Lando had been the one to come up with the idea. He’d realized he spent more time away from his apartment than living in it—and he didn’t quite like the idea of strangers looking after his place and personal belongings while he was away. He’d also been insisting for years already that you should move to Monaco, to which you always replied that you weren’t exactly in the correct tax bracket to do that. You intended it as an off-hand comment when you mentioned your job was becoming more of an online situation, when you mentioned you would be able to visit more often.

Really, it was a joke when Lando said it. You’d both gone out to some fancy restaurant after Max had ditched the two of you last minute. He’d been sipping his drink when he teased, “Maybe it’s finally time you move here—you could move in with me.”

You’d laughed it off, but by the time Lando had set down his drink, paper umbrella poking his cheek, there was a more determined set of his brows—and he wasn’t laughing anymore.

You don’t know how he managed to convince you. Though, really, it’s Lando—and Max likes to tease that you always fold for him. Which you deny. Obviously.

It’s since been six months since the two of you started living together. He keeps the rent very cheap for you—even though he insisted you didn’t have to pay for it—and you keep his apartment well-taken care of while he’s off being famous. For a while it felt more like you were house-sitting rather than being his roommate, with triple headers and flights to MTC becoming more and more noticeable. Still, you’ve noticed he’s found more time to come back to Monaco. You know that only because Max pointedly mentioned during a stream that he didn’t used to spend as much time in Monaco as he has this season.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve missed my bed,” Lando retorted, but you knew he was doing it for your benefit. Probably because some misplaced guilt was catching up to him in leaving you alone in a home that still doesn’t quite feel like your own.

Either way, living with Lando is… surprisingly nice. He was cautious the first few days of him being back. Constantly checking on you, asking “is this okay with you?” more often than not. But by the fourth day, you could see his shoulders relax, his posture ease, as if he suddenly remembered that it’s just you. From then, it doesn’t take him long to start streaming late at night with shouts that make you want to put your head through the wall.

“Are your neighbors complaining?” Ginge asks through Lando’s headset. “They must loathe you. Y’should install a soundproof booth, Lando.”

“What? No, my neighbors don’t—SHIT!” His yelling is promptly followed by a loud banging against the wall besides him. He winces. “Sorry!”

“Oh, someone’s angry at you.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna kill me,” Lando replies distractedly, ducking to lower the master volume of his headphones. He calls out an apology followed by your name. It’s late, and you’re working tomorrow—and he rather appreciates not being maimed and killed in a fit of sleepless rage.

“She’s visiting?” Ginge asks, and Lando huffs as he finally fixes his settings.

“What?” He scrunches his nose. “No you muppet, she lives with me.”

Lando doesn’t realize the impact those seven words have until much later.

Next morning, when you’re sitting on the kitchen island with your laptop propped open and your breakfast served beside you, you hear a muffled phone call from Lando’s room—something you can’t quite make out. Either way, it’s not a moment later that Lando is standing across the table from you, shirtless, with a half-panicked half-pleading expression on his face.

“Please don’t be mad.”

Your eyes slowly shift away from your screen and towards him. “What did you do?”

“You have to promise not to be mad at me. ‘Cause it was an accident, and I didn’t mean—I didn’t realize—”

“Lando,” you enunciate slowly. “What did you do?”

He winces, looking borderline constipated. He tilts his phone screen towards you, where you find texts from Max accompanied by a screenshot of the trending tab on Twitter.

You arch a brow. “I thought you didn’t use Twitter.”

“I don’t, I just—” he inhales deeply, exhales. “Just read it.”

You squint, and your brow furrows as you read the trending topics.

“You have a girlfriend?” you ask, turning back to your laptop. “How come you didn’t tell me? Do I know her?”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You raise your brows. “Oh my god, babe, really? This is so soon though! So unexpected!”

Lando doesn’t even look slightly amused. “You’re not funny.”

You can see his frown deepen when your lips curve with a bemused tilt. “So, why does Twitter think I’m your girlfriend?”

Lando closes his eyes, scratching his neck. “…I might’ve mentioned that we’re living together.” He quickly scrambles to continue, “I-I didn’t realize what that would look like until the head of my PR team and Max left me, like, a hundred messages. I’m—genuinely, I didn’t mean to pull you into this.”

You stare at him for a beat. He looks fidgety. As if there’s something else he wants to say, but hasn’t quite figured how. You click your tongue, closing your laptop. “Spit it out, Lan.”

He perks up at that, caught off guard. Now that you’re staring at him more pointedly, you realize he does look a little out of it. Guilty, maybe.

“Lando.”

He tugs at his curls a little too harshly. “My management saw it.”

You furrow your brows. “Okay. Are they, like, mad? Can’t you just tell them it was a misunderstanding?”

Lando finally takes a seat, and despite his bedhead and his lack of a shirt, you can’t help but feel he’s getting serious.

“I need a favor.”

And those words shouldn’t sound too bad—except he looks nervous. You’ve seen Lando nervous before, it comes with the territory of being in his close circle. But it’s been a long while since he’s acted like this when it’s just you.

“…I don't think I like where this is going,” you say carefully.

“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his face, this weird, jittery energy emanating from him in waves. “My team has been on my ass for a while to set me up with some PR girlfriend.”

You snort. “And they say romance is dead.”

He shoots you a look. “Be serious.”

You’re deflecting—Lando can tell. But you can’t stop yourself—it’s a nervous habit. “Have you tried dating apps? I thought your sort used… what’s it called? Raya?” You squint at him. “And since when do you need your management to score you a date?”

“I don’t,” he says defensively. “And it’d be a PR relationship—it’s not a real thing. It’s just to, y’know, create a better public image. It’s a press thing. Tons of celebrities do it.”

“Do other drivers do it?” Lando pauses at that, and your eyebrows shoot up as you inch forward. “Oh my god. Oh my god, who? Do I know them? Have I met them?”

“I feel like you’re missing the point of this conversation.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause you’re dancing around the subject.” You straighten, and Lando mimics the action. “Just say what you wanna say, Lan.”

“My team thinks we’re dating,” he finally manages.

“Yeah, I figured.”

He shifts on his seat to inch closer to you, gesturing with his hands. “Yeah, but they’re happy about it—they say it’s a good thing, for my image or whatever.”

You pause. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, avoiding looking you in the eye. Oh, surely… “So you told them it was a misunderstanding.”

He scrunches his nose as he turns his head up to the ceiling, avoiding your gaze.

Your eyes widen. “Lando!”

“I really need your help in this,” he pleads. “It’d be, like, a small favor! And I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise. Whatever you want.”

“Small favor?”

“It would just be for a few months—just so I can get them off my back about this.”

You blink at him in utter disbelief. It takes you a moment to find the words to answer. He just sits across from you, looking at you pleadingly. “…So what?” you start slowly. “You’re asking me to be your pretend girlfriend?”

Lando tries to smile, but you can see the uneasy anxiety brewing behind it. It’s an important season for him—and if he wants his voice to have weight, he first needs to satisfy his team’s demands. Give in order to get. Even if they are as ridiculous as getting someone to go out with.

“You’d be the prettiest pretend girlfriend,” Lando tries. He inches forward again, stray curls sticking at odd angles. “Please? I love you.” Then, as a last ditch effort, “…There’s no one I’d rather be fake dating than you?”

You don’t appreciate the butterflies that flutter in your stomach. At all. “I need to think about this.”

“Okay, yeah, cool, no problem.” He’s already nodding a little too eagerly, as if you’ve agreed instead of saying you’ll consider it. Lando rushes around the table to press a kiss into the crown of your head. Warmth shoots in your belly as you watch him head back into his room. “Thank you!” he calls out.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” you shout back.

The smile you hear in Lando’s voice goes directly against his words when he calls back: “I know!”

Max was right. You hate that Max was right.

So, you caved. Big surprise there. It’s Lando, after all. He’s your friend, and you’ll always wanna help him in any way you can. Plus, you two already live under the same roof. Just how hard can pretend dating be?

The only person you’ve told—that you both agreed you could tell—was Max. And the moment you did, he responded with a two minute audio of him laughing himself into tears.

Needless to say, it’s not the encouragement you needed.

Now you’re both sitting in the living room across from each other. The two of you are still in pajamas, the golden Monaco sun filtering through the open curtains of your shared flat. 

“If we do this, we need to set some ground rules,” you finally say.

“Rules?” he repeats, slowly. “For dating?”

“Pretend dating,” you correct.

Lando tilts his head at you, green eyes watching you for a second. A glint you can’t quite place dances in his gaze for a beat. Finally, he straightens from his reclined position on the couch. “Alright, bug,” he says, with all the formality of someone who hasn’t showered yet. “What are your rules?”

You set your phone on the table, opening your notes app to see the guidelines you’d scribbled out nearing three am last night.

“One.” You hold up your index finger. “You’re dating me for the next four months. I don’t wanna see you or find out you’re flirting or making out or hooking up with other people. If I’m gonna be in the public eye, I don’t wanna be thrown into some scandal.” You narrow your eyes and watch as he raises a brow. “If you get exposed for it I will be calling you a cheater on Twitter.”

Lando gasps dramatically. “Already preparing for the worst case scenario? On our first day of pretend dating?” He makes an over exaggerated motion, pressing his hands against his chest. “My pretend feelings are so hurt.” You arch a brow, to which he nods his head half-heartedly. “Fine, point taken. And it’s seven months.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Deal. Number two.” You pause, embarrassment tinging your cheeks. The words feel like molasses in your throat. Viscous, sticky. Hard to get out. You awkwardly shift on your spot on the rug, finally looking at Lando. “No kissing.”

“What?” Lando makes a face, squinting at you. “But we’re dating. How’s anyone gonna buy that if we never kiss?”

You tilt your head. “You’re sounding a little eager there, Lan. Anything you wanna share?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But can I at least kiss you on the cheek when we’re in public?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Italians do it all the time. And it’s not like we’re not already doing that.”

Heat licks at your face with that last comment. He says it so casually—which, yeah, you suppose it is normal for the two of you. But hearing Lando saying it like that. Like it should be a compromise in a situation like this, but not for the two of you.

Still, you consider it. “Okay. Yeah, cheek kisses are fine.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. Three.” He notices the look you’re giving him and makes a face. “What? I can’t set rules of my own?”

You roll your eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Three,” he continues. He turns his three fingers around to face you. “You go to at least three races with me.”

You hum. “Three is a lot.”

“Not in six months,” Lando says. “They can be like… mini vacations. All expenses paid for.”

“Already trying to prove you can be a decent boyfriend?” you tease, making him roll his eyes again with a smile. “Okay. But I get to choose which races.”

“Deal.” He clicks his tongue. “But Monaco doesn’t count.”

You part your lips to complain. “What? Why not?”

“‘Cause I want you to travel with me,” Lando says in a sickeningly sweet voice as he leans closer to you. You shove his face away. “Oh! And dates.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He toys with his thumb as he looks at you. And if you squint, you’d swear he looks borderline embarrassed—that he’s trying to hide it. “Dates. We need to be seen in public. Y’know. Together.”

You hadn’t thought about that. You just figured you would make appearances in his streams, post a picture or two. It makes sense, though. “You’re paying for those.”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“And flowers,” you add. Lando tilts his head at you curiously. Maybe it’d feel more embarrassing to say this if it were anyone but Lando. You raise your chin. “I wanna get flowers. Not generic ones, though.”

Lando nods slowly, almost confused. “Okay, sure.”

You blink. “That easy?”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not hard.” He shrugs, unlocking his phone and opening his notes app. He types something before his eyes peer at you. “You like tulips, right?”

“Um, yeah.” You straighten, surprise catching on your voice. “Yeah, tulips work.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. So, just to recap: six months, no kissing, three races—not including Monaco—public dates, aaand tulips.”

You run through your mental list and nod in agreement.

Lando grins impishly. “Okay, then. Are you ready to be my girlfriend?” He leans closer to you, as if telling you a secret. His voice drops. “Remember though: you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

You scoff with a smile. “Please. I’ve done your laundry before. It can’t be that hard.”

Your first date with Lando is at a place that is nice, fancy. Fancier than any date has ever brought you on—and living in Monaco, that’s saying something. Even then, you know Lando hasn’t gone all out. You know, because you explicitly asked him not to. The last thing you need is to stress over which fork you’re supposed to use for a salad. Still—the restaurant is more posh than you’re used to.

Warm lights illuminate the terrace, appetizers already set in front of you on your plates. For a moment you wondered whether you should’ve ordered something to share, but you are not willing to compromise on fish because of Lando.

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gone out to eat together. You’ve gone out with Max, or Ria, or Martin—or just the two of you.

Even so, it’s easy to forget you’re here under false pretenses.

It’s hard, putting it into words—but it feels like you’re more aware this time. Unlike other times, today you did your makeup with more attention to detail. Spent more time fixing your hair—even longer choosing a paparazzi-ready outfit. Your nerves still simmer in your gut since Lando told you his team had tipped off a few photographers about the place of your date. It makes you wonder, how often casual pictures in casual settings are staged.

Still. Despite the hours of mental and physical preparation, the fancy restaurant and the pep talk you gave yourself in the bathroom—the moment you sit across from Lando, it becomes easy to forget. Maybe too easy.

When you look up from your plate, you find that Lando is already looking at you.

“What?” you ask. He’s wearing that white shirt of his with the first two buttons undone, his curls as unruly as ever. You lick your lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh my god, please tell me I don’t have anything on my face.”

Lando blinks. “No, no, you’re fine,” he says, quickly. “Really. You just… you look pretty.”

Warmth shoots across your stomach. You shake your head. You think you hear yourself scoffing. “Already flirting, huh?” you say amusedly, shaking your head as you reach for another forkful of your plate. “You’re quick.”

Lando winks, and you roll your eyes with a smile.

As dinner goes on, you can feel yourself falling into that familiar rhythm. It’s Lando, after all—and it’s always been natural for you to feel at ease around him. And by the time the two of you have ordered desserts, you forget about the fancy restaurant, or the fake-dating thing—and, for a moment, it’s just you and Lando. Not performing some convoluted plan, but just you. Friends. Easy.

You find you like it better when it’s just that. You and Lando.

You listen attentively as he talks, explaining with his hands. The terrace feels noisier now, so you lean closer to hear him. At some point, Lando reaches for your hand, and your heart does a weird thing in your chest. He’s still smiling while he’s talking, but you’re unfocused. His fingers are warm as he caresses your palm. Honey spills inside of you, warm and sweet, casting the night in liquid gold.

Lando smiles softly, tenderly, and your heart jumps. “Okay, that’s good,” he says.

“Hm?” you hum, sounding distracted, maybe even a little dazed.

Lando tilts his head somewhere to the side, and you follow his gaze. Off by the street, a man is packing up his camera.

Oh. Right. 

“Really good job.” Lando smiles, offering an encouraging thumbs up. You nod in return with a smile that doesn’t feel as genuine. He lets go of your hand, and you don’t let yourself linger on how you miss the weight of it against yours.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for your glass of wine. “Thanks.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE ...... NEW WAG ALERT? McLaren Driver Lando Norris & mystery woman spotted dining at Cipriani Monte Carlo, a local restaurant in Monaco 📸 monaco_celebs

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📌 user1 not to be that person but i’m like 90% sure its lando’s friend from those older quadrant videos!!! ♥️ liked by author

user2 okay and this comes out DAYS after lando reveals they’re living together???? this is not a soft launch this is hitting us with a BRICK

user3 WHAT 😃😁

user4 i hope that if it is yourusername then it means we get to see her again in quadrant videos :(

user5 OH MY GOD??

user6 so no one can have a private moment anymore is what i’m hearing

user7 okay but they’re totally kissing right??

user8 i mean the angle is kinda funky so it’s hard to say?

user9 idk it looks like they’re just talking tbh

user10 THEY’RE TOTALLY KISSING

user11 AGREED!!! you are never catching me talking THAT close to other people 😦😵‍💫

liked by maxfewtrell, lando and 101,871 others

yourusername he got me tulips 💐

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user12 HELLO?????? i thought this was a prank 😭

user13 if it is… they’re really committing to the bit

user14 lando liking this post after being photographed with a “mystery woman”? stop this madness

maxfewtrell orange tulips huh 😐

lando don’t be jealous

yourusername yeah it’s unbecoming max

user15 oh hello hard launch

user16 welp there go my delusions of ever having a chance with lando norris

user17 might we call those…….. papaya tulips

user18 yes

maxfewtrell don’t even start

The picture the paparazzi took of you has been haunting you more than it should.

As soon as you left the restaurant, food sitting oddly in your stomach, it was already making rounds on social media. Each time you open Instagram, you find that you’ve been tagged in yet another upload of it.

It looks like you’re kissing him. Which you’re not, by the way—something you had to explain to Max over text. It was a really loud place! Really, maybe they should invest in less open concepts instead of wasting all their high-end budget in a bajillion differently-sized forks.

Point is, it’s a compromising picture making rounds on gossip pages. It should be a good thing. And yet, it makes you feel… odd. A strange weight on your gut.

It only hits you a little after the date. After the two of you arrived back at the apartment, kicking off expensive shoes and tucking your to-go bag that definitely was not restaurant-certified into the fridge. You bid Lando goodnight and close your door behind you.

Then it hits you. Within the confines of your room, just a wall away from Lando’s. An odd tingle on your skin. A long-dormant flutter in your stomach.

So, here’s a small bit of totally irrelevant information you neglected to mention to Max.

You used to have a crush on Lando. Used to. Past tense. Long forgotten. A thing of the past tucked alongside childhood embarrassments and picture day mishaps.

And, really, could anyone blame you? It’s hardly your fault that you blinked one day and little Lando Norris—Lando who used to be five inches shorter than you—suddenly decided to have a growth spurt.

( “Would you look at that! Looks like I’m taller than you now,” he’d say with that squeaky voice of his, grinning. You squinted at him, noticing it but refusing to acknowledge it. The giveaway should’ve been his trousers—which were significantly shorter on him than they should’ve been.

Summer break had certainly been kind to Lando. And while his voice was still high-pitched and cracking at the edges, not even you could deny noticing the inches he had on you. Or the more golden color of his skin. The sharper lines of his jaw.

Your throat felt tighter, your face warm. You batted his hand away regardless. “You’re wearing sneakers. It doesn’t count.”

But Lando wasn’t listening anymore. He tilted his head at you with a smug look on his face.

“What?”

“You look better from up here.” He poked your cheek with his finger, smiling pleasantly behind his fringe. “Like a cute little bug.” )

Your body slumps against your mattress. Your make-up suddenly feels like too much, your skin crawling. Staring up at the ceiling, your stomach still flutters with that feeling that you refuse to acknowledge.

You can’t possibly be that easy. What, all it takes is a somewhat decent date—a very decent, very fake date—and suddenly you’re back in high school again?

This isn’t happening. You refuse to let it happen.

Your keys jingle in your hand, bedroom door closing behind you. Days are warmer in Monaco—early morning breeze, sunlight stretching across streets and shop awnings. There’s something particularly refreshing about waking up to ocean air in the summer. If anything, it’s one of the many things you love about Monaco.

You open the door of your flat, as quiet as you can manage. Before you can step out, however, you’re met with a roadblock.

“Morning,” Lando greets from the hallway, face sweaty as he pulls out his airpods. 

“Hi,” you say, dumbly. A part of you had hoped Lando would’ve stuck to his summer break schedule—waking up late, going around the city in the afternoon. You should’ve known he’d go for morning runs this time of the season.

He gives you a pearly-white smile—similar to those in magazines and ads, except the real thing is more crooked, wider at the corners. He side-steps you, and for a moment, you think you’re in the clear. Before you can make a break for it, though, he asks: “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just the mall,” you say casually. 

“Cool,” Lando says, picking up one of the snacks left by his trainer. He’s halfway through chewing his protein bar when he adds, “Can I come with? I need to buy another pair of trainers.”

And because you’re weak—so, so weak—all it takes is a glance at Lando for your resolve to crumble. Despite your best interests, you find yourself smiling. “Yeah, sure.” Lando straightens off the counter. “Just… shower first. You stink.”

He grins. And with his sweaty running gear and sweaty face, he still leans closer to you and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick!” he calls out, already halfway into the bathroom.

You wipe your face off, making a sound of disgust. “Lando!”

You can hear his laugh even as he closes the door.

You open the curtain in front of you, walking across the fitting room to nitpick your reflection in a large mirror. Lando lounges on one of the small seats provided for the boyfriends, brothers and husbands that seemed to have all gotten dragged into shopping for women’s clothes. He scrolls on his phone, sinking into his own Quadrant hoodie.

“How’d it go?” he asks absentmindedly.

You tilt your head at your own reflection. Sundresses are tricky—but somehow, after spending the better part of the morning searching for one, you think this is finally it. The material is soft to the touch. It’s not uncomfortably short nor impractically long. It really is beautiful, with blue and white floral details that remind you of those porcelain botanical patterns. 

“I think I like it,” you say, turning to see how the skirt fits around your waist. You tilt your head at Lando through the mirror. “What do you think?”

Lando raises his head, meeting your gaze through the reflection. He stops, just a beat, barely a second, before straightening in his seat. “You look—um,” his voice cracks. Lando clears his throat, offering an encouraging smile. “It looks great. I like it.” 

You arch a brow, unimpressed. The guy sitting next to him masks a laugh as a cough.

“What?” Lando asks, voice rising an octave. “What’d I say?”

“I need actual, genuine encouragement here, Lan.” 

His face twists, brows creasing into a confused bordering on offended look. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, always just a smidge theatric. “That I think you’d look better with nothing on?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Lando!”

“What?” he repeats, voice pitching another octave higher. His cheeks turn noticeably pink. 

Your face is warm as you walk past the pointed glances thrown your way. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head and closing the curtains behind you. Much to your surprise though, it’s only once you’re alone in the fitting room again that you realize you’re smiling.

Up until you see the tag.

There are many things you love about living in the principality. The prices, though… they’re certainly not one of them.

“Ah,” you say quietly. You bite into your bottom lip with regret. You get paid every fifteen, meaning you’re still a few days out to have the money to spend on it.

Damn it. You can hear your friends’ voices telling you to pay it with your credit card, but you’ve never been keen on spending money you don’t have yet. What if you have an emergency? What if you break a leg? You already depend on Lando for rent—you can’t depend on him for everything.

You don’t like that, the idea of asking Lando for it. It feels wrong. Because he’d say yes—of course he’d say yes. It feels like taking advantage of him, especially when you’ve seen it happen in the past. People using him for fame, money, access.

You never want to be that person to him.

It’s easier than you thought, putting the dress on the hanger and making the decision. It’s just a dress. You can live without a dress.

You open the curtain as you’re still pulling your thin sweater over your head, fixing the sleeves around your arms. Lando looks up from his phone, giving you a lopsided smile. There’s still a lingering pink flush on the apples of his cheeks. 

“You ready?” he asks, already standing up.

“Yeah.” You nod, but as Lando walks you to the register, you leave the sundress where you found it. 

He does a double-take, nearly tripping over himself in the process. “Wait, I thought you liked it,” he protests, tone nearing concern. “I was just teasing before, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not that, it just…” You reach to scratch the back of your ear. “It wasn’t really worth it. Itchy,” you say, trying to go for nonchalant.

From the way Lando lingers, even as you’re heading towards the entrance of the store, you know he doesn’t buy it. You can hear him catching up to you.

“But—”

“C’mon.” Unthinking, you reach for his wrist, tugging him forward. Whatever comment he was going to make dies in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “We still have to find those trainers you wanted.”

He follows you without protest.

You’re starting to get used to the butterflies. They settle occasionally—other times you have to crush them down. Even if you were to pluck their wings one by one, you’re certain you would still feel them fluttering about in your stomach.

You’re getting used to them. To the feeling that comes with the prolonged touches. The fleeting glances. The way Lando seems to linger close, always either with his palm guiding you at the small of your back or interlacing your fingers with his. It’s a rhythm that is all-too easy to fall into.

Getting used to the butterflies doesn’t make any of it easier, though.

You’ve committed to your agreement, though. Saying you’re grateful for the invasiveness of gossip media and tabloid magazines would be going a step too far. Still, you’re surprised that planting seeds of your fake-relationship has been easier than you would’ve expected. Going out for a few intentionally public dates, some well-timed paparazzi pictures leaking to the press. Everything that’s been manufactured and orchestrated with detail has been like a feast for F1 rumor sites. There’s blurry pictures of you ordering at a boulangerie holding hands, a few soft-launches in each other’s Instagrams. 

There are other pictures, though. Pictures that weren’t planned. An impromptu walk down the piers of Monaco, where neither of you had been wanting to pretend anything. A few clips resurfacing of you and Lando in the Quadrant channel. Glances from you that lingered a beat too long. Smiles that were too wide. Shoves and jabs that bordered on something other than friendship. 

When you’re locked in your room at night, scrolling down Twitter threads and Tiktok comments, the butterflies in your stomach feel more like scorpions. 

You can hear Lando giggling and shouting through the walls of his room. He’s live on Twitch—right on schedule as you agreed. It’s been a bit under an hour, playing with Max and a few other people you’re not as familiar with.

You knock on his door. It creaks as you open it just slightly.

“Yeah?” he calls. 

The room is dark, save for a few purple ambient lights. You don’t think you’re in the frame of his camera—not yet, anyway. 

“Lan?” you say, the hesitation and inexplicable shyness in your voice genuine. It’s nervewracking, knowing that this is the first time you don’t really get any do-overs. That thousands of people are watching Lando’s livestream. “Are you still live?”

Even from the doorway, you can see his second monitor speeding through a sudden flood of comments. Lando turns on his seat, pulling down his headphones. 

“Hi,” he says, the traces of a grin still lingering at the corners of his lips. It softens, though. Less wide, more private—something kinder. 

“Hi,” you repeat, fighting off a smile. “I can come back later.”

Lando shakes his head, leaning back against his chair. “No, it’s okay,” he says. Finally, he glances back at his screen, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he considers it. “You can come say hi, if you want.”

You pause at that. Hesitate. You were just supposed to barely appear in frame. Confirm what’s been obvious to most fans since you started with your little agreement. Then again, it’s not like you haven’t shown up in his streams a handful of times in the past.

It feels… different now. For good reason. 

You walk into frame, feeling Lando’s gaze following you as you rest your arms against the backrest of his chair. The violet and orange lights are low, but recognition is evident from chatters. They know who you are—they know what this means.

“Hi chat,” you hum quietly. It almost feels like a challenge, asking you to come close. It makes you bolder. 

You can’t be sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your body moves of its own accord, not allowing you a moment to overthink it. One of your hands reaching down and resting loosely around his neck. Lando freezes for just a split second, caught off-guard, before he nuzzles his nose into your arm. Ticklish. 

It feels too soft, too domestic. Bordering dangerously on something you won’t be able to come back from. Still, you can’t help yourself when you murmur into his hair, “Food’s here.”

Lando nods a moment too late, like the words wade through honey before they reach him. He hums in response, stretches a bit, leaning into your touch. “Mhm.” He looks up at you and for a second—just a second—you catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. Something too warm, too tender. It’s gone before you can really place it, overshadowed by a toothy smile. “I’ll be right there,” he says lightly.

You nod, moving to pull away. His hand tightens around yours just briefly—a casual goodbye, probably. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. Unthinkingly, you lean into him from the back of his chair, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head. Lando doesn’t freeze this time. If anything, it’s almost like he leans into you. 

It feels a little like revenge, pulling away then. A part of you wants to believe Lando’s not that good of an actor. But the issue is that he is—it’s part of his job, lying. Looking into the barrel of a camera and smiling and pretending like he doesn’t want to cuss out some journalist and tell them all to fuck off. And while the boy you grew up with has always worn his heart on his sleeve, you’re also well-aware of the consequences that has in his line of work.

“Don’t stay until too late.”

By the time Lando walks out of his sim room, takeout is already on the kitchen island, waiting. The smell of Chinese food is enough to make your stomach growl, a handful of spring rolls already missing from the box.

“So? How’d I do?”

Lando’s hair is mussed, his blinks owlish. “Huh?” he asks dazedly. “Oh, um, yeah. You did great. Really convincing.” His voice feels odd, distracted. 

Lando grabs one of the kitchen stools, dragging it to sit in front of you. “Max texted me,” you say. 

He perks up at that. “What’d he say?”

The corner of your mouth quirks upward as you unlock your phone to show him. “That you’re down horrendously bad. I think it’s his way of saying we really sold it.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond, only to find Lando staring down at the screen with blushing cheeks. It spreads up into the tips of his ears as he scoffs.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” Lando says under his breath. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” he mutters.

The teasing smile on your lips dims at that. Something inside your chest splinters. A fracture line that widens by a fraction. You quietly take back your phone, picking at your lemon chicken. You went too far. When you swallow, it feels like pebbles are lodged against your throat.

you [ 2:01 AM ] : hi so

you [ 2:01 AM ] : this was a bad idea

max f 🐼 [ 2:07 AM ] : Yeah no shit

you [ 2:07 AM ] : stop it stop it stop

you [ 2:07 AM ] : i’m being so serious

you [ 2:08 AM ] : what do i do?????? i think i ruined it. like everything

max f 🐼 [ 2:08 AM ] : Are you gonna listen to me? Coz lately it feels like I’m giving advice to people that just do the exact opposite of what I tell them to

you [ 2:09 AM ] : MAX

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i just

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think i went too far

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think he hates me now

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : What????

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : Mate there’s no world in which he hates you

you [ 2:11 AM ] : be serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : I AM being serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : Stop typing rn I can see the little text bubble just listen to me for a sec

max f 🐼 [ 2:12 AM ] : He doesn’t hate you. You just think he does cause you’ve probably spent the night locked in your room staring at your ceiling

you [ 2:13 AM ] : i am being vulnerable here can you not mock me for a minute

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : IM LITERALLY NOT

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : What I’m trying to get at is that nothing good happens after 2 am.

max f 🐼 [ 2:14 AM ] : Just sleep it off mate I promise you’ll wake up feeling better

you [ 2:14 AM ] : did you just quote how i met your mother to me

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : It’s a great show and it’s great advice??????

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : I feel like you’re missing the point

you [ 2:16 AM ] : what even is your point

max f 🐼 [ 2:16 AM ] : That you’re getting stuck inside your head

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Why do you think that is?

you [ 2:17 AM ] : it’s just something dumb he said

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Lando’s always saying something dumb

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : You’re just too busy staring at his face to notice it most of the time

you [ 2:18 AM ] : MAX

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : WHAT

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : If he said something hurtful I can talk to him

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : Knock some sense into that big head

you [ 2:18 AM ] : it’s okay you don’t need to do that

max f 🐼 [ 2:19 AM ] : I’d like to though

you [ 2:19 AM ] : i think i’ll take what you said before and try to get some sleep before this spirals out of hand

you [ 2:19 AM ] : thank you max <3

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : You know what could also work

you [ 2:20 AM ] : what

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : Telling him how you feel about his big dumb face

you [ 2:20 AM ] : i would rather die :)

The flat is unusually quiet in the week leading up to the Monaco Grand Prix. You’ve grown accustomed to the silence whenever Lando is off racing across different countries in the calendar. It’s different then, though. His laughter is still tucked like a secret into the corners of the room, exhausted voice notes in your phone lingering in the quiet once his day is over. It’s never this quiet when he’s around.

It becomes an unspoken thing amongst the two of you. A pause. An interlude between the moment that got too real and the day you’re going to be holding hands, walking side-by-side in front of reporters and photographers in the paddock.

Even if the distance wasn’t noticeable, even if it wasn’t tugging at your heartstrings more than you’d like to admit, you’ve got other things to worry about.

The Monaco Grand Prix, for example. The crown jewel of Formula 1—the legendary, glamorous, historical track. And the dreaded realization you don’t know what the hell to wear for it.

It creeps up on you suddenly, unexpectedly. Once it does, though, there’s no shutting down the alarms blaring inside your head. 

Clothes are strewn across your bed, closet door and floor. Shelves and hangers alike are left empty. You end up stalking Alexandra Saint Mleux’s Instagram like a psychopath, finding that—unsurprisingly—none of your clothes remotely match hers. 

There’s a knock at your door. 

“Hey,” you hear Lando’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You there, bug?”

“I’m a little busy!”

There’s a beat, a pause. “You okay?” he asks, voice tinged with a hesitant concern. “You sound…”

You open the door, throat tight and insides tangled into a knot. “I don’t know what to wear. What do wags wear?” you ask, and even amidst your blind panic you can hear your frantic tone. “They’re gonna eat me alive.”

Lando raises a brow. “You’ve gone to races before.”

“Yeah but I wasn’t your girlfriend—fake—whatever!” You huff, turning your back to him and sorting through your discarded clothes again. “I’ve seen the posts people make about the wags. I’ve seen them get destroyed for overdressing and underdressing.” You breathe in. Breathe out. Feel as embarrassment tints your cheeks. You turn to Lando apologetically. “I’m sorry. You’re the one that’s driving, and I’m freaking out over clothes.”

A fond smile curls at the corner of his lips. “We’ve all been there, bug. I just get to skip it now ‘cause I have a stylist.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Lando concedes. Only then do you notice he has one of his hands behind his back. “But hopefully this is.”

He pulls out a dress. The dress.

You blink once. Twice. Three times to make sure you’re not hallucinating the white and blue fabric in Lando’s hand. “You bought it,” you say softly. “When?”

He looks at the ceiling sheepishly. Almost embarrassed. “I’d… rather not say.”

“Lando,” you insist.

“I might’ve doubled back. That day. When you were distracted.” He shrugs, trying to go for nonchalant. “I just asked them to set it aside.”

You look down at the dress. Reach out to feel the fabric underneath your fingertips. “You didn’t have to,” you argue, though there’s no edge to it.  

“I wanted to.” It feels a bit like an apology. You’re not sure whether he knows what he’s apologizing for, exactly. Still, here he is—showing up regardless. “You’ve always been shit at getting stuff for yourself.”

Lando hands you the dress, the tag still on—though the price has been conviniently scrawled out with sharpie. 

“Besides, rule number three,” Lando says, voice reeling back into something more casual. “I said all expenses paid for race weekends.”

“That’s not what you meant, though,” you protest.

“You don’t know what I meant.” 

“Lando.”

“Just learn to take a gift, Jesus,” he says, faux exasperation drawing a smile from him. “Wear it, don’t wear it—it’s your choice.” His lips part to add something else. You see the brief, split-second hesitation before he adds, voice soft, “Either way, you looked really pretty in it.” 

His gaze drops down to your lips. Just a second. He clears his throat.

“We leave in an hour!”

liked by lando, maxfewtrell and 290,561 others

yourusername monaco has never looked better 🧡

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user1 HELLO

riabish gorgeous gorgeous girl <3

lnfour our favorite wag 🧡

user2 ain’t no way the first official confirmation is coming from lando’s merch account

user3 i mean it’s pretty much confirmed that they’re dating though 😵‍💫😵‍💫 we all saw the way lando was looking at her during his last stream…..

user4 fully grown adults over here playing at tripping each other btw 😭

lando aww did you write that

yourusername that was NOT me no

lando okay plausible deniability i see what you’re doing 😍

yourusername how long did it take you to spell that

lando jokes on u coz i love it when you’re mean to me

user5 wait why is boyfriend lando kind of endearing :(

user6 no cause i see what you mean…

Nothing could’ve ever prepared you for flashing lights and hounding cameras that greet you at the paddock. You’ve been here before—two years ago, with Max acting as a green-eyed buffer to whatever feelings you’d long wrestled down when it came to Lando. 

It’s different now. You can feel it in the way cameras don’t just gloss past you, but rather fix their lenses upon the two of you.

It may have something to do with Lando holding your hand. Fingers interlaced. Walking just half a step in front of you, blocking the most invasive photographers from your path. 

You don’t know how he deals with it every race week.

Thankfully, the McLaren garage offers what feels like some semblance of privacy—however misleading that may be. At the very least, you can appreciate that the attention’s no longer set on you. Not for the most part, anyway.

Lando gives you a quick peck on the cheek for the broadcast camera before being pulled away by one of his engineers. Controlled chaos, a reporter from Sky once called it. Engineers and mechanics moving across rooms with spare gear, adjusting comms, analyzing telemetry.

Over on the opposite side of the garage—Oscar’s side—you spot his girlfriend Lily with an orange headset that matches with yours. She meets your gaze, offering a small polite smile.

You swallow your nerves. Smile back. Try not to throw up your breakfast on your shoes. It still makes you anxious, you find—watching Lando race. When it’s just him on a screen, you can at least put it on mute and look away whenever your pulse starts racing.

You don’t think that’s much of an option here.

“Hi,” you hear behind you. You’re met with a friendly blue gaze. She smiles again, warmer this time. “I’m Lily. You must be Lando’s girlfriend.”

It’s one of two options. Either you don’t have as good a poker face as you thought, or Lily’s better at reading people than you could’ve given her credit for. Maybe both—probably both. The way her expression is laced with sympathy tells you she sees the nervousness. Understands it.

You end up sticking by her until the race starts. You’re not surprised to find out she’s soft-spoken and kind-hearted—not that you’d seen or heard much from her before. You suppose that’s probably the whole point. 

It’s impossible not to make the comparison. Private, genuine, in a long-time relationship with Lando’s teammate versus you; very public, very fake, placeholder of a girlfriend.

The thought lands harder than you expected it to.

“If it makes you feel any better, I still get nervous every time,” Lily says halfway through your conversation. “Although—actually, you have been at a race before, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, pushing away your wreck of a train of thought. “Came with Max Fewtrell a few times. Still, everything makes me feel a little…” 

“Exposed?” she suggests, nodding knowingly.

“Exactly! I just, last time it wasn’t just me, so I felt less… on the spot. And obviously last time I wasn’t Lando’s—” you trail off, the lie feeling surprisingly heavy on your tongue.

“Lando’s girlfriend,” Lily finishes comprehensively, and you hate the fact that you’re starting to really like her. You hate that your first conversation, your first semblance of common ground, is a boldfaced lie.

“I mean, Lando and I have always been close,” you say, trying to veer the conversation towards the truth.

“Oscar’s mentioned.” Lily’s mouth curls up into a smile. “I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but he kept wondering when Lando would finally ask you out.” She tilts her head, sunglasses perched over her head. “How was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, toying with a lock of your hair. A nervous habit. “It sort of just… happened. I don’t know.” You swallow, and hope that this time she doesn’t see through you. “It still feels unreal.”

Lily’s lips part to ask something else, before a sudden silence washes over the garage. You frown. Lily places it immediately.

She squeezes your hand. “Best of luck.”

Even when resting around your neck, you hear the unmistakable phrase coming from your McLaren-issued headset.

It’s lights out and away we go.

The world narrows into the racing line between the Nouvelle Chicane and Turn 19. Your heart thunders in your ears, as the leading cars make it past Anthony Noughes—the very last corner. 

In the tenths it takes for the number four car to make it past the finish line, the McLaren garage is suspended in air. Quiet. Hearts beating.

Someone screams. You’re not completely certain it wasn’t you. Mechanics and engineers run out the garage and onto the pitlane, grinning and shouting. 

Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix Winner. 

The McLaren garage splits into two large groups, a sea of sunset orange overtaking the parc fermé. A woman in a McLaren uniform—probably from Lando’s PR team—helps you make way towards the very front of the crowd. The metal barrier presses against your body.

You watch as Lando jumps off his car, his energy boundless and ecstatic even with his helmet still on and hiding his face. He leaps into the papaya crowd, receiving congratulatory pats, hugs and cheers. 

He takes off his helmet and balaclava. Runs a hand through matted curls. You watch as he looks around, scanning the crowd, searching—

Until he spots you.

His helmet is left behind and forgotten as he runs towards you, grinning widely and brightly. He embraces you instantly, your arms wrapping around his neck like second nature.

His hands reach over the barrier and settle around your waist with a firm grip. Then, without giving you a moment to pull back, he brings you over the barrier and spins you in a hug.

“You’re golden,” you say, giddiness overwhelming. You vaguely register the flashes of cameras. Distantly. Your entire world narrows down into the sweaty, lovely, sunlit boy in front of you. You hold Lando’s face with a grin as he puts you down, hands still resting around your waist. You bury your face into his neck. “Oh my god, you’re golden.”

When he finally pulls away—already sensing some McLaren spokesperson waiting for him—he looks at you and grins. Unguarded. Unrestrained. 

And in a way that thoroughly undoes you.

“C’mon, champ,” you say, matching his smile. He’s glowing—honey dipped in sunlight. “They’re waiting for you.”

Music beats against the walls of the club. Blue and pink strobe lights set the dance floor aglow. You vaguely recognize a handful of faces—mechanics, interns, even a couple of social media admins. 

As far as clubs go, you suppose it fits the celebration. McLaren footing the bill of the open bar is just the cherry on top.

Alcohol thrums steadily underneath your skin—a pretty combination of Fireball and fancy drinks you didn’t really care to learn the name of.

The night has unfolded in a series of syrupy moments that seem to melt into one another. You remember arriving with Lando—hand in hand, the high of his win still ripe. You remember being introduced to a few other drivers—Oscar, Carlos, maybe Alex—as his girlfriend. Later in the night, you recall dancing with Lando. More than once.

The night stretches like melted sugar, sweet and honeyed. Purple and red lights flash against the floor, leaving the club half-lit half cast in shadows.

You’ve found a more private spot by one of the corners of the club. VIP table, by the looks of it. 

You lean back against Lando’s side, legs perpendicular to his. One of his hands rests on your lower back, steadying, while yours toys with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

You don’t remember when exactly you ended up on Lando’s lap—not that you’re complaining, anyway. Maybe it’s the lights, the high of his win, the alcohol in your veins—it all has a way of stripping down your inhibitions.

Some distant, muted part of you is half-aware that maybe this is too much. Too close to being PDA. Bordering too much on intimacy. But then Lando leans into your ear to murmur some comment about Carlos’ story and you laugh—you laugh and you forget.

It’s dangerous, this closeness. More so, it’s dangerous how easy it is for you to fall into it. Hook, line, sinker. You never stood a chance.

As Lando talks, as you gaze down at him, you catch Oscar and Carlos sharing a look out of the corner of your eye. You pay them no mind—not when the club lights cast Lando’s face aglow.

“You have really pretty eyes,” you tell him, because it’s the truth. He looks up at you then, lips slightly parted. “Have I ever told you that?”

You hear Carlos attempting to stifle a laugh. He’s not very good at it.

Lando doesn’t pay him any mind. Instead, he gives you a lopsided smile. “D’you think so?” 

“I know so.”

“Not to interrupt,” Oscar begins, already moving to stand up. “But I should get going. Congrats on the win, mate.”

“We should do one last round of shots before you leave!” you announce, but Lando’s hands tighten around your waist.

He presses an unintelligible murmur onto your shoulder. When you turn your head, you find he’s already looking up at you. Long lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheeks. “Don’t go,” he mumbles into the exposed skin of your neck.

Your stomach flips. You grin nonetheless. “It’s my mission today to get you just a little drunk, race winner.”

He considers it. Then, “Okay,” he finally says, smiling softly.

There’s a moment before you stand up. A full second. A beat suspended in time. And maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had—but maybe you’re the only one still pretending this isn’t exactly what you want. 

“I’ll be right back,” you hear yourself say, before you’re moving into the crowd. You weave through the throngs of people dancing, finally making it to the bar. You flag down the bartender, give him your order—making sure to highlight under who’s tab this is.

“That’s a lot of shots,” you hear someone say beside you. He’s cute—shaggy blonde hair, brown eyes—not your type necessarily, but cute. “Are you here with friends?”

“Yeah!” you say, voice bright. “Celebrating.”

“That’s nice.” You can barely hear him over the music. “What are we celebrating?”

You grin proudly at that. “My best friend won a race!” 

“Yeah?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s really listening. He steps a little closer. Only then do you feel his hand on your waist. “That’s cool,” he says relaxedly. “What’s your name?”

It hits you then, how out of it you really are. You shake your head politely, ready to tell him that sorry, you’re not interested, you’re actually here with—

“Hey, you were taking a bit,” you hear behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Lando—Lando, who sounds suspiciously out of breath. 

He pulls you closer to him—away from the man—and wraps his arms around your waist like a shield. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he mutters, “Who’s your friend?”

“Actually, we were talking.”

Lando narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well, I kinda wanna spend the rest of the night with my girlfriend, so if you don’t mind.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Girlfriend?” the guy repeats, not quite apologetic. Not really. “Oh, shit, my bad.”

“Yeah.” Lando glares at the guy until he finally walks away. It’s only once he’s gone that he looks at you properly. “What the hell?”

You feel dazed. “What?”

“What happened to rule number one? No flirting?” 

You blink once. Twice. “Right. Sorry.” You clear your throat. “I wasn’t flirting, by the way. He just—he sort of came onto me.” You lick your lips, glancing behind him. “Did, um, did anyone see?”

Lando’s been drinking too—you know so, because when he does, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. Has a harder time hiding what he feels. This time, he looks conflicted. “Uh, no,” he says, as if finally settling on a response. He swallows. “No, just me.”

The two of you walk back to the table, quieter this time. You take a seat next to him, the world still swimming around you to the beat of the songs playing. Lando places the tray of shots on the table before he lays his arm on the backrest. Close. Too close. Not nearly close enough.

Oscar winces as he downs his shot, cheeks pink. He clears his throat before turning to you. “Y’know, I’m glad you two finally got together.”

Lando drops his arm. Instead, he tentatively reaches for your hand. Carefully interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Yeah, it was unexpected, huh?”

“Right,” he says with a laugh, as if you’re joking. You don’t get it. Lando’s thumb gently brushes against the back of your palm, drawing quiet patterns. “To be honest, I’m just glad I don’t have to stand by watching and hearing Lando pining after you anymore.”

Lando stops at that, back stiffening. “Oscar,” he hisses.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Yeah—didn’t he tell you?” Oscar freezes for just a split second as his eyes meet with Lando’s over your shoulder. You can feel Lando tense against you. “Oh. Um.”

You turn to Lando, confused, maybe a little lost—but sobering up. Even in the flashing magenta lights you can see the deep-rooted shame taking shape in his face.

“Lando?” you ask, voice drowning in the music.

But then he’s taking your hand again, and guiding you out. Past the table, past the crowds—out of the club where the two of you can hear yourselves think.

Didn’t he tell you?

Oscar’s voice echoes in the marrow of your skull like the chorus of a song that gets stuck in your head. The cold night air that greets you on the terrace is enough to make the world feel firm around you again. 

Lando lets go of you then, tugging at his hair. You want to tell him to stop, that he’s pulling too hard, that he’s going to hurt himself—

“Lando—”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says abruptly, defensively. “It sounds so fuckin’ creepy when he says it. It’s not like—like this is some scheme to get you to go out with me. You know that, right?” Lando doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. “I swear, Oscar just has this whole movie in his head about me being into you, but I swear he’s just… he doesn’t get that we’re friends. He’s probably confused because he thinks we’re going out so, just. That thing he said about me pining—I don’t know where the hell he got that from.”

It’s a lot like being punched in the stomach, the way you feel the air leave your lungs. A gut punch. Low. Horrible. Painful.

“‘Cause being into me would be crazy,” you say slowly. The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Lando agrees. His face twists a second too late. “I mean—no, that came out wrong, I meant, like,” he gestures with his hands, struggling to find the right words. He shrugs half-heartedly. “We’re us, yeah?” he says, voice small. “We’ve been us for so long.”

“Right,” you say. 

You were sure you knew heartbreak. You knew it when he introduced you to his first girlfriend, when you thought she was lovely, when you found you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate her. You knew heartbreak. You picked him up at some club in London when he was too drunk to drive. You watched him being flirted with by models and actresses—watched him flirt back.

This feels worse than heartbreak, somehow. It aches deep inside your chest. A fracture line that finally fragments all the way through. 

You swallow down the stones lodged in your throat. “Look, I think I’m tired,” you say, voice tight. You can feel the tears threatening to spill. You blink them back. Not here. Not now. “I think I underestimated the jet lag.”

“Jet lag?” He looks understandably confused. You landed days ago. 

You bite your tongue. “I mean, like—I think I’m still a little overwhelmed.” Your voice breaks. “I think I wanna go back to the hotel.”

Lando’s face falls. He’s nodding, already moving, “Okay, let me get my—”

“I’ll take an uber,” you cut him off, reaching for your purse and finding you left it at the table. You just can’t get anything right. You’re already pulling away when you add, maybe for your sake: “Really, I don’t wanna ruin your night.” 

“Hey, no,” Lando protests, words weak and fragile and filled with something you can’t bring yourself to name. “Wait.” His fingers latch around your wrist. He tugs at your hand. “Please.” 

You don’t think he knows what he’s begging for.

The night settles around you. Cold air, the dull sound of music on the other side of the door. You can’t blame the winner’s high. You can’t blame the club music. You can’t even blame the drinks. 

You press your lips into his without thinking of the disastrous consequences it will reap. You kiss him like it’s goodbye. For just a second, you let yourself forget the hurt, the heartache, the heartbreak. 

His lips are warm against you, soft. It feels like gravity. Inevitable. Like it was always going to end this way.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull away from him, the world goes on. Cars honk at each other in the street below. The moon hides behind the clouds. Realization of what you’ve done fully settles in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have done that.”

But Lando blinks down at you, dazed. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes search your face. Ultimately, they dip down to your lips.

“You said no kissing,” he says slowly, absentmindedly, and you’re unsure whether he’s telling you or reminding himself. 

I didn’t mean to, you want to say, but the lie gets stuck in your throat.

Your bottom lip trembles. The back of your eyes prick. You think you’re gonna cry.

Lando’s touch is gentle. His hand tips your head up, thumb caressing your cheek. “Rule two. You said no kissing,” he repeats, voice barely a murmur.

He leans into you then, kisses your forehead. Then presses another kiss below your eye. Then one to your cheek. To the corner of your lips. But not where you want him most.

“Lando—”

“Tell me,” he mumbles into your skin, hand still cradling your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re going to slip through his fingers. His lips press against the corners of your mouth. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Please.” 

The response is a murmur, a whisper. “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips find yours in a heartbeat.

When you eventually call a cab in the late hours of the night, the two of you end up clumsily stumbling into the backseat. Exhaustion wears you down like gravity.

Lando interlaces his fingers with yours. Tugs you closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder, breathing out softly. Quietly.

He kisses the crown of your head. Leans down into you.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like coming home.

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell and 201,214 others

yourusername okay, take two. for real this time :)

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user1 ?????

user2 what

maxfewtrell well that’s just a wildly inconvenient way to water tulips

yourusername can you ever just lay off

lando pretty girl 🌷

yourusername pretty boy 💐💐

user3 are we supposed to know what that means