actually understand what you're talking about, which is a nice change from most conversations I have."

You wrap your hands around the mug, letting it warm your fingers. The hot chocolate is perfect—rich and not too sweet, with a hint of vanilla. "This is really good."

"Family recipe," he says with a grin. "Well, Mum's recipe. I just follow instructions."

You talk for a while longer, the conversation flowing easily, jumping from topic to topic. He tells you about the season, about the pressure and the travel and how surreal it still feels sometimes. You tell him about university, about your friends, about how you ended up in London in the first place. You don't mention that you're a fan, that you've watched every race, that you have a papaya hoodie in your bag upstairs. You're just two people talking in a kitchen at midnight, and it feels normal and easy and terrifying all at once.

It's nearly one in the morning when you finally head upstairs, both of you trying to be quiet on the creaky steps. Your room is at the end of the hall, and his is two doors down, and when you reach your door you both pause.

"Thanks for the hot chocolate," you say softly.

"Thanks for the company," he replies, and there's something in his expression that you can't quite read. "Sleep well."

"You too."

You slip into your room and close the door, leaning against it with a long exhale. Your heart is racing, and you're not entirely sure why. Nothing happened. You just had hot chocolate and talked. That's all.

You change into your pajamas—the ratty joggers and your university hoodie—and brush your teeth, and you're just about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock on your door. You freeze. It's one in the morning. Everyone's asleep. But the knock comes again, quiet and tentative.

You open the door to find Lando standing there, holding your phone. "You left this in the kitchen," he says. "Thought you might want it."

"Oh," you say, taking it from him. "Thanks. I didn't even realize."

He nods, and he should leave now, should head back to his room, but he doesn't. He just stands there, and you stand there, and the silence stretches between you.

"Can I—" he starts, then stops. "Can I come in for a sec? I know it's late, I just—"

"Yeah," you say, before your brain can catch up with your mouth. "Yeah, of course."

He steps into your room, and you're suddenly very aware that you're in your pajamas, that your hair is probably a mess, that this is a terrible idea. He looks around, taking in the space—the perfectly made bed that you haven't gotten into yet, your duffel bag in the corner, your toiletries on the dresser.

And then his eyes land on your suitcase.

Your open suitcase.

Your open suitcase with the sleeve of your papaya McLaren hoodie sticking out of it, bright orange against the dark fabric of your other clothes.

You watch in horror as his gaze fixes on it, as his eyebrows rise slightly, as he takes a step closer to get a better look. You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You want to go back in time and tell yourself to zip up the fucking suitcase, to hide the hoodie, to literally do anything other than leave evidence of your F1 obsession in plain sight.

"Is that—" he starts, and you can hear the confusion in his voice.

"It's not what it looks like," you blurt out, which is possibly the worst thing you could say because it is exactly what it looks like.

He reaches down and pulls the hoodie out of your suitcase, holding it up. It's your papaya McLaren hoodie, the one you've worn for every race weekend for the past two seasons, the one that's soft and worn and has a small stain on the sleeve from when you spilled coffee on it during the Monaco Grand Prix. The McLaren logo is right there on the front, bright and unmistakable.

Lando stares at it. Then he stares at you. Then back at the hoodie.

"You're a McLaren fan," he says slowly, and his voice is carefully neutral in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"I—yes," you manage. "I'm a—I like F1. I like McLaren."

He's still holding the hoodie, still looking at it like he's trying to solve a complicated equation. "So when I told you at dinner that first time that I was a racing driver, you already knew."

"Yes," you whisper.

"And when you asked what I did, and I said Formula 1, and you said 'the fast cars,' you were—what? Pretending?"

"I didn't know what else to do!" The words come out in a rush, defensive and panicked. "I didn't want you to think I was some—some crazy fan who befriended your nan to get close to you, because I didn't, I swear I didn't. I had no idea she was your nan when I met her. I just—she was nice, and she reminded me of my own nan, and we became friends. I didn't know. And then you showed up and I panicked, and I thought if I pretended I didn't know who you were then maybe it would be less weird, but now it's so much weirder, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He's quiet for a long moment, still holding your hoodie. His expression is unreadable, and you feel like you might actually be sick. This is it. This is where he asks you to leave, where he tells his family that you're some obsessed fan who manipulated his nan, where everything falls apart.

"How long have you been a fan?" he asks finally.

You blink. That's not the question you were expecting. "Since 2016," you admit. "I started watching that season. I picked McLaren because of—because of the history, and the orange, and then you joined in 2019 and I just—I've watched every race since then. Every qualifying. Every practice session when I can. I have a Twitter account where I post about the team and I—" You cut yourself off, realizing you're making it worse. "I'm not a crazy person. I promise I'm not. I just like the sport. I like the engineering and the cars and—and I think you're a really good driver, and I was happy when you finally won in Miami, and I'm just—I'm just a fan. That's all. I didn't befriend Cisca because of you. I didn't even know until that dinner."

He sets the hoodie down on the bed carefully, and then he looks at you, really looks at you, and you brace yourself for anger or disgust or whatever's coming.

But instead, he laughs.

It's not a cruel laugh or a mocking laugh. It's genuine, surprised, almost delighted. "You've been pretending not to know who I am this entire time?"

"Yes?" you say, confused by his reaction.

"That's—" He laughs again, running a hand through his hair. "That's actually kind of brilliant. I thought you were just really unimpressed by the whole F1 thing, which was honestly refreshing. Most people I meet either don't care at all or care way too much, and you seemed like you were in this perfect middle ground where you were just—normal. But you were faking it the whole time."

"I wasn't faking being normal," you protest weakly. "I was just faking not knowing who you were."

"Right, yeah, totally different," he says, and he's grinning now, and you're so confused. He should be angry. He should be calling you a creep. Why is he smiling?

"You're not—you're not mad?" you venture.

"Mad?" He looks genuinely surprised. "Why would I be mad? You're a fan of the team I drive for. That's—that's good, isn't it? Better than if you were a Ferrari fan or something."

"But I lied," you say. "I pretended I didn't know you."

"Because you didn't want me to think you were using my nan to get to me," he says, and his expression softens. "Which you weren't. Nan talks about you constantly, and it's always about how you're good company and how you make her laugh and how you looked after her when she was sick. Not about me. Trust me, if you'd been asking about me, she would have mentioned it. She's not exactly the subtle type." He picks up the hoodie again, examining it. "This is pretty worn. You've had it a while."

"Since 2022," you admit, giving up on trying to maintain any dignity. "I got it after—after Imola, when you got your first podium that season."

His grin widens. "You cried when I won Miami, didn't you?"

Your face burns. "I'm not answering that."

"You totally did," he says, looking absolutely delighted. "Oh my god. You cried."

"It was six in the morning and I'd been up all night and it was emotional, okay?" you snap, mortified. "You'd been trying for so long and you finally got it and I just—shut up, stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" he asks innocently, but he's still grinning like he's just won the lottery.

"Like you think this is funny."

"It is funny," he says. "It's hilarious. You've been pretending to barely know what F1 is while secretly being a massive McLaren fan. Do you have one of those—what are they called—fan accounts?"

You want to die. "I'm not telling you that."

"You do!" He's laughing again, properly laughing, and you should be humiliated but somehow his laughter is infectious and you find yourself smiling despite everything. "What's your username? I'm going to find it."

"Absolutely not," you say firmly. "That's—no. Never. I'll take that to my grave."

"I'll ask Nan to look through your phone."

"She doesn't know how to use Twitter."

"I'll teach her."

You grab a pillow off the bed and throw it at him. He catches it easily, still grinning, and throws it back. It hits you in the face, and you both dissolve into laughter, trying to stay quiet so you don't wake anyone.

When the laughter finally subsides, you're both sitting on the edge of your bed, the papaya hoodie between you. Lando picks it up again, running his thumb over the McLaren logo.

"You really wore this for every race?" he asks, and his voice is softer now.

"Yeah," you admit. "It's—I know it's silly, but it's like a good luck thing. I always wear it on race days."

He's quiet for a moment, and when he looks at you, there's something in his expression that makes your breath catch. "That's—yeah. That's actually really sweet."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just sit there, hyper-aware of how close he is, of the warmth radiating from him, of the way he's looking at you like he's seeing you properly for the first time.

"So," he says eventually, "what do you think of this season so far? Honestly. No more pretending."

And just like that, the tension breaks. You spend the next hour talking about Formula 1—about the championship battle, about McLaren's development, about strategy calls and tire degradation and all the things you've been desperate to talk about but couldn't. He's surprised by how much you know, by the fact that you understand the technical side, and you find yourself relaxing, letting yourself be the version of you that exists on race weekends, the one who yells at the television and texts her friends in all caps about wing adjustments.

It's nearly three in the morning when he finally stands to leave. "I should let you sleep," he says. "But—thanks. For being honest. Finally."

"Thanks for not thinking I'm a complete freak," you reply.

He pauses at the door, looking back at you with that same soft expression from earlier. "I don't think you're a freak. I think—" He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you echo, and then he's gone, and you're alone in your room with your papaya hoodie and the knowledge that Lando Norris now knows you're a fan, knows you've been pretending this whole time, knows you cried when he won Miami.

You bury your face in your hands.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

What the fuck have you done?

You don't sleep well. Your brain won't shut off, replaying the conversation with Lando on an endless loop, analyzing every word, every expression, every moment. The way he'd laughed when he found the hoodie. The way he'd said it was sweet that you wore it every race day. The way he'd looked at you before he left, like he was about to say something important and then thought better of it.

But there was also something else, something you couldn't quite put your finger on. A hesitation, maybe. A moment where his expression had shuttered, gone careful and distant before the smile came back. You're probably reading too much into it. You're definitely reading too much into it. You finally fall asleep around five and wake up three hours later feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

Boxing Day breakfast is quieter than Christmas morning, everyone moving a bit slower, nursing cups of tea and coffee. You make Lando a proper coffee without him asking, and when you set it down in front of him, he looks up at you with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Thanks," he says, and there's something off about his tone. Polite. Distant. Like he's talking to a stranger.

Your stomach sinks. This is it. This is where he's decided you're too much, too weird, a fan who crossed a line. You take your own coffee and sit next to Cisca senior, trying to ignore the way your chest feels tight.

The morning passes slowly. Everyone's a bit sluggish from yesterday's excess, content to lounge around in comfortable clothes and pick at leftovers. Flo suggests a walk around the grounds after lunch, but Cissy vetoes it because it's too cold, and they dissolve into bickering that CC has to mediate. Lando disappears upstairs at some point, claiming he has some emails to answer, and you try not to notice his absence, try not to wonder if he's avoiding you.

You help CC clean up from lunch, drying dishes while she washes, and she tells you stories about Lando as a child—how he was always moving, always racing something, how he once tried to race the family dog and cried when the dog won. It makes you smile despite the knot of anxiety in your stomach. When you're finished, CC pulls you into a hug.

"Thank you again for coming," she says warmly. "And for looking after Mum. You're welcome here anytime, you know that, right?"

"Thank you," you manage, your throat tight. "That means a lot."

You excuse yourself after that, suddenly needing air, needing space, needing to not be in this house full of people who are kind to you while Lando is upstairs avoiding you. You bundle up in your coat and scarf and slip out the back door, heading toward the grounds.

It's cold, properly cold, the kind that makes your breath fog in front of you and turns your nose red within minutes. But it feels good, the sharpness of it, the way it clears your head. You walk without any real destination, past the stables where the horses are tucked away from the cold, past bare trees and dormant gardens, following a path that winds through the property.

You're maybe twenty minutes from the house, standing by a low stone wall and looking out over the rolling hills, when you hear a voice. Male, frustrated, coming from somewhere nearby. You freeze, trying to place it, and then you realize—it's Lando. He must have come out here too, and he's on the phone with someone.

You should leave. You should turn around and walk back to the house and give him privacy. But your feet don't move, and his voice carries across the cold air, sharp and tense.

"—not doing this again, Mag," he's saying, and there's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before. "We've been over this. We broke up. It's done."

There's a pause. You can't hear the other side of the conversation, but you can imagine it from the way Lando responds.

"No, I'm not—" Another pause, longer this time. "That's not fair. You can't just—look, I care about you, okay? But we weren't working. We haven't been working for a while, and you know it."

Your stomach twists. This is his ex-girlfriend. The one Flo mentioned. You should definitely leave now. This is private, intimate, none of your business.

"It's not about someone else," Lando says, and his voice is tired now, worn thin. "I just—I need to be with someone who sees me, you know? Not Lando Norris the racing driver, just... me. And you never—" He breaks off, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. "I'm sorry. I am. But I can't be what you want me to be."

Another pause.

"Yeah, I know. I know you didn't mean—" He sighs, long and heavy. "Look, I have to go. I hope you have a good rest of your holiday, okay? Take care of yourself."

There's a moment of silence, and then you hear footsteps crunching on gravel, getting closer. You panic, looking around for somewhere to hide, but there's nowhere to go, and then Lando appears around a hedge and stops dead when he sees you.

"Oh," he says. "Hi."

"Hi," you echo, and your face is burning despite the cold. "I was just—I needed some air, and I didn't mean to—I wasn't listening, I just—"

"It's fine," he cuts you off, but his expression is closed, guarded. "How much did you hear?"

"Not much," you lie. "Just—just the end bit. I'm sorry. I should have left."

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away, out over the hills. "Madison," he says after a moment. "My ex. She keeps calling. Thinks we should—I don't know. Try again or something."

"I'm sorry," you say, because what else can you say?

He shrugs. "It's fine. It's been over for a while, really. The breakup was just making it official." He's quiet for a moment, then adds, "She wanted to date an F1 driver. The lifestyle, the attention, the—the whole wag package, you know? And I thought maybe that was fine, maybe that was what a relationship looked like when you do what I do. But it's—it's exhausting. Pretending to be that version of yourself all the time."

You nod, even though he's not looking at you. There's something he's not saying, something hovering in the air between you, and you're too afraid to reach for it.

"Can I ask you something?" he says suddenly, turning to face you.

"Yeah," you say, even though you're terrified of what he's going to ask.

"When you watched the races, when you wore that hoodie—" He pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "What were you a fan of? The racing? The team? Or—or me?"

Your breath catches. This is a minefield, and you don't know how to navigate it without everything exploding. "All of it," you say carefully. "I love the sport. The cars, all of it. But yeah, I—I liked watching you drive. I thought you were talented and funny and—and I'm not going to lie and say it was just about the car."

He nods slowly, and his expression does that thing again where it shutters, goes distant. "Right."

"Why?" you ask, even though you're not sure you want to know the answer.

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "I just—I need to figure out how to see you, I guess. If you're Nan's friend who I get along with, or if you're—" He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind. Forget it."

"No, what?" you press, your heart hammering. "If I'm what?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and he starts walking back toward the house. "We should head back. It's freezing out here."

You follow him, frustration and confusion warring in your chest. The walk back is silent, awkward in a way your previous interactions haven't been. When you reach the house, he holds the door open for you but doesn't meet your eyes, and then he disappears upstairs again, leaving you standing in the hallway feeling like something important just broke and you don't know how to fix it.

The rest of the day is stilted. Lando stays mostly in his room or talks to his dad in the study. When he does appear, he's polite but distant, the easy warmth from last night completely gone. You try not to let it show that it bothers you, try to be normal around his family, but Cisca senior notices. Of course she notices.

"Did something happen?" she asks quietly when you're sitting together watching some terrible reality show that Cissy has insisted on.

"No," you lie. "Everything's fine."

She gives you a look that says she doesn't believe you but isn't going to push. "He's complicated, my grandson," she says after a moment. "Gets in his own head sometimes. Doesn't always know what he wants until it's right in front of him."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just nod and pretend to focus on the television.

That evening, CC makes a light dinner—just soup and bread, everyone still too full from yesterday's feast. Lando sits as far from you as possible, talking to his sisters about something you can't quite hear. You feel like an outsider again, like you've taken a step back to that first night when you didn't know where you fit.

After dinner, people start packing. You're all leaving tomorrow—Cisca senior back to London with you, everyone else scattering to various places. You pack your bag slowly, carefully folding the papaya hoodie and putting it at the very bottom where no one will see it. You're zipping up your duffel when there's a knock on your door.

Your heart leaps. Maybe it's Lando. Maybe he's come to explain, to talk, to—

But when you open the door, it's Flo.

"Hey," she says, and she looks worried. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, stepping aside.

She sits on the edge of your bed, fidgeting with her hands. "So, Lando's being weird."

"Is he?" you say, trying for casual and probably failing.

"Don't," she says gently. "I saw you guys yesterday. After the hot chocolate. He came back to his room and he was—I don't know. Happy. Lighter than I've seen him in months. And then today he's all closed off again, and you look miserable, and I'm just—what happened?"

You sit down next to her, suddenly exhausted. "He found out I'm a fan," you admit. "A McLaren fan. An F1 fan. I've been watching since 2019, and I just—I didn't tell him because I didn't want him to think I was using Cisca to get to him."

"But you weren't," Flo says.

"I know that. He knows that. But I think—" You pause, trying to articulate the thing you've been feeling all day. "I think maybe he doesn't know how to separate it. Like, am I his nan's friend, or am I a fan who wants something from him? And I think—I think maybe he's dated fans before, or people who were only interested in the F1 driver part of him, and he doesn't want to do that again."

Flo sighs. "She was like that. Not a fan, exactly, but she loved the lifestyle. The parties, the attention, being photographed with him. And I think he's scared of—of making that mistake again. Of being with someone who sees him as Lando Norris the driver instead of just Lando."

"But I don't," you say, and your voice cracks slightly. "I mean, yes, I'm a fan of his driving. But I didn't even know Cisca was his nan when I met her. I just—I liked her. And then I liked him, as a person, not as a—a celebrity or whatever. But I don't know how to make him believe that."

"Give him time," Flo says, squeezing your hand. "He's stubborn and he overthinks everything, but he'll figure it out. I saw the way he looked at you yesterday. That wasn't nothing."

You want to believe her. You really do. But when you go downstairs later and find Lando in the kitchen getting water, and he gives you a tight smile and immediately leaves the room, you think maybe Flo is wrong. Maybe he's already made up his mind, decided that you're too complicated, too much of a risk. Maybe this is just how it ends—with distance and politeness and the death of something that never really got a chance to begin.

That night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, and you think about the way he'd laughed when he found your hoodie, and the way his voice had sounded when he was talking to his ex about needing someone who sees him, and the way he'd asked you what you were a fan of—the racing, the team, or him.

And you think maybe he's looking for an answer you don't know how to give. Because the truth is, it's all three. You can't separate them. You fell in love with the sport and the team and yes, with him, with the way he drives and the way he laughs and the way he'd made you hot chocolate at one in the morning and listened to you ramble about Bernoulli's principle like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever heard.

But maybe that's not enough. Maybe he needs someone who doesn't come with the complication of being a fan, someone who can see him as just Lando without all the rest of it attached.

Maybe you're not that person.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as you finally drift off to sleep, and you dream of papaya orange and the sound of engines and someone just out of reach, no matter how far you try to run.

January bleeds into February, and February crawls into March. You fall back into your normal routine—lectures and labs and late nights in the library, coffee at your usual spot, Sunday roasts at the pub with your flatmate. You still visit Cisca every week, sometimes twice a week, and you never talk about Lando. She asks how you are, you ask how she is, and you both very carefully avoid mentioning the massive, Lando-shaped elephant in the room.

You know he's been around, though. There's evidence of him scattered throughout her house—a new mug in the kitchen that wasn't there before, a hoodie draped over the back of the sofa, the way Cisca mentions in passing that "someone" fixed her leaky tap. You never ask. She never offers.

The season starts in Bahrain, and you watch it alone in your flat at some ungodly hour of the morning, wearing your papaya hoodie because some habits are too ingrained to break. Lando qualifies fourth, finishes third, and you feel the familiar mix of pride and something else, something that aches. You don't tweet about it. Your fan account has been silent since December, and you're not ready to go back to it yet, not ready to be that version of yourself that feels too raw, too exposed.

Saudi Arabia is next, and then Australia. You watch them all. Lando has a retirement in Jeddah—some mechanical issue that has him punching his steering wheel in frustration. He gets a podium in Melbourne, P2 behind Piastri, and the team photo shows both McLaren drivers spraying champagne and grinning, and you're happy for them, you are, but it hurts in a way you don't want to examine.

You see photos of him sometimes, scrolling through Instagram late at night when you can't sleep. Lando at sponsor events, Lando in the factory, Lando with his mates on a night out in Monaco. He looks fine. Happy, even. Like Christmas at his family home and a girl who wore his team's colors every race day never happened.

You're fine too. Totally fine. You throw yourself into your coursework, into your final year project about aerodynamic efficiency in hybrid vehicles. You go out with your friends, suffer through bad dates that your flatmate sets up, and you definitely don't compare every guy you meet to a certain Formula 1 driver with green and blue eyes and a smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

Cisca never asks, but sometimes she looks at you with this expression that's too knowing, too sympathetic, and you have to look away. Once, in late February, she mentions casually that Lando asked about you, wanted to know how you were doing. You'd frozen, your cup of tea halfway to your mouth, and managed to say, "That's nice," in a voice that sounded nothing like your own. Cisca had just hummed and changed the subject, but her hand had found yours across the table and squeezed.

March 11th is a Tuesday, which means you have a thermodynamics lecture at nine that you're dreading. You're running late, as usual, grabbing your bag and your travel mug of coffee and rushing out the door. You nearly trip over the stack of mail that's been shoved through the slot, and you're about to just leave it for later when you see it.

A large envelope, cream-colored and expensive-looking, with your name written in elegant script across the front. There's no return address, but there's a small logo in the corner that makes your heart stop.

Formula 1.

Your hands are shaking as you pick it up. You're going to be late for your lecture, but you can't bring yourself to care. You close the door and lean against it, turning the envelope over in your hands like it might explode. It's thick, substantial, and when you carefully tear it open, something falls out.

A lanyard. Official F1, with a plastic badge attached that has your name, your photo (where did they even get your photo?), and in bold letters: VIP PADDOCK ACCESS.

You stare at it. Then you stare at the envelope. Then back at the lanyard.

There's a letter inside, folded neatly, and you pull it out with trembling fingers. The handwriting is different from the envelope—messier, more casual.

You read the letter three times. Then a fourth. Then you set it down on the floor and put your head in your hands and try to remember how to breathe.

Lando sent you a paddock pass. To Japan. To Suzuka, which is one of the most iconic tracks on the calendar, a circuit you've only ever dreamed of seeing in person. He booked your flight. Your hotel. And he’s been miserable since Christmas.

He asked about the hoodie. You pick up your phone, and your hands are still shaking as you pull up your messages. You scroll to Cisca's name and type out a text.

You look at the lanyard again, at your name printed on official F1 credentials, at the dates printed below it. March 28th-30th. That's—that's in two and a half weeks. You have lectures. You have coursework. You have your final project that's due in April.

You also have a boy who makes terrible coffee choices and has eyes like every shade of green and blue and who apparently spent three weeks agonizing over whether to send you a paddock pass. You're supposed to be in a thermodynamics lecture right now. Instead, you're sitting on your floor, holding a paddock pass, rereading a letter from Lando Norris's sister, and trying to figure out if you're brave enough to do this.

Your phone buzzes. It's your flatmate, Emma.

You take a photo of the paddock pass and send it to her. Then you sit back and wait for her to lose her mind, which happens approximately thirty seconds later when your phone starts ringing.

"WHAT THE FUCK," Emma shouts before you can even say hello. "IS THAT A FUCKING PADDOCK PASS? TO FORMULA 1? TO JAPAN?"

"Yes," you say, and you can't help it—you start laughing. Slightly hysterical, slightly disbelieving, but laughing nonetheless.

"HOW? WHY? WHAT IS HAPPENING?"

"Remember how I spent Christmas with that family friend?" you say. "And how I maybe didn't mention that her grandson is Lando Norris?"

There's a long silence on the other end. Then: "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to actually kill you. You've been sitting on this information for THREE MONTHS?"

"It's complicated Em," you say weakly.

"You're going," Emma says, and it's not a question. "You're absolutely going. I'll cover for you with Davidson, I'll tell him you have—I don't know, food poisoning or a family emergency or something. You're going to Japan."

"I don't know," you say, even though you do know, you already know. "It's a lot of money, and I have coursework, and—"

"And nothing," Emma interrupts. "A cute boy who drives fast cars sent you a paddock pass to one of the most famous race tracks in the world. You're going. End of discussion. Now tell me everything, and I mean everything, starting from the beginning."

So you do. You tell her about meeting Cisca, about finding out she was Lando's nan, about Christmas and the papaya hoodie and the way he'd gone distant after finding out you were a fan. You tell her about the conversation you'd overheard with his ex, about how he'd asked what you were a fan of—the racing, the team, or him.

"He's an idiot," Emma declares when you finish. "But like, a sweet idiot. A scared idiot who clearly likes you and doesn't know what to do about it."

"Maybe," you say.

"Definitely," Emma corrects. "Now. We have two and a half weeks to get you ready. Do you have anything appropriate to wear to a paddock? Because I'm thinking no, based on your current wardrobe of band t-shirts and jeans."

You look down at yourself. She's not wrong.

"We're going shopping," Emma announces. "This weekend. You're going to Japan, you're going to look incredible, and you're going to—I don't know, seduce him with your vast knowledge of aerodynamics or whatever it is you engineering nerds talk about."

"That's not how—"

"Saturday," she says firmly. "Noon. We're hitting every shop in London if we have to. Oh my god, I can't believe you're going to the Japanese Grand Prix. I can't believe you know Lando Norris. I can't believe you didn't tell me any of this. I'm never forgiving you for this, you know."

"I know," you say, and you're smiling despite everything.

You hang up and look at the lanyard again. The paddock pass. The letter from Flo with its teasing postscript about the hoodie. You think about Lando asking about you, asking about the hoodie, spending three weeks working up the courage to send this.

You think about the way he'd looked at you on Christmas morning when you'd made him coffee. The way he'd smiled when you'd rambled about Bernoulli's principle. The way he'd said he was glad you were here.

You think about the way he'd pulled away after finding the hoodie, the careful distance he'd put between you, and you understand it now. He wasn't pushing you away because he didn't care. He was protecting himself from the possibility that you might be another person who wanted him for the wrong reasons.

You pick up your phone and open your messages. You scroll to a name you haven't texted since December, a number that Cisca had given you "just in case" and that you'd saved but never used.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. What do you even say? Thank you for the pass? I'll be there? I've missed you?

In the end, you keep it simple.

You hit send before you can overthink it, and then you set your phone down and press your hands to your face. You're going to Japan. You're going to see Lando again. You're going to walk into that paddock wearing your credentials and your papaya hoodie, and you're going to figure out if this thing between you is real or if it's just been in your head this whole time.

Your phone buzzes. Your heart stops. You pick it up with shaking hands.

Yeah?

Just one word. One word and a question mark. But you can read everything in it—the hope, the uncertainty, the same fear that's sitting in your own chest.

You stare at those two messages, at the weight of everything unsaid in them, and you think maybe, just maybe, this is going to be okay.

Two and a half weeks. You can do two and a half weeks.

You pick up the lanyard and run your thumb over your name, over the words VIP PADDOCK ACCESS, and you let yourself feel it—the excitement, the terror, the possibility of something that's been building since September, since a woman in a Sainsbury's told you about the good coffee beans and invited you over for tea.

Your phone buzzes again, it’s Cisca wishing you a safe and happy trip with four blaringly red heart emojis. You smile and text back a single orange heart. Just one, because unlike Cisca, you know how emojis work.

But when she responds with eight orange hearts—her new record—you send back four of your own, because some traditions are worth keeping.

The flight to Japan is long—thirteen hours from Heathrow to Tokyo, then another domestic flight to Nagoya, then an hour's drive to Suzuka. You sleep in fits and starts, your mind too wired to properly rest, and when you finally arrive at the hotel on Thursday evening, you're exhausted and jittery and absolutely terrified.

Flo meets you in the lobby, pulling you into a hug like you're old friends, like you didn't just meet once at Christmas. "You made it!" she says, beaming. "How was the flight? Are you knackered? Do you want to sleep or are you too wired?"

"Both," you admit, and she laughs.

"Yeah, jet lag's a bitch," she says. "Come on, let's get you checked in. We've got dinner reservations in an hour if you're up for it, just me and Cissy. Low-key, I promise. Lando's at the track doing media stuff, so you don't have to worry about running into him yet."

Yet. The word hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

You have dinner with Flo and Cissy at a small restaurant near the hotel—proper Japanese food, not the westernized stuff you get in London. They're both easy to talk to, asking about your flight and your studies and very carefully not mentioning Lando except in passing. It's nice. Normal. By the time you get back to your room, you're exhausted enough to actually sleep.

Friday is practice days, and Flo tells you that you don't have to come to the track if you don't want to, if you need more time to adjust. But you didn't fly thirteen hours to hide in a hotel room, so you shower and dress in jeans and a plain black t-shirt and meet her in the lobby at nine.

The track is... overwhelming to put it lightly. You've watched Formula 1 for years, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. The sound of the engines—it vibrates in your chest, loud and visceral in a way your television could never capture. The smell of rubber and fuel and exhaust. The controlled chaos of people moving with purpose—engineers and mechanics and media personnel and fans, all of them part of this massive, complicated machine.

Flo guides you through it all with practiced ease, showing you where everything is, introducing you to people whose names you immediately forget. You see the McLaren garage from a distance, see flashes of papaya orange, but you don't go close. Not yet. Lando's busy anyway—you can see him on the monitors, in the car for FP1, and you watch from the hospitality suite with Flo, your heart in your throat every time he takes a corner.

He's fast. P3 in FP1, P2 in FP2. The car looks good, responsive, and you find yourself analyzing his lines, his braking points, falling back into that part of your brain that understands the engineering, the physics, the pure mechanical beauty of it all.

"You really do know your stuff," Flo observes, watching you watch the monitors.

"I told you," you say. "I'm a fan of the sport, not just—" You stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.

"Not just him," Flo supplies gently. "I know. But you're also a fan of him, and that's okay. He knows that now. He's just—he's figuring out what that means."

You don't see Lando that day. You catch glimpses—him walking back to the garage after FP2, him in the motorhome with his engineers, always surrounded by people, always just out of reach. You tell yourself it's fine. You're here for the weekend. There's time.

Saturday is qualifying, and Flo texts you at seven in the morning.

You stare at the message, your stomach flipping. Then you go to your suitcase and pull out the dress. You'd found it two weeks ago, shopping with Emma in a small boutique in Notting Hill. The moment you saw it, you knew. It's white linen, long and flowing, with the most delicate pale pink hearts woven throughout the fabric. It's romantic and soft and completely different from anything you'd normally wear, but Emma had insisted, and when you'd tried it on, even you had to admit it was perfect.

You pair it with sandals and your favorite black sunglasses—oversized, ones you'd found in a charity shop years ago. Your hair has grown out over the winter, long enough now to leave down in loose waves. You look at yourself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back. You look older, like someone who belongs in a Formula 1 paddock.

You meet Flo in the lobby, and she wolf-whistles when she sees you. "Oh, he's going to die," she says gleefully. "Actually die. I'm going to have to revive him. Come on, let's go."

The paddock on Saturday is different from Friday. Busier, more energetic, the stakes higher with qualifying ahead. You walk next to Flo, trying to look like you belong here, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. And then you notice them—the photographers.

At first, you think they're just taking photos of Flo. She's Lando's sister, after all, recognizable to fans and media. But then you realize their cameras are pointed at both of you, and they're asking Flo to stop, to pose, and she's pulling you closer, arm around your waist, smiling for them like this is completely normal.

"Just smile," she murmurs to you. "It's fine. They do this to everyone."

So you smile, feeling surreal and exposed, and the cameras click and flash, and you think, distantly, that somewhere out there, these photos are going to end up on the internet, and people are going to wonder who you are.

Flo pulls you away after a moment, laughing at what must be your shell-shocked expression. "Sorry, should have warned you better. You look gorgeous though, so at least they got good shots."

The paddock is a blur of color and noise and famous faces. You pass Christian Horner talking intensely to someone in Red Bull gear. You see Fred Vasseur standing outside the Ferrari hospitality, looking stressed. And then Flo is steering you toward a group of people, and you realize with a jolt that they're drivers.

"Alex!" Flo calls, and Alex Albon turns, his face breaking into a smile.

"Flo! Hey!" He pulls her into a quick hug, then notices you and extends his hand. "Hi, I'm Alex. You're...?"

"A friend," Flo says smoothly before you can answer. "This is her first race. I'm showing her around."

"Oh, nice!" Alex says, and his smile is genuine, friendly. "What do you think so far?"

"It's incredible," you manage, and your voice sounds steadier than you feel. "The sound alone—it's so different in person."

"Right?" Alex grins. "TV doesn't do it justice. You'll love qualifying. Suzuka's one of the best tracks for it."

A woman appears at his side—pretty, with long dark hair and a warm smile. "You must be Flo's friend," she says, and her accent is Thai. "I'm Lily. It's nice to meet you."

You shake her hand, introduce yourself properly, and she and Flo immediately fall into easy conversation. Alex gets called away by someone from his team, and then you're moving again, Flo guiding you through the paddock like she knows exactly where she's going.

She does, apparently, because you end up outside the Ferrari hospitality, and there's a woman standing there who makes you do a double-take. She's stunning—effortlessly chic in a way that makes your nice dress feel inadequate—and when she sees Flo, her face lights up.

"Flo!" she says, and her accent is French. She kisses Flo on both cheeks, then turns to you with interest. "And who is this?"

"This is Lando's—" Flo pauses, and you can see her grinning. "Friend. From London."

The woman's eyebrows rise slightly, and there's something knowing in her expression. "Ah," she says. "I’m Alexandra. Charles's fiancee. It's lovely to meet you."

Alexandra Saint Mleux. You know who she is—you've seen her in photos with Charles Leclerc, noticed her impeccable style, the way she carries herself with this easy confidence. Up close, she's even more beautiful, and also genuinely warm as she asks about your flight, about whether this is your first time in Japan.

"First time at a race, first time in Japan," you admit. "It's all a bit overwhelming."

"Oh, I remember that feeling," Alexandra says, smiling. "My first race was Monaco, and I thought I was going to have a panic attack. But you'll love it. There's nothing quite like it." She glances at Flo, something mischievous in her expression. "And I'm sure Lando will take very good care of you."

Your face heats, and Flo laughs. "Subtle, Alex. Really subtle."

"I don't know what you mean," Alexandra says innocently. "I'm simply being welcoming."

You chat for a few more minutes before Alexandra has to leave—something about meeting Charles before qualifying. She kisses your cheeks in goodbye, tells you to find her tomorrow, and then she's gone in a swirl of expensive perfume and effortless elegance.

"She's going to tell Charles," Flo says matter-of-factly as you watch her go. "And Charles is going to tell Carlos, and Carlos is going to give Lando shit about it. The paddock gossip mill is faster than the cars."

"Great," you mutter, but you're smiling despite yourself.

Qualifying is in an hour, and Flo leads you up to the McLaren hospitality suite—a multi-level space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track, comfortable seating, and, as promised, champagne. She pours you both a glass, and you settle into seats with a perfect view of the circuit, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out and see notifications from Twitter—more than usual, far more than usual. You frown and open the app, and your timeline is full of you.

Photos. Dozens of them. You and Flo walking through the paddock, smiling for the cameras. Close-ups of your dress, of your sunglasses, of the way your hair catches the light. And the tweets—

OMG who is that with Flo Norris???

Lando's sister showed up with the prettiest girl I've ever seen who IS she

NEW WAG ALERT??? She's gorgeous omg

okay but that dress???? with the little flowers???? she's so cute I'm obsessed

Flo's friend is stunning and also I NEED to know where that dress is from

There are fan accounts already posting photo compilations. People zooming in on your paddock pass, trying to read your name. Speculation about who you are, how you know Flo, whether you're dating anyone on the grid.

And then you see it—a photo of you talking to Alexandra, both of you laughing about something, and the caption: Ferrari x McLaren friendship? We love to see it.

"Oh my god," you breathe.

Flo leans over to look at your phone, and she starts laughing. "Oh, this is brilliant. Look at you, you're Twitter famous. They're calling you pretty! They like your dress!"

"Flo," you say weakly. "Everyone's going to know I'm here."

"Yeah," she says, grinning. "Including Lando. Who, by the way, definitely doesn't have his phone right now because qualifying is about to start, but the second he checks it after, he's going to see all of this and absolutely lose it."

You don't know whether to laugh or cry, so you just take a long drink of champagne and watch as the drivers start heading to their cars. The atmosphere shifts, tension ratcheting up, and you can see the McLaren garage below, the mechanics making final adjustments. And then you see him—Lando, in his race suit, helmet under his arm, talking to his engineer.

He's too far away to see clearly, but you'd know him anywhere. The way he moves, the way he gestures with his hands when he talks. Your chest tightens, and you grip your champagne glass a little harder.

"He's going to be fine," Flo says quietly, reading your expression. "He's good here. Loves this track."

The cars start filing out for Q1, and the sound is deafening even from up here in the hospitality suite. You watch the monitors, watch the timing screens, and when Lando's name appears at the top with a purple sector, you can't help the small surge of pride.

He makes it through to Q2 easily, then Q3, and the tension in the suite builds with each passing minute. The final runs of Q3 are always chaos—everyone pushing to the absolute limit, tenths of a second separating the entire field. You watch Lando's onboard, see him attacking every corner, committing in a way that's both beautiful and terrifying.

When he crosses the line, the time flashes up. P2. Front row. Just behind Verstappen, but ahead of everyone else.

The suite erupts in cheers, and Flo is grabbing your arm, shaking you in excitement. "Front row! Oh my god, he's going to be insufferable about this."

You're grinning so hard your face hurts, and you watch on the monitors as Lando climbs out of the car in parc fermé, pumping his fist at his team. He pulls off his helmet, and even from this distance, even through the camera, you can see he's elated.

Your phone is buzzing constantly now—more Twitter notifications, a text from Emma demanding updates, another from Cisca that's just a string of orange hearts. You ignore all of it and watch Lando do his post-qualifying interviews, watch him smile and laugh and be the version of himself that the world sees.

And you think about the version of him that you know—the one who makes terrible coffee choices and cries at Marley & Me and spent three weeks working up the courage to send you a paddock pass. The one who's scared of getting it wrong, of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

The one who asked you to bring the hoodie.

"Come on," Flo says, draining her champagne. "Let's go congratulate him before the media circus eats him alive."

Your heart jumps into your throat. "Now?"

"Now," she confirms, and she's already pulling you toward the door. "He'll be back at the garage soon. And trust me, after he sees what's all over Twitter, you're going to want to talk to him before he completely spirals."

You follow her down from the hospitality suite, through corridors and past security, your paddock pass getting you through doors you never imagined you'd walk through. And then you're in the McLaren garage, surrounded by mechanics and engineers celebrating, and Flo is pulling you through the crowd, and—

There he is.

Still in his race suit, hair messy from his helmet, talking animatedly to his engineer about something. He's gesturing with his hands, grinning, and he looks so happy, so alive, and you can't breathe.

And then Cissy appears next to him, phone in hand, and she says something you can't hear. Lando frowns and takes the phone, and you watch as his eyes scan whatever she's showing him. His expression changes—confusion, then surprise, then something else entirely as he looks up, scanning the garage.

His eyes find you.

Everything else falls away—the noise, the people, the celebration happening around you. It's just him, looking at you like he can't quite believe you're real, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.

You raise your hand in a small wave, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable and more terrified than you've ever been.

He doesn't wave back.

Instead, he hands the phone back to Cissy, says something to his engineer, and starts walking toward you. Purposeful, direct, his eyes never leaving yours.

Flo squeezes your arm and whispers, "Breathe," before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing there alone as Lando Norris, fresh off qualifying P2 at Suzuka, closes the distance between you.

"Hi," he says when he reaches you, and his voice is rough, breathless.

"Hi," you echo. "Good qualifying."

He laughs, short and disbelieving. "You're here. You're actually here."

"I'm here," you confirm, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "You sent me a paddock pass. Would have been rude not to show up."

"Your dress," he says, and his eyes do a quick sweep over you—the white linen, the pink hearts, the way it moves when you shift your weight. "Very pretty."

"You said to bring the hoodie," you counter. "Figured I'd bring something nice too. You know. Make an effort."

"You—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair, and when he looks at you again, there's something raw in his expression.

"You look—" He stops again, and this time he steps closer, close enough that you can see the flush on his cheeks, the way his race suit is unzipped at the top. "You look beautiful. Like, really beautiful. And I'm standing here in a sweaty race suit like an idiot, and I don't—I'm not good at this, at saying what I mean, but I'm really glad you're here."

Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, and he smiles—that real, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle. "Can we—after all this dies down, after media and debriefs and all the shit I have to do—can we talk? Properly?"

"Yeah," you say, smiling back. "We can talk."

"Okay," he says, and he looks like he wants to say more, do more, but someone's calling his name, pulling him back toward the team. "I have to—"

"Go," you say. "I'll be here."

He nods, backing away slowly, like he's reluctant to leave. And then he's swallowed back into the crowd of papaya, and you're left standing there, your face hot and your heart racing and Flo appearing at your elbow with a knowing grin.

"Told you," she says smugly. "He saw the photos and completely lost it. Zak had to physically stop him from leaving the garage to find you before his debrief."

You laugh, slightly hysterical, and let Flo guide you back toward the hospitality suite. Your phone is still buzzing, Twitter still melting down over your existence, but you ignore it all.

Because tomorrow is the race, and tomorrow, after everything, you and Lando are going to talk. And maybe—just maybe—you're going to figure out what this is, what it could be, without fear or distance or the weight of expectations getting in the way.

Maybe.

Race day is chaos.

You barely sleep Saturday night, your mind replaying the way Lando had looked at you in the garage, the way he'd said you looked beautiful, the way he'd walked away reluctantly, like leaving you was physically difficult. You check Twitter one more time before bed—a mistake, always a mistake—and there are now compilation videos of "Lando looking at mystery girl," grainy garage footage zoomed in on his face when he first saw you, and the comments are losing their minds.

You turn your phone off and stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

Flo texts you at seven, once again.

You have exactly one papaya-colored item of clothing with you, and it's not the hoodie. It's the other dress you'd bought on that shopping trip with Emma, the one she'd insisted on even though you'd protested that it was too much, too bright, too everything. It's long like yesterday's dress, but where that one was soft and romantic, this one is bold. Papaya orange—McLaren orange—with a fitted bodice that hugs your waist before flowing out into ruffled tiers that move when you walk. It's striking and feminine and makes a statement, and when you put it on and look in the mirror, you barely recognize yourself.

Emma had said, "You're going to stop traffic in that."

You'd said, "I'm never going to have anywhere to wear it."

And yet here you are, in Suzuka, about to walk into a paddock where half the internet is already obsessed with you, wearing a dress the exact color of Lando Norris's race car.

Subtle. Really subtle. You meet Flo for breakfast, and when she sees you, she actually gasps. "Oh, he's going to crash the car," she says. "I'm not even joking. He's going to see you and drive straight into a wall."

"That's not funny," you say, but you're smiling.

"I'm not trying to be funny," she says. "I'm being deadly serious. You look—god, you look incredible. Come on, we need to go before I start taking photos like a proud mum."

The paddock on race day is different again—electric, the energy almost frantic. This is it. This is what everything builds toward. You can feel it in the air, in the way people move with purpose, in the barely contained excitement of the fans pressed against the barriers, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite driver.

The photographers are waiting. Of course they are. And this time, when they see you and Flo, they don't just take a few shots. They swarm. You hear the rapid-fire clicking of cameras, people shouting questions—"Who are you here for?" "Is that McLaren orange?" "Are you and Lando together?"—and Flo just keeps walking, pulling you along with a practiced ease, both of you smiling like this is completely normal.

You catch a glimpse of yourself on someone's camera screen as you pass. The dress photographs beautifully, the ruffles catching the light, moving like water with each step. You look confident, sophisticated, like you belong here.

You're absolutely terrified.

Flo takes you straight to the McLaren hospitality suite, and this time you don't hide away upstairs. This time, you're in the garage proper, standing with the team, wearing your papaya dress like a declaration. The mechanics glance at you, then do double-takes. Someone whistles, low and appreciative, and then immediately looks terrified, like they've realized whose attention you might have.

Zak Brown himself comes over to introduce himself, shaking your hand with a warm smile. "You must be Lando’s friend," he says. "Heard a lot about you. Thanks for coming out to support the team."

"Wouldn't miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

The drivers' parade happens, and you watch on the monitors as Lando waves to the crowd, smiling and relaxed despite starting P2. He's in his element here, you can tell. This is what he was made for.

And then it's the formation lap, and the garage goes quiet, everyone focused. You stand next to Flo, your hands clasped together, barely breathing as the cars line up on the grid.

Lights out.

Lando gets a perfect start—actually, more than perfect. He's somehow alongside Verstappen into Turn 1, and the garage erupts as he takes the inside line, comes out ahead, and suddenly he's leading. He's leading the Japanese Grand Prix from Verstappen, and you can't breathe, can't think, can only watch as lap after lap, he holds him off.

The race is intense—Verstappen pressing, Lando defending, every corner a battle. Your nails dig into your palms. Flo is gripping your arm so tightly it hurts, but you don't care. On lap 35, Verstappen tries a move into the chicane, and Lando shuts the door so decisively that even the commentators are losing their minds.

Ten laps to go. Five laps. Three.

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

Final lap. Verstappen is right there, DRS open, but Lando's defensive driving is perfect, every move calculated, no mistakes. Through 130R, through the chicane, and then the final corner, onto the main straight, and—

Checkered flag.

The garage explodes. Everyone's screaming, jumping, hugging each other. Flo is crying and laughing at the same time, and she's pulling you into a hug, and you realize you're crying too. Lando just won the Japanese Grand Prix. He beat Max Verstappen in a straight fight at Suzuka, and it was perfect, it was beautiful, it was everything.

"Come on!" Flo shouts over the noise, grabbing your hand. "We have to get to parc fermé!"

She drags you through the garage, through barriers, past security who wave you through when they see your passes. You end up in the area right behind the barriers where the team is allowed to gather, where they'll spray the champagne after the podium, and it's pure chaos—mechanics and engineers and team personnel all celebrating, and you're right there in the middle of it in your papaya dress that's now going to be soaked in champagne but you don't care.

The podium ceremony happens above you—Lando on the top step, Verstappen P2, Piastri P3 making it a McLaren 1-3. The British national anthem plays, and you watch Lando standing there, looking down at his team, and even from here you can see he's fighting tears. When they hand him the trophy, he raises it high, and the roar from the crowd is deafening.

And then comes the champagne.

You're pressed against the barrier with Flo, and the spray hits you immediately—cold and shocking and sticky. You're laughing, trying to shield your face, and everyone around you is shouting and celebrating, and it's chaos, beautiful chaos.

The drivers come down from the podium, still spraying champagne everywhere, and Lando is drenched in it, his race suit soaked, his hair dripping, and he's grinning so wide it looks like it hurts. The team swarms him, everyone wanting to congratulate him, and you hang back, content to watch, to let him have this moment.

But then he's looking around, scanning the crowd, and when his eyes find you—

Everything stops.

He's still holding the champagne bottle, his race suit unzipped to his waist, his face flushed from the race and the celebration. And he's looking at you in your papaya dress, your hair damp from champagne, and whatever he sees in your expression makes something in his face shift.

He hands the champagne bottle to someone—you think it's Oscar—and then he's moving. Through the crowd, past people trying to stop him to congratulate him, single-minded and determined, and he's walking straight toward you.

The crowd seems to sense something's happening. People are pulling out phones, cameras swinging in your direction. You're vaguely aware of Flo stepping aside, giving you space, but all you can focus on is Lando getting closer, his eyes locked on yours.

He reaches you, and for a moment, you just stare at each other. He's breathing hard, chest heaving, and you don't know if it's from the race or the run over or something else entirely.

"Hi," you say stupidly, because what else do you say to someone who just won a Grand Prix?

"You wore papaya," he says, and his voice is rough, almost awed. His hand comes up to touch the ruffled fabric at your waist, fingers tracing the material like he can't quite believe it's real.

"You told me to bring the hoodie," you say, and you're smiling even though you feel like you might cry. "Figured I'd commit to the team colors."

"You look—" He stops, shakes his head. "I can't—I don't have words. You're so beautiful I can't think straight, and I just won Suzuka, and you're here, and I—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he cups your face in both hands—his palms are warm and slightly sticky from champagne—and he kisses you.

It's not a small kiss. It's not tentative or testing. It's deep and desperate and all-consuming, his mouth moving against yours like he's been thinking about this for months, like he's been holding back and can't anymore. One hand slides into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper, and the other wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can taste champagne and salt and victory on his lips, and you kiss him back just as desperately, your hands fisting in his race suit, holding on like he might disappear if you let go.

Somewhere in the background, you hear people cheering, hear cameras clicking, hear someone—probably Flo—shout "FINALLY!" But it all fades away because Lando is kissing you like you're the trophy, like you're the prize at the end of the race, and nothing else matters.

The next few hours pass in a blur. Lando is trapped in the media circus—interviews and press conferences and team celebrations that you watch from a distance on the monitors in the hospitality suite. Every reporter asks about the kiss, and Lando just grins and says, "Yeah, that's my girlfriend," like it's the simplest thing in the world, like he didn't just make that declaration in front of millions of people.

Your phone hasn't stopped buzzing. Emma has sent approximately forty messages, most of them incomprehensible keysmashes. Cisca has sent her signature four orange hearts. Your dad has sent a string of confused but supportive texts. And Twitter—god, Twitter is having a complete meltdown.

You're trending. #LandoGirlfriend is trending. #PapayaPrincess is trending. There are already photo compilations, GIF sets, analysis threads about your body language. Someone has tracked down your Instagram—which is private, thank god—and your follower requests have gone from two hundred to twenty thousand in a matter of hours.

"This is insane," you say to Flo, scrolling through your phone with wide eyes.

"This is Formula 1," she corrects. "Welcome to the circus. It'll die down in a few days. Well, maybe not die down, but people will get used to you. Probably."

By late afternoon, you're exhausted—jet lag and champagne and emotional whiplash all catching up to you at once. Flo takes pity on you and suggests heading back to the hotel.

"Lando's going to be stuck here for ages anyway," she says. "Team dinner, sponsor obligations, all that fun stuff. You might as well go rest. I'll tell him where you are."

The hotel is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the circuit. You key into your room and immediately head for the shower, needing to wash off the champagne that's made your hair sticky and your dress stiff. The hot water feels like heaven, and you stand under it for longer than necessary, trying to process everything that's happened.

Lando kissed you. In front of everyone. On international television. And then told reporters you were his girlfriend like it was a fact, like it was something settled and certain and real.

You dry off and change into comfortable clothes—leggings and an oversized jumper—and you're about to climb into bed when you realize you should probably check if Flo wants to get dinner later. You pad over to the door, opening it to head down the hall to her room, and—

You stop dead.

There are rose petals on the floor. Leading from your doorway down the hall, and when you look closer, they're not just scattered randomly. They're arranged in a path, leading back into your room, and—wait.

You turn around slowly.

Your hotel room has been transformed. There are roses everywhere—on the dresser, on the nightstand, covering the bed in a blanket of red and pink and white. And standing in the middle of it all, looking sheepish and nervous and holding a metallic heart balloon that says "Be Mine?" in glittery script, is Lando Norris.

He's changed out of his team kit into dark jeans and a soft black hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower. And he's looking at you like he's terrified you're going to laugh at him.

"Hi," he says.

You stare at him. At the roses. At the balloon. At the rose petals on the floor that you definitely didn't notice when you left for the shower.

"How did you—when did you—" You can't form a complete sentence. "You're supposed to be at your team dinner."

"I left early," he says, and he shifts his weight, the balloon bobbing above his head. "Told them I had something important to do. They understood. Well, Zak rolled his eyes, but Oscar covered for me."

"You left your victory dinner," you say slowly, "to break into my hotel room and—and do this?"

"I didn't break in," he protests. "Flo gave me her key card. Well, she gave it to me after I begged for fifteen minutes. And yes, I left dinner, because I—" He stops, takes a breath. "I did this all wrong earlier. The kiss was—I don't regret it, not for a second, but I didn't ask. I just—I just went for it, and I should have asked first, should have made sure you wanted—"

"Lando," you interrupt gently. "I kissed you back."

"I know, but—" He's still holding the balloon, and he looks down at it like he's just remembering it's there. "I wanted to do this properly. Not in front of cameras, not with the whole world watching. Just—just us." He meets your eyes, and there's something raw and vulnerable in his expression. "So. Will you? Be my girlfriend? Officially?"

You look at him—at this man who just won the Japanese Grand Prix, who kissed you in front of millions of people, who left his victory dinner to fill your hotel room with roses and hold a ridiculous balloon because he wanted to ask you properly. This man who's scared of getting it wrong, of being wanted for the wrong reasons, but who's standing here anyway, putting himself out there, risking everything.

"That's the corniest thing I've ever seen," you say, gesturing at the balloon.

His face falls slightly. "I know, I just—I thought—"

"I love it," you interrupt, and you're already moving toward him. "I love the roses, and the balloon, and the fact that you left your own victory dinner to do this. And yes. Yes, I'll be your girlfriend. Officially."

The smile that breaks across his face is blinding. He drops the balloon—it floats up to the ceiling—and closes the distance between you, his hands finding your waist.

"Yeah?" he says, like he needs to hear it again.

"Yeah," you confirm, and then you're kissing him, properly this time, without the adrenaline and champagne and cameras. It's slower, deeper, and you can feel him smiling against your lips.

When you break apart, you're both grinning like idiots. He picks you up and spins you around, and you're laughing, breathless, your hands in his hair.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him. "This is so cheesy. The roses? The balloon?"

"You said you loved it," he points out, setting you down but keeping his arms around you.

"I did," you admit. "I do. It's perfect. You're perfect."

"I'm really not," he says, more serious now. "I'm going to mess this up sometimes. I'm going to be away a lot, and the media is going to be invasive, and people are going to have opinions about us, about you. It's—it's a lot. I know it's a lot."

"I know," you say, and you cup his face in your hands. "I've been watching Formula 1 for years, remember? I know what I'm signing up for. And yeah, it's going to be hard sometimes, but I—" You pause, making sure he's really hearing you. "I like you. Not Lando Norris the driver. You. The guy who drinks terrible coffee and cried at Marley & Me and spent three weeks agonizing over whether to send me a paddock pass. That's who I want."

He kisses you again, soft and sweet, and when he pulls back his eyes are suspiciously bright. "I really like you too," he says. "Have since Christmas. Maybe before that. Definitely when you put salt in my coffee."

You laugh. "That was petty."

"It was brilliant," he corrects. "You're brilliant. And I'm—I'm really glad Nan befriended you in that Sainsbury's."

"Me too," you say, and you rest your forehead against his. "Although I'm pretty sure she planned the whole thing."

"Oh, one hundred percent," he agrees. "She's going to be so smug about this. We're never going to hear the end of it."

"Worth it though."

"Yeah," he says, and he's looking at you like you're something precious, something worth celebrating more than any trophy or podium. "Definitely worth it."

The air between you shifts, growing warmer, heavier. His thumb traces along your jawline, and when his eyes drop to your lips, your breath catches.

"Can I—" he starts, but you're already pulling him down to you, answering the question before he can finish asking it.

This kiss is different from the others. There's no champagne-soaked adrenaline, no cameras, no audience. Just the two of you in a room full of roses, and the kiss deepens naturally, inevitably. His hand slides into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you more thoroughly, and you make a soft sound against his mouth that seems to undo something in him.

He shifts, pressing you back against the pillows—rose petals scattering around you—and his body covers yours, warm and solid. Your hands find their way under his hoodie, palms sliding up the planes of his back, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside.

"Is this okay?" he asks, breathless, hovering over you.

"Very okay," you manage, and you pull him back down.

His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, down the column of your throat, and your fingers tangle in his hair as he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear. You arch up into him, and he makes a low sound in his chest that you feel more than hear.

"You're going to be the death of me," he murmurs against your skin, his hand sliding under the hem of your jumper, fingers splaying across your ribs. "You know that?"

"Good way to go though," you tease, slightly breathless, and he laughs against your throat before capturing your lips again.

Your jumper comes off—when, you're not entirely sure, lost in the haze of his mouth on yours, his hands on your skin. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's something almost reverent in his expression.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and his voice has gone rough, low. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and this will have been a dream."

"Not a dream," you assure him, pulling him back down. "Very real."

The kisses grow more heated, more desperate. His hips press against yours, and the thin barrier of clothing between you feels like too much. Your hands slide down his back, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, and he groans against your mouth.

"We should—" he starts, then stops, kissing you again like he can't help himself. "We should probably slow down."

"Do you want to slow down?" you ask, and your voice comes out lower than intended.

He drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard. "No," he admits. "Not even a little bit. But I—I want to do this right. I don't want you to think this is all I want."

Your heart swells at that, at his consideration even when you can feel exactly how much he wants this, wants you. You cup his face in your hands, making him look at you.

"I know this isn't all you want," you say softly. "But Lando? I want this too. I want you."

Something in his expression shifts—the last of his hesitation crumbling—and when he kisses you this time, it's with a certainty that makes your toes curl. His hand slides down your side, over your hip, and you arch into his touch, surrendering to the heat building between you.

The roses scatter further as you move together, petals falling like confetti, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think this is ridiculous, this is a romance novel, this is every cheesy gesture you've ever rolled your eyes at.

But it's also perfect.

He's perfect.

Not when they lead to this. His lips trail lower, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your sternum, the space between your ribs. Every touch is deliberate, reverent, like he's mapping out territory he's been thinking about for months. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and when he glances up at you through his lashes, his eyes are dark and full of want.

"You're sure?" he asks one more time, his voice rough.

"Lando," you say, and you tug him back up to you. "I've never been more sure of anything."

That's all the permission he needs. His mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, and his hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your sides with a confidence that makes your breath hitch. You arch into him, and he makes that low sound in his chest again, the one that goes straight through you.

Your hands explore the planes of his back, the muscles that shift under your palms, the way he shivers when your nails drag lightly down his spine. He's all lean strength, athletic and solid, and you can feel his heart hammering against your chest, as fast as yours.

"You have no idea," he murmurs against your throat, his hips pressing into yours in a way that makes you gasp, "how long I've been thinking about this. Since Christmas. Since you wore that green dress and I couldn't stop staring at you."

"You were avoiding me at Christmas," you point out breathlessly.

"Because I wanted this too much," he admits, his hand sliding lower, fingers tracing patterns on your hip that make you squirm. "Because I was terrified of fucking this up before it even started."

You pull him into another kiss, deep and demanding, and you shift beneath him, your leg hooking over his hip to pull him closer. The friction makes you both groan, and his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you there.

"Not fucking it up now," you manage against his mouth.

"Good," he says, and there's something almost feral in his smile. "Because I don't plan on stopping."

His mouth moves lower again—past your ribs, across your stomach, and every kiss feels like a brand. Your breathing has gone ragged, your hands fisting in the sheets, in the rose petals, in his hair when he goes lower still. When he glances up at you, asking silent permission, you nod, beyond words now, and—

The way he touches you is overwhelming in the best way. Like he's been studying for this, learning what makes you gasp, what makes your back arch off the bed. He's attentive and thorough and when you finally fall apart, his name on your lips, he looks up at you like you've given him something more valuable than any trophy.

He kisses his way back up your body, and you're still trembling, still catching your breath when he reaches your mouth again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it should probably be weird but it's not, it's just another intimacy in a night full of them.

"Your turn," you murmur, and you push at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back, looking up at you with pupils blown wide and lips kiss-swollen.

You straddle his hips, and his hands immediately find your waist, thumbs stroking your skin. You lean down to kiss him—slow and deep—while your hands work at his jeans. He lifts his hips to help you, and then there's nothing between you anymore, just skin and heat and want.

"Hi," you say softly, and he laughs, breathless and beautiful.

"Hi," he echoes, and he pulls you down for another kiss.

You take your time exploring him—the cut of his hipbones, the muscle of his thighs, the way he gasps when you touch him properly. His head falls back against the pillows, rose petals in his hair, and he looks debauched and perfect and completely yours.

"Please," he says eventually, and his voice has gone desperate. "I need—"

"I know," you say, and you shift, positioning yourself over him. "I've got you."

When you finally sink down onto him, you both freeze—breathing hard, adjusting, overwhelmed by the sensation. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he's looking up at you like you're everything.

"Okay?" he manages.

"So okay," you confirm, and you start to move.

The rhythm you find together is instinctive, natural, like this is something you've done a thousand times before rather than the first. He meets every roll of your hips, and when the angle shifts and you gasp, he grins—wicked and pleased—and does it again, hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

"There?" he asks, and you can hear the smugness in his voice.

"Shut up," you manage, but it comes out more like a moan.

"Make me," he challenges, and you lean down to kiss him, swallowing his laugh and his groan as you move faster, chasing the pleasure building between you.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding where you need them, and the added sensation makes you cry out against his mouth. You're close, so close, and he can tell—can feel you tightening around him.

"That's it," he murmurs, and his voice has gone rough. "Come on, let me feel it."

And you do—you fall apart above him, his name a broken sound on your lips, and the sensation of you coming undone pushes him over the edge too. He pulls you down into a kiss as he follows you, both of you breathing hard, tangled together in rose petals and hotel sheets.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You're collapsed on his chest, his arms wrapped around you, both of you trying to remember how to breathe. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you can feel his heart gradually slowing under your ear.

"So," he says eventually, and there's laughter in his voice. "That was—"

"If you make a racing metaphor right now, I'm leaving," you interrupt, and he laughs properly, his chest shaking beneath you.

"I was going to say that was incredible," he says, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you. "But also, yeah, better than winning Suzuka."

"Lando," you groan, but you're smiling.

"What? It's true." He shifts, rolling you both onto your sides so you're face to face, still tangled together. "You're better than any podium."

"That's the post-orgasm endorphins talking," you say, but your voice is soft, affectionate.

"No," he says, and he's serious now, his hand cupping your face. "I mean it. This—you—you're everything. You know that, right?"

Your throat feels tight. "Yeah," you whisper. "I know."

He kisses you again, soft and sweet, and you settle against him, your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair. The rose petals are crushed beneath you now, their scent filling the room, and the ridiculous balloon is still bobbing against the ceiling, and everything is perfect.

"We should probably clean up," you murmur eventually. "These rose petals are going to be everywhere."

"Later," he says, his arm tightening around you. "Right now I just want to stay like this."

"Okay," you agree, because you don't want to move either. "Later."

You fall asleep like that—tangled together in roses and soft sheets, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his hand stroking your hair. And when you wake up hours later to find him watching you with soft eyes and a softer smile, when he kisses you good morning and pulls you back into his arms, you think about fate and timing and elderly women in grocery stores who know exactly what they're doing.

Yeah, you think as Lando kisses you again, morning light filtering through the curtains and rose petals scattered across every surface.

Definitely worth it.

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