Lando Norris lives at full speed. In a world of engines and expectation, he has learned to survive on instinct sharpened into precision, to measure life in tenths of a second and hide uncertainty behind control.
Louise Levine moves through louder arenas in quieter manners. Her strength is restraint, her power deliberate and contained. She doesn’t demand attention — she calculates and recalibrate.
This is what happens when speed meets stillness — and two people built for pressure find something steady in each other.
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Summary: Lando spends the week chasing answers, only to discover that some opportunities are much bigger than he imagined. Between new challenges, familiar faces, and a weekend that reminds him what matters most, something long in the making finally begins to fall into place.
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On Monday, the summons come separately.
First to Lando.
He’s still half in race-week mode—laundry spinning in the background, laptop open to telemetry he’s pretending not to obsess over—when his phone lights up on the counter. He doesn’t even check it right away. Lets it sit. Lets the vibration stop.
Then he glances over.
Zak Brown.
That alone is enough to straighten his spine.
He wipes his hands on a towel, picks the phone up.
Zak Brown:
Hey mate. Can you come by the MTC tomorrow morning? Nothing bad. Just a chat.
Lando stares at the screen for a long second.
Nothing bad is never nothing.
“Nothing bad” is what people say right before something shifts. Before contracts get reshaped, before timelines move, before expectations quietly sharpen their edges.
He exhales through his nose, scrubs a hand through his hair.
Tomorrow morning.
Not next week. Not “when you’re around.” Tomorrow.
He types back anyway, thumbs steady even if his thoughts aren’t.
Lando:
Sure. What time?
The reply comes quickly.
Zak Brown:
9 a.m. Works?
Of course it does.
Lando:
Yep. See you then.
He sets the phone down face-up this time, like it might say something else if he looks away. The washing machine clicks, changes cycles. Outside, the afternoon light slips lower, dull and English and unbothered.
Lando leans back against the counter.
Nothing bad.
Right.
—
Louise’s comes an hour later.
She’s on the floor of the living room at Aylesbury, back against the couch, iPad balanced on her knees. The house is quiet in that in-between way—no travel bags half-packed, no alarms set for flights, just the soft hum of a place catching its breath.
Her phone buzzes.
She glances at it without urgency.
Charlotte.
That alone makes her sit up a little straighter.
She opens the message.
Charlotte:
Zak would like to see you at the MTC tomorrow. Wear something comfortable.
Louise blinks.
Reads it again.
Then a third time.
“Comfortable,” she murmurs to herself.
That’s… specific.
She types back.
Louise:
That’s ominous.
The reply is immediate, which somehow makes it worse.
Charlotte:
He says it’s “nothing bad,” not ominous.
Louise snorts softly.
Louise:
That’s worse.
She locks the screen and lets the phone fall face-down onto the rug. For a moment, she just sits there, staring at nothing in particular, brain already running through possibilities like a quiet diagnostic checklist.
Interesting.
Her curiosity hums—not anxious exactly, but alert. The way it does right before something changes shape.
—
They tell each other that night.
Not immediately. Not with drama.
It comes out the way important things often do between them—casually at first, then heavier once it’s in the open.
They’re on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled more out of habit than intention. Lando has his laptop open but hasn’t looked at it in ten minutes. Louise’s iPad sits dark against her thigh, forgotten.
He clears his throat.
“So,” he says, too carefully. “Zak texted me.”
She turns her head. “Today?”
“Yeah. Wants me at the MTC tomorrow.”
Her eyebrows lift. “He wants me there too.”
They hold eye contact for a beat.
“Oh,” Lando says.
“Yeah,” Louise replies.
Silence stretches—not awkward, just full.
“He said nothing bad,” Lando adds, because apparently his mouth wants to make things worse.
They sit with it.
Same building. Same day.
Same question hanging unspoken between them.
Le Mans doesn’t get said out loud.
Not yet.
Saying it would give it weight. Would turn speculation into something with edges. And right now, both of them are very aware that this could be a dozen different things—or one very specific one.
Louise breaks the silence first.
“Whatever it is,” she says evenly, “we deal with it separately.”
Lando nods, no hesitation. “Then together.”
She smiles at that—not big, not relieved. Just steady.
He reaches across the space between them and takes her hand, thumb pressing once against her knuckles. A small squeeze. A check-in.
Outside, the house stays quiet.
No engines. No schedules. No countdowns.
Just the soft tick of time moving forward whether they’re ready or not.
Tomorrow is coming.
And whatever Zak Brown is building—whatever shape this conversation is going to take—the pieces are already in motion.
Neither of them needs to say it.
They can feel it.
⸻
The McLaren Technology Centre always feels like a dare.
All glass and reflection, all sharp lines and quiet confidence. Even the air seems engineered—cool, controlled, like it expects you to earn the right to breathe it.
Louise has been here before. Media days. Brief walk-throughs. The occasional polite hello in corridors that feel longer than necessary.
But today is different.
Today has weight.
She walks beside Lando, their steps instinctively in sync, her shoulder nearly brushing his. Neither of them talks much on the way in. There’s nothing to say that won’t either jinx it or overcomplicate it. At the security gates, his fingers brush hers—just once. Not a squeeze. Not a promise.
A check-in.
Then they split, passes scanned, paths converging again on the other side.
Mick arrives moments later, coat still half-open, adjusting his watch out of habit rather than need. He takes in Louise’s expression, then Lando’s, and gives a slow nod like he’s already confirmed something for himself.
“Right,” he says. “So …is this the 99 Club trio version?”
Lando burst out laughing immediately.
A loud, helpless laugh that bounced off the glass walls.
Mick looked delighted with himself.
Louise pointed at him so quickly she nearly poked him in the eye.
“Do not let Zak hear you.”
Mick’s grin widened.
“Oh, now I definitely need to let Zak hear it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Absolutely yes.”
She dropped her hand and groaned.
“Our parents were enough.”
Lando nearly walked into a pillar because he was laughing so hard.
Mick looked entirely too entertained.
“So what you’re saying is Zak would love the 99 Club trio.”
“He would make merchandise.”
“He would.”
“He’d make shirts.”
“He absolutely would.”
Louise pointed accusingly at both of them.
“Thing is he won't because you're both going to keep your mouths shut.”
The doors began sliding.
Just before they opened completely, Mick raised both thumbs.
“99 Club!”
Louise groaned.
Lando laughed.
Inside the conference room, Zak is already waiting.
“Well,” he says, standing as they enter, “I’m glad all three of you could make it.”
The room smells like coffee and new carpet—new enough to feel intentional. Contracts sit stacked neatly in front of each chair, tabs color-coded with ruthless efficiency. Louise clocks them immediately: financials, schedule, obligations, escape clauses. Lando notices the pens—identical, perfectly aligned, clearly chosen for dramatic effect. Mick takes it all in and lifts an eyebrow.
“You’re enjoying this,” Mick says flatly.
Zak’s grin widens. “Immensely.”
They sit.
There’s no dramatic speech. No cinematic pause. Zak doesn’t monologue about legacy or history or how special this is.
He just slides the folders forward.
“Le Mans,” he says simply. “McLaren. One car. You three.”
Louise’s chest tightens—not with nerves, but with something closer to relief. The shape of it is exactly what they’d been circling for months. Clear. Intentional. No maybes hiding in the margins.
Lando lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You really did it.”
Zak shrugs. “I don’t do half-ideas.”
Mick flips his folder open immediately, already scanning. “You do, however, enjoy terrifying people with page counts.”
“Only the ones I respect,” Zak replies.
They go through it properly. Slowly. No rushing.
Test commitments. Simulator allocation. Media boundaries—Louise notes those carefully, grateful for the way they’ve been ring-fenced. Driver hierarchy spelled out with surgical clarity: no number ones, no politics, performance-based decisions only.
Mick asks sharp questions. Lando asks practical ones. Louise asks the quiet, lethal ones—about scheduling conflicts, about how this fits around her existing obligations, about what happens if bodies don’t cooperate.
Zak answers every single one without deflection.
At one point, Lando glances sideways at her. “You okay?”
Zak points at her. “See? This is why I lose sleep.”
Eventually, there’s nothing left to clarify.
Zak slides the pens forward. “Sign, please, before I change my mind.”
They do.
Pens scratch against paper. Pages turn. Louise signs with a steadiness that surprises even her. Lando’s handwriting is familiar—quick, confident. Mick signs last, pausing just long enough to look at both of them before adding his name.
Hands shake—professional at first, then warmer. Less transactional. When the final signature dries and the folders are closed, there’s a beat of silence.
Not awkward.
Reverent.
Louise leans back in her chair, eyes bright now, something electric finally allowed to surface. “So,” she says, like this is the most obvious thing in the world, “when can we do the first sim session?”
Mick laughs, sharp and delighted. “That’s your first question?”
Zak shakes his head, amused and doomed. “You’ve just signed one of the most complicated endurance deals we’ve ever done and you’re asking about sims.”
She shrugs. “Preparation is comforting.”
Lando reaches over and knocks his knuckles lightly against hers under the table. “Told you she was serious.”
Zak stands, already gathering the contracts. “Welcome to McLaren endurance racing,” he says. “I hope you all enjoy chaos.”
Louise stands with them, shoulders back, grounded.
“Oh,” she replies calmly. “We’re very good at that.”
⸻
They’re halfway down the corridor when Jenson Button steps into their path.
No clipboard. No headset. No entourage.
Just hands in his pockets and that unmistakable calm—the kind that only comes from having already carried the pressure everyone else is still learning how to hold.
“Alright,” he says, glancing between the three of them. “Before we get technical… come with me.”
Lando blinks. “That sounded suspicious.”
“It’s not,” Jenson replies easily. “Unless you’re allergic to chairs.”
They exchange looks—Louise curious, Mick mildly suspicious, Lando already resigned—and follow him down a side corridor that peels away from the main briefing area.
The room he leads them into is smaller. Round table. Lake-facing windows that flood the space with grey daylight. No screens on yet. No data.
Just room.
“This,” Jenson says, gesturing vaguely around them, “is not the debrief.”
Lando exhales dramatically and drops into a chair. “Good. I wasn’t emotionally ready.”
Mick snorts. Louise doesn’t sit right away—she leans forward slightly, already focused, already listening.
Jenson smiles at the joke, then lets it fade. Not into tension. Into intention.
“I want to set something straight before we start,” he says. “Out there, you’re three drivers.”
He taps the table once.
“In here, you’re one unit.”
Mick nods slowly, jaw set.
Louise finally takes a seat, elbows resting on the table, posture open.
“You’re all fast,” Jenson continues. “You all know that. That’s not why you’re here.” He pauses, lets it land. “Endurance racing doesn’t reward the quickest lap. It rewards trust.”
He turns first to Louise. “You don’t prove yourself by pushing every stint.”
She meets his eyes without flinching. “Understood.”
Then Lando. “You don’t lead by taking over.”
Lando’s mouth twitches—not defensive, just thoughtful. “Fair.”
Then Mick. “And you don’t disappear into the background.”
Mick lifts his chin slightly. “Wasn’t planning to.”
“Good,” Jenson says. “Because I won’t let you.”
There’s a beat. Quiet. Serious, but not heavy.
“You talk,” Jenson continues. “You disagree. You say when you’re tired. You say when something feels off. The car doesn’t care about your pride.” A small smile. “The race definitely won’t.”
Lando nods once, sharp and certain. “Got it.”
Louise smiles faintly. “No heroics.”
“Heroics are for the highlights,” Jenson replies. “We’re here for twenty-four hours.”
He straightens, claps his hands once. “Alright. Now we can scare the engineers.”
⸻
The debrief room is already full when they walk in.
Every seat taken. A few people standing along the walls. A low buzz of conversation that cuts instantly when Zak enters behind them, coffee in hand, expression unreadable in that way that always means something important is happening.
“Let’s begin,” Zak says.
And suddenly it’s very real.
The first slides are overview. Le Mans layout. Race length. Historical pitfalls marked in red like scars. Weather variability models layered over traffic density projections.
Louise tracks everything, fingers moving unconsciously on the table as if she’s already holding a wheel.
“We’ll rotate stints conservatively,” a strategist explains. “Baseline plan is double stints during daylight. Single at night depending on conditions.”
Mick raises a hand. “Night traffic—GT clusters. Are we prioritizing pace or positioning through those windows?”
“Positioning,” the strategist replies without hesitation. “You lose more time recovering from damage than backing out of one risky move.”
Louise nods. “I want brake temperature overlays during night stints. I tend to push entry harder when visibility drops.”
A murmur of approval ripples through the room.
Lando leans forward. “Energy deployment—can we adjust on the fly if one of us is consistently saving more?”
“Yes,” an engineer says. “But only if you communicate it early.”
“I will,” Lando replies immediately. “No ego.”
Louise shoots him a look. “I’m screenshotting that.”
Zak smirks over his coffee.
They move into simulations. Tire wear graphs. Fuel deltas. Strategy branches labeled IF SAFETY CAR, IF RAIN, and—someone snorts—IF EVERYTHING GOES WRONG.
At one point, Jenson interrupts gently. “Talk to each other.”
Louise turns to Mick. “If I hand you a car that’s understeering mid-corner, what do you want adjusted first?”
Mick doesn’t hesitate. “Front rebound. I’ll adapt the rest.”
Lando nods. “And I’ll change my entry angle if I know that’s coming.”
The engineers exchange looks.
One whispers, “They’re already syncing.”
Another replies, quieter, “They’re enjoying it.”
By the time the debrief ends, it’s no longer a presentation. It’s a conversation. Laughter breaks out. Arguments spark and dissolve. Ideas stack instead of competing.
Jenson watches it all with a small, satisfied smile.
⸻
As the room empties and the screens dim, Jenson lingers.
He catches Louise’s eye as she gathers her things.
“You’re ready for this,” he says quietly.
She smiles. “We are.”
Across the room, Lando and Mick are already arguing about stint order like it’s a game.
Jenson turns to Zak. “You’ve built something… interesting.”
Zak watches the three of them—together, effortless, already a team.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think so too.”
⸻
They stay late.
Too late.
Dinner shows up unannounced and gets ignored. Jackets come off. Shoes get kicked under consoles. Someone dims the lights because it feels right.
They take turns in the simulator at first.
Then they stop taking turns.
“Let me try that entry,” Louise says, already sliding into the seat before Lando can object.
“Oi,” he protests. “I was mid-argument.”
Mick leans over her shoulder, pointing at the screen. “Brake later. Trust it.”
She does.
The lap time drops.
Lando groans. “I hate this team.”
“You love us,” Mick says.
“I love winning,” Lando counters. “You’re incidental.”
They start running relay stints—one driving, one calling data, one adjusting strategy on the fly. It’s loud. Competitive. Chaotic.
And somehow seamless.
At one point, Louise and Lando speak at the exact same time, calling the same adjustment.
Mick just stares at them. “You’re terrifying.”
Jenson watches from the doorway, shaking his head slowly. “They’re playing,” he says to Zak. “Like kids.”
Zak smiles. “Yeah. But listen to how they’re playing.”
On the screen, the lap times stabilize. Improve. Stack.
Someone whistles softly.
No one wants to be the first to leave.
⸻
By the time they finally collapse onto the couch outside the sim room, they’re shoulder to shoulder, sweat-damp and buzzing.
A strategist stands in front of them, mid-explanation, hands waving.
None of them are looking at the camera.
That’s when McLaren’s social team snaps the photo.
⸻
@.McLarenF1:
Stay tuned.
⸻
The comments explode within minutes.
@.papayadreams: WAIT. WAIT WAIT WAIT.
@.endurancenerd: three drivers?? THREE??
@.lando4life: why does this feel illegal
@.gridwatch: THAT’S LOUISE. THAT’S LOUISE.
@.msclegacy: mick schumacher back where he belongs
@.strategybrain: this is either chaos or genius
@.someonecallthefia: endurance racing just got scary
Louise sees it first, laughing as she scrolls.
“They’re losing their minds.”
Mick leans back, hands behind his head. “They have no idea what’s coming.”
Across the room, Zak watches them—three heads bent together, already arguing about something small and unimportant and perfect.
He sends one last email before shutting down his laptop.
Phase one complete.
Outside, the MTC glows quietly against the night.
Inside, something very real has started.
⸻
Wednesday starts at the McLaren Technology Centre again—not because they’re required to be there, but because no one involved in a project like this can quite stay away.
The building greets them with its usual composure: glass catching the pale morning light, steel lines so clean they feel almost aspirational, the faint smell of coffee and ambition woven into the air like a constant baseline note. It’s quieter than race week, but busier than a normal day—everyone walking with purpose, no one entirely relaxed.
Louise loses track of how many times she signs her name.
NDA extensions. Media clauses. Acknowledgements that endurance racing carries different physical and cognitive risk profiles. Please initial here. And here. And—yes—here again.
She signs carefully, decisively, handwriting neat but firm.
Lando watches from the chair beside her, elbow propped on the table. “You sign aggressively.”
She doesn’t look up. “I sign with intent.”
Mick laughs from across the table, flipping through his own stack. “You should see her simulator notes. It’s like being scolded by a very polite algorithm.”
She finally glances up, eyebrow raised. “You asked for feedback.”
“And I survived it,” Mick replies. “Barely.”
The suits come next.
They’re ushered into a fitting room that feels half medical, half theatrical. Individual platforms. Soft lighting. Technicians moving around them with quiet efficiency, tape measures snapping, tablets lighting up with measurements.
The endurance suits are heavier than their F1 counterparts—thicker, layered, built for hours instead of moments. Louise notices immediately how the weight settles differently across her shoulders, how it demands a kind of patience rather than explosiveness.
She rolls her shoulders once after zipping in. “This feels like commitment.”
Lando flexes his hands, already grimacing. “This feels like I’m about to sweat for twenty-four hours straight.”
A technician doesn’t even blink. “Correct.”
Mick stares at his reflection. “I look like I’ve joined a very serious cult.”
Seat insert scans follow—standing perfectly still while machines map their posture, their asymmetries, the subtle ways their bodies carry stress. A hydration-system briefing comes next, detailed and unglamorous.
Mick squints at one diagram. “So if this fails—”
“It won’t,” the engineer says calmly.
“And if it does—”
“You’ll still finish the stint.”
Lando exhales. “I miss sprint races.”
By the time they step back outside, the sky is already slipping toward dusk, light thinning into something softer and more reflective.
No one suggests dinner.
They’re all buzzing too hard.
⸻
Thursday splits them.
Louise heads to Aston.
She kisses Lando goodbye in the doorway, both of them still half-asleep, the house quiet and dim around them.
“Don’t break the simulator,” he murmurs, voice rough.
She smiles into his shoulder. “No promises.”
At Silverstone, the Aston Martin facility hums with a different rhythm. Less pristine. More alive. The air feels charged with iteration—things being tested, broken, rebuilt.
Louise slips back into her development role like she never left.
Hours blur.
Upgrade packages mapped. Correlation checks run between simulator and wind tunnel data. Brake migration curves adjusted. Energy recovery behavior tweaked until it behaves exactly the way it should under pressure.
When she speaks, engineers lean in. Not because of who she is—but because she’s right.
Adrian stops by mid-session, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp.
“You look settled,” he observes.
“I am,” she replies without hesitation. “Busy. But good.”
He nods once. “The upgrades respond well to your feedback.”
She allows herself a small smile. “They usually do.”
When she finally leaves, her brain is fried in the best way—heavy with effort, light with satisfaction.
⸻
At home, the house in Aylesbury holds them gently.
No rush. No collision.
Louise drops her bag by the door. Lando meets her there, arms loose around her waist, forehead resting against hers like it’s instinct rather than intention.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she says honestly. “You?”
“Tired-excited,” he replies. “The dangerous kind.”
They order food without discussion—Thai, extra rice, two desserts they’ll pretend to split evenly. It arrives fast. They eat on the couch, legs tangled, half-watching a movie neither of them is really following.
Later, they stretch out on the living room floor. Quiet. Deliberate.
Louise works her thumbs into Lando’s neck, firm but careful, feeling where the tension lives.
“You’re holding it here,” she murmurs.
“I know,” he says. “I keep thinking about night stints.”
She rests her forehead against his shoulder. “We’ll manage it. Together.”
He nods. Doesn’t argue.
"Can't wait.”
They’ve learned this part—the balance. How to let excitement exist without letting it burn them out. How to sit inside anticipation instead of sprinting toward it.
That night, they fall asleep early.
No alarms. No schedules.
Just the steady, grounding knowledge that something big is coming—and that they don’t have to chase it alone.
⸻
Sunday arrived slowly.
The curtains were still drawn, the bedroom washed in that pale gray light that existed somewhere between dawn and morning, when neither of them were fully awake nor fully asleep. The house was quiet around them. No alarms. No schedules. Just the steady hum of a summer morning beginning somewhere beyond the walls.
Louise stirred first, not enough to open her eyes, only enough to shift closer beneath the duvet.
Lando responded instinctively.
His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her against his chest with the unconscious certainty of someone who had spent enough nights beside another person that their body had started recognizing them before their brain did.
Neither made any effort to get up.
In fact, they seemed equally committed to doing the exact opposite.
Louise let out a sleepy sigh and tucked her face beneath his chin.
"What time is it?"
Lando's voice came out rough from sleep.
"No idea."
"You should check."
"You should check."
A soft laugh escaped her.
"I asked first."
"You have functioning arms."
"So do you."
"Not currently."
His hand lazily rubbed up and down her back to emphasize the point.
"I'm occupied."
Louise smiled against his chest.
The conversation died there, neither of them motivated enough to actually solve the mystery.
Outside, a bird chirped somewhere near the garden.
Inside, they remained exactly where they were.
Lando's fingers wandered absentmindedly along her arm while Louise traced lazy shapes across his stomach. Neither movement seemed to have a destination. They were simply there, filling the silence between them.
Eventually she lifted her head enough to look at him.
His hair was sticking up in several directions.
She reached over and flattened one section.
It immediately sprang back up.
She laughed.
Louise leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
His lips curved instantly.
The morning stretched comfortably around them.
They talked about nothing important.
Each topic flowed naturally into the next, meandering without purpose the way conversations often did when neither person had anywhere else to be.
For a while, neither noticed how much time had passed.
Then Lando's phone began vibrating across the bedside table.
The sound cut through the quiet room.
Both of them groaned.
Louise reached blindly for the duvet and pulled it over her head.
"Tell them we're closed."
Lando laughed and finally stretched enough to grab the phone.
The second he saw the screen his expression softened.
"Mum."
Louise peeked out from beneath the blanket.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
He answered.
"Morning."
A pause.
His mother's voice carried faintly through the speaker.
Lando settled back against the headboard while Louise curled against his side, listening only to his half of the conversation.
"Yeah, I’m good."
Another pause.
"No, still in bed."
A longer pause.
He rolled his eyes.
"Well, because it's Sunday."
Louise heard the unmistakable sound of his mother laughing.
A smile tugged at her own mouth.
The conversation wandered much the same way theirs had.
Family updates.
Questions about travel plans.
Comments about race weekends.
A few stories Louise couldn't quite hear but could tell from Lando's reactions were entertaining enough.
Eventually his mother's attention shifted.
Lando glanced down at Louise.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, she's here."
Another pause.
His grin widened.
"I know."
More talking.
"Yes, Mum."
He laughed.
"Okay."
A beat.
"I'll tell her."
When the call finally ended, he dropped the phone onto the mattress beside him.
The room settled back into quiet.
Louise tilted her head.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah."
He slipped an arm around her shoulders again.
"She was just catching up."
"Mhm."
"Mum being Mum."
Louise smiled.
"What did she want you to tell me?"
Lando looked mildly amused.
"Apparently she's still waiting for me to bring you down there."
Louise blinked.
"That's all?"
"Pretty much."
"She's mentioned it before."
"Several times."
A pause.
Another.
Then Louise shifted enough to look at him properly.
"Why not today?"
Lando frowned.
"Today?"
"Yeah."
He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion.
"Now?"
"If we leave within the hour, we can still make it for lunch."
"Lunch."
"Late lunch."
He continued staring.
Louise laughed.
"What?"
"I wasn't expecting you to say that."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
His hand settled on her thigh.
"I figured we'd eventually plan something."
"That sounds suspiciously like procrastination."
"It wasn't procrastination."
"It absolutely was."
He considered it.
"Okay, maybe a little."
Louise shook her head.
The idea had already taken root.
She could feel it happening.
One simple suggestion turning into a plan.
The kind that often became their favorite days.
No overthinking.
No elaborate scheduling.
Just deciding to do something and then doing it.
There was something warm about it.
Something that made the entire idea feel inevitable.
He reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Mum's going to be unbearable."
"Excited?"
"Very."
"I can handle excited."
"You say that now."
Louise nudged him.
"Get up."
The response was immediate.
"No."
"You have to."
"We don't."
"We do."
Lando pulled her back down beside him before she could escape the bed.
She laughed as he wrapped both arms around her.
"You're making us late."
"We don't have a departure time."
"We do now."
"Who decided that?"
"I did."
"Dictator."
Louise kissed his cheek.
"Get up."
Lando sighed the long suffering sigh of a man facing impossible adversity.
Then he pressed one final kiss into her hair and finally sat up.
The morning spell broke at last.
Beyond the bedroom windows, sunlight had begun spreading across the gardens.
The day was waiting.
And somewhere a couple hours south, his mother was unknowingly about to get exactly what she'd been asking for.
—
Five minutes earlier neither of them had wanted to leave bed. Ten minutes later they were moving through the familiar choreography of getting ready for a day out, crossing paths in hallways and doorways, conversations continuing from room to room without either needing to raise their voice.
Louise disappeared to shower while Lando headed toward the kitchen, already mentally making lists.
By the time she came back downstairs, he was standing with the refrigerator door open.
"What are you doing?"
"Preparing."
She eyed the counter.
There were enough snacks laid out to survive a small natural disaster.
She laughed, shaking her head as she walked past him toward the dining table.
For someone who claimed spontaneity was one of his best qualities, he was remarkably particular when it came to road trips.
Everything had a place.
Everything had a reason.
A packet of wipes went into the boot.
A blanket followed.
Then another.
A small first-aid kit.
More snacks.
Louise was fairly certain he was preparing for every possible scenario except an alien invasion.
Meanwhile her own packing was considerably less complicated.
Her iPad disappeared into a tote bag.
A charging cable followed.
Headphones.
Water bottles.
A spare jumper.
Done.
She found Lando crouched by the car a few minutes later, checking tire pressures.
"You know we're driving to your parents' town, not crossing the Sahara."
He looked up.
"You'll thank me later."
"I don't think I will."
"You will."
She leaned against the garage doorway.
Louise watched him stand, brush his hands together and inspect the car one final time.
Satisfied.
Always satisfied only after checking everything twice.
The sight made her smile.
Some people knew Lando Norris the Formula One driver.
The one who flew around the world and lived out of suitcases and hotel rooms.
Very few people got to know the version who packed blankets for a two-hour drive because somebody might get cold.
This version was her favorite.
Inside, he grabbed his phone and called his mother while Louise filled their water bottles.
The conversation started exactly as expected.
"Yes, Mum, we're actually coming."
A pause.
Lando laughed.
"I'm serious."
Another pause.
"I'm not winding you up."
Louise heard the unmistakable sound of delighted disbelief through the speaker.
By the time he hung up he was grinning.
"Well?"
"I think she almost dropped the phone."
"That's promising."
"She keeps asking what time we're arriving."
Louise smiled.
The countryside unfolded around them in shades of green and gold, hedgerows rushing past while villages appeared and disappeared beyond the windows.
Sunday traffic was mercifully light.
Louise spent the first part of the drive reading on her iPad while music played quietly through the speakers.
Every so often she'd look up and point out something she'd seen.
A horse standing near a fence.
An old stone cottage.
A dog hanging its head out of a car window.
The observations became conversations.
The conversations became stories.
Before either of them realized it, the miles had disappeared beneath the wheels.
As they got closer to his hometown, Louise noticed something subtle change in him.
Not nervousness.
Not exactly.
Just familiarity.
The sort that settled into a person when every road carried memories.
Every roundabout.
Every street.
Every landmark.
"Oh."
She pointed out the window.
"Is that the school?"
Lando glanced over.
"Yeah."
She looked back.
It seemed impossibly normal.
A collection of buildings that gave no indication they had once contained a teenager who'd eventually become one of the most recognizable drivers in motorsport.
"That's weird."
"What is?"
"You've told me so many stories."
He laughed.
"Trust me, it looked bigger when I was twelve."
The closer they got, the more stories emerged.
A football field.
A corner shop.
A park he'd spent summers in.
A road where he'd once crashed a bicycle and sworn never to tell his parents.
That confession immediately earned him a look.
"You never told them?"
"No."
"Lando."
"I was fine."
The answer came so quickly she burst out laughing.
Eventually the restaurant appeared around a familiar bend in the road.
The building itself wasn't particularly grand.
Warm brick.
Flower boxes beneath windows.
A hand-painted sign that had likely remained unchanged for decades.
The sort of place that felt immune to time.
Lando parked beside the entrance.
The moment they stepped inside, Louise understood why his family kept returning.
The air carried the smell of fresh bread and roasted garlic.
Old photographs covered one wall.
The lighting was soft.
The atmosphere immediately familiar.
One of the waiters looked up from behind the bar and immediately broke into a grin.
"Well, look who finally remembered us."
Lando laughed.
"Hi, Peter."
"Your mother's already inside."
"Of course she is."
"Been checking the window every five minutes."
That sounded exactly right.
The owner emerged from somewhere near the kitchen before they had even made it halfway across the room.
His face lit up.
"Lando!"
The greeting came complete with a hug and several affectionate complaints about how rarely he visited.
By the time they reached the private corner table Cisca had reserved, she felt less like a guest and more like somebody being welcomed into an extended family.
His mother stood first.
Then his father.
Hugs followed.
Questions.
More hugs.
Lunch settled into an easy rhythm.
Starters arrived.
Drinks appeared.
Conversation flowed.
The sort of conversation that didn't need structure because everyone genuinely wanted to hear the answers.
His parents wanted updates on everything.
The house.
The horses.
The endless adjustments of living together.
How they were settling in.
Whether they liked the area.
If they'd managed to unpack everything.
Louise and Lando exchanged a look.
"No."
Cisca immediately nodded.
"Good."
"Good?"
"No one ever finishes unpacking."
His father pointed toward her.
"She's right."
"There are still boxes from our first loft lost in the attic."
Lunch stretched pleasantly.
Coffee followed dessert.
Nobody seemed particularly eager to leave.
Eventually they did, wandering out into the afternoon sunshine together.
A small park sat a short walk from the restaurant.
Trees shaded winding paths.
The pace of everything felt slower than the world they usually occupied.
Nobody hurried.
Nobody checked the time.
Cisca linked her arm through Louise's as they walked.
Ahead of them, Lando and his father had immediately fallen into conversation.
The path curved beside a pond.
Ducks drifted lazily across the water.
A warm breeze rustled through the leaves overhead.
For a while nobody spoke.
They simply enjoyed the afternoon.
Eventually the time came to leave.
The drive home still waited ahead.
The goodbye took longer than expected.
Then longer again.
Cisca hugged Louise.
Then hugged her once more.
Finally she turned to her son.
"When are you coming back?"
"Mum."
"That's not an answer."
"We were literally just here."
"And?"
Lando laughed.
She crossed her arms.
"I want an actual visit."
"This was an actual visit."
"No."
Cisca pointed toward the restaurant.
"This was lunch."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
She continued.
"I want a proper visit."
"Mum."
"A day or two."
His father looked entirely entertained.
Cisca remained unmoved.
"A weekend."
Lando sighed dramatically.
"A weekend?"
"Or longer."
"Negotiations aren't supposed to start at the maximum."
Louise bit back a smile.
Cisca ignored him completely.
Her attention shifted.
"Louise?"
The betrayal arrived instantly.
"I think that's reasonable."
Lando looked horrified.
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on her side."
Cisca beamed.
"Thank you."
Lando pointed accusingly between them.
"This is exactly what I was worried about."
In the end he promised.
Not because he had much choice.
And because, truthfully, he wanted to.
As they finally climbed back into the car, Cisca tapped the roof through the open window.
"I'm holding you to it."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
The car pulled away amid one final round of waves.
Louise twisted in her seat to watch his parents grow smaller in the mirror.
For several minutes neither of them spoke.
The afternoon sun stretched across the road ahead.
Fields rolled past outside the windows.
Finally Louise reached across the center console and threaded her fingers through his.
Lando squeezed gently.
"Today was nice."
"Yeah."
A small smile appeared on his face.
The quiet kind.
The genuine kind.
The kind that lingered.
"Yeah," he said again, watching the road unfold ahead of them. "It really was."
Summary: Lando has always loved the little things about Louise. The way her curls change from day to day. The rituals she never thinks twice about. The habits that make her who she is. What he doesn’t expect is discovering that she’s been collecting little pieces of him, too.
Word Count: 1.4k
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It starts with steam.
Not dramatic, not cinematic—just the ordinary, fogged-up mirror kind that turns the bathroom into its own small weather system. The air is thick with the scent of her shampoo—something warm, faintly floral, coconut threaded through it. The kind of smell that lingers in hallways long after she’s left them.
He leans against the counter, sleeves pushed up, watching her tilt her head under the spray.
“You’re staring,” she says over the sound of water.
“I’m observing.”
She snorts softly. “You don’t observe. You hover.”
He grins. “Same thing.”
She reaches back blindly and flicks water in his direction.
He doesn’t move.
He just watches the way her hair darkens as it soaks, the waves loosening under the weight, curls stretching long and heavy down her back.
He loves it like this.
Unfinished.
Becoming.
When she turns the water off, she squeezes it out gently, careful and methodical. She always treats her hair like it’s something alive.
He steps closer without asking.
“Let me,” he says quietly.
She glances at him through damp lashes.
“You’ll tangle it.”
“I won’t.”
She hands him the towel.
He gathers her hair in his hands, pressing the cotton gently around it instead of rubbing. He learned that the first time she glared at him for being too aggressive.
“Scrunch it,” she instructs.
“Yes, m’lady.”
He squeezes upward, carefully. The curls begin to form as if encouraged by gravity and patience.
She watches him in the mirror.
“You’re very focused.”
“I respect the craft.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
He loves all versions of it.
He tells her that often.
But he doesn’t think she quite believes him.
—
The days she lets it air dry are his favorite.
Not because it looks better.
Because it looks softer.
The waves form slowly, unpredictably. Loose spirals here. A stray curl peeking near the ends. Texture that shifts with humidity and movement.
It feels like her.
Unforced.
He’ll find her later on the couch, hair still slightly damp, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, reading something with her legs tucked under her.
He sits behind her and reaches for the ends.
She doesn’t even look up.
“You’re going to start.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
His fingers begin twirling one of the curls at the nape of her neck.
She exhales slowly.
“You always start like that.”
“Like what?”
“Innocently.”
He winds the curl around his finger and lets it spring back.
“I just like how it bounces.”
“It’s not a toy.”
“It kind of is.”
She tilts her head back against his shoulder.
He moves to another curl, careful not to tug.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “this one’s rebellious.”
She squints. “What.”
“It doesn’t follow the pattern.”
She reaches back, trying to feel which one he means.
“They don’t follow patterns.”
“They do. Mostly.”
She huffs.
“Stop categorizing my hair.”
He grins into it.
“Can’t help it.”
He presses his face lightly into the side of her head.
It smells clean and warm and like something that belongs to him now, even though it doesn’t.
—
When she uses heavier products, it changes.
Glossy.
Defined.
Each curl shaped and deliberate, catching light like polished ribbon.
The first time she walks into the room like that, he actually pauses mid-sentence.
She notices.
“What.”
He blinks once.
“Okay.”
“Okay what.”
“That’s illegal.”
She narrows her eyes.
“It’s the same hair.”
“No, this is—” he gestures vaguely “—structured.”
She laughs.
“It’s just gel.”
“It’s powerful.”
She rolls her eyes but pretends not to be pleased.
Later, he sits behind her again, but this time he doesn’t twirl as freely.
“These feel different.”
“Because they’re set.”
“Set sounds permanent.”
“It’s not.”
He tests one gently.
It springs back more firmly.
He nods approvingly.
“I like it.”
“You said you like the soft ones.”
“I do.”
“So which.”
He pauses.
Then shrugs.
“All of them.”
She studies him like she’s checking for exaggeration.
He isn’t.
“I like that they change,” he adds quietly.
She tilts her head.
“Why.”
“Because you do.”
That lands softer than he intended.
She looks away first.
—
The blow out days are louder.
Those are the mornings she stands in front of the mirror with more patience than usual, sectioning her hair carefully, pulling it taut while the dryer hums.
He’ll lean in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You’re going straight.”
“Not straight.”
“Looks straight.”
“It’s not.”
And she’s right.
By the time they leave the house, it’s smooth at the top, volume at the ends. Big waves forming slowly as the day goes on, loose curls peeking out like they refused to be disciplined.
By late afternoon, it’s something else entirely.
He loves watching that transformation.
At dinner once, he reaches across the table and catches one of the ends curling back.
“It’s revolting.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“It refuses to obey.”
She laughs.
“That’s the point.”
He runs his hand slowly through it when it’s like this—fingers gliding easily from crown to ends.
He does it absentmindedly when they’re standing in elevators.
In queues.
In kitchens.
His hand at the back of her head, gentle pressure, thumb brushing her scalp.
It steadies him.
It steadies her too.
—
He helps her wash it sometimes.
Not because she asks.
Because he insists.
“You’re not doing it properly,” he claims.
“You don’t know what properly is.”
“I do now.”
He massages shampoo into her scalp carefully, thumbs working slow circles.
She melts despite herself.
“That feels nice,” she mutters.
“Of course it does.”
He’s surprisingly patient with detangling conditioner through the lengths, starting from the bottom like she taught him.
He’s careful with the knots.
Careful with her.
Sometimes she closes her eyes and lets the water run and just exists under his hands.
There’s something intimate about it that doesn’t feel performative.
No cameras.
No noise.
Just steam and touch and breath.
“You trust me?” he asks once, rinsing carefully.
She doesn’t open her eyes.
“Yes.”
It’s simple.
He swallows.
⸻
But she has her version too.
It’s at the base of his neck.
Right where his hair starts to curl when it gets longer.
That small, soft anchor of growth that appears between haircuts.
The first time she threads her fingers into it absentmindedly while they’re lying on the couch, he makes a quiet sound.
“What was that.”
“Nothing.”
She does it again.
Slower.
He exhales.
“Oh.”
She smiles slightly.
“You like that.”
“Maybe.”
Her fingers slide through the short strands, nails grazing lightly against his scalp.
It’s grounding.
For him.
For her.
She starts doing it whenever he’s distracted.
In the car.
On planes.
Her hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers tangling gently in that growing softness.
It becomes instinct.
—
Which is why she hates haircut days.
He’ll come home looking sharp, edges clean, neckline crisp.
Objectively handsome.
Infuriatingly so.
She stares at him.
“What.”
“You cut it.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me it was today.”
He grins.
“I mentioned it.”
She walks up to him, runs her hand to the base of his neck.
Stops.
There’s nothing to hold.
She makes a small, wounded noise.
“No.”
He laughs.
“It grows back.”
“That’s not the point.”
He leans down slightly.
“You’re dramatic.”
She scowls.
“That was my anchor.”
He stills.
“Your what.”
She hesitates, realizing she said that out loud.
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
She sighs.
“When I get restless,” she says quietly, “I hold it.”
He blinks.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
He thinks about every time she’s done that—how he calmed without knowing why.
“Oh.”
She crosses her arms.
“It’s gone.”
He reaches for her wrists gently.
“It’ll come back.”
“That’s weeks.”
He smiles softly.
“I didn’t know it mattered.”
“It does.”
He tilts his head.
“Okay.”
“Okay what.”
“Next time I’ll warn you.”
She narrows her eyes.
“And?”
“And maybe,” he adds, stepping closer, “I won’t cut it so short.”
Her expression softens.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She studies him for a moment.
Then, reluctantly, she slides her hand into the short hair anyway.
It’s different.
But it’s still him.
She sighs dramatically.
“I suppose I’ll adjust.”
He laughs quietly and pulls her closer.
—
Later that night, she’s sitting between his knees on the bed, hair half-dry, curls forming unevenly.
He reaches forward and begins twisting the ends again.
She lets him.
“You know,” he says softly, “if you shaved it all off tomorrow, I’d still like it.”
She glances back at him.
“That’s extreme.”
“I’m serious.”
She searches his face.
“Why.”
“Because it’s you.”
The simplicity of it makes her throat tighten.
She turns back around.
He leans forward and presses a slow kiss into the side of her head, just above her ear.
She reaches behind her without looking and finds the base of his neck, fingers sliding into the short hair there.
Still enough.
For now.
He exhales quietly.
Anchored.
And between soft curls and growing strands, between gelled definition and rebellious waves, they keep finding small, wordless ways to hold each other in place.
Summary: Shanghai brings victories, Jeddah brings frustration, and somewhere between airports, hotel rooms, and FaceTime calls, both of them are forced to navigate a version of success that doesn’t always arrive at the same time.
Word Count: 5k
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The plane hums at cruising altitude—steady, expensive, obedient. The kind of quiet that doesn’t belong to silence so much as control. Engine noise smoothed into a low vibration beneath leather seats and polished wood, just loud enough to make whispers feel like confessions.
Outside the window, the world is clouds and nothing else.
Inside, trouble is brewing.
Louise is curled sideways in one of the wide seats, knees tucked up, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she’s trying to disappear into soft fabric. Her chin is tucked down, eyes fixed on the small table between them with the wary concentration of someone watching a snake in tall grass.
Alex Albon is already shuffling cards, fast and confident, fingers moving with muscle memory that suggests he learned poker too young and never fully quit. The deck snaps crisply, a familiar, dangerous sound.
Next to him, Carlos Sainz lounges like the outcome has already been decided. One ankle crossed over his knee, expression smug in a way that feels preemptive.
Lando sits beside Louise, one arm draped along the back of her seat, the other loosely holding his cards. He’s pretending to watch the game.
He’s lying.
He’s watching her.
Alex grins as he deals. “Okay. Friendly game.”
Carlos snorts immediately. “There is no such thing.”
Louise raises a hand—polite, hopeful, unmistakably strategic. “Can I just watch this time, pleeease.”
Lando stiffens.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Every instinct he has lights up like a dashboard warning.
“I don’t like this,” he says, eyes narrowing.
Louise turns her head slowly to look at him, eyes wide, guileless, almost angelic. “Why?”
“Because,” he says carefully, “when you ‘just watch,’ you’re doing… math.”
Alex laughs. “She's not even going to play.”
“That still scares me,” Lando mutters.
Louise pokes his ribs with the tip of her sleeve. “Oh c’mon. I’m tired of you guys shooing me off every time that case opens. I won’t touch anything. I won’t ask questions. I’ll just sit here and be decorative.”
Carlos arches a brow. “You’re never decorative.”
She gasps, offended and delighted all at once. “Carlos. Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Alex shrugs, already dealing cards. “As long as she’s not playing.”
Louise nods solemnly. “Observer status only.”
Lando squints at her. “You swear?”
She crosses her heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“I didn’t know you were ever a scout.”
“I'm full of surprises,” she says brightly.
The game begins.
Chips clink softly, a comforting, dangerous sound. Cards slide across the table. Alex explains nothing. Carlos narrates everything, trash talk spilling from him like oxygen. Lando plays cautiously, mind split between strategy and the quiet weight beside him.
Louise says nothing.
Not a single word.
Her gaze drifts lazily—never lingering too long. Cards. Faces. Hands. Timing. The rhythm of the game. Carlos taps the table twice when he’s confident. Alex leans back when he’s bluffing. Lando’s thumb pauses for half a beat longer when he’s unsure.
She doesn’t react.
She records.
Ten minutes pass.
Lando leans closer, lowering his voice. “You okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You haven’t said a word.”
“I’m behaving.”
“That’s not comforting.”
Alex loses a hand. Carlos scoops the pot, grin widening. “Too easy.”
Louise tilts her head slightly, casual as anything. “You didn’t need to raise there.”
The table freezes.
The hum of the plane suddenly feels louder.
Alex turns slowly. “What?”
She shrugs, like she’s commenting on the weather. “He was already folding in two rounds. You rushed him.”
Carlos stares at her.
Lando drops his head back against the seat with a long-suffering groan. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
Alex bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “She’s terrifying.”
Louise smiles sweetly, hands still tucked safely inside her sleeves. “I didn’t do anything.”
Carlos points at her, accusatory. “She’s banned.”
Lando nods immediately. “From now on.”
Louise beams—bright, triumphant, completely unrepentant.
“Worth it,” she says.
And the game continues—slightly more nervous than before.
⸻
Shanghai hits like a wall of noise and light.
The city doesn’t ease you in. It announces itself—screens stacked on buildings, traffic flowing like circuitry, the air buzzing with heat and movement and momentum. The circuit sits inside it all like a nerve ending, alive before a single car turns a wheel.
By Thursday, Louise is back in Aston green.
The suit fits like it was designed for this version of her—tailored, intentional, not borrowed from anything she used to be. Her hair is braided tight down her back, practical and severe, her posture calm in that unmistakable way that reads as dangerous if you know her. Not tense. Not aggressive. Settled.
The media pen buzzes the moment she steps in.
Microphones tilt toward her like flowers chasing sun.
A reporter doesn’t bother warming up. “Do you feel pressure to prove something after stepping back from full-time racing?”
Louise doesn’t even blink.
“No,” she says simply.
The word lands clean. No apology attached to it.
“I feel motivated.”
Another voice cuts in immediately. “Confident?”
She nods once. “Very.”
“In what, exactly?”
She tilts her head slightly, considering—not the answer, but how much of it they deserve.
“In the work I’m doing, with the team,” she says. “Knowing I have less opportunities to be on track just pushes me to work harder behind the scenes. I’m not chasing trophies this year. I’m building something.”
Someone tries to push past that. “But winning—”
Her smile appears then. Polite. Precise. Razor-sharp.
“Winning,” she says, “is a byproduct. Not the goal. At least for me.”
The room goes quiet in the way people do when they realize they’ve misjudged the angle of attack.
⸻
Friday proves she wasn’t posturing.
FP1: fastest.
No fuss. No overdriving. Just clean laps stacking on top of each other like she’s calibrating something invisible.
Sprint qualifying follows, and the timing screens flick purple so often it looks like a technical error.
Pole.
The commentary box dissolves into incredulous laughter.
“Already?” someone says. “Took her long enough.”
Lando watches from the McLaren garage, arms folded, jaw tight—not with jealousy, but with that sharp curl of pride that comes with knowing someone this well. Knowing exactly how hard she’s worked to make it look this effortless.
He sends her a text from two garages over.
You scare people when you’re calm like this.
Her reply comes instantly.
Good.
—
Saturday doesn’t slow anything down.
If anything, it sharpens it.
The sprint race is controlled to the point of insult. Louise never looks rushed, never looks threatened. She manages the gap like she’s adjusting volume—up a little here, steady there, never giving the field a reason to believe.
She crosses the line with a margin that feels almost rude.
Main qualifying follows, and the result barely surprises anyone paying attention.
Pole again.
Carlos catches her in parc fermé, shaking his head like he’s trying to recalibrate reality. “You’re supposed to be part-time.”
She shrugs, unbothered. “I’m efficient.”
Lando bumps her shoulder as he passes, grin crooked. “You’re going to get banned.”
“Worth it,” she replies without hesitation.
—
Sunday feels inevitable.
Not easy. Not casual. Just… already written.
The lights go out and she launches cleanly, perfectly, slotting into the race like she’s aligning herself with gravity. The opening laps stretch into rhythm. Tire management so precise engineers stop talking and just watch.
The commentators scramble for new language.
“Dominant doesn’t feel like enough.”
“This is control.”
“She’s not racing the field—she’s setting the pace for it.”
Louise takes the flag.
Another win.
Another statement she never once said out loud.
⸻
Lando finishes fourth.
It’s not bad. Not catastrophic. It’s points. It’s solid. It’s the kind of result you tell yourself is fine.
He sits in the cockpit longer than usual after the cooldown lap, helmet still on, visor down. He watches Aston mechanics spill onto the pit wall, green gloves punching the air. Watches her climb out of the car on the big screen—helmet off, smile flashing, sweat darkening her hairline.
For the first time since their first race, he doesn’t step up with her to the podium.
The absence lands heavier than the result.
He runs through the logic automatically—development matters, consistency matters, it’s early, it’s fine—but motorsport has never cared how rational you are. It still finds the cracks. Still presses where it knows it’ll hurt.
When he finally steps out of the car, the noise hits him all at once. Applause. Cameras. The weight of doing okay on a weekend where she did brilliant.
She looks over from parc fermé, helmet off, eyes searching without thinking.
Their gazes meet.
She smiles first.
Not triumphant. Not apologetic.
He lifts two fingers in a small salute.
Go on, it says. This one’s yours.
⸻
The podium happens without him.
Louise stands center, champagne slick on her fireproofs, Aston green glowing under the Shanghai sun. She laughs when the bottle fights back, throws her head back when the anthem plays, eyes closing for half a second longer than necessary.
It’s everything it should be.
And when it’s over—when the interviews end and the adrenaline drains—she feels the missing weight beside her like a bruise you only notice once the impact’s passed.
Later. Much later.
Her phone buzzes.
Lando (FaceTime)
She answers instantly.
His face fills the screen—post-race tired, hair flattened, eyes sharp but rimmed with exhaustion.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” she replies. “You okay?”
He exhales. “Yeah. I think so.”
She nods, understanding what he didn’t say. “I kept looking for you.”
“I know,” he admits. “I saw.”
A beat.
“I’m proud of you,” he adds, no hesitation. “You were… unreal.”
Her smile is smaller now. Realer. “I wanted you up there.”
“I wanted me up there too,” he says, then snorts. “Selfishly.”
She laughs, then sobers. “Does it feel weird?”
“Yeah,” he says honestly. “But not in a bad way. Just… different.”
She tilts the phone so he can see the empty space beside her. “It felt strange celebrating without you.”
He studies the screen for a moment. “It won’t always line up.”
“I know.”
“But,” he continues, quieter now, “I don’t want us to ever pretend it doesn’t matter.”
She nods. “It matters. Just not more than us.”
That earns a smile—tired, but solid.
“Good,” he says. “Because next time, I’m stealing some of that podium champagne.”
“Next time,” she agrees. “We share.”
They sit there a moment longer, continents apart but oddly aligned, learning the shape of this version of them—where victories don’t always overlap, but support always does.
And for the first time, neither of them feels like they’re losing ground.
—
China doesn’t end cleanly.
Louise feels it in the way the terminal blurs past her—bright signage, clipped announcements in three languages, the constant undertow of people moving with purpose. Everything is momentum. Everything is now.
She’s already strapped into her seat when her phone vibrates in her hand.
Lando: Boarding. Gate chaos. You?
She smiles despite herself, thumbs moving automatically.
Louise: Already taxiing. Dubai next.
There’s a pause—long enough that she imagines him standing half-turned in some fluorescent-lit corridor, carry-on at his feet, scanning the crowd like he might spot her anyway.
Lando: Jeddah for me. Miss you already.
Her chest tightens in that familiar, quiet way. Not painful. Just noticeable.
Louise: Miss you too.
The plane jolts forward before either of them can add anything else. The cabin lights dim slightly. The world narrows to motion and restraint and the hum of engines winding up.
She locks her phone and rests it on her thigh, staring out at the tarmac as Shanghai slides away.
No hug by the gate.
No last-second jokes about who packed better snacks.
Just this—parallel departures, slightly off-beat.
It’s becoming a pattern.
⸻
Jeddah is heat and sharp edges.
Lando feels it the moment he steps out of the airport—warm air clinging immediately, the city humming even late at night. His hotel room is immaculate in that impersonal way: crisp sheets, too many pillows, a view of lights stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
He drops his bag by the door and collapses backward onto the bed, phone bouncing once against his chest.
The silence hits harder than the travel.
Then the group chat lights up.
Carlos: Padel tomorrow? Before we all disappear into chaos.
Lando exhales, tension easing a fraction. Of course Carlos would organize something. Of course it would involve competition disguised as fun.
Alex: I’m in.
Pierre: Only if Carlos promises not to take it personally when he loses.
Carlos: You still haven’t recovered from last time.
Lando smirks, thumbs hovering before he replies.
Lando: Yeah. I’m in.
He tosses the phone aside and stares at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the muted city sounds filtering through the glass.
Motion, again.
The padel courts sit tucked behind a hotel complex like a secret—glass walls catching the sun, palm trees casting thin, shifting shadows across the concrete. It’s deliberately low-key. No cameras. No branding screaming for attention. Just sport for the sake of it.
Lando shows up early, racket bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses shoved into his hair. He rolls his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from travel, and takes a deep breath.
Carlos is already there, of course—lunging dramatically, one leg propped up on the bench like he’s auditioning for a fitness campaign.
“Finally,” Carlos says when he spots him. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned us.”
Alex looks up from tying his shoes, grin easy. “Or that he’s gone full hermit.”
Pierre, leaning casually against the fence, lifts a hand. “You look suspiciously rested.”
Lando scoffs. “Suspicious? I flew twelve hours.”
“That’s rested by driver standards,” Alex says.
They laugh, the sound bouncing off the glass, loose and unguarded. For a moment, it feels almost normal.
They split into teams without ceremony—Carlos and Pierre on one side, Lando and Alex on the other. No one bothers keeping score out loud, but everyone knows exactly where they stand.
The game snaps into rhythm quickly.
Carlos smashes a winner down the line, ball ricocheting sharply off the glass.
“Yes!” he shouts, fist pumping. “That’s for the soul.”
Lando jogs back into position, rolling his neck. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Carlos replies, grinning, “you keep inviting me.”
Between points, Alex tosses Lando a bottle of water. “You get in early?”
“Yesterday,” Lando says, twisting the cap. “Needed the time zone to stop bullying me.”
Pierre watches him for a beat longer than necessary—not intrusive, just… perceptive.
“Anyone with you?” he asks lightly, like he’s asking about luggage or room service.
Lando shakes his head. “Just the usual entourage. My trainer, my dad and my manager.”
Pierre nods, accepting it easily. “Sometimes that’s good.”
“Sometimes,” Lando agrees.
The sun dips lower as they play, heat easing into something bearable. Shirts darken with sweat. Laughter comes easier. The competitive edge stays sharp but friendly, the way it always does when no one’s career is actually on the line.
By the end, Alex collapses onto the bench, breathless. “Same tomorrow?”
“If my legs still work,” Lando says.
Carlos claps him on the back. “You’ll survive. You always do.”
As they pack up, phones come out almost in unison—messages checked, calendars glanced at, the reality of race week creeping back in.
Lando lingers a moment longer, stepping aside, thumbs moving quickly.
Lando: Padel. Survived. No injuries. You?
The reply comes fast.
Louise: Gym. Hated it. Complained the hole time.
He smiles, quiet and private, slipping the phone back into his pocket like a small talisman.
Around him, Jeddah keeps moving—traffic humming, voices echoing, the city alive with the promise of speed and spectacle.
Race week hasn’t officially started yet.
But the rhythm is already there.
And somewhere between terminals and courts, different cities and shared jokes, they’re learning how to move with it—together, even when the timing doesn’t quite line up.
—
The track greets Lando with heat and headlights.
The circuit doesn’t ease you in. It arrives all at once—lanes of traffic sliding past like blades, neon signs smeared into color by speed, the air thick and unmoving even after sunset. From the back of the car, he watches it all with a distant focus, fingers tapping idly against his knee.
At dusk, he walks alone.
No entourage. No engineers. Just him, the concrete, and the walls rising higher than they ever look on TV. The track feels less like a loop and more like a weapon—sharp angles, blind entries, confidence demanded before it’s earned. The barriers loom close enough to feel personal, like they’re daring him to flinch.
He keeps his hands in his pockets, boots scuffing softly as he traces the racing line with his eyes.
China creeps in despite his best efforts.
Fourth isn’t failure. He knows that. Everyone tells him that. Points are points. Progress is progress. But it isn’t enough either—not when expectations live so loudly in his head, not when he knows how close he was to something better.
He exhales slowly, staring down one of the fastest stretches of asphalt he’ll see all year.
His phone buzzes.
He doesn’t look at it right away. Lets it buzz again. Then he pulls it out, thumb hovering when he sees her name.
A voice note.
He presses play.
Louise’s voice is soft, familiar, edged with that calm precision she uses when she means every word.
“Hey. I know this weekend’s… sharp,” she says, the faint echo of a large room behind her. “I’m not going to tell you to be confident or aggressive or anything like that. You already know how to drive this place.”
He smiles before she even finishes.
“Just—drive the way you do when you’re not trying to prove anything. Do your best.”
The message ends.
He stands there for a second longer than necessary, phone warm in his hand, the track suddenly quieter.
That’s how she does it.
No speeches. No clichés. No pressure disguised as belief.
Just trust—placed gently enough that he can pick it up when he’s ready, not thrown at him like a demand.
He pockets the phone and keeps walking, shoulders looser than before.
⸻
Dubai smells like sand and steel.
Louise feels the shift the moment she steps into the range—the controlled chill of air conditioning, the hum of ventilation, the quiet discipline that settles over the space like a held breath. This world asks for something different than racing does. Less spectacle. More stillness.
Firearms cases line the benches where helmets might sit elsewhere. Precision replaces velocity. The noise, when it comes, is sharp and contained.
She thrives in it.
Each round is deliberate. Measured. Her stance doesn’t waver, shoulders relaxed, breath even. The target downrange becomes everything—no crowd, no expectation, just the narrow focus of execution.
Between rounds, she sits on the floor against the wall, stretching her shoulders. Sweat darkens the collar of her shirt. Her iPad rests on her knee, forgotten for the moment.
Her phone lights up.
She answers before it can ring twice.
“Please tell me you’re not beating world records again,” Lando says, his face filling the screen, hotel room lighting casting soft shadows under his eyes.
She grins. “No promises.”
He watches her for a second longer than usual, gaze flicking over the range behind her. “You look… annoyingly calm.”
“That’s rich,” she says.
He huffs a laugh, then shifts on the bed. “I was thinking about Le Mans.”
Her attention sharpens instantly. “Me too.”
“Zak hasn’t said anything official,” he says, lowering his voice out of habit, “but if it happens…”
“It’s chaos,” she cuts in, already smiling. “Sleep deprivation. Strategy calls at stupid hours. Traffic everywhere.”
“And us sharing a car for twenty-four hours.”
She laughs, the sound light but charged. “You’d hate my stints.”
“You’d hate my radio messages.”
They fall into it easily, talking like it’s already real—mapping the impossible as if it’s just another logistics problem. Who takes night stints. Who handles dawn better. Who keeps their head when everything hurts and nothing’s quiet anymore.
“I think you’d be terrifying at three a.m.,” he says.
She smirks. “I think you’d be annoyingly awake.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Thoughtful.
“Does it scare you?” he asks.
She considers it, gaze drifting briefly toward the range. “Yeah. But the good kind.”
“Same.”
Someone calls her name from off-screen. She grimaces. “Duty calls.”
“Good luck this weekend,” she says.
“Good luck tomorrow.”
No grand declarations. No promises they can’t keep.
Just trust, again—quiet and mutual.
⸻
Jeddah doesn’t forgive hesitation.
By Friday night, Lando knows the car better—not because it’s suddenly kind, but because he’s stopped asking it to be. The balance still bites on entry. The rear still feels like it’s negotiating rather than obeying. But he adapts, the way he always does.
FP2 is messy. Close. Walls rushing past with centimeters to spare. Confidence rebuilt lap by lap, mistake by mistake. When he pulls back into the garage, sweat slicks his hair, helmet still on, eyes sharp with focus rather than frustration.
Andrea claps him on the shoulder. “That lap,” he says. “That’s the one.”
Lando nods, breath heavy. Not smiling yet. But steadier.
Qualifying is a knife edge. Q3 demands commitment, not comfort. He sends it anyway—clips the wall close enough to feel it, crosses the line, timing tower flickering—
P3.
Not perfect. But earned.
The cooldown room hums softly. He sits with a towel over his neck, eyes closed, breathing slowing.
His phone vibrates.
Louise: Saw the lap. That last sector was tidy.
He snorts quietly.
Lando: “Tidy” is the most you’ll ever praise me, isn’t it?
Louise: When it matters, yes.
Race day is survival dressed as speed.
Lights out. Walls closing in. No room for heroics. He keeps it clean, keeps it smart. P4 at the flag. Points secured. Damage minimal.
Not euphoric.
Not crushed.
Just… focused.
⸻
Dubai, meanwhile, stays sharp and quiet.
Louise moves through her competition the way she always does—economical, precise, uninterested in drama. Each shot lands where it should. Her breathing never falters. Her shoulders never rise.
Gold.
When a journalist asks if racing distracts her from her other disciplines, she smiles politely.
“Everything I do feeds everything else,” she says. “That’s kind of the point.”
Later, she sends a single photo: the medal resting against her collarbone, skin flushed, eyes bright.
Louise: Done.
Lando: Knew it.
They FaceTime that night. The connection flickers once before stabilizing. Lando’s face fills her screen, slightly pixelated at the edges, hotel room lighting casting everything in a muted gold. He’s still in team kit, collar slightly undone. Behind him, the distant hum of hallway doors and elevator chimes reminds her he’s somewhere busy, somewhere transient. She, on the other hand, is sitting on the edge of a narrow bed in a competition hotel two countries away, medal and ceremonial flowers abandoned on the desk,
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says honestly. “Not thrilled. But okay.”
She nods. “That’s allowed.”
He smiles, tired and real. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“I try.”
“You look smug,” he says immediately, narrowing his eyes at her.
“I do not.”
“You do. That’s a post-competition smugness.”
She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. “Maybe a little.”
He shifts, propping the phone against a pillow so he can lie back properly. “Okay. Important question.”
She sighs softly. “Why does that sound dangerous?”
“Shooting or horses?”
She blinks. “That’s the important question?”
“Yes. If you had to give one up forever.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “That’s violent.”
“It’s hypothetical.”
“It’s cruel.”
He grins. “Answer.”
She draws her legs up onto the bed, resting her chin on her knees, thinking it through more seriously than he expected. Outside her window, city lights blink against dark water; somewhere below, traffic sighs past in waves.
“It depends on the day,” she says finally. “Horses feel like… breath. Shooting feels like control.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make me categorize parts of myself like they’re interchangeable.”
He studies her expression for a moment, something softer passing through his features. “Okay,” he amends. “Then tell me how it started. The horses.”
The teasing tone fades. She notices.
There’s a pause—not heavy, just reflective.
“Rehab,” she says at last. “After the accident.”
He nods once. He already knew that much. Not the details.
“It was equine therapy. Very gentle. Very structured. You sit. You balance. You breathe while the horse walks in slow circles.”
He smiles faintly. “That sounds peaceful.”
“It was unbearably boring.”
He laughs, startled. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. Second session in, I remember thinking, if I have to walk one more circle at the pace of a pensioner on a Sunday stroll, I might actually lose my mind.”
She shifts slightly against the headboard, remembering it with a mix of fondness and embarrassment. “They’d say things like, ‘Feel the rhythm.’ And I’d think, I don’t want rhythm. I want progress.”
“But you kept going,” he says.
“I didn’t have much choice.” She pauses, fingers tracing the seam of the duvet absently. “I was restless. That was the worst part. Not pain. Restlessness.”
“So what changed?”
She smiles, almost conspiratorially. “I started asking for challenges.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I’d ask the therapists if I could trot. If I could try balance exercises without holding the strap. If I could guide instead of just sit. I think I annoyed them.”
“I’m shocked,” he deadpans.
“I know, it’s completely out of character.”
Her smile widens. “Eventually they realized that if they didn’t give me something harder, I’d either quit or stage a rebellion. So the sessions evolved. Less therapy, more training. Real riding. Posture corrections. Technical work. It stopped feeling like rehabilitation and started feeling like discipline.”
“And that’s when you liked it,” he says quietly.
She nods. “I don’t hate slowness. I hate stagnation. Once there was something to build toward, I was in.”
He watches her carefully, absorbing the distinction.
“And shooting?” he asks after a moment.
She exhales through her nose softly, leaning her head back against the wall. “That came from a different kind of restlessness. I still couldn’t do anything high impact. No swimming laps the way I used to. No explosive training. No contact sports. My body wasn’t ready. Everything felt restricted.” Her gaze shifts back to the screen. “My father was first in his police academy class for shooting. Top of the cohort.”
“Of course he was.”
She smiles faintly. “He used to take me to an outdoor range sometimes. Not often. Just enough that it felt… ours.”
The memory sits differently—quieter, more contained.
“I was good,” she admits without bravado. “Steady hands. Good breath control. But I never obsessed over it. It wasn’t about winning anything. It was just… something I could do when everything else felt off limits.”
“And you didn’t compete at first?”
She shakes her head. “No. Competing wasn’t the point.”
He shifts, resting his chin on his hand. “Then why did you start?”
That question lingers longer.
She looks down briefly before answering. “My mother always encouraged me to invest in my talents. She’d say, ‘If you’re good at something, don’t treat it like an accident.’” A small smile tugs at her mouth. “I never listened.”
“Why not?”
“Because I liked learning more than arriving. I liked pushing myself privately. The second something became public—scored, ranked, evaluated—it felt… distorted.”
He frowns slightly. “Distorted how?”
“People only took it seriously when I was fighting for something. A title. A podium. Recognition.” She shrugs lightly. “If I trained quietly, it was a hobby. If I competed, suddenly it was admirable.”
“And that bothered you.”
“It made me tired,” she corrects. “So most of the time, I’d throw myself into something for a year or two, get good at it, then abandon it when the noise got too loud.”
He studies her face, the pattern forming clearly.
“And after the accident?”
She inhales slowly.
“After the accident, I didn’t have the luxury of abandoning things every time they became complicated.” Her tone is calm, but there’s steel underneath it. “I had to commit to rebuilding. And that meant changing how I approached effort.”
“How?” he asks quietly.
“I stopped performing it,” she says. “I let the noise stay in the background. Opinions, expectations, praise, doubt—whatever. I just focused on the goal in front of me.”
She meets his gaze steadily through the screen.
“With riding, it was mastering control. With shooting, it was precision. With competing, it was proving something to myself, not to anyone watching.”
He exhales slowly, something thoughtful settling in his expression.
“So when you compete now,” he says, “it’s not about being taken seriously.”
“No.” A faint smile curves her mouth. “It’s about seeing how far I can push without losing myself in it.”
He tilts his head. “You realize most people never get to that point.”
She shrugs. “Most people don’t have their lives interrupted the way I did.”
The statement isn’t bitter. Just factual.
There’s a comfortable silence then, the kind that only exists when two people are no longer trying to impress each other.
“So,” he says eventually, a hint of teasing returning to his voice, “if I dragged you to a range tomorrow, would you destroy me?”
She smiles slowly. “Probably.”
“And on a horse?”
She considers that. “You’d complain the hole time.”
“I would not.”
“You absolutely would.”
He grins, conceding nothing.
She watches him for a second, softer now. “It’s strange,” she adds. “All of it started because I was bored. Restless. Annoyed at being limited.”
“And?”
“And it turned into the things that taught me the most patience.”
He nods, almost to himself. “That sounds about right.”
Outside her window, the city hum continues. In his room, someone laughs faintly in the hallway before a door shuts. They’re in different places, different competitions, different worlds for the night—but the line between them feels steady.
“Shooting or horses?” he repeats lightly.
She smiles, shaking her head. “Both.”
He chuckles. “Of course.”
And this time, he doesn’t argue.
Somewhere between Jeddah and Dubai, between speed and stillness, they keep doing what they do best—holding space for each other, even when the world refuses to slow down.
Summary: How Lando learns rituals, quiet observations, and the many ways love becomes routine.
Word Count: 3.3k
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Lando learns it slowly.
Not in a single, cinematic realization. Not in a moment where everything clicks and reorganizes itself neatly in his head. He learns it the way you learn a city—by walking it over and over, by noticing which streets feel safe at night, by remembering where the light pools and where it doesn’t.
In fragments.
Sleep, he learns, is a language.
And Louise speaks it fluently when she doesn’t think anyone is listening.
He already knows about the pyjamas, the freezing cold temperatures and the intricate blanket layers. But some things show themselves over time.
—
At first, he notices patterns by accident.
The nights she’s truly resting—actually resting—she curls in on herself like a comma. Knees drawn toward her chest, shoulders slack, hands tucked close to her face like she’s guarding something small and important. Her breathing drops deep and even, the kind that comes from somewhere below thought. No twitching. No half-murmured conversations with ghosts. Just stillness—intentional, complete.
Those nights, she sleeps through everything.
Phones buzz. Doors open and close. He shifts beside her. Once, he knocks an entire room-service tray off the desk and watches cutlery skitter dramatically across the floor.
Nothing.
She doesn’t even flinch.
He’ll lie there on his back, eyes open in the dark, watching the slow rise and fall of her back. The way her fingers curl once, uncurl, then settle for good. He counts breaths without meaning to. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
Good, he thinks. She’s down.
Not just asleep.
Down.
—
Then there are the other nights.
The ones where she’s technically asleep but not really there.
Her body stretches instead of folds. One leg kicked out, claiming territory. The other tangled in sheets. An arm flung dramatically above her head like she’s mid-sprint in a dream. Her brow pinches. Her mouth moves—words forming, dissolving, never landing.
Once, she punches the pillow hard enough that he almost laughs before stopping himself.
Another time, she rotates a full ninety degrees and ends up sideways across the bed, limbs everywhere, like a fallen starfish who lost a fight with gravity.
Those nights, her breathing never quite settles. Shallow. Uneven. She startles at small sounds. Shifts constantly, like her body is trying to outrun her mind and failing by inches.
Those nights, sleep is something she’s circling—not something she’s landed in.
Lando doesn’t wake her.
He just… adapts.
He tucks the blanket around her when she kicks it off. Gently shifts her arm when it goes numb beneath her. Moves her hair away from her mouth so she’s not breathing through it. Sometimes—only sometimes—he places a steady hand at her back.
Not pressing.
Not restraining.
Just there.
A fixed point.
She doesn’t wake, but she responds anyway. Her shoulders drop a fraction. Her leg draws in instead of kicking out. The chaos softens, like a storm easing offshore.
A little less restless.
A little more anchored.
He stays still until he’s sure.
—
One night, she falls asleep on the couch while he’s gaming.
Head tipped back at an angle that should be illegal. One leg hooked over the armrest. One sock on. One sock abandoned on the floor like a casualty of war.
The controller buzzes faintly in his hands as his character gets absolutely obliterated on screen.
He pauses the game.
Studies her.
Restless, he diagnoses immediately.
He sets the controller aside and kneels next to the couch. Carefully nudges her legs closer together. Draws the blanket up and around her instead of letting it hang half-off. Tilts her head just enough that her neck isn’t bent like it’s trying to prove a point.
It takes maybe three minutes.
She curls.
Breath evens.
Whatever she was fighting loosens its grip.
He watches for another beat, then unpauses the game.
Later, she wakes up and stretches, confused.
“You moved me,” she says, squinting at him.
“I didn’t,” he replies easily.
“You did,” she insists, suspicious. “I went to sleep like this—”
She demonstrates a dramatic, full-body sprawl, limbs everywhere.
“And I woke up like this.” She curls tightly, instinctively, without realizing what she’s showing him.
He shrugs. “Must be magic.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re lying.”
Maybe.
But he knows the truth now.
The more curled she is, the safer she feels.
The more compact, the more contained.
Like if she fits entirely within herself, the world can’t get its hands on her.
And on the nights when she’s all elbows and knees and wild angles—
Those are the nights he stays awake a little longer.
Just in case she needs help finding her way back to quiet.
⸻
Another thing he notices are the showers.
Not because it’s unusual. Everyone showers.
But because Louise cannot seem to sleep without one.
At first he assumes it’s coincidence. A preference.
Then he starts paying attention.
No matter how late they get home. No matter how exhausted she is.
No matter whether she’s spent the day working from home, travelling across Europe, walking twelve kilometres around some city neither of them can pronounce correctly, or doing absolutely nothing at all.
The shower happens.
Every single night.
Sometimes a bath.
—
One evening they’re staying at his place after dinner. It’s late. Louise is visibly exhausted, eyes heavy, curled against him on the sofa while some film neither of them is actually watching plays in the background.
At half past eleven, she suddenly untangles herself.
“I need a shower.”
Lando glances at her.
“You had one this afternoon.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why—”
“I can’t sleep if I don’t.”
“You can’t sleep?”
“I can.”
“You just said—”
“I mean I can eventually.”
She crossed her arms.
“It’s harder.”
“How much harder?”
Louise hesitated.
The hesitation was answer enough.
“It’s not the shower.”
“Then what is it?”
She struggled to explain.
Lando could see it happening.
The search for words.
The attempt to describe something she’d probably never needed to explain before.
“It’s the warmth.”
He frowned.
“The warmth?”
“The feeling after.”
She gestured vaguely.
“The water’s hot and then you get out and everything feels warm and comfortable and—”
She stopped.
“And?”
Louise sighed.
“And then my brain knows it’s bedtime.”
“A routine.”
Her face brightened immediately.
“Yes.”
Lando leaned against the counter.
Thinking.
Because now that she mentioned it…
He’d never seen her skip it.
Not once.
Race weekends.
Late flights.
Early mornings.
Days she could barely keep her eyes open.
She always disappeared into the bathroom before bed.
Always.
He’d just never questioned it.
“How long have you done that?”
Louise shrugged.
“Forever.”
“Forever forever?”
“Since I was little.”
That caught his attention.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“My mother used to make me take baths before bed.”
“Every night?”
“Pretty much.”
A smile tugged at her mouth.
“She said warm baths made children sleep.”
“Did they?”
“They made me sleep.”
Lando laughed.
—
Another time he's presented a challenge.
They got home late. Not dramatically late. Just late enough that both of them were tired.
By the time they stepped into the apartment, Louise was rubbing at her eyes.
Lando kicked off his trainers and headed toward the kitchen.
A glass of water.
Maybe something sweet.
Then bed.
He was halfway through drinking his water when she reappeared.
Fully awake now.
“Lando.”
“Hm?”
“The water heater isn’t working.”
He lowered the glass.
“What?”
“The water heater.”
She looked personally betrayed.
“It’s broken.”
“How do you know?”
“I turned on the shower.”
“And?”
“It’s cold.”
“Maybe it just needs a minute.”
“I gave it five.”
“Five seconds?”
“Five minutes.”
Lando laughed.
She didn’t.
The laugh died immediately.
“Oh.”
Her gaze drifted back toward the hallway.
Toward the bathroom.
Toward the apparently catastrophic lack of hot water.
And suddenly she looked disappointed again.
Not dramatic.
Just tired.
The kind of tired that settled deep behind someone’s eyes.
Lando stared at her for another second before his eyes drifted toward the hallway, toward the bathroom where the useless shower sat waiting, then toward the kitchen. Something shifted behind his expression. Not quite an idea. More the beginning of one.
“Go start filling the tub.”
Louise blinked.
“What?”
“The tub.”
“It’s cold.”
“I know.”
“Lando—”
“Just trust me for five minutes.”
That sentence alone should have worried her.
Instead, exhaustion dulled whatever self-preservation instincts remained. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously before disappearing toward the bathroom anyway, muttering something about how none of this made any sense.
By the time she reached the bathtub, she could already hear cabinet doors opening in the kitchen.
The tap ran cold as she pulled the plug and watched the water begin collecting at the bottom of the tub. It felt ridiculous. The entire exercise felt ridiculous. The shower was broken. The water heater wasn’t working. The sensible solution would’ve been accepting defeat and going to bed.
Instead, the apartment slowly filled with the sound of metal pots clattering onto stovetops.
Curiosity eventually pulled her back toward the kitchen.
She found Lando standing barefoot in front of all four burners, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, several pots already heating while another kettle rattled softly beside them. Steam had begun curling toward the ceiling.
Louise stopped in the doorway.
“Lando.”
“Hm?”
“What exactly are you doing?”
Without looking up, he pointed toward the stove.
“Making hot water.”
“I can see that.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
This time he glanced over his shoulder.
The answer seemed so obvious to him that he looked confused she’d even asked.
“Because you need a warm bath.”
Something squeezed unexpectedly inside her chest.
“You know this is insane, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Normal people don’t solve problems like this.”
“Normal people don’t need an entire blanket ecosystem to sleep.”
Louise rolled her eyes.
“That’s different.”
“Sure it is.”
Despite herself, she smiled.
The smile stayed there as she watched him move around the kitchen. Checking pots. Swapping burners. Testing temperatures. Moving with the same focused concentration he usually reserved for things that actually mattered.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because this shouldn’t matter.
Not really.
Not enough for him to spend half an hour boiling water like they lived in the nineteenth century.
Yet there he was.
Doing exactly that.
The tub filled slowly.
The process should’ve felt tedious. Somehow it didn’t.
The apartment settled into a comfortable rhythm around them. Water running. Footsteps between rooms. The occasional teasing comment tossed over shoulders. By the third trip, Louise had abandoned any attempt to stop him.
By the fifth, she was following behind with towels.
By the eighth, she was laughing every time he dramatically announced another successful delivery.
Eventually steam hung thick enough in the bathroom to fog the mirror completely.
Lando crouched beside the tub and dipped his hand into the water.
Testing.
Thinking.
Then testing again.
His eyebrows lifted.
“There.”
Louise stepped forward.
The warmth wrapped around her fingers immediately.
Perfect.
Not too hot.
Not too cold.
Exactly right.
For a moment neither of them said anything.
Then Lando stood.
“Well?”
She looked up.
“It’s perfect.”
His grin arrived instantly.
Like he’d somehow won something.
The ridiculous man looked genuinely proud of himself.
Then his gaze drifted toward the tub.
Toward the steam.
Toward her.
“Can I join you?”
The question landed unexpectedly gently between them.
Louise looked at him.
Really looked.
At the flushed cheeks from standing over the stove.
The slightly damp hair falling over his forehead.
The warmth in his eyes.
And whatever answer he’d been expecting, it definitely wasn’t the immediate one.
“Yeah.”
His grin widened.
“Excellent.”
“You sound way too excited.”
“I worked very hard on this bath.”
“You boiled water.”
“I engineered a solution.”
She laughed again as he followed her into the steam-filled bathroom.
The water remained warm for longer than either expected.
Long enough that neither felt any rush to leave.
Louise settled against his chest while he stretched his legs out beneath the surface, one arm draped lazily around her waist. The apartment beyond the bathroom faded into background noise. No phones. No television. No race schedules. No responsibilities demanding attention.
Just warmth.
Steam.
The slow comfort of existing beside someone.
At some point their conversation dissolved into quieter things.
Small observations.
Half-finished thoughts.
Comfortable silences.
Eventually the water began losing its heat.
Not enough to be unpleasant.
Just enough to notice.
Louise sighed.
Immediately Lando looked down.
“What?”
“It’s getting cold.”
“Ah.”
There it was.
The tragedy.
He smiled into her hair.
“I suppose all great things must come to an end.”
Reluctantly, they climbed out.
The bathroom remained warm while they dried off, steam still clinging to every surface. By the time Louise changed into her pyjamas, her movements had already begun slowing. The tension that had followed her all evening was gone. Her shoulders sat lower. Her eyes looked heavier.
Lando noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
The realization followed them all the way to bed.
By the time they climbed beneath the blankets Louise had spent so much time constructing, she was already halfway asleep.
Lando slid beneath the covers beside her, waiting patiently while she performed the final stages of what he now understood was an incredibly elaborate process. The blankets needed arranging. The pillow needed adjusting. The room temperature needed to remain somewhere between comfortable and arctic.
Only when everything felt correct did she finally settle.
A small contented sound escaped her.
Lando smiled into the darkness.
Then he reached for her.
Louise instinctively moved closer, fitting herself against him without ever fully opening her eyes. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his chest while the blankets cocooned them both.
Lando pressed a kiss against her temple.
“You know,” he murmured softly.
“Hm?”
“I think I understand your brain a little better now.”
Something warm unfurled quietly inside her chest.
Louise smiled into the darkness.
The last thing she felt before sleep claimed her was Lando pulling her a little closer.
The last thing she heard was his sleepy voice against her hair.
“Definitely worth the effort.”
⸻
The last thing he takes longer to register, because it seems too improbable.
Louise can only sleep with the television on.
Not on in the way people mean when they’re half-watching something. Not background chatter you actually follow. It has to be something boring. Something she’s seen a million times already. Something so familiar it no longer asks for attention.
The volume matters too.
Loud enough that she notices it’s there.
Low enough that the words blur into sound.
It can’t be silence. Silence presses in too close, leaves room for thoughts to sharpen. The television fills that space gently, like a buffer between her and the dark.
Lando learns this the hard way.
—
The first time they sleep in the same room,
It's not heavily romantic. Not intentionally, anyway.
Louise flips through channels with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this hundreds of times.
“What are you looking for?” Lando asks, propped up on his elbows.
“Something I don’t care about,” she replies.
“That feels contradictory.”
She hums. “It’s not.”
She lands on a rerun—some procedural drama from a decade ago. The kind with predictable dialogue, long establishing shots, nothing that surprises you anymore.
She sets the volume. Pauses. Adjusts it down one notch.
Then she lies down and, within minutes, is asleep.
Lando stares at the television.
Stares at the ceiling.
Stares back at the television.
“How,” he whispers to himself, “are you doing that.”
⸻
At first, he thinks it’s a fluke.
Then it happens again.
And again.
Every time—same ritual. Same type of show. Same impossible ability to fall asleep with light flickering across the walls and muffled dialogue humming through the room.
What really gets him, though, is what happens when it stops.
The power cuts out once during a storm in the middle of the night.
The screen goes black.
The room falls silent.
Louise wakes instantly.
Not groggy. Not confused.
Just awake.
Her eyes open. She inhales sharply, like she’s surfaced from underwater.
“The TV,” she murmurs.
Lando freezes beside her. “I—yeah. Power’s out.”
She nods once, already reaching for her phone, screen lighting up the room.
“How did you—” he starts.
She squints at him. “I told you.”
“Told me what?”
“I wake up when it turns off.”
He watches her thumb tap through settings, finds a downloaded episode, props the phone against the lamp. She adjusts the volume, settles back under the covers.
Out again. Just like that.
Lando lies there, wide awake, staring at the glowing rectangle.
“That’s not normal,” he whispers.
Louise, asleep: “It is for me.”
⸻
It becomes a thing.
A known thing.
A Louise thing.
If they’re in a hotel and the sleep timer cuts off automatically, she wakes within seconds. Sometimes she doesn’t even open her eyes—just shifts, frowns faintly, mumbles something unintelligible until the sound comes back.
Once, early on, Lando forgets.
They’re staying somewhere new, jet-lagged and exhausted. The TV is on. Louise is asleep. Lando reaches for the remote out of instinct, thumb pressing power.
The screen goes black.
Louise bolts like someone rang an alarm.
“What—” she says, already sitting up.
“Oh my god,” Lando blurts. “I’m so sorry—”
She blinks at him, disoriented, then looks at the television.
“Oh,” she says.
He’s already turning it back on, volume too loud in his panic.
“I forgot,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
She watches him for a second.
Then she laughs.
Soft. Sleepy. Unbothered.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re learning.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
“I thought I broke something.”
“You did,” she says, settling back down. “My sleep.”
He groans. “I’m never touching the remote again.”
⸻
Over time, he stops finding it strange.
Or maybe he still finds it strange—but it becomes familiar, folded into the rhythm of them. Another quiet adjustment. Another way their lives make room for each other.
At home in Aylesbury, it’s easier.
Louise has her system down to an art. A rotating list of shows she could recite line-for-line if pressed. The volume always set at the same level. The screen angled just right.
Lando teases her about it.
“You know,” he says one night, watching her prepare the setup like a ritual, “this is basically a superpower.”
She pauses. “How so.”
“You can detect silence in your sleep,” he explains. “That’s insane.”
She considers this. “It’s not detection. It’s absence.”
“That’s worse.”
She smiles faintly and slides into bed.
Sometimes he lies awake for a few minutes longer, listening. Not to the show—but to the way the noise wraps around the room, dulls the edges, makes everything feel less sharp.
It starts to work on him too.
⸻
One night, months later, they’re both exhausted.
The kind of tired that sinks into bones. Louise falls asleep faster than usual, cheek pressed to his shoulder. Lando watches the TV without seeing it, eyelids heavy.
At some point, he drifts.
He doesn’t notice the moment the episode ends.
Doesn’t notice the silence.
Until Louise stirs.
Just a little.
Not fully awake—but enough.
Her fingers curl into his shirt.
“The sound,” she murmurs.
“I’ve got it,” he whispers, already reaching for the remote.
He turns it back on before her eyes open.
She relaxes instantly.
He stays awake for a while after that, arm around her, screen flickering gently. There’s something oddly intimate about it—this unspoken responsibility, this quiet care.
He thinks about how easily she trusts him with these small things.
How these habits—once solitary—are now shared.
⸻
Later, she tells him why.
Not in a heavy way. Just one night, half-asleep, when the room feels safe enough to be honest without ceremony.
“Silence used to give too much room to my thoughts,” she says quietly.
Lando tightens his arm around her.
“What does it mean now?”
She thinks for a moment.
“Now it just means I need the TV on.”
He smiles into her hair.
“Fair.”
The show drones on.
Familiar. Unimportant. Exactly right.
And Louise sleeps through the night—secure in the knowledge that if the sound disappears, she won’t be alone when she wakes.
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Summary: While Lando learns how to live in the spaces between races, an unexpected opportunity begins taking shape behind the scenes—one that could change the season before he even sees it coming.
Warnings and Notes: not too explicit but still, SMUT!
Word Count: 4.3k
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The first week off arrives quietly.
No countdown. No dramatic exhale. No one announces it like a victory.
It just… happens.
No flights booked. No alarms synced to distant time zones. No calendar blocks screaming FP1 or media or call in ten. Just the house in Aylesbury breathing around them—still new enough that it creaks at night, like it’s learning their weight, memorizing where they exist in it.
Morning light filters through curtains, pale and hesitant, the kind that doesn’t demand anything from you.
Louise wakes first.
Not because she has to—because her body is trained that way. Early call times have messed with the soft internal clock into her bones. She lies still for a moment, listening. Lando’s breathing is deep and even, one arm flung across the pillow where she’d been.
She slips out of bed carefully, pulling one of his hoodies over her head. It’s too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, faintly warm from sleep. She pads down the hall barefoot, the floor cool beneath her feet.
The kettle goes on.
The house hums—low, domestic, alive in the background. Pipes settling. Heating ticking on. The quiet kind of noise that doesn’t ask to be noticed.
By the time Lando appears in the doorway—hair wild, eyes half-open, socks mismatched like he dressed in the dark—she’s already stretched out on the living room floor.
“You’re not allowed to be productive before me,” he mumbles, squinting at her like she’s personally offended him.
She grins without stopping. “I’ve been awake for five minutes.”
“That’s illegal,” he says, rubbing his face.
He collapses onto the rug beside her anyway, limbs loose, joints cracking like punctuation.
⸻
They still train most mornings.
Not aggressively. Not like camps or race weeks or anything that feels like punishment. Just enough to keep their bodies familiar with effort—enough to remind muscle and mind that they work together.
The gym at the house had speakers playing low enough that the music blended into the background. Outside, everything looked lazy. Inside, Louise was regretting every life decision that had led her to standing behind Lando with resistance bands wrapped around his head.
“Ready?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’ve literally already started the set.”
“Still no.”
She rolled her eyes.
Lando grinned at her reflection in the mirror.
“Pull.”
Louise stepped backward, tensioning the band.
Lando immediately groaned.
“Oh, that’s aggressive.”
“That’s literally what the exercise is.”
“I think you’ve added extra resistance.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have. You’ve become stronger. It’s affecting the calibration.”
Louise laughed despite herself.
“The calibration?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned dramatically into the resistance.
“The girlfriend strength coefficient.”
“The what?”
“It’s science.”
“You’re making words up.”
“I’ve never made up a word in my life.”
Louise nearly let go of the band.
“You invented half the vocabulary you use daily.”
Lando thought about it.
“That’s a fair point.”
“Turn left.”
“Bossy.”
“Finish the rep.”
He sighed like she’d asked him to move a mountain.
Still, he completed the movement.
Then another.
And another.
Louise counted.
Lando complained.
It was their usual arrangement.
By the time he’d finished the set, he dropped onto the bench dramatically.
“I’m retiring.”
“You have three more exercises.”
“I’ve had a good career.”
“You are twenty-seven.”
“Exactly. Ancient.”
Louise tossed him his water bottle.
He caught it without looking.
A second later she felt his hand catch hers before she could move away.
She looked down.
He was still holding her wrist.
Not tightly.
Just enough.
His thumb brushed once across her skin.
A small thing.
An unconscious thing.
The kind of touch that had become second nature between them.
The next part of the workout was Louise’s turn.
Technically.
Unfortunately.
She eyed the dumbbells.
The dumbbells eyed her back.
Neither side seemed happy about the arrangement.
Lando immediately noticed.
“Oh, we’re doing that face.”
“What face?”
“The face.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You absolutely have a face.”
She crossed her arms.
Lando pointed.
“That’s the face.”
“It isn’t.”
“It means you’re considering whether you can fake an injury.”
Louise gasped.
“Wow.”
“I know you.”
“You don’t.”
“You once tried to convince me that carrying shopping bags counted as arm day.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
Lando stood.
“Come on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“My arms hurt.”
“I know.”
Louise groaned.
“No bribery.”
“Oh yes bribery.”
He held up his phone.
“One completed set equals one scoop of ice cream.”
“Lando.”
“Two sets equals ice cream and caramel sauce.”
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
Lando pointed triumphantly.
“There it is.”
“You are impossible.”
“I’m motivating you.”
Louise shook her head.
But she picked up the dumbbells.
Lando looked unbearably pleased with himself.
The worst part was that it worked every time.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Halfway through the session she was questioning all her choices again.
Lando had become a personal trainer in the most annoying possible way.
Because she finished the set.
And the next one.
And the one after that.
By the end they were both sprawled on the floor mats, exhausted.
The workout complete.
The room warmer now.
The sunlight lower.
Lando lay flat on his back staring at the ceiling.
Louise beside him.
Their shoulders touching.
Neither in a hurry to move.
He reached across the gap between them until their fingers found each other.
Louise immediately laced their hands together.
Automatic.
Like neither of them even thought about it anymore.
“I want my ice cream.”
Lando smiled at the ceiling.
⸻
Some days, he goes to Woking.
The drive is familiar—same roads, same turns—but heavier this year. The car isn’t where he wants it yet. It’s nervy on entry. Unpredictable under braking. Talks back when he expects obedience.
He doesn’t say it immediately when he gets home, but Louise sees it anyway.
The way he drops his keys with more force than necessary.
The way his shoulders stay tense even after he’s changed out of team kit.
They eat dinner on the couch—prepped, as usual. Neither of them has the free will to opt out of their trainers’ plans, even on a week off. The TV plays something neither of them is really watching.
“Talk to me,” she says gently, legs tucked beneath her, head resting against his shoulder.
He exhales slowly. “I don’t trust it yet.”
“The car?”
“Yeah.”
He stares at the muted replay of a race from last year, hands clasped loosely in his lap. “I turn in and it’s… fine. Then suddenly it’s not. Like it changes its mind halfway through.”
She nods. She understands that language. Every athlete does. The feeling of something slipping just when you think you’ve got it.
“You’re fighting it,” she says softly. “Instead of letting it tell you what it wants.”
He glances at her. “That’s literally what the engineers say.”
She shrugs. “They’re right.”
He laughs under his breath, tension easing just a fraction.
“I hate not feeling in control,” he admits.
She reaches for his hand, fingers lacing with his, squeezing once. “You’re allowed to struggle without it meaning something is wrong.”
He looks at her then. Really looks.
“You always say that like you’re reminding yourself too.”
“Because I am,” she admits easily.
They sit there like that—quiet, steady—the house holding them like a pause between breaths.
⸻
The week passes in small rituals.
Grocery runs where they buy too many snacks and argue about cereal.
Evenings where they fall asleep halfway through movies, limbs tangled, credits rolling unnoticed.
Mornings where they train, laugh, stretch sore muscles, exist without performing for anyone.
Louise spends an afternoon reorganizing the kitchen drawers just to see if it makes sense another way. Lando wanders in, watches for a bit, then joins her without asking why.
It’s not a grand reset.
It’s better.
It’s the space between things. The place where they remember that beyond the noise and the pressure and the expectations—there is this.
A place.
A rhythm.
Each other.
And when the week ends, when calendars start filling again, neither of them panics.
Because now they know—
Home isn’t a location.
It’s a choice they keep making.
⸻
Zak notices it first—but Andrea isn’t far behind.
They’re standing behind the glass wall overlooking the simulator bay, late afternoon light slanting in through Woking’s endless windows. The building has settled into its second rhythm of the day: engineers rotating out, voices lower, movements slower. Coffee cups abandoned. Laptops half-closed.
Inside the sim room, Lando is still strapped in.
The lap that’s running on the screen is clean. Boring, even, by Formula One standards. No drama in the braking traces. No corrections worth circling. The kind of lap that keeps engineers happy and bosses calm.
Andrea watches the data stream for a moment longer than necessary.
“He’s not forcing it,” he says quietly.
Zak hums in agreement, eyes not leaving the room. “No.”
It would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.
Lando isn’t slower—if anything, he’s sharper. Inputs tidier. Feedback shorter, more precise. He arrives warmed up already, hoodie pulled low, headphones sealing him off from the world while most of the building is still rubbing sleep from its eyes.
Andrea’s noticed the physical work too.
Extra neck sets. Not flashy. Just… added. Bands biting into muscle after the trainer has already checked his watch and said that’s enough. Cooldowns that stretch past polite limits, like Lando’s trying to convince his body to give him one more useful thing before the day ends.
But it’s the sim that gives him away.
The engineer’s voice crackles through the speakers.
“That’s all from me, mate. Good work.”
Lando doesn’t move.
The engineer unclips, stands, leaves the room.
Ten seconds pass. Twenty.
Zak shifts his weight slightly. Andrea doesn’t blink.
Inside, Lando reaches forward, rewinds the lap. Not all the way—just a corner. Then another. He scrolls through overlays with his thumb, eyes narrowed, not tight with frustration.
Curious.
Andrea tilts his head. “He’s not looking for mistakes.”
“No,” Zak agrees. “He’s looking for feel.”
They watch as Lando runs the lap again, slower this time. Deliberate. Testing something invisible.
Zak’s coffee has gone cold in his hand. He doesn’t notice.
“This isn’t anxiety,” Andrea says after a moment. “When drivers are worried, they rush. They overdrive.”
Zak smiles faintly. “And when they’re comfortable?”
“They stop asking questions.”
Another replay rolls.
Lando leans closer to the screen, studying a trace like it might whisper something back if he’s patient enough.
Andrea exhales through his nose, something like understanding settling into place.
“He’s hungry,” he says.
Zak glances at him. “But not desperate.”
“No,” Andrea replies. “This is… directed.”
Zak’s smile sharpens—not amused, not surprised. Satisfied.
“Interesting,” he says aloud this time.
Andrea nods once, slow and thoughtful.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Very interesting.”
Inside the sim room, Lando finally unclips and stands, stretching his neck with the same methodical calm he brings to everything now. He looks lighter than he did a month ago. Quieter. More certain.
As if something ahead of him has come into focus—and instead of chasing it, he’s letting it pull him forward.
Zak watches him go, already moving pieces in his head.
Andrea folds his arms, eyes still on the empty sim.
Neither of them says it.
But they’re thinking the same thing.
This isn’t a problem.
This is momentum.
⸻
He doesn’t announce anything.
He starts moving pieces instead.
A quiet call to endurance program management that sounds hypothetical if you don’t know how to listen. A calendar block penciled in without context. A casual question slipped into a meeting—“Who’s got flexibility mid-season?”—and then left hanging.
He watches reactions. Files them away.
Then, one Thursday, he calls Lando into his office.
No fanfare. No assistant hovering.
“Take a seat,” Zak says, too casually.
Lando does, already suspicious. “Am I in trouble?”
Zak grins. “If you were, I wouldn’t be smiling.”
He slides a tablet across the desk—but doesn’t turn it on. Just lets it sit there, a quiet weight between them.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been training like you’re chasing something,” Zak says. “Not running from it.”
Lando shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “Trying to be better.”
“Good answer,” Zak replies. “Boring, but good.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward—intentional. Zak lets it stretch until Lando’s attention sharpens, until he’s fully there.
“I’m pulling you from the sim tomorrow.”
Lando blinks. “What?”
“Just for the day.”
“That’s—Zak, the car—”
“I know,” Zak cuts in gently. “And you’ll be back in it next week.”
He leans back, folds his arms, studies Lando like he’s already decided something but wants to see if Lando will meet him halfway.
“But I have a question for you.”
Lando waits. He’s good at that.
“If I told you,” Zak continues, “that you could race Le Mans this year—would that light you up?”
The words don’t explode.
They land.
Lando’s face stays carefully neutral. Years of media training hold the line—but his eyes flicker, just once.
“You’d… let me?” he asks, choosing each word with care.
Zak tilts his head. “I’m asking if you want to.”
A thousand thoughts crash through Lando all at once.
Louise quiet confidence. The bet. The way something inside him has been stretching lately, restless in a way F1 alone hasn’t quite soothed.
He doesn’t let any of it show.
“I want it,” he says honestly. “But I wouldn’t risk Formula One for it.”
Zak nods slowly. “That’s the right instinct.”
“Aren’t you worried it’ll pull focus?” Lando asks.
Zak smiles—sharp, knowing. “I trust it might do the opposite.”
He taps the tablet with one finger, still not turning it on.
“Sometimes,” Zak says, “drivers don’t need less ambition. They need ambition aimed sideways for a minute. Remind themselves why they love driving in the first place.”
He stands, the conversation already tilting toward conclusion.
“I’m not promising anything yet,” he adds. “But if this is something you want… I’ll see what I can do.”
Lando swallows, throat suddenly tight.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Zak claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “Go home. Don't tell anyone. And don’t overthink it.”
Lando almost laughs.
Too late.
⸻
He doesn’t even take his shoes off when he gets home.
The door barely clicks shut behind him before he spots Louise on the living room floor, hair twisted up messily, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows.
“You’re home early,” she says, glancing up.
He drops his bag like gravity stopped applying to it.
“Zak offered me Le Mans.”
She freezes.
Not dramatically—just still, like her body needs a second to catch up to her brain.
Slowly, she sits up. “He—what?”
“This year,” he says, breathless now that it’s real out loud. “If I want it.”
Her face changes in a heartbeat—shock melting into joy so fast it almost knocks her over.
“Lando,” she breathes, like she’s afraid saying it louder might make it disappear.
“I didn’t tell him I knew about yours,” he rushes. “I swear. I didn’t even hint. He just—he noticed something, I think.”
She doesn’t let him finish.
She launches herself at him.
He laughs as she nearly tackles him to the floor, arms locking tight around his neck, feet barely touching the ground.
“We’re doing it,” she says into his shoulder, voice fierce and bright. “We’re actually doing it.”
He holds her just as tightly. “Us. Together.”
She pulls back, eyes shining, hands still gripping his shirt like an anchor. “Zak doesn’t think it’ll distract you?”
“He thinks it might help,” Lando says. “Which feels… insane.”
“No,” she says immediately. “It makes perfect sense.”
She cups his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, grounding him the way she always does when something big lands.
“You drive better when you’re excited,” she says softly. “Not when you’re cornered.”
He leans into her touch without thinking.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The future hums quietly between them—wide, demanding, thrilling.
Then Louise’s mouth curves into that familiar grin. Mischievous. Soft. Certain.
“So,” she says. “Celebration?”
Lando laughs, breath finally steadying. “Absolutely.”
He kisses her.
Not rushed. Not tentative either. A kiss that says we’re safe here, that tastes like relief and momentum and something newly unlocked. Lando exhales into it, fingers tightening at her back, grounding himself the same way she always does for him—by staying.
They make it up the stairs and down the hall without quite deciding to.
By the time they reach the bedroom, the lights remain off.
Lando’s forehead rests briefly against hers as they laugh quietly at almost walking into the end of the bed.
“Professional athletes,” Louise mutters.
“World class.”
“Elite.”
“Best of the best.”
They both know they’re smiling.
The mattress dips beneath their weight as they settle there together.
Lando’s hands settle at her waist before wandering higher, slow and unhurried like he’s trying to memorize her all over again. Louise shifts closer automatically, her fingers disappearing into his hair before tracing down the back of his neck.
At some point the kisses slow enough that everything else begins to feel unnecessary.
The endless layers they’d both been wearing all day start to give place to familiar touches and soft words.
Neither of them pays much attention to where anything ends up.
The process is unhurried, interrupted constantly by smiles and distracted kisses.
His forehead brushes hers.
Then Lando’s hands slide slowly along her sides.
Louise’s breath catches.
Only slightly.
Enough.
His eyes immediately flick toward her despite the darkness.
“What do you reckon would happen if Zak found out two of his Le Mans drivers are currently celebrating by taking their clothes off in a house they bought together?”
“He’d either have a heart attack or try to sell our love story to the highest bidder.”
“Probably both.”
“Definitely both.”
She pushes at his chest.
Not hard.
Just enough.
“Now please stop talking about Zak.”
Another pause.
Then—
“No need to ask twice.”
Something shifts in his voice.
Subtle.
But enough.
Lando’s mouth follows a familiar path, lingering wherever it earns the reaction he’s looking for before continuing. Louise laughs softly when his stuble tickles her sides.
The kisses grow slower the longer they stay tangled together. Less about urgency now. More about appreciation. Neither of them is in any hurry to reach the end. Unfortunately, Louise discovers he’s having far too much fun delaying their gratification.
Every time Louise thinks he’s finally going to stop teasing her, he finds another reason to slow down. Another position. Another kiss. Another excuse that makes absolutely no sense.
“I’m rehearsing.”
“For what?”
“Le Mans.”
Louise stares at him.
“That’s not how Le Mans works.”
“Twenty-four hours is twenty-four hours.”
“Lando.”
“Yes?”
“I am asking nicely.”
“Dangerous.”
“Landooo.”
The warning in her voice only makes him laugh.
“Fine. Fine.”
“You’ve been saying ‘fine’ for ten minutes.”
Eventually even Lando seems to decide he’s pushed his luck far enough. The teasing gives way to something softer, something more sincere, and suddenly neither of them is laughing quite as much anymore.
The excitement comes rushing all at once—the relief, the happiness, the disbelief of what they're about to do.
Lando pulls her closer until there’s no space left between them, pressing a kiss against her temple as both of them get swept up in it together.
Afterwards he doesn’t let go.
They stay exactly where they are for a long time afterwards, tangled beneath the sheets with the room still dark around them. Louise rests her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat while Lando’s hand drifts lazily along her arm. Tracing absent-minded patterns while the last of the adrenaline slowly leaves their systems. Every now and then he presses a kiss into her hair. Every now and then she feels his chest shake with the remnants of a smile.
“You know this means the universe is watching us,” she murmurs.
Lando smiles into her hair, presses a kiss there, warm and sure.
“Let it,” he says. “We’re not hiding from it anymore.”
She hums, content, drifting closer to sleep.
Neither of them feels like they need to run ahead of what’s coming.
They’re already exactly where they want to be.
⸻
Zak Brown doesn’t pitch the idea like a headline.
He never does.
Headlines are for after. For people who weren’t in the room when the decision actually mattered.
Zak pitches like a man moving pieces three turns ahead.
—
The conference room at McLaren Technology Centre is deliberately unremarkable.
Glass walls. Neutral carpet. A table designed to discourage drama. Rain streaks down the windows outside, blurring the sharp lines of the campus into something softer, quieter. The kind of afternoon where nothing official is supposed to happen.
Zak stands at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to the forearms, marker resting loosely in his hand.
The whiteboard behind him is blank.
That alone makes people uneasy.
Around the table sit endurance program leads, senior engineers, commercial heads, partnerships—people who understand discretion as a professional skill. No assistants. No juniors. Everyone here has learned when not to speak.
Zak doesn’t start right away.
He looks at them instead. Takes the temperature of the room. Waits until the shifting stops, until phones are face-down and attention has settled.
Then, casually—
“Le Mans.”
Not announced. Not emphasized. Just dropped into the room like a chess piece touching the board.
A few heads lift. Someone straightens in their chair.
He turns to the board and finally writes something.
99 / 99 / 99
The marker squeaks softly. He circles the numbers once. Clean. Decisive.
“Lando Norris,” he says.
“Louise Levine.”
“Mick Schumacher.”
The names hang there.
Someone inhales sharply before they can stop themselves. Another person lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh that dies as quickly as it starts.
“All born in ’99,” Zak says, warming now—but still measured. “Same generation. Completely different trajectories.”
He taps the board lightly.
“A Formula One champion who thinks in systems. A rookie champion with endurance instincts baked in. And a legacy driver who knows what it means to survive pressure without breaking.”
He caps the marker and turns back to them.
“One car,” he says. “One story. No filler.”
A marketing lead leans forward despite themselves. “You’re serious.”
Zak meets their eyes. “I don’t joke about Le Mans.”
Not ever.
—
The resistance arrives on schedule.
It always does.
“Scheduling alone is a nightmare,” someone says.
“Optics,” another adds. “If something goes wrong—”
“Risk,” a third finishes. “Physical, reputational, all of it.”
Zak lets them speak.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t defend. He knows panic burns itself out faster if you don’t feed it.
When the room finally quiets, he nods once.
“Louise already understands endurance,” he says. “She doesn’t think in laps. She thinks in stints. Energy management. Decision economy.”
“She’s also running horses and shooting competitions between Grands Prix,” someone counters.
Zak smiles faintly. “Exactly.”
They blink.
“Mental bandwidth like that doesn’t splinter,” he continues. “It stretches. She’s proof of it.”
He shifts his weight, turns slightly.
“Lando,” he says, “is the sharpest I’ve ever seen him. Not frantic. Not chasing. Focused.”
No one argues that.
“And Mick?” a quieter voice asks.
Zak’s expression changes—not softer, exactly, but deeper.
“Mick understands endurance because he’s lived it,” he says. “Long shadows. Long roads. The kind of patience you can’t teach.”
He pauses.
“That matters at three in the morning when the car feels wrong and everyone’s tired and someone has to keep it together.”
Silence settles.
Then Zak adds, almost casually—
“And I want Jenson Button as team principal.”
The room breaks.
Someone laughs in disbelief. Another person nods immediately, already seeing it. Someone else mutters, “That actually makes sense.”
“Experience in both worlds,” Zak says calmly. “He speaks fluent young driver and fluent endurance. He’ll keep them steady.”
No one objects after that.
They’re already rearranging the board in their heads.
—
Later that evening, Zak makes the first call himself.
“Better than alright,” Zak replies. “I have a hypothetical.”
Mick exhales softly. “That never sounds hypothetical.”
“Le Mans,” Zak says.
A pause. Not hesitation—calculation.
“I'm in.”
Zak smiles to himself.
“You didn’t even ask with who.”
“I don’t need to,” Mick says. “Tell me when.”
“When I tell you,” Zak replies. “And not a second earlier.”
“Understood.”
The line goes dead.
Zak doesn’t need to write that one down.
⸻
Two days later, he’s in London.
Not on the phone.
Across a small table from Jenson Button, in a private room above a restaurant Jenson could navigate blindfolded. No assistants. No paper trail. Just water glasses and shared history.
Jenson raises an eyebrow. “You don’t invite me to lunch unless you’re about to ruin my retirement.”
Zak grins. “I need a team principal.”
Jenson laughs—then stops when Zak adds, “For Le Mans.”
The mood shifts.
“Go on,” Jenson says, leaning back.
“One car,” Zak says. “Young lineup. High discipline. People who don’t unravel when it gets ugly.”
“You already chose them,” Jenson says.
“Yes.”
“And you want me to keep them alive.”
“And sane.”
Zak slides a folded sheet of paper across the table.
Jenson opens it.
Reads.
Doesn’t speak.
Then, quietly—“That’s dangerous.”
“In the right way,” Zak says.
Jenson exhales, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s brilliant. Completely unhinged.”
“So?”
Jenson folds the paper and slips it into his jacket like it’s classified.
“I’m in,” he says. “But we do this properly.”
Zak nods. “That’s why you’re here.”
⸻
Zak doesn’t announce anything.
But behind the scenes, the board starts filling itself.
A luxury watch brand requests a “low-key conversation.”
An energy company wants to “explore alignment.”
A heritage automotive sponsor sends an email that simply says:
If this is real, call us.
Zak stacks the messages neatly.
Doesn’t rush.
He leans back in his chair, three names written in his mind, one race waiting patiently.
Let them wonder, he thinks.
Because when this finally becomes public, it won’t feel like a reveal.
It’ll feel like something that was always going to happen.
Summary: A helmet is supposed to protect you. Louise’s do a little more than that. As she revisits every design she’s raced with, old memories resurface—some funny, some painful, some impossible to separate from the person she’s become.
Notes: I wish I knew how to draw so I could illustrate her helmets, but hopefully I added enough description so you guys can imagine them...
Word Count: 2.3k
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The studio is quiet in that intentional way.
Not silent — engineered.
The white backdrop is seamless, curving into the floor like an infinity wall. Softbox lights hover overhead, angled precisely so nothing glares, nothing casts a harsh shadow. Everything is controlled. Measured. Polished.
In front of Louise, a long matte table stretches across the frame.
On it: helmets.
Arranged not by color, not by sponsor — but by time.
To most people, they’re just variations of carbon fiber and paint.
To her, they’re chapters.
She rests her hands lightly on the table’s edge. Fingers tap once. A grounding habit — subtle, almost invisible unless you’re looking for it.
A producer counts down.
“Three, two—”
Hi, GQ Sports. I’m Louise Levine, and today I’m giving you guys a tour through my racing helmets.
She opens her arms gesturing at them— not reverent, not precious. Familiar. Like old friends who’ve seen her worst days and never told anyone.
Cut to intro.
Music. Quick shots. Close-ups of visor reflections, gloved hands tightening straps, the number twenty-five flashing under bright paddock lights.
Then—
Back to the studio.
The table is now empty.
Someone off-camera places the first helmet into her hands.
She accepts it automatically, cradling it at the base and chin like it’s something both sturdy and fragile.
She turns it slightly so the light catches its curve.
“So,” she begins, calm and clear, “this one I didn’t actually race in.”
She rotates it slowly, letting the gloss skim under the studio lights.
“But it was my first race helmet.”
There’s a soft laugh in her throat.
The design is clean. Sharp. Aviation lines slicing backward like it wants to be airborne.
“I was filming the Top Gun: Maverick spin-off,” she explains, “and my character was a racer. So obviously, I needed a helmet for the driving scenes.”
She studies it for a second longer, gaze going slightly distant.
“I remember putting it on and thinking, oh.”
A small pause.
“This is heavier than I expected.”
She taps the shell gently.
“Not physically. Mentally.”
There’s something in the way she says it — not dramatic, just observant.
“I didn’t pick the base design. The design team had it inspired by Maverick’s helmet from the first Top Gun. Aviation stripes, minimal clutter.” She shrugs. “They let me tweak a few details.”
Her fingers brush the lower edge.
“It was my first contact with racing from the driver’s point of view. I had lessons with a few professional drivers before filming. We shot in Bahrain with drivers from F1 Academy and other series.”
A faint smile flickers.
“It was really fun.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“It also felt like foreshadowing. Which is annoying, in hindsight.”
The crew chuckles softly behind the cameras.
She sets the helmet down with deliberate care.
Another is handed to her.
This one is black — glossy — with a glittering red bow sweeping across it like it’s been gift-wrapped in defiance.
She brightens.
“This was for F1 Academy. My first real race.”
She turns it so the bow catches the light — it sparkles unapologetically.
“I raced as a wildcard. Sponsored by Disney.”
She nods toward the bow.
“The Minnie inspiration? Their idea. The glitter? Also their idea.” A small grin. “I loved it.”
She rotates the helmet to show a small, tucked detail near the back.
“The only thing I asked for was this Easter egg for Daisy Duck.”
Her voice softens — not heavy, just careful.
“She was my biological mom’s favorite Disney character. And my grandma’s name was Daisy.”
A tiny shrug.
“In Portuguese.”
A beat.
“It’s a bit confusing. But it makes sense to me.”
She sets it down.
The next helmet is bolder — electric colors cutting through it like pixel static.
She smiles immediately.
“This one I used in Formula 2.”
Her fingers trace the glitch-like accents.
“Disney was still a sponsor, so I asked if I could use Vanellope von Schweetz’s hair in the design.”
She laughs softly.
“Because I kind of felt like her.”
She tilts it so the layered streaks become visible.
“New to the game. A little glitchy. Not quite fitting the mold.”
Her gaze lifts toward the camera.
“I arrived mid-season. Little to no experience compared to everyone else. They knew the rules. I was still buffering.”
The crew laughs again.
“Vanellope wins by being weird,” she continues. “By not smoothing herself out.”
A small nod.
“So I figured I’d try that too.”
A producer’s voice cuts in from behind camera.
“Do you have a favorite helmet design from other drivers?”
She hums thoughtfully.
“Oof. Tough.”
She shifts the helmet aside and folds her hands loosely.
“I don’t really like designs with too many overlapping lines and shapes. It gets visually noisy. And a lot of drivers use templates like that, so… oops.”
She smiles apologetically at the lens.
“But I like Alex Albon’s. It’s smooth. Easy to process. In a good way.”
A small nod.
“Carlos Sainz’s feels classic. The color scheme — blue, red, yellow accents. Really clean.”
She hesitates — then her expression changes.
Softens.
“And Lando’s.”
There’s familiarity in it. Fondness.
“The blobs are iconic. He doesn’t follow the mold at all.”
A quick grin.
“I actually asked him for design tips.”
She laughs.
“If there was someone who could help me, it was him.”
She nods once.
“I think those are my top three.”
Another helmet is placed in her hands.
Heavier. More intricate.
Her 2026 season standard.
She holds it differently — not tentative, not reverent.
Familiar.
“Now we’re in Formula One.”
There’s no dramatics in the statement.
Just fact.
“This was my standard helmet for the season.”
She rotates it slowly.
“It’s basically a collage of things I think about when I’m grounding myself before I race.”
She points above the visor.
“Here, connecting to the visor — that’s Angewomon's helm. She’s a Digimon. The evolution of Tailmon. One of my favorites.”
She gestures to the dark reflective visor.
“I like dark visors. So it felt continuous. Like I’m wearing the helm too.”
Her finger moves to the mouth area.
“This accent is inspired by Astrid’s face paint from How to Train Your Dragon 2. In the film hers is teal and orange. I switched it to purple and blue to match my colors.”
She turns the helmet sideways.
“These wings are originally part of Angewomon’s design, but I replaced them with Kero’s — or Cerberus’ — wings from Cardcaptor Sakura.”
A flip to the back.
“Togepi's egg pattern here.”
The shapes are subtle, sponsor logos embedded inside them.
“To smooth the sponsor placement. I don’t like looking like a walking ad wall.”
She rotates it upward.
“And from above…”
The overhead camera zooms in.
Her number.
Twenty-five.
Circled by small shapes resembling the teeth motif from Ahsoka’s headdress.
She taps it gently.
“Twenty-five.”
She exhales lightly.
“Sorry if that was too nerdy.”
She grins.
The crew shakes their heads.
“No such thing,” someone says.
She relaxes.
“This is the helmet I traded with most of the grid.”
A beat.
“Except Lando.”
Her lips curve.
“He decided to be difficult.”
The producer perks up. “Oh?”
She nods solemnly.
“He asked for a different one.”
A pause.
The room leans in slightly.
She sets the helmet down carefully.
Louise reaches for the next helmet.
It looks identical to her 2026 standard at first glance.
Then it catches the light.
And answers back.
“This,” she says, lifting it carefully, “is night mode.”
The surface gleams under the studio lamps — accents that were once pastel now glow in neon-like edges. Purple and blue lines hum electric against the darker base. A holographic sheen ripples when she tilts it.
“Same design,” she explains. “Just… upgraded.”
She rotates it slowly.
“At night races, everything feels sharper. The lights reflect differently. You see more contrast. So we leaned into that.”
She taps one of the glowing accents.
“More shine. More drama.”
A small grin.
“Because if you’re racing under floodlights in Singapore or Vegas, subtlety is a lost cause.”
The crew chuckles.
She sets it down gently.
Then reaches for the next one.
Even before she speaks, her posture shifts.
“This one was for Miami.”
The helmet gleams red under the lights.
Not aggressive red.
Warm red.
The kind that carries memory.
“The race is always close to my brother’s birthday.”
Her voice doesn’t break. It doesn’t waver.
But it softens.
“He loved cars. I loved cars.”
She turns the helmet slowly in her hands.
“I think Cars was the first movie we watched together and actually connected over.”
There’s a pause — not for effect. Just for accuracy.
“The design is inspired by the painting Lightning McQueen gets in Radiator Springs.”
She smiles faintly.
“But instead of the lightning bolt on the side, we angled a Red Bull bull like one. Because I was racing for Red Bull after all.”
She runs her thumb over the curve of it.
“Fun fact,” she adds, a glint returning to her eyes, “I almost chose ninety-four as my racing number.”
The producer perks up. “Really?”
“There’s a character named Louise in Cars 3 that's number 94.”
She laughs lightly.
“But I went with my birthday.”
A shrug.
“Boring, I know.”
“It’s practical,” someone off-camera offers.
“Yeah,” she says with mock solemnity.
She sets the Miami helmet down and reaches for the next.
“For COTA,” she continues, “we made a few alterations to the base template.”
She lifts it — red, white, and blue.
“The color scheme shifted. And on the back we replaced the previous art with stars and stripes. Like the ones painted on the circuit.”
She turns it, showing the rear.
“Subtle patriotism,” she says lightly. “With aerodynamic intent.”
“Of course,” the producer deadpans.
Then—
“Brasil.”
Her entire face lights up.
“This one is really special.”
She brings it closer to the camera.
On the mouth area: sharp, cartoonish bunny teeth.
“Monica’s teeth,” she says proudly. “From Monica’s Gang.”
Short. Slightly angry. Unapologetic.
“Relatable.”
The crew laughs.
“From above,” she continues, tilting it, “there’s a sketch of the Brazilian Synchrotron Light Laboratory.”
The camera zooms in slightly.
“I studied there.”
She pumps a small fist in the air.
“Go science.”
Someone claps quietly.
She turns the helmet to show the back.
“And this artwork—”
Her tone changes again. Pride, unmistakable.
“Was done by Jaider Esbell.”
She traces the lines carefully.
“He asked about where I grew up. About the landscape. About memory.”
A small breath.
“And somehow turned it into this.”
The artwork curves across the shell — layered, powerful, rooted.
“Indigenous artist. Absolute genius.”
Her pride sits steady and bright.
Next helmet.
“Vegas.”
She smirks.
“This one was… last-minute.”
A few crew members exchange knowing looks.
“My mom was walking the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show the same weekend as the race.”
A ripple of reaction.
“So we adjusted.”
She turns it.
“The front kept the night mode design. But the back—”
Pink and white stripes sweep across it.
“The iconic Victoria’s Secret stripes.”
She rotates it to the side.
“And instead of Kero’s wings, we used the design of the wings my mom wore on the runway.”
She grins.
“We matched.”
“Power move,” someone mutters.
She nods.
“Very.”
Then the final Red Bull helmet is placed in her hands.
The energy shifts again.
Subtle.
But everyone feels it.
“This,” she says evenly, “was Abu Dhabi.”
She holds it up.
Ladybug red.
Glossy.
Scattered black dots across the surface.
“This was my last race with Red Bull.”
A pause.
“And the race I won my championship in.”
The room quiets.
“Earlier that year, my mom found this picture of me,” she continues. “I think I was two or three.”
Her eyes soften with the memory.
“I was wearing this velvety red dress. And a beret shaped like a ladybug. It had little antennas.”
A small smile tugs at her lips.
“I was jumping on my bed.”
She laughs softly.
“It was shaped like a car. A blue car.”
The crew smiles.
“That weekend,” she continues, “Max and I both ran special liveries. He had a red car and a blue suit. I had a blue car and a red suit.”
She tilts her head.
“So… very red string theory.”
A few laughs break the tension.
She slowly rotates the helmet.
The base gleams. Deep, rich red. Black dots scattered across it.
She taps one of the dots gently.
“Inside every dot is a name.”
She turns it slightly so the camera can catch the fine lettering.
“Mechanics. Engineers. Strategists. Everyone on the team.”
Near her cheek, a dot shaped like a heart.
She taps that one.
“Family.”
Her voice remains steady.
“Everyone that loves me.”
She rotates it upward.
“And up here—”
One small dot for each woman who raced in Formula One before her.
“Not many,” she says quietly.
“But not less important.”
She sets it down carefully.
A breath passes through the room.
Then—
“This is 2027.”
A new helmet is placed in her hands.
Deep Aston Martin green.
Constellations scattered across it like a private sky.
“It’s more simple than the others,” she admits.
“I’m not racing every weekend this year, so I’ll probably keep just one design. I might do a special one for the last race. I’m not sure yet.”
She tilts it slightly, studying it with quiet fondness.
“I like looking at it.”
She squints slightly.
“Oh — and— where is it—”
She rotates it again.
“There.”
A tiny star near the crown.
“If you win the Drivers’ Championship, you get to add a star.”
She smiles.
“Lewis has seven. Max has four. Alonso has two. Lando has one.”
A beat.
“And now I have one too.”
The grin that follows is bright and unfiltered.
Not arrogance.
Achievement.
She sets the helmet back in its place in the timeline.
All of them together now — film, wildcard, glitch, tribute, art, memory, night mode, championship, future.
Coordinates.
Proof of motion.
She nods once, satisfied.
“I guess that’s it.”
She looks into the lens directly.
“Thank you guys for watching. Let me know in the comments which one’s your favorite.”
A small wave.
“Bye.”
The camera lingers for a moment after she steps away.
Helmets gleaming under soft studio lights.
Not just protection.
Not just design.
But story.
And somewhere in that deep green helmet, beneath a single quiet star, a future chapter waiting to be painted.
I think it's no secret to anyone that relationships and family for people with ASD are a complicated topic. There's always a fear of ruining things just because of how differently we process or react to certain stimuli or experiences, especially if your partner is neurotypical or off-spectrum.
The same thing happens with children... Whether it's the fear of hurting the baby, or how complicated they life could be if she/he also have ASD or another condition, the world isn't always kind to us.
There is another aspect to take into account that a friend who is already a mother told me, was how difficult the pregnancy was for her, she says that it was incredibly uncomfortable and magnificent alarming her sensitivities. She loves her son but says the pregnancy was a nightmare. It's a terrifying prospect
But I think Lando and Lou are both very family-oriented and would want to have kids together, just like everything, they would talk about everything very extensively to prepare and know where they stand
At this point you guys already know Lando and Louise better than I do!
This fear of how complicated life can become for someone with a disability is something Louise takes very seriously, and it’s something that ends up opening Lando’s eyes as well. I think a lot of that comes from proximity—Louise has spent much more time around people with different disabilities and has seen firsthand the practical challenges, barriers, and anxieties they navigate every day (not only hers). Lando simply didn’t grow up with that same exposure, so there are aspects of it that he hadn’t really considered before.
For Louise, preparation is the key word. In the story, I focused more on how difficult the period of coming off birth control was for her, but I do want to do a bit more research and perhaps incorporate some of those sensitivities and concerns into her pregnancy as well. It feels like a natural extension of the way she approaches these things: thinking ahead, trying to anticipate potential challenges, and making sure she’s as prepared as possible.
love the thought and care you put into fleshing out the characters☺️ Are they gonna talk about maybe getting married/ having kids in the future? I know she's on birth control and deals with anxiety around the whole period thing I cant help but be curious how shes gonna deal with having to stop taking it if shes gonna carry a baby
Aw thank you 🥹
Yes yes and yes; I just re-edited the first time this conversation happens, to fit Lando’s recent coment on wanting a family and leaving f1 before his limit (age wise)
I’ve gathered for a while now, a general take on how he would like to establish a family and to see it clearly in his words how it matched what I wrote was a bit scary ngl. Guess he’s just easy to read.
The getting married talk is very different from the having kids talk. And I would love if neurodivergent readers could chime in with their takes on those topics! I wrote based on a very particular take/pov and would love to maybe expand it or just add a different perspective.
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Summary: The season arrives loud. Between first-race weekends chaos, Bingo-induced emotional breakdowns, parallel podiums, and opposite sides of the world, they discover that distance feels different when you’ve already chosen each other.
Word Count: 4.1k
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Australia arrives loud and bright and unapologetic.
The kind of bright that doesn’t ease you in. It hits all at once—sun blazing off polished carbon fiber, heat already curling up from the asphalt even though it’s barely midmorning, the paddock buzzing with that unmistakable first-race electricity. Diesel, sunscreen, hot brakes, fresh coffee. Everyone talking at once. Everyone pretending they’re not buzzing.
Louise steps out of Aston Martin’s garage doors and into it all.
Green.
Aston green.
It catches her off guard for half a second—the way the color looks under open sky instead of factory lights, the way it feels on her shoulders. Heavier than she expects. Not in a bad way. In a this means something way.
She adjusts her cap, rolls her shoulders once, grounding herself. The fabric creases comfortably, already familiar.
Earned.
She takes three steps forward before—
“Hey.”
She turns.
Lando stands a few feet away, McLaren papaya slicing through the crowd like a memory she never quite put down. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, team kit already dusted with the beginnings of race weekend chaos. For half a second, neither of them says anything.
Too many cameras.
Too many people.
Too much compressed into a glance.
His eyes flick over her without apology—cap, kit, the green.
“You look good in Aston green,” he says, low enough that only she can hear.
Her mouth tilts, restrained but pleased. “Better than Red Bull blue?”
He pretends to think, eyes drifting skyward. “I mean… that one had character.”
“Rude.”
“But,” he adds, voice softer now, something sincere threading through the teasing, “this one looks like it fits.”
Something settles in her chest at that. Clicks into place.
“Try not to stare,” she says lightly. “People will talk.”
He grins, shameless. “Let them.”
They pass each other then—shoulder to shoulder, just enough contact to count. A brush of fabric. Familiar warmth. Nothing that would make headlines.
Everything that matters anyway.
⸻
The official drivers’ photo is its own special brand of chaos.
A raised platform sits in the open, baking under the Australian sun like it’s personally offended by the concept of shade. Twenty-two drivers gather in loose formation, milling around pretending they aren’t already tired of being told where to stand. PR staff orbit the edges, clipboards raised, voices slicing through the air like air traffic control.
“Okay—everyone check your marks please! Nico, further back—back, please. Liam, you can sit there. Kimi—helmet where we can see it!”
Someone groans dramatically.
Someone else laughs.
Louise steps up without ceremony, the Aston green catching the light as she moves into place. The absence of Fernando is noticeable—but not heavy. There’s no awkward shuffle, no whispered pause. Just a gap that has been… filled.
She belongs there in a way that doesn’t ask permission.
Carlos catches her eye first, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Well,” he says, head tilting, “this is different.”
“Miss me already?” she shoots back.
“Only when you’re not in front of me.”
George leans in from her other side, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “First race back and you’ve already ruined everyone’s weekend.”
She grins. “I aim to be efficient.”
A few places down the line, Max studies her with that sharp, assessing look—head tipped slightly, mouth neutral, eyes doing the math.
“Didn’t think we’d see you here this early,” he says.
She lifts one shoulder. “Surprise.”
Not defensive. Not playful.
Just fact.
Max nods once, as if filing it away. “Good.”
Lewis shifts closer, easy and warm, lowering his voice. “Green suits you.”
She glances down at herself, then back at him. “Careful,” she says. “People will think you’re trying to recruit me.”
He laughs. “I’d never. Not publicly.”
A PR staffer taps her elbow. “One step left, please.”
Louise adjusts without breaking conversation, settling into position like muscle memory. Chin level. Hands loose. Stillness practiced.
Cameras start clicking. The group mostly stills. Mostly.
From the far edge of the formation, Lando watches.
He tells himself he’s just waiting for instructions. That he’s got time before his own cue. That this is normal—drivers lining up, cameras flashing, the circus rolling on.
But his eyes keep finding her anyway.
He notices the subtle shifts around her. The way people angle their shoulders without realizing it. The half-steps others take, unconsciously giving her space. Not deference exactly—recognition.
No one questions why she’s there.
No one treats her like a placeholder.
She doesn’t overperform. Doesn’t shrink. Doesn’t prove.
She just is.
Laughing quietly at something George says. Chin tipped up toward the sun. Squinting slightly, relaxed. At home.
The realization lands quietly—but solid, undeniable.
She’s not filling in.
She’s not borrowing a seat.
She’s racing.
And somehow—despite knowing her better than almost anyone—despite knowing exactly how capable she is—it still steals his breath.
Australia doesn’t soften for anyone.
But Louise stands there in the middle of it, steady as ever.
Unapologetic.
Exactly where she belongs.
⸻
Media day always hits her later than expected.
Not during the interviews—never then. Louise is too practiced for that. She smiles on cue, answers cleanly, tilts her head just enough to soften the sharp edges of a loaded question before dismantling it with polite precision. She knows how to redirect without deflecting, how to give them something usable without giving them everything. She’s been doing this since she was barely old enough to sit in the chair without her feet swinging.
The adrenaline carries her through it all.
Cameras. Microphones. The low hum of voices repeating the same questions in slightly different disguises. Are you really committed? Is this temporary? How does it feel to be back? Do you feel like you have something to prove?
She answers. She smiles. She survives.
It’s after that it catches her.
After the last “thank you,” after the final headset comes off and the PR handler gives her a nod that means you’re free. After she walks the familiar corridor back into Aston hospitality and the sliding doors whisper shut behind her, sealing out the paddock noise like a held breath finally released.
She drops into a chair like someone’s pulled her plug.
“Oh my god,” she mutters, tipping her head back against the cushion. “If one more person asks me if I’m ‘really committed,’ I’m going to start answering in interpretive dance.”
There’s a ripple of laughter from somewhere to her left. Someone slides a cold bottle of water into her hand without asking. She takes it gratefully, twists the cap, and drinks like she’s been wandering a desert instead of a media pen. Half the bottle is gone in seconds.
Her eyes fall closed as she breathes through the room—the clink of cutlery from a late lunch, the low murmur of engineers dissecting data, the soft, determined whirr of air conditioning fighting a losing battle against Melbourne heat.
“I am officially begging for mercy,” she adds, voice muffled as she presses her face into her hands. “Just five minutes where no one needs a quote, a soundbite, or my opinion on my own existence.”
A beat.
Then—
Thump.
Another.
Not footsteps exactly. Heavier. Softer. Rhythmic.
Louise peeks through her fingers.
Orange.
Big, rounded, unmistakable.
She freezes mid-breath.
“…Is that—” she starts, incredulous.
Bingo waves.
Not a subtle wave. Not a polite one. A full-commitment, shoulder-involved, joy-radiating wave that feels like it was designed specifically to undo emotional exhaustion.
Louise gasps so sharply it almost turns into a hiccup. “Oh my god.”
The Aston staff part instinctively, like they understand something sacred is happening, as Bingo steps forward carrying a basket that looks like it weighs roughly the same as a small child. It’s overflowing—plush toys, hats, shirts, stickers, tiny backpacks, things in every shade of orange imaginable.
Right on top—
A pair of orange Bingo ears.
“No,” Louise says weakly, already pushing herself upright. “No, this is cruel. You can’t do this to me when I’m vulnerable.”
Bingo presents the basket with a flourish so dramatic it deserves applause.
Louise presses both hands to her chest. “I would die for you.”
She doesn’t even pretend to resist. She digs into the basket immediately, laughter bubbling out of her as she pulls things out one by one.
“Oh my god—look at this. And this. Who authorized this joy?” She looks around the room like she’s expecting someone to stop her. No one does. “This is… this is the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”
Her eyes catch on the ears again.
They light up.
“Oh absolutely.”
She plucks them out and slides them onto her head without hesitation, fingers adjusting them until they sit just right. There’s a beat of intense concentration, tongue caught briefly between her teeth. Someone snaps a candid photo right then—Louise fully absorbed, exhausted and delighted in equal measure.
Bingo claps enthusiastically.
Louise steps forward and wraps her arms around the mascot without thinking, cheek pressed into the soft costume, eyes squeezed shut. She smiles so wide it almost hurts. It’s not posed. It’s not polished. It’s pure, unguarded joy—the kind she rarely gets to show when there’s a lens involved.
“Okay,” someone says gently from behind a camera. “Photo?”
Louise tightens her grip. “Yes. But I’m not moving.”
They take it like that.
The photo is exactly what it felt like: Louise hugging Bingo, eyes closed, Bingo’s arms around her, the ears slightly crooked on her head.
Caption:
Media day mercy granted 🧡
The comments detonate almost instantly.
@.f1fan88: SHE PUT THE EARS ON IMMEDIATELY 😭
@.aussiegp: National treasure meets national treasure.
@.blueyofficial: Bingo says you’re welcome 💛
@.gridwatch: This might be the most joy we’ve ever seen in the paddock.
@.astonmartinfan: We support this partnership. Fully.
Louise looks her phone, smile still lingering.
For the first time all day, the noise fades.
She feels light.
⸻
She doesn’t even take the Bingo ears off.
She flops back onto the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, orange ears slightly crooked from hugging too hard. Her phone rings once before Lando’s face fills the screen.
He blinks.
Once.
Then again.
“…Are those,” he says slowly, carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal, “Bingo ears?”
She grins so hard her cheeks ache. “DON’T.”
“I’m not saying anything,” he replies immediately. “I’m observing.”
“You left me alone for one media day,” she accuses, pointing at the screen. “One. And Bingo personally rescued me from emotional collapse.”
His mouth twitches. “I saw the post.”
“Of course you did.”
“She brought you a basket,” he adds. “I clocked the basket.”
Louise sits up, suddenly animated. “Lando. It was full. Like—full-full. Plushies. Stickers. A tiny backpack. I blacked out emotionally.”
“She gifted you mercy,” he says solemnly.
“She did,” Louise agrees, just as serious. “I hugged her and didn’t let go. I think that’s legally binding.”
He laughs, quiet and fond. “You look really happy.”
She pauses, fingers brushing the edge of one ear. “I was. Am.”
A beat settles between them.
“Also,” she adds, mock-accusatory, “you didn’t warn me Australia would deploy emotional warfare.”
“That’s on me,” he concedes. “I should’ve known.”
They talk for a few more minutes—about nothing and everything. Dinner plans. Her long runs. His meetings. The easy, unforced rhythm that only exists when neither of them is performing.
When they hang up, Louise doesn’t notice anything different.
But later, when Lando locks his phone, the background has changed.
It’s her. Hugging Bingo. Eyes closed. Smiling like the world is kind.
No announcement. No explanation.
Just proof—quiet and constant—that even when they’re not in the same place, he carries the evidence that she’s happy.
⸻
Friday arrives sharp and electric, the paddock still pretending it doesn’t know what’s coming.
The Australian sun sits high and unapologetic, bouncing off bodywork and visors and the glazed expressions of people who didn’t quite expect this. Louise slips into the Aston Martin like she’s stepping into something already hers. No ceremony. No pause. Just the soft click of belts, the familiar narrowing of the world.
Out on track, she doesn’t warm up so much as arrive.
Purple in sector two on her first proper push lap.
The commentary barely finishes the sentence before the timing screens update again.
“And already Louise is topping the timesheets—purple in sector two like it’s nothing.”
Engineers glance up from laptops. Someone mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Already?”
Louise keeps going.
She doesn’t chase the lap. She lets it come to her. The car listens. The car responds. Newey’s fingerprints are all over it—and so is her understanding of it. She feels where it wants to rotate, where it resists, where it needs patience instead of force.
Another lap.
Another purple.
By the end of FP2, the paddock has stopped pretending.
Phones buzz. Screens flood with reactions faster than anyone can moderate them.
Louise and Newey in the same team should be illegal.
This is what happens when talent meets trust.
Who said she wasn’t committed?
She climbs out of the car calm, sweat-dark hair escaping her helmet, expression neutral like she hasn’t just unsettled half the grid.
Inside the garage, someone hands her a drink.
“That felt… good,” she says simply.
Adrian only nods. “We’ll look at the data.”
But the corner of his mouth betrays him.
—
Saturday doesn’t soften.
If anything, it sharpens.
Qualifying day hums with a different frequency—nerves pulled tight, mistakes punished instantly. Louise stands in the garage, eyes closed for a moment before she climbs in, breathing slow, deliberate. No superstition. Just focus.
Q1 is tidy. Q2 cleaner. By Q3, the air feels thin.
She hooks the lap together piece by piece. Braking points kissed, not attacked. Kerbs used just enough to matter. The Aston grips like it trusts her.
When she crosses the line, there’s a half-second pause.
Then—
Purple. Everywhere.
“This is dominance,” the broadcast says, voices climbing. “Controlled, clinical, devastating.”
Pole position isn’t a surprise by the time it happens.
It’s confirmation.
Louise steps out of the car to a wall of noise—cheers, gasps, recalculating expectations. She pulls her cap on, squints into the sun, and smiles just once.
—
Sunday arrives heavy with anticipation.
Race day energy crackles differently—thicker, louder, full of opinions that haven’t yet been proven wrong. Louise stands on the grid, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the stretch of asphalt ahead. The car vibrates beneath her, eager.
Lights out.
She launches clean.
No wheelspin. No drama. She claims turn one like it was always hers.
From there, she doesn’t look back.
Lap by lap, the gap opens.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The broadcast leans into it because it has to.
“This is a statement drive.”
“She’s rewriting the conversation in real time.”
She manages tyres like she’s budgeting time. Pushes when it matters. Backs off when it doesn’t. No mistakes. No mercy.
When the chequered flag waves, she crosses the line first, radio crackling with voices that sound like they’re trying not to shout.
She exhales once. Long.
That’s all she needs.
—
Parc fermé explodes around her.
Noise. Color. Adrenaline ricocheting off concrete and carbon fiber. She barely has time to unclip her helmet before someone bumps her shoulder.
“Oi,” Lando says, helmet off, grin wide despite the sweat. “Go easy on us, please.”
She turns, eyes bright, flushed, alive. “Never.”
He laughs, breathless. “Third’s the best I could do today.”
She leans in just enough to be heard. “You did great.”
For half a second—just long enough—they forget the cameras. Forget the grid. Forget the narratives still catching up.
Australia roars around them.
And somewhere between green and orange, something new settles into place. Not competition. Not distance.
Balance.
⸻
The airport goodbyes are quiet now.
Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just… practiced.
Melbourne dissolves into glass corridors and moving walkways. Louise boards her plane to Zurich first; Lando’s flight to Sakhir leaves an hour later. Different terminals. Same rhythm.
They stand near the private hangar, bags at their feet, the smell of jet fuel sharp in the air.
Lando reaches out, fingers brushing her wrist. “Text me when you land.”
She nods. “You too. Don’t let jet lag make you dramatic.”
He scoffs. “I’m always dramatic.”
She smiles, then steps into him, forehead resting against his collarbone. No cameras here. No paddock hum. Just the low murmur of travel and the quiet certainty that this is how it works now.
“Bahrain,” she says. “Be fast.”
“Switzerland,” he replies. “Don’t fall off.”
She laughs into his chest. “That’s not encouraging.”
He presses a kiss into her hair anyway. “You’ve got this.”
They separate with one last squeeze of hands. He watches until she’s gone.
—
Bahrain greets Lando with heat that clings even after sunset.
Dry nights. Neon reflections on polished concrete. The circuit glows under floodlights like it’s alive. Familiar enough to steady him. Sharp enough to focus him.
Race week resets everything.
Briefings blur into track walks. Engineers speak in clipped sentences, fingers tracing invisible racing lines over data sheets. Lando listens, nods, asks the right questions—but part of his mind is already running the lap, corner by corner.
Late that night, when the paddock empties and the air finally cools enough to breathe, he stops near the pit wall and takes a photo.
The car under floodlights.
The sky impossibly blue.
He sends it.
Same chaos. Different timezone.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Leather boots dusted with dirt.
A horse’s neck in frame, breath fogging the air.
Cold chaos. Still chaos.
He smiles.
—
Switzerland greets Louise with quiet.
Not silence—never that—but gentler sound. Hooves on packed earth. Leather creaking. The soft snort of horses warming up in early morning cold. Barns that smell like hay, frost, and effort.
Her mornings start before the sun fully commits.
She braids her horse’s mane with practiced hands, fingers moving automatically while her thoughts settle. There’s something grounding in it—doing something slow and physical before asking her body for precision.
The arena air is sharp. Clean. It burns her lungs in a way she welcomes.
This competition isn’t loud like racing. No engines screaming. Just tension held in quiet breaths, judges watching everything.
She rides clean rounds. Tight turns. No faults.
When she dismounts, legs burning in a completely different way, she checks her phone.
FP2 went well. P4.
She grins, snaps a quick selfie—helmet hair, flushed cheeks, smile crooked.
Clear round. No faults.
A beat.
Then—
Proud of you.
She exhales, warmth settling behind her ribs.
Different worlds. Same pulse.
And neither of them missing a step.
—
Back in Bahrain, Lando’s weekend tightens the way a fist does when it knows it’s about to need strength.
Friday night had been loose, almost buoyant—the afterglow of Australia still humming under his skin—but by Saturday morning the circuit feels sharper. Less forgiving. The desert doesn’t care about momentum; it demands presence.
FP3 runs hot. Literally and figuratively.
The car feels alive under him in a way that makes his instincts itch—in the good way. Responsive on turn-in, stable through the long sweepers, playful when he dares to lean on it just a fraction more. He pushes, backs off, pushes again, learning the limits like a language he already half-speaks.
In the garage, engineers crowd the screens, murmuring in that low, analytical cadence that always makes him feel like he’s inside the brain of a machine.
“Balance is good,” someone says.
“Rear’s holding better than yesterday.”
Lando nods, pulling his gloves off, flexing his fingers. He jokes—because that’s what he does—but there’s an edge to him now. Something quieter. More inward. The part of him that shows up when things stop being theoretical.
Between sessions, he sits on the pit wall with his phone balanced against his knee, scrolling.
Her horse mid-jump, frozen in that impossible moment where gravity seems optional.
Her boots tossed aside in the barn aisle, mud-streaked and unapologetic.
A cup of tea balanced far too close to a saddle, steam curling into cold air.
He smiles without meaning to.
You look cold, he texts.
The reply comes fast.
You look sweaty.
He huffs a laugh.
Accurate.
He sends her a photo back—helmet hair flattened, suit half-zipped, eyes squinting against the sun.
Still worth it, he adds.
A few minutes later, qualifying arrives like a held breath.
He climbs into the car, clicks the belts tight, and everything else recedes. No Switzerland. No distance. Just braking points and margins and the tiny adjustments that separate a good lap from a great one.
Q1: clean.
Q2: sharper.
Q3: right on the knife-edge.
He extracts everything he can without tipping over it. When the chequered flag falls, he sits back, heart pounding, listening to the radio chatter resolve into something solid.
Second row.
P3.
Close enough to taste. Far enough to want.
That night, the hotel balcony hums with city noise and heat that refuses to fully leave. Lando kicks his shoes off, drops into a chair, and FaceTimes her before he can overthink it.
She answers on the second ring.
Wrapped in a thick sweater, hair still damp from a shower, sitting cross-legged on a narrow bed that looks about half as soft as the Aston motorhome couch. Her cheeks are pink from cold. Her eyes bright.
“You look tired,” he says immediately.
She squints at him. “You say that like you aren’t.”
He grins and tilts the phone, angling it so she can see the circuit glowing in the distance, floodlights cutting clean lines through the dark.
“Race tomorrow,” he says. “You?”
“Final round in the morning,” she answers. “Then I’ll try not to stress-watch your race.”
“Try,” he repeats, amused.
She smiles, softer now, the edge of focus easing just a little. “Thinking of you.”
“Always,” he says, without hesitation. It’s not dramatic. Just true.
They sit like that for a moment—two rectangles of light, two different worlds stitched together by signal and habit—until the fatigue catches up with both of them.
“Go sleep,” she says.
“You too,” he counters.
They hang up reluctantly.
—
In Switzerland, Louise wakes before her alarm.
The barn is quiet in that deep, early-morning way—breath fogging, hooves shifting softly, the world held in suspension. She moves through her routine with practiced calm: brushing, braiding, checking tack. Letting her body remember what it needs to do before her brain has a chance to interfere.
The final round course is demanding but fair. Technical lines. Tight distances. Nothing flashy—everything honest.
She mounts, settles, breathes.
The ride unfolds cleanly.
No rushing. No forcing. She lets the horse do what it knows how to do, trusts the preparation, the hours, the quiet discipline that never makes headlines.
When they clear the final jump, she exhales fully for the first time in what feels like hours.
Clean again.
Second place.
Not first—but solid. Earned. Grounded.
When she dismounts, legs burning, breath coming fast, she laughs quietly and leans her forehead against her horse’s neck. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth, the steadiness, the reality of it.
“Well done,” she murmurs, to the horse or to herself—it hardly matters.
She checks her phone as she walks back toward the barn.
No messages yet.
Time zones.
She smiles anyway.
Race day in Bahrain comes fast.
The circuit wakes loud and bright, already humming with expectation. Lando feels it settle over him like armor as he suits up—familiar, heavy, reassuring.
Helmet on.
Visor down.
The world narrows to steering wheel lights and radio chatter.
The start is clean and aggressive. He holds position, fights for inches, defends when he needs to, attacks when the window opens. Tire management becomes instinct, pressure something he wears easily now.
Second place isn’t handed to him.
It’s earned—lap by lap, decision by decision.
When he crosses the line, relief hits first. Then satisfaction.
P2.
On the cool-down lap, his thoughts drift—not to the podium, not to the points—but to a quiet barn in Switzerland and a woman who understands exactly what it takes to hold focus across worlds.
—
Later that night, continents apart but hearts oddly aligned, they talk again.
He’s sprawled on a couch, race suit discarded, hair still damp. She’s back in her room, medals resting casually on the dresser like they’re just another piece of clutter, boots kicked off wherever they landed.
“Parallel podiums,” he says, voice lazy with exhaustion.
“Parallel exhaustion,” she counters.
They smile at each other through the screen.
There’s a pause—not awkward, just full.
Two lives running side by side again.
Not drifting.
Choosing.
And somewhere between engines and hooves, neon lights and quiet barns, across time zones and entirely different kinds of pressure, they carry the same certainty with them.
This isn’t distance.
It’s momentum.
And they’re moving forward—together, even when apart.
Omg I love your writing as someone with autism and loves f1 it is so refreshing!
Thank you so much! I try my best to make Louise a real and well developed character.
If you or anyone reading, have suggestions or doubts on topics and how she might navigate a scenario please come talk! I love developing ideas! and yapping about her
(I still have some aspects of her development coming up in future chapters and interludes, but I'm always open for new ones)
Summary: Lando oversleeps. Netflix shows up at his door. And a moment that barely lasts a few seconds ends up sending the internet into complete meltdown.
Word Count: 2.4k
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She arrives past midnight, the kind of late where Monaco feels like it’s been emptied out for maintenance.
The elevator ride up is silent except for the soft hum of cables and the faint ocean smell that always sneaks in through the garage. Louise kicks her shoes off the second the door closes behind them, dropping her bag wherever gravity decides it belongs. Lando looks up, turns, and finds her already halfway toward sleep—hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes unfocused, running purely on muscle memory.
“You made it,” he says quietly, like if he says it too loudly the night might take it back.
“Mm,” she answers, which could mean yes, could mean thank you, could mean nothing at all.
They don’t talk much. There’s no recap of travel delays or schedules or what tomorrow holds. Just the soft choreography of familiarity settling in—bathroom light flicked on and off, the muted rustle of sheets, the city glowing faintly through the glass like a held breath.
She’s asleep before her head fully hits the pillow.
Lando lies awake a little longer, watching the way her breathing evens out, how she curls instinctively onto her side, hair fanning across the pillows like she’s claimed the space without meaning to. It’s peaceful in a way that feels fragile. He lets himself have it. Just this. Just tonight.
When he finally sleeps, it’s deep and unguarded.
Too deep.
—
The phone rings.
Not the gentle vibration of his alarm. Not the slow, merciful fade-in of music. A real ring. Loud. Insistent. Wrong.
Lando bolts upright, heart already sprinting.
“What—what time is it?” he mutters, fumbling for the phone, squinting at the screen.
His stomach drops.
“Shit.”
He swings his legs out of bed, already moving before his brain catches up. Today. Drive To Survive. The shoot he absolutely, completely forgot about. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, panic sharpening his movements.
“Okay. Okay.”
Louise doesn’t stir. She’s still tucked into the mattress like the world hasn’t changed—body curled under the duvet, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, hair scattered everywhere in that impossible way that only ever looks like this when she’s really asleep.
He answers the phone, voice pitched low but polite, apologies stacked neatly on top of each other. The crew’s already downstairs. They’re flexible. They always are—until they aren’t.
“Two minutes.” he says.
He throws on a hoodie, pulls on shoes without socks, grabs his keys. The front door clicks open.
Out in the hallway, the crew waits—mics ready, cameras slung low, that practiced casualness that always pretends this is all very normal, very chill, just another morning.
“Sorry,” Lando says immediately, half a grin already in place. “Completely forgot.”
“No worries,” one of them says, already stepping forward to clip the mic onto his hoodie. “We’ll start easy.”
They move into the apartment like they’ve done it a hundred times before, respectful but efficient, furniture becoming background, life becoming set dressing. A camera settles near the window. Another by the kitchen island.
“Just do your thing,” the producer says. “Morning stuff.”
Lando nods, leans into it. Armor on.
He stands by the window first, hands in his pockets, staring out at the harbor like he’s contemplating something profound instead of mentally replaying his schedule and silently begging the day to slow down. The light hits his face just right—soft, flattering, accidental.
“Perfect,” someone murmurs.
He moves to the kitchen, fills the kettle, pretends he drinks something other than caffeine and adrenaline. He heats something up—leftovers from the night before—stirs absentmindedly, eyes unfocused enough to sell the illusion of seriousness.
They get shots of him at his computer next. Tabs open, brow furrowed, scrolling through something that looks important if you don’t zoom in enough to realize it’s just emails and calendar alerts. He nods at nothing. Clicks once or twice. Performance mode, seamless.
“Okay,” the producer says eventually. “We’ll head out in a sec.”
Lando nods again, relief flickering through him.
Before anyone can redirect him, he turns down the hallway.
“I’ll just—two seconds,” he says lightly, already walking.
He opens the bedroom door it slowly, like the space inside might spook if he moves too fast.
Louise hasn’t changed position. Still curled on her side, duvet pulled up to her chin now, hair everywhere—across the pillow, her cheek, one eye. The morning light blocked out by the curtains guarding her peace in the dark.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. Fully. Or at least he thinks he does.
He sits on the edge of the bed again, quieter now, the outside world dimmed to a distant hum. His fingers brush her hair back from her face, gentle, familiar. She stirs, barely—nose wrinkling, lips parting in a sleepy, confused little sound.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Sorry. I’ve gotta go for a bit.”
She hums in agreement, eyes still closed, fingers tightening for half a second before letting go. He leans down, presses a kiss to her hair—unthinking, instinctive, the kind of gesture you don’t realize is intimate until someone points it out later.
“Text me when you wake up, yeah?” he adds, quieter still.
She makes a small, indignant sound and shifts closer to the warmth he leaves behind.
When he stands, she curls back into the pillow, already halfway gone again, breath evening out as if he was never there at all.
He watches her for one more second than necessary.
Then he turns, slips out, and closes the door.
In the hallway, the crew is already repositioning, talking over each other about angles and light. No one says anything. No one needs to.
One camera, left running by habit more than intention, catches the door clicking shut behind him.
And later—much later—that’s the shot they’ll keep.
—
When the season airs, it happens slowly at first.
A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, tucked between engine noise and harbor shots, between voiceovers about pressure and expectations. Forty seconds of morning routine. Lando at the window. Lando in the kitchen. Lando walking down a hallway, half-dressed, half-awake, real in a way the show only allows by accident.
Then the door.
It’s barely a scene. Barely framed. The bedroom is dim, curtains pulled, light muted to a soft blue-gray haze. The camera never crosses the threshold. It doesn’t need to.
People pause it there.
At first, it’s just a handful of viewers. Someone on Twitter posts a screenshot: the sliver of a bed, the edge of a duvet, a spill of hair across a pillow. No face. No identifying features. Just the suggestion of a body, tucked in, warm, private.
“Wait—who’s that??”
Others rewind. Slow it down to half speed. Quarter speed. Frame by frame. They brighten the image. Zoom in too far, until the pixels start to break apart and the moment becomes abstract again.
The hair is dark. Or maybe just shadowed. The body under the duvet could belong to anyone. The voice—if you listen closely enough, if you wear headphones and crank the volume—barely reaches the mic. A low sound. A grunt. Something like mmh. Something human.
Too far from Lando’s microphone to be clear.
Too soft to be certain.
Reddit threads bloom overnight.
r/formula1
“DTS S11 Ep3 — who’s in Lando’s bed??”
r/LandoNorris
“Okay but that bedroom scene?? I’m not insane right??”
TikTok fills with edits. Zooms. Circles. Arrows. Dramatic music layered over the door closing. Captions in all caps.
THEY LEFT THIS IN??
WHO IS SHE???
LAN_DOES_HAVE_A_GIRLFRIEND CONFIRMED???
People argue about everything except what matters.
Some say it’s nothing. A friend. A family member. A one-night thing the editors left in for drama.
Others dig.
They pull up old interviews. Old clips. Old moments that suddenly feel suspicious in hindsight.
Someone reposts that Truth or Lie segment—the one where Lando lost to the machine.
The questions scroll across screens again.
“Are you currently in a relationship?”
His answer, careful. His smile, too quick. The machine’s verdict flashing red.
LIE.
At the time, everyone laughed it off. A bit. A joke. Another example of the machine being overly dramatic.
Now it hits different.
“So,” someone tweets, “the machine was right?”
That tweet gets forty thousand likes.
Comment sections spiral.
“He literally tried to hide it.”
“He’s private, leave him alone.”
“No because WHY is he kissing her hair??”
“That’s not a hookup thing, that’s a
routine
“He said ‘text me’ like it’s normal??”
Clips get stitched together. The bedroom moment side-by-side with that interview. With other quiet moments people suddenly recontextualize—him glancing off-camera in paddocks, soft smiles that don’t quite fit the narrative he’s supposed to have.
Theories multiply.
Some people swear it’s a long-term girlfriend. Others insist it’s someone new. Someone off-grid. Someone intentional.
No one can agree on who she is.
Because the footage doesn’t give them enough.
She’s too covered. Too still. Too anonymous. Just hair and breath and presence. Just enough to spark curiosity. Not enough to satisfy it.
And that’s what drives them insane.
Louise doesn’t watch the episode when it first drops.
She finds out because Charlotte texts her a single screenshot at seven in the morning.
It’s grainy. Overexposed. The corner of a bed and a blur of hair circled aggressively in red.
Charlotte:
So. This is happening.
Louise stares at it for a long moment, sitting cross-legged on her couch, coffee going cold in her hands.
She doesn’t feel panic.
She feels… distance.
Like watching a wave hit somewhere far offshore.
She types back.
Louise:
That could be anyone.
Charlotte sends three crying-laughing emojis.
Charlotte:
Touché.
—
Lando, on the other hand, sees it everywhere.
His phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Group chats light up. His friends send screenshots with varying levels of chaos.
BRO???
WHO IS THAT???
YOU LEFT THE DOOR OPEN????
He watches the clip once. Twice.
The moment feels smaller on screen than it did in real life. Flattened. Reduced. Stripped of context.
They don’t see the way he hesitated before going in.
They don’t see the way she grabbed his sleeve.
They don’t hear the softness in her voice, the familiarity.
They don’t know it was just… normal.
He turns his phone face down.
—
The next time they all end up in a Discord call, Max waits exactly forty-three seconds before bringing it up.
Which, honestly, is restraint.
They’ve barely loaded into the lobby. Ed is still complaining about his ping. Someone else is eating directly into their microphone. Lando has just sat down, headset crooked, one leg hooked over the arm of his chair.
“Right,” Max says.
Lando sighs immediately.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“The girl in your bed on Netflix.”
Tom goes silent so fast it’s almost impressive.
“Oh my God,” he says. “There was actually a girl?”
“Don’t act surprised,” Max replies. “I’ve been telling you all for months.”
“You’ve been saying insane things for months,” Ed says.
“And I was right.”
Lando drops his head back against the chair and closes his eyes briefly.
“It was literally two seconds.”
“It was enough,” Max says.
“Enough for what?”
“For me to know that’s her.”
Lando goes still for a fraction of a second.
Too small for anyone else to notice.
Max notices.
“The girl from the golf swing, or the updated version of her.” he says triumphantly.
“Oh my God,” Tom says again, delighted now. “The golf swing girl?”
“Or the one from the phone,” Max continues, warming to it now. “The one you smile at like an idiot.”
“I do not smile at my phone.”
“You do. It’s awful.”
“The shortened golf trip,” Max presses. “The weird whispering in calls. The mysterious ‘stuff at home.’”
There’s a pause.
Then Ed, sounding deeply offended: “You shortened the golf trip for a girl?”
“She’s not—” Lando starts, then stops.
Three people immediately make identical noises of victory.
“Oh Shit,” Max says. “He was about to say she’s not a girl, she’s—”
“Shut up.”
“—special.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
Lando rubs a hand over his face.
“You are all incredibly annoying.”
“Is she there right now?” Max asks immediately.
“No.”
Too quick.
Max grins.
“She’s there.”
“She is not.”
“Lando,” Tom, suspicious now. “If she’s there and you’ve had us all talking this entire time—”
“She’s not here,” Lando says again.
“Liar.”
“I’m literally alone.”
“Then why do you sound guilty?”
“Because you’re interrogating me like I’ve committed a crime.”
“You basically have,” Ed says. “You’ve had a secret girlfriend for, what, months?”
“Actually—” Lando stops again, which is somehow worse.
Max laughs so hard he has to lean away from his mic.
“You are doing an unbelievably bad job of denying this.”
“There is nothing to deny.”
“Then who was in your bed?”
Lando is quiet for a second.
Then Max asks, more softly, “Are you serious about her?”
Lando looks down.
At nothing, really. The edge of his desk. His hands. The little crack in the wood he’s been meaning to fix for months.
His expression changes before he can stop it.
The sharpness leaves him. The practiced deflection.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
No one speaks for a second.
Max leans back in his chair.
Because there it is.
The thing he’s been piecing together for so long.
Not flirting. Not a phase. Not Lando getting briefly attached before losing interest and moving on.
Something rooted.
Something real.
“Are you happy?” Max asks.
Lando doesn’t answer straight away.
“Yeah,” he says.
And Max, to his own horror, feels his chest ache a little.
“Disgusting,” he says immediately.
Lando laughs.
“Shut up.”
—
Later, when things calm enough for them to talk about it, they sit on opposite ends of the couch, both scrolling, both pretending they’re not.
“They’re saying you have a secret girlfriend,” Louise says mildly.
He snorts. “Do I?”
She glances up at him. “Do you?”
He shrugs, helpless and amused and tired all at once. “Apparently the internet knows better than me.”
She smiles at that. Small. Fond.
“That bothers you?” she asks. Not accusatory. Curious.
He thinks about it.
“They think they know,” he says finally. “From… nothing.”
She nods. “They’re good at that.”
Silence settles. Comfortable. Heavy.
“They can’t even tell it’s me,” she adds after a moment, almost amused. “I feel like I should be offended.”
He looks at her then, really looks. The same hair. The same presence. The same person who somehow managed to exist both everywhere and nowhere at once.
“I kind of like that they can’t,” he says quietly.
She meets his gaze.
“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”
Outside, the internet keeps spinning theories. Freezing frames. Drawing conclusions.
Inside, the truth remains exactly what it always was—unfilmed, unposted, intact.
Summary: Pre-season brings early mornings, separate garages, and a growing list of impossible goals. While Louise keeps finding new mountains to climb, Lando discovers that the best part isn’t keeping up with her—it’s watching her become exactly who she’s meant to be.
Word Count: 4.3k
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The house in Aylesbury wakes before the sun.
Not with urgency. Not with noise.
Just the soft, familiar hum of things coming alive.
The heating clicks on in gentle stages, a low whisper through the floors. Somewhere in the kitchen, the espresso machine warms itself—an expensive, overqualified appliance that has never once made coffee in its life. It hisses softly as it prepares milk and water for hot chocolate or tea, like it has accepted its fate.
Lando’s alarm vibrates once on the bedside table.
He silences it without opening his eyes.
Louise is already gone.
By the time he pads down the stairway, hair still a mess, hoodie pulled on crooked, he finds her perched on the kitchen counter in thick socks, knees tucked in slightly, tablet balanced against her thigh.
She’s fully absorbed—eyes scanning dense blocks of text and diagrams, fingers occasionally flicking to zoom or scroll.
Schematics fill the screen. Suspension geometry. Development notes. Margins crowded with her handwriting—tight, precise, urgent.
Arrows. Circles. A box in the corner that reads: ASK ABOUT THIS in all caps.
Lando doesn’t announce himself.
He just moves behind her, close enough that his chest brushes her back, and presses a kiss to the side of her neck.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
She hums in response, leaning back into him automatically. “Mm.”
“You’re late,” she adds, eyes never leaving the screen.
He checks the clock on the oven. “By two minutes.”
She tilts her head just enough to look at him sideways. “Unacceptable.”
He smiles into her shoulder, arms sliding around her waist. “I’ll try harder tomorrow.”
They stay like that for a moment—her warm from the tea, him grounding her without thinking about it.
Breakfast happens without discussion.
Toast pops up. Fruit gets rinsed and sliced. Something cold comes out of the fridge from their meal plan. They move around each other in an easy choreography that didn’t exist a year ago but now feels permanent.
Lando refills her mug before she notices it’s empty.
Louise hands him his keys before he can forget them.
At the front door, they pause.
Not because they need to—but because they always do.
A small ritual. Quiet but firm.
“You’ll text me when you get there,” she says, already reaching for her coat.
“You’ll eat lunch,” he counters.
She wrinkles her nose. “I always eat lunch.”
“You forget lunch when you’re focused.”
She considers that, then sighs. “Fine.”
They kiss—soft, grounding, just long enough to matter.
Then the door opens.
Cold air rushes in.
And they split—two cars, two directions, pulling away from the same place.
⸻
McLaren hums in a very different way.
Screens glow in clusters. Engineers lean over desks, conversations overlapping in half-finished sentences. Pre-season always carries its own tension—hope sharpened by pressure, excitement edged with anxiety.
Lando slips into it like muscle memory clicking back into place.
Simulator sessions blur together. Feedback loops tighten. Long discussions about balance, degradation, feel. He’s focused, precise, tuned in—but there’s something lighter in him now.
Someone notices.
“Good winter?” an engineer asks casually, not looking up from the data.
Lando shrugs, hands on his hips. “Yeah. Productive.”
It’s not a lie.
Between runs, he checks his phone.
A message lights up the screen.
LOUISE:
First meeting done. They let me talk for twenty minutes uninterrupted. I may have blacked out.
He grins, thumbs flying.
LANDO:
Proud of you. Did you scare them?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
LOUISE:
Only a little.
He locks the phone, steadier than before.
⸻
At Aston, Louise doesn’t just fit.
She thrives.
The development department hums with focused energy—no cameras, no performative chatter. Just people who speak in data and diagrams, who listen when someone asks a good question.
She’s leaning over a model now, fingers tracing the airflow path with careful precision.
“What if we soften this transition?” she asks, tapping lightly. “You’d lose a touch of peak downforce, but the consistency—”
“That could fix the rear instability,” someone finishes, eyes lighting up.
Louise nods, already building on it. “And it might give the drivers more confidence on entry.”
No one interrupts her.
No one talks over her.
They don’t treat her like a novelty.
They treat her like a colleague.
Later, in the sim, she pushes carefully—testing limits, listening to what the car tells her instead of forcing it. The feedback is subtle, layered, honest.
She smiles to herself.
This—this—is what she wanted.
⸻
Evenings fold them back together.
Louise usually gets home first. Shoes by the door. Socks padding across the floor. One of her prepped meals reheated while the house waits.
When Lando arrives, the place exhales.
He drops his bag. She hands him a plate without asking.
They sit at the kitchen island, shoulders brushing, trading pieces of their days like offerings.
“Your turn,” she says, nudging him with her knee.
“We're making progress,” he replies. “It’s small, but—”
“Small matters,” she says immediately.
He smiles. “You’d like my engineers.”
“They’d like me,” she counters.
He laughs, reaching for her hand.
Later, they sprawl on the couch—Louise half-asleep against his chest, Lando absentmindedly playing with her fingers, the television murmuring something neither of them is really watching.
“You’re happy,” he says quietly.
She doesn’t deny it. “I am.”
He nods, satisfied.
No fear. No guilt.
Just two people running parallel—separate tracks, same direction.
And for the first time in a long while, neither of them feels like they’re leaving something behind to move forward.
They’re building it together.
⸻
The pre-season camp starts the same way it always does.
Too early. Too cold. Too much running.
The air still has that thin, sharp bite that sneaks under layers and settles in joints, the kind that makes breath puff white and muscles complain before they’ve even been asked to do anything. The track is damp, grass dark with dew, floodlights still humming because the sun hasn’t quite committed yet.
Louise steps out of the car and immediately regrets every decision that led her here.
She pulls her jacket tighter around herself, squinting at the sky like it personally offended her. “It is not a reasonable hour to be perceived,” she mutters.
Lando is already stretching, annoyingly awake, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like this is Christmas morning and not sanctioned suffering. “You said that last year.”
“And I was right last year too,” she replies, tugging her beanie lower.
John is waiting for them, clipboard tucked under his arm, cap pulled low. He has the unmistakable air of a man who thrives on watching elite athletes question their life choices before sunrise.
“Good morning!” he says brightly. Far too brightly. “Hope you both slept well.”
Louise narrows her eyes at him, suspicious. “I don’t trust the tone of your voice.”
John’s smile widens. Lando snorts, bending to retie his shoes. “You really don’t.”
They start with testing.
VO₂ max first. Masks, tubes, numbers climbing on screens that feel accusatory in their precision. Reaction drills—lights flashing, hands moving on instinct. Strength benchmarks that make Louise’s shoulders burn in a way she hates but secretly respects.
John calls out numbers, scribbles notes, hums occasionally like he’s halfway through solving a riddle only he can see.
Louise is solid. Sharp. Noticeably stronger than last year. Her form is cleaner, movements more efficient. She doesn’t miss that John nods more often now, doesn’t miss the quiet good under his breath after one particularly clean set.
She drinks water, stretches her calves, lets herself feel—just briefly—pleased.
Then—
“Running portion,” John announces, flipping a page with deliberate slowness.
Louise freezes mid-stretch.
Slowly, she looks up.
“No.”
John doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”
Lando grins, already jogging in place, far too pleased with himself. “Come on, ‘champ’.”
She swivels toward him, eyes blazing. “You say that like I don’t know you enjoy this. There is something deeply wrong with you.”
“Endorphins,” he says cheerfully. “Growth.”
They line up anyway.
The first lap is fine. Annoying, but fine. Louise sets a steady pace, breath controlled, mind doing that thing where she pretends this is temporary.
The second lap is… less fine. Her thighs start to protest. The cold air feels sharper on the inhale. She shoots Lando a look as he drifts slightly ahead, still chatting like this is a jog in the park.
By the third lap, Louise is dramatically, profoundly over it.
“This is unnecessary!” she shouts as they pass John again. “Cars exist! That is the entire point of this sport!”
“Endurance!” John calls back. “Mental resilience!”
“I am mentally resilient in other ways!” she yells, arms pumping harder now out of pure spite.
Lando laughs breathlessly beside her. “You’re doing great.”
“I will push you into the bushes,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Worth it,” he grins.
They finish eventually.
Louise staggers off the track and promptly collapses onto the grass, flat on her back, arms spread wide like she’s surrendered herself to the earth. She stares up at the pale sky, chest heaving.
“I hate this,” she declares to no one in particular.
Lando drops down beside her, hands on his knees, still smiling like an idiot.
John crouches near her head, clipboard balanced on one knee. “Double pancakes tomorrow.”
Her eyes snap open instantly.
“Define double,” she says, deadly serious.
“Stacked,” he replies solemnly. “Syrup situation negotiable.”
She sits up immediately, resolve restored. “I forgive you.”
Lando shakes his head, laughing. “She’s so easy to bribe.”
“Know your motivators,” Louise says, already pulling her legs back into a stretch like nothing happened. “That’s sports science.”
John makes another note on his clipboard, smiling to himself as the sun finally crests the horizon, lighting the track gold.
Pre-season, after all, is about learning.
Even if some lessons involve running. And others, pancakes.
⸻
A few days later, Louise goes with Lando to Woking.
The sky is the particular shade of English grey that feels like a held breath—neither threatening nor kind, just there. The McLaren Technology Centre rises out of it like something deliberate and quiet, all glass and water and controlled intention.
It’s her first time there since leaving the drivers development programme.
But this time feels different.
Last time she came through these doors, she’d been a prospect. Smiles had lingered a second too long then. Conversations had adjusted themselves around her.
Now, she arrives like a driver.
And a Champion.
Black jacket zipped to her chin, tailored and unflashy. Hair braided tight down her back, not for style but for function. Her face is calm in that specific way that usually precedes chaos—eyes steady, posture relaxed, mind clearly ten steps ahead of the room.
Lando walks beside her, hands in his pockets, moving through the corridors with the ease of someone who’s memorized the rhythm of the place. He’s done this walk a thousand times, but today it carries a different weight. Not heavier. Just… shared.
People glance.
Register.
Then move on.
No double takes. No whispers. Just the subtle recalibration of understanding.
This is how they keep it clean.
They pass through the open atrium, the hum of quiet productivity everywhere—engineers moving with purpose, screens glowing with simulations, the faint echo of footsteps on polished floors. Louise takes it in without gawking. She never gawks. She observes, catalogs, files away.
At Zak’s office door, Lando slows.
He turns slightly toward her, voice light but eyes searching. “You sure you don’t want backup?”
She looks up at him, one eyebrow arching, lips twitching. “Please. I’ve been terrifying men in glass offices since I was nineteen.”
He laughs, the sound easy and fond. Steps back, hands up in surrender. “Go get him.”
She taps the door once—firm, polite—and steps inside without waiting.
⸻
Zak Brown is already smiling.
Not the polished, camera-ready smile. Not the careful PR version.
This is the smile of a man who knows he’s about to lose something and has accepted it with grace and mild dread.
“Louise,” he says, standing as she enters. “World Champion. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She doesn’t sit right away.
“I’m here to collect,” she says simply.
Zak exhales and drops back into his chair, already defeated. “I knew it.”
She finally sits, folding her hands in her lap. Calm. Composed. Deadly.
“Before you start,” he adds, holding up a finger like it might save him, “I already posted the picture with the clown nose.”
She smiles. Sweet. Almost innocent.
“That wasn’t the only bet we had going on.”
Zak closes his eyes.
“The other bet,” she continues gently, like she’s reminding him of a dinner reservation. “Silverstone. Dinner.”
One eye opens. “The championship one.”
“Yes.”
“I was really hoping,” he says slowly, “that you’d forget that one.”
She tilts her head, studying him. “Zak. I don’t forget bets. I build entire life arcs around them.”
He rubs his face, dragging his hand down like this might physically erase the moment. “You’re relentless.”
“You made it open-ended,” she reminds him. “Whenever you want.”
“And you want—”
“Le Mans,” she says immediately.
The word lands and stays there.
Silence stretches, thick and real.
The office hums faintly with air conditioning. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs. A door opens and closes. The world continues, blissfully unaware that a new trajectory has just been spoken aloud.
Zak studies her now.
Not as a headline.
Not as a wildcard.
But as an athlete who knows exactly what she’s asking for—and what it will cost.
“That’s not a marketing stunt,” he says carefully. “That’s a program.”
“I know.”
“Testing. Endurance prep. Strategy.”
“I know.”
“Different kind of pressure.”
“I know.”
He leans back, fingers steepled, gaze sharp. “Why now?”
Louise doesn’t answer right away.
She looks past him, toward the window. The overcast English sky presses low and familiar, the same sky she learned under, failed under, rebuilt herself under.
“Because,” she says finally, voice steady, “I don’t want to wait until I’m done with Formula One to find out what else I can do.”
Something shifts.
Just a fraction—but it’s there.
Zak’s expression softens, the executive calculation giving way to something closer to respect.
“And Indy?” he asks, carefully neutral.
She smiles, small but unmistakable. “One dream at a time.”
He laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yet,” she replies, standing smoothly, “here we are.”
Another pause.
Then Zak reaches for his tablet, tapping once, then again. The sound is decisive.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll enter an extra car. Proper team. No shortcuts. You’ll earn every mile.”
For half a second—just half—her breath catches.
Then she nods.
“Thank you,” she says. No victory lap. No dramatics. Just real.
He points at her as she stands up. “This does not mean you get to show up and rewrite my entire motorsport philosophy.”
She slips her arms into the sleeves, already halfway gone. “We'll see about that.”
⸻
Lando is leaning against the wall outside, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, pretending not to be listening.
He looks up the moment the door opens.
“Well?” he asks, casual but not fooling anyone.
She stops in front of him.
Lets the moment breathe.
“I’m racing Le Mans.”
He blinks.
Once.
Then his face splits into the biggest, proudest grin she’s ever seen on him.
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about bets.”
He laughs, breathless, disbelieving, joy spilling out of him. He pulls her into a quick, instinctive hug—arms tight, grounding—then remembers where they are and steps back just as fast, cheeks warm.
“That’s insane,” he says softly. “You’re insane.”
She nods, entirely unbothered. “You love that.”
“I do,” he admits without hesitation. “God, I really do.”
They start walking down the corridor together, not touching now but perfectly aligned, footsteps in sync. The future hums between them—busy, demanding, alive.
Another dream unlocked.
Another door opened.
And neither of them pretending, even for a second, that this is the end of the story.
If anything—
It feels like the middle.
⸻
The plane hums the way Louise likes it—steady, obedient, unbothered by altitude or expectation.
There’s something about the sound that calms her. Not silence, not noise. Precision. A low, even vibration that says everything is doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Her private jet cuts through the early morning sky, pale gold bleeding into blue as the sun rises behind them. The cabin lights are dimmed, the world outside still half-asleep. Louise pads barefoot across the soft carpet, hoodie slung loosely over her shoulders, sleeves pushed up. Her hair is tied back with the same black elastic she’s owned for years—stretched, reliable, unglamorous.
She’s curled into one of the seats now, tablet balanced on her knee, scrolling through timing data that’s already been sent ahead. Sector simulations. Tire curves. Long-run averages. Her thumb moves absently, muscle memory as much as thought.
Across from her, Lando sits sprawled out in a way only someone deeply comfortable can manage—long legs stretched, one socked foot hooked around the base of the seat opposite. His laptop is open, some graph frozen mid-scroll, clearly abandoned. He’s been watching her for a while now.
“Remind me,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes, “why pre-season testing is always at an hour that suggests punishment?”
She doesn’t look up. “Character building.”
“I have plenty of character.”
She flicks the screen. “Debatable.”
He scoffs softly. “You’re smiling like that’s illegal.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are,” he insists. “That one. The tiny one. The ‘I’m about to ruin someone’s day’ smile.”
She finally glances up at him, eyes bright, unapologetic. “I haven’t even driven yet.”
“That’s worse,” he says, laughing. “That means you’re enjoying the anticipation.”
She shrugs lightly. “I like Bahrain.”
“You like proving people wrong.”
“That too.”
He grins, completely unbothered, leaning his head back against the seat. This is the version of her he knows best—the one that gets quieter the closer she gets to impact. Not tense. Not nervous. Just… sharpened. Like a blade held just out of sight.
When the plane begins its descent, the subtle change in pressure tugging gently at the cabin, she finally locks the tablet and sets it aside.
He notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly, tone shifting without effort. “No pressure today.”
She laughs—light, sharp, real. “I know.”
They exchange a look that carries a thousand unspoken things.
They both know pressure has never scared her.
⸻
The noise comes back the moment she lands.
Not literally—not yet—but the digital hum of it. The ever-present buzz that waits patiently, then swarms.
Louise settles into a seat in hospitality later that morning, Bahrain heat already pressing in through the open spaces of the paddock. Her phone rests loosely in her hand. She’s not seeking distraction.
She doesn’t go looking for it.
It finds her anyway.
WORLD CHAMPION STEPS BACK — DOES SHE STILL WANT IT?
IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END?
PART-TIME DRIVER, PART-TIME COMMITMENT?
She exhales through her nose, something between a sigh and a scoff.
Same story. Different font.
She doesn’t bother responding. Doesn’t forward it. Doesn’t even mention it to Lando. She’s learned which noises deserve oxygen.
Jos finds her that afternoon, leaning against a barrier just off the main paddock flow. The heat clings to everything—skin, fabric, metal—like a second layer. He’s wearing his usual expression: unreadable, blunt energy coiled beneath it.
“Got a minute?” he asks.
She nods, slipping her phone into her pocket and following him a few steps away from the engineers and cameras. Far enough that voices blur. Close enough that the track still hums underfoot.
He doesn’t waste time.
“They think you’re stepping down because you’re scared,” he says flatly.
She doesn’t flinch. “I know.”
“They think you don’t want it enough.”
She shrugs, rolling her shoulders. “That one’s boring.”
Jos watches her for a long moment, eyes sharp, weighing tone as much as words.
“You do things sideways,” he says finally. “It confuses people.”
“I don’t like straight lines,” she replies easily. “They’re predictable.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count.
“You’re not running,” he says. Not a question.
“No.”
“You’re not soft.”
She snorts. “Absolutely not.”
He nods once. “Good.”
They stand there in companionable silence, the sound of engines warming in the distance, a mechanical growl that vibrates in her chest. Familiar. Comforting.
“You’ll shut them up,” Jos adds. “One way or another.”
Louise turns her gaze toward the track. Sunlight glints off the asphalt, off the barriers, off the possibility humming just under her skin.
“I always do,” she says quietly.
⸻
The Aston Martin garage is already alive when she arrives.
Heat. Movement. Purpose.
The air smells like rubber and fuel and focus. Engineers move with practiced efficiency, headsets on, hands busy. Screens flicker with data, numbers constantly recalculating.
Louise slips into the space without ceremony. She pulls on her balaclava, then her helmet, the world narrowing instantly—sound muffled, vision tunneled, breath suddenly loud in her ears.
The car rolls out.
The track opens.
And then—
She flies.
The sensation hits immediately. That click. That yes. The car talks to her through the steering wheel, through the seat, through the way the chassis loads under braking. She listens. Answers back.
Sector one: purple.
Sector two: purple.
Sector three: purple.
Again.
And again.
Engineers glance at each other. Eyebrows lift. Someone taps a screen, then another, as if the numbers might change if questioned hard enough.
“She’s not easing in,” someone mutters, half-awed, half-amused.
Louise doesn’t hear it.
She’s too busy being exactly where she belongs.
Lap after lap, she carves the track with a precision that borders on casual. No overdriving. No drama. No show. Just devastatingly clean pace, consistent and confident.
The screens don’t lie.
Neither does her body.
Back in the garage, she pulls off her helmet, sweat-damp hair sticking to her temples. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright. She reaches for water as murmurs ripple around her—quiet, impressed, recalibrating.
The comments fade.
The doubts dissolve.
You don’t argue with purple sectors.
⸻
Jos finds her later, leaning against a barrier with a towel draped around her neck, eyes still tracking the timing screens out of habit more than necessity.
He doesn’t smile. He never does right away.
“That shut them up,” he says.
She shrugs lightly. “They’ll find something else.”
“They always do.” He pauses. “But not today.”
She meets his gaze. “I didn’t step down.”
That earns him a small smile. Barely there. Meaningful anyway.
“You drive like someone who’s made peace with her choices,” he adds.
Louise thinks of early mornings and late nights. Of planes that hum just right. Of calendars that no longer feel like cages. Of loving something without letting it consume everything else.
“I do,” she says.
Jos nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
He turns to leave, then stops.
“That’s dangerous.”
She smiles to herself as she watches him go.
Good.
⸻
Adrian Newey’s call comes just after lunch.
No buildup. No assistant running interference. No grand preface.
Just a quiet office, glass walls muted by smart tinting, and the soft, constant whirr of air conditioning doing its best to keep the desert at bay.
Louise sits opposite him, posture relaxed but attentive, hands folded loosely in her lap. She’s learned that Adrian doesn’t waste words. When he asks for time, it’s because something already matters.
“Fernando got injured during the break. Recovery is slower than expected,” he says, voice even, precise. “He’ll miss the season opener.”
She doesn’t react. Not outwardly. Just a small shift of focus, like a camera lens tightening.
“I see,” she says.
“We need continuity,” he continues, fingers interlaced on the table. “Someone who understands the car. The team. The expectations.”
A pause.
He looks at her directly now—not as a champion, not as a solution, but as a known quantity.
“I’d like you to step in.”
The world doesn’t stop.
But it sharpens.
The room feels smaller somehow. Cleaner. Every sound more defined—the hum of the air conditioning, the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor, the faint buzz of her phone on the table beside her.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she reaches for her phone, thumb already moving before thought fully catches up. Her calendar blooms open—color-coded blocks layered with intention. Racing weekends. Testing. Training. Commitments stacked like a puzzle she’s spent years learning how to solve.
She moves one thing.
Then another.
A training session slides. A media obligation disappears. A rest day reshapes itself into travel.
The picture shifts, but it holds.
She looks up.
“Yes,” she says.
Simple. Certain.
Adrian nods once, already unsurprised. “I thought you’d say that.”
There’s no congratulation. No speech. Just understanding passing cleanly between them.
“Briefings start tonight,” he adds. “You’ll have full support.”
“I expect nothing less,” she replies, standing.
As she leaves the office, the weight settles—not heavy, not frightening. Familiar. Purposeful.
This is what readiness feels like.
⸻
She FaceTimes Lando from the hotel balcony as the sun sinks into the desert, painting the sky in deep oranges and bruised purples. The air is warm even now, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the low thrum of generators from the paddock.
He answers immediately.
Hair damp. Team kit half-zipped. A towel slung over one shoulder.
“Hey, superstar,” he says, smiling.
She exhales, the adrenaline of the day finally loosening its grip. “Fernando’s out of the opener.”
His smile fades into focus. “Okay.”
“And Adrian asked me to fill in.”
A beat.
Then his mouth curves back up, softer this time. Knowing.
“You said yes.”
She smiles, leaning her forearms against the railing. “Of course I did.”
He laughs, a breathy sound that carries pride and relief in equal measure. “Of course you did.”
For a moment they just look at each other through the screen, two different hotels, two different teams, the same gravity.
“They can keep talking,” she says quietly, gaze drifting back toward the horizon. “I’m still here.”
He nods, expression steady. “They’ll catch up.”
The last light slips below the skyline. The desert cools. The season stretches out in front of her—wide, demanding, alive.
Not smaller.
Just clearer.
And this time, she doesn’t need to explain herself at all.
Summary: Some truths only surface when everything else goes quiet. As rain taps against the windows and the rest of the world falls away, a question turns into a conversation neither of them has had before—and neither wants to leave unfinished.
Word Count: 1.6k
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It happens late.
Not dramatic-late. Not confession-by-candlelight late. Just that soft hour where the house exhales and the world outside dims enough that thoughts stop competing with noise.
The kitchen is half-lit. One lamp on near the sink, its glow warm and amber, catching on the edges of clean mugs and the grain of the wooden counter. The overhead lights stay off on principle. Rain taps gently against the open window, not loud enough to intrude—just present, like breathing.
The place smells faintly of chamomile and something green from the garden carried in on the damp air.
Lando leans against the counter, barefoot, one hip cocked, phone in hand. He’s scrolling absently, thumb moving on autopilot, eyes glazed in the way of someone who is very much not reading a single word. His shoulders are loose. Hoodie soft with wear. The tension of the day long gone.
Louise sits on the island across from him, legs folded beneath her, posture easy but alert. She twists the ring on her finger—habitual, unconscious. It’s one she always forgets she’s wearing until moments like this.
They talk about nothing for a while.
A comment about a terrible movie recommendation. The neighbor’s cat that has once again declared their garden its personal kingdom. Whether rain at night feels louder or quieter.
Small things. Safe things.
Then she goes still.
Not sharply. Not in a way that demands attention. Just a pause where her hands stop moving and the air around her seems to hold.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
Lando looks up immediately. Phone forgotten. “Always.”
She studies him for a second longer than necessary—not testing him, not bracing. Measuring something quieter. His steadiness. His openness. His safety.
“Were you ever scared of me?” she asks.
The words land gently. No accusation. No edge.
He blinks once. “Scared how?”
She inhales slowly, choosing the shape of the truth.
“Not… me-me,” she clarifies. “But my family-name me. Public-figure me. Big networth me.”
A small, crooked smile tugs at her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The version of me that walks into a room before I do.”
Silence stretches between them—not awkward, not tense. Thoughtful.
Lando sets his phone down on the counter and slides it away, like it doesn’t deserve to witness this conversation. He steps closer, resting his hip against the island, close enough that his knees slot naturally between hers.
“Yes,” he says.
No cushioning. No hesitation.
Her breath catches—not sharply, but enough that he notices. Always does.
His voice softens immediately. “But not in the way you think.”
She nods once. “Tell me.”
He considers his words—not because he’s searching for the truth, but because he respects it enough to say it carefully.
“I wasn’t scared you’d hurt me,” he says. “Or that you’d use it. Or that you’d be… bigger than me.”
He lifts his hand, pauses—always giving her space—then tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I was scared of the noise.”
She frowns faintly. “Noise?”
“Everything that comes with it,” he explains. “People deciding things for you before you do. Headlines filling in blanks that don’t exist. Expectations following you into rooms you didn’t invite them into.”
He exhales, slow.
“I was scared I’d never know which parts of you I was allowed to want.”
That lands somewhere deep and quiet.
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
“I didn’t want to fall for something I wasn’t actually touching,” he continues. “I didn’t want to confuse the legend for the girl.”
Her throat tightens. “And?”
“And then,” he says softly, “I met you, really met you. And you made it impossible.”
She lets out a small, surprised laugh. “That sounds ominous.”
“It was,” he grins, just for a second. Then the smile fades into something gentler. “You kept showing up as yourself. Annoyingly normal. Bad at resting. Good at noticing things no one else does.”
He shrugs, almost sheepish.
“The big name never spoke first,” he says. “You did.”
She looks down at her hands, voice quieter now.
“Sometimes I worry people don’t realize they’re choosing all of it when they choose me.”
He reaches up and lifts her chin, thumb warm against her skin, until she has no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Lou,” he says gently. “I didn’t choose all of it.”
Her body tenses for half a second.
“I chose you,” he finishes. “And then I decided I wasn’t afraid of the rest.”
Her eyes shine, but she refuses to let the tears fall. She blinks them back, smiling despite herself.
“You know,” she says softly, “most people don’t admit that part.”
“I know,” he replies. “But you didn’t ask most people.”
She laughs under her breath and leans forward, resting her forehead against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath her cheek.
“I was scared too,” she admits.
His eyebrows lift.
“Of me?” he asks, light enough to give her an out if she wants one.
Instead, Louise huffs a quiet laugh.
“A little.”
Lando looks genuinely startled by that.
“A little?” he repeats.
She nods.
“Not of you hurting me.”
“Good.”
“You don’t get points for meeting the minimum standard.”
“I think I deserve at least half a point.”
She rolls her eyes.
The smile that follows makes something in his chest loosen.
Then she looks down at her hands again.
“I kept wondering if I liked you or if I just liked having you around.”
His brow furrows.
“What?”
“You were everywhere.”
The corner of her mouth lifts.
“Calls. Texts. Races. Random photos of things that reminded you of me.”
“You make that sound criminal.”
“It was relentless.”
“I’m hearing that you missed me.”
She points at him.
“Don’t interrupt my vulnerability.”
He immediately mimes zipping his mouth shut.
Louise shakes her head, fighting a smile.
Then her expression grows thoughtful again.
“I worried I was confusing proximity with feelings.”
The admission comes quietly.
“When someone becomes part of your routine, it’s easy to mistake comfort for something bigger.”
Lando’s gaze never leaves her face.
“So I kept checking.”
“Checking?”
“Whether I’d still miss you if you weren’t around all the time.”
His chest tightens.
“And?”
She looks up.
The answer is written all over her face before she says it.
“I missed you more.”
His arms come around her without hesitation, pulling her in like it’s instinct.
Then Louise hesitates.
Only for a second.
Long enough that Lando notices.
There’s another piece.
A more embarrassing one.
“Aaaand?” he prompts gently.
She groans immediately.
“You know those videos that used to circulate?”
His grin grows.
“Oh, this is going to be bad.”
“The club videos.”
Lando physically winces.
“Oh no.”
“The yacht videos.”
“Stop.”
“The party videos.”
“Please stop.”
She laughs for the first time in minutes.
Properly laughs.
His face disappears into his hands.
Louise shakes her head.
“It’s silly now, but every once in a while one of those clips would end up on my algorithm.”
“Those algorithms are evil.”
“They really are.”
He groans.
“Was it the one where I was dancing on a table?”
“There were multiple table incidents.”
“Damn it.”
She laughs again.
The sound fills the kitchen.
“I’d see them and think…” She hesitates, searching for the right words. “Maybe we’re looking for completely different things.”
The humor fades from his expression.
Not because he’s offended.
Because he understands.
“You thought I was still living like that.”
“A little.”
She shrugs.
“I knew it wasn’t the whole picture.”
Her voice stays careful.
Fair.
“I knew social media only catches fragments.”
Lando nods.
“But?”
“But the fragments weren’t exactly helping your case.”
He groans dramatically and drops his head onto her shoulder.
“I just remember thinking…” Her voice softens. “He’s fun. He’s kind. He’s smart.”
Lando’s grin returns.
“Keep going.”
“And he’s possibly incapable of spending a Saturday night at home.”
His laugh vibrates against her shoulder.
“Okay, that’s fair.”
She smiles.
“I wasn’t judging you.”
“I know.”
“I just didn’t think someone who seemed to run toward every party would want the same things I did.”
Lando lifts his head.
Looks at her.
Really looks at her.
The woman sitting in oversized pajamas in a quiet kitchen at midnight.
The woman who loves horses and early mornings and reading in silence.
The woman who worries deeply about everything she cares about.
The woman who built a home with him.
“I probably didn’t know I wanted those things yet.”
He rubs his thumb across her knuckles.
“When people talk about who I used to be, they’re usually trying to prove I haven’t changed.”
His voice is calm.
“But the truth is… I have.”
She watches him carefully.
“I liked going out.”
“Past tense?”
“I still like going out.”
She laughs.
“Thank God. I was worried you’d become boring.”
“Impossible.”
“Agreed.”
His smile softens.
“But I think I spent a lot of years looking for a feeling.”
The rain outside grows slightly heavier.
Not enough to interrupt.
Just enough to underline the moment.
“And then?” she asks quietly.
Lando looks around the kitchen.
At the warm lamp.
The rain-speckled window.
The mugs drying beside the sink.
Then back at her.
“And then I felt it. With you.”
She smiles, breath hitching, and presses a kiss into the fabric of his hoodie.
They stay like that for a long moment.
No cameras. No expectations. No weight pressing in from the outside world.
Just two people in a quiet kitchen, brave enough to ask the questions that matter—and answer them honestly.
Eventually, she pulls back.
“Thank you for telling me the truth.”
He smiles, easy and real. “Anytime.”
She kisses him then—not rushed, not heavy. Just certain.
And for once, their names doesn’t enter the room at all.
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Summary: What begins as a practical discussion about schedules, distance, and making time for each other slowly turns into something neither of them can quite ignore: the possibility of building a life in the spaces between race weekends.
Word Count: 6.6k
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They’ve learned how to miss each other without letting it rot.
It’s not instinctive. It’s practiced.
It shows in the small choices: voice notes instead of rushed calls when time zones don’t line up, messages that say no rush and mean it, silences that don’t feel like tests. They let the gaps exist without filling them with panic.
Louise sends mornings.
Cold ones. Honest ones.
A photo of frost clinging to stable fences, pale and brittle in the early light. Her helmet perched on a tack trunk, gloves draped over it like an afterthought. A rifle case leaning against a concrete wall, precise and quiet, accompanied by a single caption:
early. calm. good.
Lando replies later, always later, from somewhere louder.
Sunsets bleeding orange over hotel balconies. The view from a run—blurred pavement, long shadows. The inside of the simulator room at midnight, lights low, steering wheel glowing like a cockpit altar.
still here. thinking of you.
They don’t narrate their loneliness.
They don’t pretend it isn’t there.
They let it be a shared thing, not a weapon.
So when Monaco finally aligns—one of those rare windows where neither is being pulled in five directions at once—they meet without ceremony.
No airport sprints.
No dramatic countdowns.
No social media breadcrumb trail.
—
Louise arrives first.
She lets herself settle before he gets there—shower steam still clinging to the air, hair damp, hoodie stolen from his closet because it smells like him. She pads barefoot onto the balcony, the city stretched below like something decorative rather than demanding. The air is soft. Forgiving.
When the door opens behind her, she doesn’t jump.
She turns at the sound instinctively.
“Hey,” she says, smile immediate, unguarded.
“Hey,” he answers—and the word lands like an exhale he didn’t realize he’d been holding all week.
They close the distance without thinking.
The kiss happens right away—unhurried, familiar, necessary. Not to prove anything. Just to check.
Still here.
Still us.
They rest their foreheads together when they pull back, breathing each other in like confirming something vital hasn’t changed.
“You look tired,” he murmurs, thumb brushing her jaw.
“So do you,” she replies.
They smile. The kind that doesn’t try to hide it.
They end up on the couch—legs tangled, plates abandoned on the coffee table, something half-watched paused and forgotten. The city hums outside, muted by height and glass. Monaco feels distant from itself tonight.
Louise shifts, picking at the seam of the cushion.
“We should talk,” she says.
Lando doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t brace.
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Okay.”
She takes a breath—not nervous, just deliberate.
“I don’t want us to wake up one day and realize we’ve been surviving logistics instead of choosing each other.”
He turns fully toward her, attention absolute. “Okay.”
“I need structure,” she continues, steadier now. “Not because I want distance. Because when things get chaotic, structure keeps me from disappearing into everything else.”
He nods slowly, absorbing it rather than solving it. “That makes sense.”
She looks at him then. Really looks.
“And you,” she says softly. “You don’t need access to me all the time. You need… grounding. Consistency. Something that doesn’t feel like it might vanish if you blink.”
He lets out a quiet breath, half-laugh, half-admission. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”
They sit with that. Let it breathe.
“I don’t want to become another thing you have to manage,” he adds after a moment. “And I don’t want to hold onto you too tightly just to stay connected.”
She reaches for his hand, fingers sliding into his like it’s always been this easy. “Grounding isn’t control.”
“And structure isn’t distance,” he answers, just as softly.
The words settle between them—not dramatic, not heavy. Agreed upon. Chosen.
“I don’t want to meet in the middle because we have to,” Louise says. “I want to because we want to.”
Something shifts then.
Not relief.
Not certainty.
Commitment.
Lando leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. “Okay.”
She smiles—small, real, unguarded. “Okay.”
They just sit there, hands linked, bodies angled toward each other, letting the shape of it exist without pressure.
—
Louise sits cross-legged on the floor, iPad balanced on her knee, stylus tucked behind her ear like she might need it to defend herself. The calendars have migrated from the table to the rug—paper ones, shared digital ones, a few scribbled notes that look suspiciously like contingency plans. Somewhere behind it all, her Yoto player hums quietly, a soft instrumental looping like it’s trying to keep the peace.
Lando leans against the counter, hoodie sleeves shoved up, phone in hand. He’s been scrolling through the same email for a while now—not reading so much as absorbing the weight of it.
“Okay,” he says finally, looking up. “Say it again. Slowly. Like I’m bad at listening.”
She smiles faintly, fond rather than amused. “I’m not racing the full calendar.”
“I heard that part.”
“I’ll do only sprint race weekends—there’s eight this year, Thanks to the Formula 1 team who keeps pushing for more and more races.” she continues. “I'll obviously do the usual pre-season stuff. Development tests. Simulator work. The rest—”
“Horses,” he supplies automatically.
“And shooting,” she nods. “World Cups. Europeans. Olympic qualifiers. It’s… a lot.”
He exhales, not frustrated. Just recalibrating—like adjusting brake bias mid-lap. He pushes off the counter and crouches so he’s closer to her level, forearms resting loosely on his knees.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about race weeks. Because those rules kept us sane last year.”
Louise nods immediately. No resistance. “They still stand.”
“No seeing each other in person,” he says, counting on his fingers. “No surprise drop-ins. No ‘I was nearby’ nonsense.”
“Texts,” she adds. “Voice notes whenever. FaceTime at night if we can.”
“And if we can’t,” he finishes, “we don’t spiral about it.”
She hesitates—just a fraction too long.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he says gently, but firm. “Look at me.”
She lifts her gaze.
“This worked,” he says. “We didn’t feel less connected. We felt… protected.”
She swallows. “I know. I just—sometimes it feels like distance looks like disinterest from the outside.”
He snorts softly. “Good thing we’re not dating the outside.”
Then, quieter. “We’re dating each other.”
That earns him a real smile—the kind that loosens something behind her ribs.
“And,” she adds, softer still, “I checked with Charlotte. If I planed it right, I should be free every off-week you have from racing.”
His eyebrows lift. “Actually free?”
“As in—no competitions, no camps, no media,” she confirms. “Just… us. Wherever we are.”
Something in his shoulders drops, tension he didn’t realize he was carrying.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “That helps.”
They’ve lived inside chaos long enough that silence feels louder than screaming engines.
He breaks it first. “Still, it’ll be different.”
“Yes.”
Different isn’t a word either of them fears anymore—but they respect it. They’ve learned that pretending change won’t matter is how it sneaks up and bites.
Louise closes her iPad and sets it aside. Looks up at him fully.
“I don’t want us to pretend it won’t change things.”
“I don’t want us to pretend anything,” he replies immediately.
That’s the thing about them. No games. No careful half-truths. They burned through that version of themselves when everything still felt temporary—when futures were theoretical.
This isn’t.
“I don’t want to lose the rhythm we built,” she says quietly. “I like knowing where we are. Even when you’re not with me.”
He steps closer, resting a hip against the counter, hands loose at his sides. “You won’t. You’ll just know where we are more… metaphorically.”
She laughs under her breath. “That’s the worst answer you could’ve given.”
“I know,” he grins. “But you love me anyway.”
She does. It’s not fireworks all the time anymore. It’s gravity. The kind that keeps pulling them back into alignment no matter how far they drift.
⸻
They’ve gotten good at logistics.
Maybe too good.
McLaren debriefs. Aston meetings. Her training blocks—dressage mornings, eventing afternoons, range sessions that carve out whole days. It’s all there, color-coded and merciless.
They stand in front of it together now, mugs in hand, steam curling up between them.
“We could keep bouncing,” Lando says. “Hotels, bases, wherever.”
Louise tilts her head. “Or…”
She pulls up a map on her phone and turns it toward him.
Aylesbury.
Sitting there quietly. Unassuming. Almost smug in its practicality.
“Silverstone’s an hour,” she says. “Woking’s an hour. Fields. Space. Somewhere quiet enough to disappear when we need to.”
He studies the screen for a long moment.
“Are you suggesting,” he asks carefully, “that we choose the least dramatic solution possible?”
“Yes.”
He blinks. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
She snorts, leaning into his side. “You’ll survive.”
He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, both of them staring at the little dot on the map like it’s not just a location—but an idea.
—
Louise is on her feet now, marker in hand, already halfway down the rabbit hole.
Dates are circled. Others crossed out. Arrows point to side notes, which point to new arrows. There’s a whole corner of the whiteboard that’s just question marks and contingency language written smaller and tighter, like she’s afraid of taking up too much space with uncertainty.
“If I’m in Europe here,” she says quickly, pacing as she writes, “and you’re here, then theoretically Aylesbury makes sense, but Monaco is closer if—”
“Bug.”
Not sharp. Not loud.
Just enough.
She freezes mid-sentence, marker hovering in the air. Her breath is shallow now, eyes snapping back to the board like it’s a problem she’s failing in real time.
Lando steps closer and gently places his hand over hers, stilling the marker before she can add another arrow.
“You’re spiraling,” he says calmly.
She huffs, tension flaring. “I’m being efficient.”
“You’re being anxious.”
She opens her mouth to argue—has a dozen logical rebuttals already queued—
He tilts his head, voice dropping just slightly. “Pause.”
Her shoulders sink at the sound. Reflexive. Familiar. Like her nervous system recognizes his tone before her brain does.
“Breathe,” he adds. “With me.”
She does. Once. It’s shaky.
Twice. Better.
Her grip on the marker loosens.
“There you go,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to solve the whole year right now.”
Something in her chest unclenches. Her eyes soften, guilt flickering in. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately. “Just come back.”
She steps into him, resting her forehead against his chest for a brief second—grounding herself in the steady rise and fall, the proof that not everything needs fixing to be okay.
“Okay,” she says, pulling back. “So. Simple version.”
He nods, approving.
“Aylesbury when we both have obligations in England,” she says. “When it’s about routine. Rest. Normal.”
“And Monaco,” he adds, easy now, “when it’s about sun, recovery, or pretending we’re mysterious Europeans.”
She laughs, real this time.
“And we don’t force either,” he continues. “If one of us needs space, or to stay closer to work, we say it.”
“No scorekeeping,” she agrees.
“No silent resentment,” he adds.
They seal it with a kiss—brief, solemn, and slightly ridiculous, like they’re ratifying a treaty neither of them intends to break.
⸻
Louise’s phone buzzes from the sofa.
She glances at the screen and groans. “Speak of the devil.”
Charlotte: I’m sending you listings. Don’t argue. Just look.
One message.
Then another.
Then a third.
Links. Photos. Floor plans.
Louise hands the phone to Lando like it might bite her. “She’s terrifying.”
“She’s efficient,” he corrects, already scrolling. “Which is worse.”
They end up sitting on the floor side by side, backs against the couch, knees touching, the whiteboard abandoned behind them like a solved problem. The kettle hums in the background, forgotten.
“This one’s too modern,” Louise says, peering at the screen.
“This one looks haunted,” Lando replies.
“This one has good light.”
“This one has a weird amount of sinks.”
They stop on the same listing at the same time.
A quiet house. Big windows. Fields stretching out behind it. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screams look at me. Just space. Air. The suggestion of mornings without alarms.
Louise glances at him. “I like this one.”
He studies it for a moment longer, then nods. “Me too.”
Not because it’s perfect.
But because it feels intentional.
A choice they’re making together—not out of pressure or panic, not as a compromise, but as a direction.
Lando reaches for her hand and squeezes once, grounding and sure.
“This,” he says, steady as anything, “is worth protecting.”
Louise smiles, leaning into his shoulder, letting herself believe it.
“It is,” she says.
The planning winds down the way it always does with them—not abruptly, not announced. Just a gradual easing, like a tide pulling back once it’s done reshaping the shore.
The mugs sit empty on the counter. Charlotte’s listings are bookmarked and closed with ceremonial restraint. Outside, Monaco hums into evening—engines echoing faintly somewhere below, laughter drifting up from the street, the city already shrugging into its night skin.
Louise leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching Lando scroll through his phone without really seeing it. His thumb moves out of habit more than intent.
She hesitates.
Then, quieter than all the decisions they’ve just made:
“Hey.”
He looks up immediately. No delay. “Yeah?”
“Can we… go to the club?” She shrugs, suddenly shy in a way that always catches him off guard. “To the room. Just—watch for a bit.”
Understanding clicks into place instantly. His mouth curves into a soft smile. No teasing. No questions.
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Let’s disappear.”
⸻
The club room is quiet in the way libraries are quiet—intentional, insulated. Thick walls. Soft lighting. The kind of hush that makes you lower your voice without thinking.
Louise steps inside and pauses.
At the center table sits a familiar, heavy book.
Her face lights up. “Oh—I forgot about this!”
Lando chuckles as she crosses the room, already reaching for it. “You say that like you didn’t organize it by tabs.”
She ignores him, lifting the oversized encyclopedia with both arms and settling onto the couch with it, flipping pages until she finds a familiar one.
“Here,” she murmurs, pleased. “This is where I stopped.”
He sits beside her, then shifts, tugging her gently into his lap so she ends up sideways against him, the book open where they can both see. One arm wraps around her waist automatically. The other braces the edge of the couch.
She fits there like she always does. Like the space was made for her.
She flips through pages slowly, occasionally nudging him with her elbow.
“Have you tried this one?” she asks, tapping the margin.
He glances, thinking. “Once. It was… fine. Very athletic.”
She hums, filing that away.
A few pages later, she stills—not frozen, just thoughtful. He notices immediately.
“You don’t like that one,” he says quietly.
She tilts her head, considering. “It looks weird. I mean, the footnote says it allows for deeper… connection,” she says carefully, then wrinkles her nose. “But I don’t like how detached it looks.”
“Detached how?”
“I like being able to see you,” she says simply. “Or feel you close. That one feels like… not that.”
His arm tightens around her just a little. “Noted.”
She turns another page, more relaxed now. Sometimes she asks questions out of pure curiosity. Sometimes she’s clearly storing information for later. Other times she skips whole sections without comment, and he doesn’t push.
They’re not studying.
They’re learning each other.
At one point she leans back against him, head tipping to his shoulder. “You’re very patient about this.”
He smiles against her hair. “You’re very thorough.”
She laughs softly, flipping one last page before closing the book with a decisive thump.
“Okay,” she says. “That’s enough education for tonight.”
“Shame,” he murmurs. “I was just getting my degree.”
She twists to look at him, eyes warm, a little mischievous. “You can continue your studies later.”
“Promise?”
She smiles and leans in, kissing him—slow, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else to be.
Outside, Monaco keeps humming.
Inside the quiet room they’ve chosen, they stay tucked away—curious, close, and entirely un-rushed.
Later, back at his place, when night settles and Monaco glows, he carries her to bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She curls into him instinctively, knees tucked, breath evening out.
“This feels… right,” she murmurs, already half asleep.
He kisses her hair. “Yeah.”
Outside, the city keeps moving.
Inside, they choose a rhythm that belongs to them.
Not distance.
Just a shape they’re building together.
⸻
They visit the place on a cold Sunday morning—the kind that smells like frost and damp earth and quiet decisions.
The sky is low and pale, the light diffused enough to make everything feel gentler than it probably is. The road narrows the closer they get, hedges drawing in tight like they’re whispering secrets to each other. Louise turns the radio down without thinking, volume fading to nothing as if sound itself might disturb whatever’s waiting ahead.
“It’s very… polite,” Lando says, peering through the windscreen.
“That’s British for ‘non-threatening,’” she replies, eyes on the lane ahead.
They park on a gravel patch that crunches loudly underfoot, the noise too sharp for how still everything else is. The air smells clean and cold. The stone path curves toward the front door, softened by moss that looks like it’s been winning a long, patient battle. The house doesn’t loom. It doesn’t perform. It just… exists.
The windows are wide and old-fashioned, slightly uneven—the kind that suggest sunsets matter here. That light will linger. That evenings might stretch.
Louise pauses before the door.
She always does this. With horses. With cars. With people. A moment of listening before committing—like the world might tell her something if she’s quiet enough.
Lando waits. Doesn’t rush her.
“Well?” he asks softly.
She smiles, slow and certain. “I think it wants us.”
—
Inside, the house breathes.
That’s the only way Louise can describe it.
The door closes behind them with a solid, comforting sound. The floors creak—not loudly, not in protest—more like curiosity. The walls don’t reflect light so much as hold it, softening the edges of the morning. There’s a faint scent of wood and something floral that’s long since stopped trying to be identifiable.
Lando wanders ahead, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes moving methodically—measuring space the way he does race data. Practical. Analytical. Already mapping furniture, storage, Louise's escape routes.
Louise drifts.
Her fingers trail along doorframes, the banister, the cool plaster of the walls. She presses her palm flat against one spot near the stairs and lingers, like she’s listening for an echo only she can hear.
“You good?” he asks, glancing back.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It feels… patient.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a new requirement.”
They head upstairs.
One room has slanted ceilings and soft light pouring in through a skylight. Dust motes float lazily, unbothered by their presence, like they’ve accepted this is where they live now.
“This could be your office,” Lando says, nodding toward it. “Quiet. Out of the way.”
Louise steps inside, turns slowly, imagining silence that doesn’t feel lonely. “I like it.”
She crosses the hall to another room with a wide window that looks out over fields rolling on forever—no fences in sight, just soft lines and winter grass.
“And this,” she says lightly, “could be yours.”
He stops short.
Stares.
“Why do you get the better view?” he asks, scandalized.
She tilts her head, all innocence. “Because I’m nicer.”
“You are objectively not.”
“I bring snacks.”
He exhales. “…Fair.”
They keep exploring.
A spare room that already feels like it wants laughter and clutter and maybe someone crashing on the couch. A bathroom with ridiculous water pressure that Lando tests immediately, standing under the tap like it’s a scientific experiment.
“This matters,” he insists.
Louise laughs from the doorway. “Of course it does.”
Back downstairs, they end up in the kitchen without planning to. Sunlight spills across the counters, pale and clean. The room feels open without being exposed. There’s space here—not just square footage, but pause. The kind that invites mornings that don’t start with alarms.
Lando leans back against the counter, arms folding loosely. “Say we do this.”
Louise hums, noncommittal but listening.
“This is… real,” he continues. “Not metaphor real. Like—real real.”
She steps closer, resting her forehead against his chest, grounding herself in the steady rhythm of him. “It’s been real.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, fingers threading into her hair automatically. “But this is the kind of real where you buy bins together.”
She laughs into his hoodie. “We already argue about bins.”
“That’s because you refuse to label them.”
“They know what they are.”
“They absolutely do not.”
The laugh lingers between them before fading into something quieter.
Something more serious.
Lando’s hand slows in her hair.
“Can I be honest?”
Louise lifts her head enough to look at him. “That question usually means you’re already being honest.”
His mouth twitches.
“Right.”
He glances away, toward the empty kitchen surrounding them. Toward the sunlight spilling through windows that weren’t theirs yet.
“Part of me is excited.”
“Only part?”
“A large part.”
“Better.”
“But part of me is terrified.”
The admission settles heavily between them.
Louise doesn’t look surprised.
“Me too,” she says softly.
Lando lets out a breath.
“Good.”
She blinks.
“Good?”
“Not good that you’re terrified.” He points at her. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m considering it.”
“I mean good because if you weren’t terrified I’d think you were insane.”
That earns a small laugh.
Because she understands exactly what he means.
This isn’t deciding to spend more nights together.
This isn’t leaving clothes at each other’s places.
This isn’t even moving in.
This is mortgages and paperwork and solicitors and contracts.
This is choosing a future and putting money behind it.
Louise reaches for his hand.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Let’s talk about the terrifying part.”
Lando groans immediately.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“You brought it up.”
“I was hoping you’d tell me not to worry.”
“Not happening.”
He sighs dramatically.
“Fine.”
Louise squeezes his fingers.
“What are you actually scared of?”
He thinks for a second.
Not the easy answer.
Not the joke.
The real one.
“What if we mess it up?”
Her expression softens.
“Mess up the house?”
“No.” His thumb brushes over hers. “Us.”
The words hang there.
Raw and unguarded.
“What if everything’s great now because we’re us and then suddenly we’re the couple arguing about utility bills and whose turn it is to call a plumber?”
Louise smiles faintly.
“We already argue about whose turn it is to call people.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m usually right.”
“See? That’s exactly the attitude.”
She laughs.
But after a moment she says quietly, “You know that’s not what you’re actually asking.”
His shoulders loosen.
Because she knows him.
Too well.
“What am I asking?”
“What if we break up.”
The room goes still.
Lando doesn’t answer immediately.
Because yes.
That is exactly what he’s asking.
Eventually he nods.
“A little.”
Louise studies him.
Not offended.
Not hurt.
Just thoughtful.
“I’ve thought about it too.”
Something in his chest eases immediately.
Not because she shares the fear.
Because she admits it.
Because she’s willing to talk about it.
“What conclusion did you reach?” he asks.
She shrugs lightly.
“That if we’re buying a house together while actively planning our breakup, we probably shouldn’t buy a house together.”
He lets out a startled laugh.
“Fair.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Louise shifts closer.
“If we break up one day, we’d figure it out.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
Her hands slide into the pocket of his hoodie.
“It’s realistic.”
Lando looks down at her.
Louise meets his gaze steadily.
“I can’t promise we’ll be together forever.”
His chest tightens.
Then she continues.
“But I can promise that I’m choosing this because I want a future with you. Not because I’m trying to protect myself from every possible outcome.”
The silence that follows feels strangely warm.
Like sunlight.
Like home.
Lando stares at her for a long second.
Then longer.
“You’re annoyingly mature sometimes.”
“I know.”
“I hate it.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
His forehead drops against hers.
The house around them remains quiet.
Waiting.
“What about you?” she asks softly.
“What about me?”
“Why are you really considering this?”
Lando smiles.
Small.
Private.
Because the answer comes easily.
Easier than he expected.
“I like coming home to you.”
Louise’s expression immediately melts.
“That’s such a simple answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
He shrugs.
“I spend half my life in airports. Hotels. Rental cars. Different countries every week.”
His hand settles at her waist.
“I’ve lived in nice places.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“Really nice places.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Subtle.”
“But you’re the first person who’s ever made a place feel important.”
The teasing vanishes from her face.
Completely.
And suddenly neither of them are joking anymore.
“I don’t care about the house,” he admits.
“I mean, I care.”
“You absolutely care.”
“The kitchen’s incredible.”
“It is.”
“But if you weren’t here, it’d just be a house.”
Louise swallows.
Hard.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods.
A smile growing despite herself.
“That was annoyingly romantic.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It absolutely was.”
She shakes her head, laughing.
Then reaches for his hand again.
“So.”
Lando looks around the empty room.
The bare walls.
The sunlight.
The future quietly waiting for them to decide.
“So.”
Louise squeezes his fingers.
“We are both aware this is a huge step.”
“Massive.”
“We are both slightly terrified.”
“Extremely.”
“We have considered worst-case scenarios.”
“We’ve acknowledged them.”
“And despite all that…”
Lando looks at her.
Really looks at her.
The woman standing in the middle of a house neither of them owns yet and somehow already filling it with life.
“…I still want to do it.”
Louise smiles.
The kind that starts small and grows.
“So do I.”
They stand there for a moment longer, quiet and smiling, the house holding them without comment.
They buy the place.
⸻
The house changes.
Not immediately. Not dramatically. But steadily—like it’s stretching into itself, preparing.
After they leave that first time, the rooms sit in silence. Sunlight slides across bare floors in long, patient lines. Dust settles without anyone to disturb it. The garden waits, winter-still, roots holding fast beneath the soil.
It doesn’t feel abandoned.
It feels paused.
Then the vans arrive.
Lando doesn’t even mention it to Louise at first. He just sends a message from an airport lounge somewhere between obligations, the kind of place that smells like coffee and carpet cleaner and mild exhaustion.
I sent a crew.
Don’t panic.
She reads it twice, narrowing her eyes.
Louise:
A crew for what.
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Lando:
Everything that shouldn’t break when we’re tired.
That’s when she knows arguing will be pointless.
Electricians first. Then plumbing. Internet lines pulled and reinforced until the signal hums instead of flickers. Heating and cooling systems adjusted so they don’t argue with the weather. Water pressure tested until it behaves exactly the way Lando insists it should.
The house doesn’t become flashy.
It becomes reliable.
Lights come on without hesitation. Wi-Fi doesn’t crash when it’s needed most. Radiators sigh warmly, like they’re relieved to finally be useful.
Louise stands in the kitchen during one of the video walkthroughs, phone propped against a mug, watching someone test sockets with methodical care.
Her chest tightens—not with overwhelm, but with something softer.
Louise:
You didn’t have to—
The reply comes immediately, like he’d been waiting.
Lando:
I wanted to.
She doesn’t argue. She just sends a heart and lets that be enough.
—
The design problem comes later.
Louise is sitting on the floor of her parents’ place, back against Behati’s legs, laptop balanced precariously on a cushion. The room smells like coffee and something sweet baking. Her mum scrolls through samples with a focus that’s both terrifying and deeply comforting.
“We want it low-profile,” Louise explains. “Nothing Instagram-ready.”
Behati hums approvingly. “Good. Those houses age badly.”
Louise exhales, relieved to be understood without explanation. “I don’t want it to feel like a base. Or a hotel. Or—”
“A compromise,” Behati finishes gently.
Louise nods, throat tight.
They find someone perfect. Quiet. Discreet. Someone who listens more than they talk and asks questions like how do you rest? instead of what’s your aesthetic? Someone who watches Louise pace while thinking and doesn’t interrupt.
Louise forwards everything to Lando.
Mood boards. Fabric swatches. Notes scribbled in the margins like this feels like morning and this feels like after a bad race and this might be too much when we’re tired.
His replies come between meetings, between flights, between worlds.
Unexpectedly precise.
Lando:
No sharp edges.
Couch needs to survive naps.
Whatever that lamp is, I hate it.
She laughs out loud, alone on the couch, startling the dog.
⸻
They brainstorm together in fragments.
Screenshots sent at odd hours. Voice notes recorded half-asleep, voices softer than usual.
Louise sends photos of muted greens, soft woods, imperfect ceramics with hairline cracks that look intentional rather than fragile.
Lando sends diagrams.
Actual diagrams.
Louise:
Why are there arrows.
Lando:
Traffic flow.
Louise:
It’s a living room.
Lando:
Exactly.
They can’t agree on the layout.
Two options.
One favors openness—light, long sightlines, space to breathe, nowhere for thoughts to get trapped.
The other is cozier—segmented, layered, rooms that feel held, corners that invite you to stop moving.
They go back and forth for days.
“This one,” Louise insists during a FaceTime call, pointing at her screen. “It feels calmer.”
“This one,” Lando counters, hair damp, hoodie slung low. “It makes sense.”
“They both make sense.”
“Only one works.”
“According to who?”
“Physics.”
They stare at each other through the screen, both stubborn, both tired, both refusing to give ground—not because it doesn’t matter.
Because it does.
Finally, Louise texts Charlotte.
Louise:
Emergency.
The response is instant.
Charlotte:
I’ve been waiting for this.
An hour later, a single message arrives with an annotated screenshot, arrows and notes layered with surgical precision.
Charlotte:
You’re both wrong.
Charlotte:
Combine them. Open where you wake up. Closed where you rest. Stop fighting and eat something.
There’s a long pause.
Then:
Lando:
…She’s right.
Louise:
She’s annoyingly right.
Charlotte:
I always am.
⸻
The house settles.
Furniture arrives quietly, piece by piece. Art goes up slowly, chosen more for how it feels than how it looks. Nothing screams. Nothing performs.
A couch deep enough to disappear into. A table that already looks like it’s hosted conversations. Lamps that soften evenings instead of spotlighting them.
By the time they stand in the doorway together again weeks later, bags at their feet, the place doesn’t feel staged.
It feels habited—even before they fully are.
Louise sets her keys down on the counter like it’s always been hers to do. Lando drops his coat on the hook, pauses, adjusts it until it sits just right.
They look at each other, something quiet and steady passing between them.
“We did this,” she says softly.
“Together,” he agrees.
And for the first time, the house doesn’t feel like a plan.
It feels like a beginning that knows how to wait.
⸻
Moving in is a mess.
Not the cinematic kind. The real kind.
Cardboard everywhere. Half-written labels. A permanent smell of tape and dust. Boxes stacked in precarious towers marked SIM STUFF, HORSE STUFF, TROPHIES??, and one ominous one that just says DO NOT LOSE in Louise’s handwriting.
Lando opens it anyway.
“Why are there three passports in here.”
“Close it,” Louise says immediately. “That box is not emotionally safe.”
He obeys.
Ten minutes later, he opens the cutlery drawer and freezes.
“…Why is there a shooting glove next to the forks.”
Louise, cross-legged on the floor surrounded by pantry items, doesn’t even look up. “That’s on you. You unpacked the kitchen.”
“I didn’t place it with intent.”
“You absolutely did. That glove chose violence.”
She stands, wanders over, opens her riding helmet—
And stares.
A bright orange McLaren stress ball stares back at her.
She lifts it slowly. Turns.
“You hid this.”
“I did not hide it,” Lando says, defensive. “I stored it.”
“In my helmet.”
“For safekeeping.”
She throws it at his chest.
They don’t fight about it.
They laugh. They move things. They forget where they put things again. They accept that chaos is the entry price.
⸻
Louise takes control of the fridge.
It’s surgical.
Meal-planned containers stacked with precision. Color-coded lids. Labels written neatly in Sharpie.
MON–TRAINING
TUE–RECOVERY
DON’T TOUCH (SERIOUS)
Lando opens it, squints.
“…Are we feeding a small army.”
“No,” she says calmly. “We are feeding future-us.”
He closes it slowly.
“Future-me is scared.”
—
He drives them to the market anyway.
It’s small. Local. Slightly chaotic in the way only places that know their regulars can be.
They buy fruit.
Then more fruit.
Then cheese they don’t recognize.
Then snacks. So many snacks.
“This one,” Lando says, holding up a bag of something aggressively neon, “looks illegal.”
“That means it’s good,” Louise replies.
They come home with bags cutting into their fingers and no memory of what they actually planned to get.
⸻
Evenings settle into something quiet.
Not empty. Not heavy. Just… lived in.
Sometimes they sit on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled, both scrolling, not speaking.
Sometimes Louise does her range exercises on the floor while Lando watches old onboard footage, muttering under his breath.
Some mornings, he leaves before dawn.
He kisses her temple while she’s half-asleep, whispers, “Text me when you wake up.”
She always does.
Some nights, she comes home smelling like hay and cold air, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.
She collapses onto the couch mid-race replay and he shifts automatically so her head fits against his shoulder.
No discussion. No pause.
Different rhythms.
Same song.
⸻
The first night that feels like home sneaks up on them.
It’s not special.
They’ve eaten something stored in cardboard. The house is quiet except for the hum of heating that works.
Louise is in pajamas she didn’t plan to wear. Lando is barefoot, hoodie abandoned somewhere.
They’re brushing their teeth side by side.
She catches his reflection.
“You okay?” she asks.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… here.”
She leans into him, forehead against his shoulder.
This isn’t a stopover.
This isn’t borrowed time.
This is where socks get lost and reappear in weird places. Where mugs get claimed without discussion. Where silence doesn’t ask to be filled.
They crawl into bed without ceremony.
Lando reaches for her automatically. She fits.
As she drifts off, half-smiling, Louise thinks—not with panic, not with awe—
This is where domesticity begins.
And for once, the thought doesn’t scare her.
It steadies her.
⸻
The house teaches itself to them slowly.
Not all at once. Not in some grand moment where they stand in the middle of a room and suddenly know.
In pieces.
In sunlight.
In habit.
The kitchen gets the morning light first.
Not aggressively. Not enough to wake them.
Just enough that around seven-thirty the edges of the countertops turn gold, and the mugs drying beside the sink cast long shadows across the wood.
The first time Louise notices, she’s making tea while Lando sleeps upstairs.
She stands there longer than necessary, mug warming her hands, watching dust motes drift through the light.
The next morning she notices it again.
By the third, she’s texting him a photo when he’s already at the factory.
Kitchen light is doing the thing again.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Our kitchen.
The message makes her smile for the rest of the day.
—
The upstairs bathroom becomes their favorite room by accident.
The window sits at exactly the right angle.
On cold mornings, when the fields behind the house disappear beneath silver mist, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder brushing their teeth and watch the world wake up.
Dew gathers across the grass.
The horses in the neighboring field appear first as shapes, then outlines, then animals.
Sometimes neither of them speaks.
The silence feels complete.
One morning Louise presses her hand against the cold glass.
“Look at that.”
Lando glances up from rinsing his toothbrush.
The field sparkles beneath the rising sun.
Thousands of tiny droplets catching light.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says.
“What is?”
“How pretty grass is.”
She laughs.
“You’re getting soft.”
“Living with you is ruining my reputation.”
He says it with enough affection that she leans over and bumps her shoulder against his.
—
They learn the sounds too.
The floorboard at the top of the stairs that always creaks.
The click the heating makes before it starts.
The way rain sounds against the back windows compared to the roof above their bedroom.
The front door settles differently depending on the weather.
The house expands when it’s warm.
Contracts when it’s cold.
Breathes around them.
At some point they stop noticing the noises because they’ve become part of the rhythm.
At some point they start noticing when they’re missing.
—
Lando claims a corner of the couch without ever officially claiming it.
It simply happens.
One evening Louise walks into the living room and finds him sitting there.
The next evening he’s there again.
Then again.
Soon enough, that’s where he ends up whenever he’s reading, gaming, watching footage, answering messages, or pretending not to fall asleep.
His corner.
His blanket.
His charger permanently draped over the armrest.
Louise makes fun of him for becoming territorial.
Then she realizes she always chooses the same armchair by the window.
The one where afternoon sunlight pools across the cushion.
The one where she can read.
Or stretch.
Or simply sit and watch the fields.
They stop pretending the spots aren’t theirs.
—
Sometimes they walk through the house for no reason.
Not consciously.
Just moving.
Louise heading downstairs for water.
Lando wandering into the kitchen because he forgot why he’d stood up in the first place.
They cross paths in hallways.
Pause.
Exchange absent-minded kisses.
Continue in opposite directions.
The familiarity sneaks up on them.
The knowledge that they know where the other person is without looking.
The certainty that if Louise walks into a room, Lando will probably appear five minutes later.
Not because they’re attached at the hip.
Because their lives naturally orbit the same spaces now.
—
One evening they lose power during a storm.
Nothing dramatic.
Just darkness.
The hum of appliances disappearing all at once.
For a moment they stand in the kitchen staring at each other.
Then Louise starts laughing.
Lando finds candles.
The rain drums against the windows.
The entire house glows gold and flickering.
And as they move from room to room lighting small circles of warmth, Louise realizes something.
The house still feels like theirs.
Even without the lights.
Even stripped down to shadows and candle flames and the sound of rain.
Maybe especially then.
⸻
One evening, they sit on the back steps watching the sky soften into purple.
Louise stretches her legs out, boots muddy, shoulders loose in a way they only are when she’s been riding all day.
“I used to think choosing something meant losing everything else,” she says.
Lando hands her a drink. “You still think that?”
“No,” she replies. “I think choosing everything just takes longer.”
He considers that.
“I like that you’re not trying to be one thing,” he says. “It makes me feel less insane for wanting… more.”
She nudges him with her foot. “You’re already insane.”
“True,” he smiles. “But I’m also… settled. In a way I didn’t know I wanted.”
She looks at him then. Really looks.
Same boy who once lived out of suitcases and adrenaline.
Now talking about bins and back gardens and halfway points.
“I don’t need you to slow down for me,” she says.
“I’m not,” he replies. “I’m just choosing where I stand still.”
Summary: Louise’s iPad dies. Lando immediately enters crisis-management mode. One of those situations is significantly more dramatic than the other.
Word Count: 900-ish
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It doesn’t happen during a dramatic moment.
No crash. No rain. No last-lap chaos.
It happens in the most offensive way possible—quietly, disrespectfully, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary afternoon.
Louise is sitting cross-legged on the floor of Lando’s living room, her back against the couch, iPad balanced on her knees, Apple Pencil between her fingers. She’s mid-flow—half watching a telemetry replay, half annotating something that looks like a cross between race notes, a to-do list, and a constellation map only she understands.
The screen goes black.
She taps it.
Nothing.
She taps again. Harder. Then softer. Then with the Pencil. Then with her knuckle.
The screen stays black.
Louise blinks once.
“Hm.”
Lando looks over from the kitchen. “Hm what?”
She presses the power button. Holds it. Counts under her breath. Lets go.
Nothing.
She plugs it in. Unplugs it. Switches chargers. Switches outlets. Tilts it like gravity might jog something loose.
Still nothing.
Her breathing changes—not panicked yet, just… recalibrating.
“Lando,” she says calmly. Too calmly. “My iPad is not responding to external stimuli.”
He freezes. That tone is dangerous.
“You mean it’s dead?”
“No,” she says immediately. “Dead implies temporary inconvenience. This feels… existential.”
He walks over slowly, kneels in front of her. “Okay. Let me see.”
She hands it over like she’s passing him something fragile and sacred. Like an injured bird. Like a limb.
He tries the basics. Power button. Charger. Restart combo he half remembers.
Nothing.
Louise’s eyes don’t leave the device.
“That has my life in it,” she says quietly.
Lando looks up. “Your life life or—”
“My schedules. My notes. My race debriefs. My brain dump documents. My playlists organized by emotional state. My comfort shows. My PDFs. My lists of lists. My—”
She stops. Swallows.
“My safe place.”
That’s when it hits him.
Not the inconvenience. Not the money. Not the replacement.
The loss.
—
Louise doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t pace.
She goes very still.
Sits there, hands folded in her lap, staring at the unlit screen like if she looks away it’ll be gone for good.
Lando sets the iPad gently on the table.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “We’ll fix it. Or replace it. Or—”
“I know,” she interrupts. “Logically, I know. But that one knew me.”
He exhales through his nose. Sits down beside her.
“You backed it up, right?” he asks gently.
She nods. “Yes. Mostly. I think. Ninety-three percent.”
“That’s really good.”
“Except the seven percent that is the part I was actively using to stay functional today.”
Of course it is.
She rubs her thumbs together. A tell.
Lando watches closely.
“Do you want space or do you want me annoying?” he asks.
She thinks. “Annoying. But quiet annoying.”
He bumps her shoulder lightly. “I can do that.”
—
Within twenty minutes, Lando is in full crisis-support mode.
He makes her tea the exact way she likes—too much honey, barely hot. He dims the lights without being asked. He pulls her weighted blanket from the chair and drapes it over her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She barely reacts. Just lets it happen.
He sits on the floor with her and opens his laptop.
“Okay,” he says. “Talk to me. What did the iPad do for you that we can temporarily replace?”
She blinks. Processes.
“Organization. Regulation. Distraction. Reference. Control.”
“Great,” he nods. “No pressure.”
She almost smiles.
They rebuild a temporary Louise system from scratch.
Notes app on his laptop, labeled exactly how she likes. A shared document she dictates to him. Spotify playlists queued. A random cartoon playing silently in the background just so there’s movement.
It’s not the same.
But it’s something.
At some point, she notices she’s breathing normally again.
—
The next day, they take the iPad to get looked at.
The technician pokes it. Frowns. Shakes his head slowly.
Louise braces.
“It’s the motherboard,” he says. “Looks like a clean failure. No warning signs.”
Louise nods like she expected this. Like she’s been preparing emotionally since the first tap.
“So,” she asks quietly. “It won’t wake up?”
The technician hesitates. “No. But your data should be recoverable if it was backed up.”
She closes her eyes for exactly three seconds.
“Okay,” she says. “Then we say thank you and goodbye.”
Lando squeezes her hand.
Outside, he asks, “You alright?”
She shrugs. “I feel like someone erased a whiteboard I was still using.”
“That’s a very you way to describe grief for electronics.”
She snorts despite herself.
—
They buy a new one.
Same model. Same size. Same color.
It feels wrong in her hands.
Too clean. Too empty.
She sets it up slowly. Methodically. Recreates folders. Imports backups. Rebuilds systems.
Lando watches from the couch, quiet, respectful.
At one point she pauses, Pencil hovering.
“Do you think it’s silly,” she asks, “to miss an object?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“No,” he says. “I think it’s silly people pretend objects don’t hold meaning.”
She nods. Goes back to work.
Later that night, she names the new iPad.
Not the same name as the old one.
A different one.
A fresh start.
—
A week later, Lando catches her, fully immersed, new iPad covered in fingerprints and notes and stickers already.
“How’s the new brain?” he asks.
She looks up. Considers.
“It’s learning me,” she says. “We’re negotiating.”
He grins. “Good luck at it.”
She reaches out without looking and hooks a finger into his hoodie pocket, grounding herself.
He lets her.
Some things break.
Some things get rebuilt.
And some things—like knowing exactly who will sit on the floor with you while your world reboots—turn out to be more permanent than any screen.
