eleanor

Your mom always said you were an adrenaline junkie; when you told her you were accepted into the fire academy for the paramedic path at the age of 20, she just chuckled and said: “That’s my girl”. 

When you told her you were promoted to paramedic in charge at a station known for its rescues, she almost threw a party. 

You were in the middle of taking nightly inventory of your ambulance when the trucks pulled in, the smell of soot lingering as the garage doors descended behind them and twelve brute men began to file out, boots thudding against the garage pavement followed by the routine shedding of their fire gear. 

You can usually tell how a call went based on the body language of your truck boys; a helpful tool you have acquired from spending hundreds of hours with them. It was calm, almost as if everything was soon to click into place. 

The last pair of boots hit the ground, and the door to the passenger side slams as Lieutenant Lando Norris hops from his seat in the front. Freshly promoted and smiling as if he didn't just help a family of four out of a small kitchen fire. 

Lando transferred to the station around the same time as you. Eyes full of light and his curls just barely peeking through a backwards baseball cap. The two of you have grown close over the years, watching as firemen pass through, some cracking under the weight of the job, and some moving on to other things completely. You have gone through almost 5 partners yourself, the one thing that has remained consistent was Lando. 

The day he was promoted to lieutenant, you were the first to congratulate him, throwing your arms around him as the rest of the station applauded their fellow fireman's well-deserved promotion. Overwhelmed with emotions, he held you tight as you whispered praise in his ear, about how this was a long time coming. 

Somewhere between then and now, you realized you saw him more as a friend. The spark you felt when his hands brushed yours during meals pushed to the forefront of your mind. Hours spent analyzing every freckle on his face, as if you could solve him like a puzzle, yet every time you got close enough, the sparkle in his ocean eyes pulled you away from focus. 

You tried to fight your crush, but he made it so hard; After every call, he’d offer to make you a grilled cheese because you mentioned it was your favourite meal growing up. 

A knock on the metal exterior of the ambulance shook you back to the present. Lando stood below you in the garage, his face slightly char stained but smile still warm. 

“Hey,“ you greeted, “how was the call?” Abandoning your clipboard, you invite him into the shop. 

He took a step inside, running a hand through his curls as he sat across from you. “Good, uh–“ He looked nervous, but you couldn’t place why. “Just a small grease fire, no major injuries or damage, quick in and out.” He listed as if, instead of casually talking to you, he was speaking with captain Zac Brown. 

“Why do you sound upset about this?” 

“I’m not,” his voice squeaked at the end of his sentence. He was lying. You squint at him, “Lando, you’re picking your fingers like you did when Zac called on you in roll call. What's up?” You push, hoping he’ll crack. 

He sits on his hands, chuckling through a breath before he answers you. “Fewtrell is having a barbecue at the end of shift, he wanted me to invite you and Lily.” 

Ah yes, you should’ve known Fewtrell and Piastri had sent him to do their errands. Max Fewtrell and Oscar Piastri were Lando's closest mates on shift, the three grew up on the same street and now neighboured just down the road from where you and your roommate (also known as Oscar's girlfriend) Lily reside. 

“Yeah of course! Is there anything I can bring?” you replied, slightly taken aback this was what he was cautious over. 

He smiles softly shaking his head, “nope, just yourself”

Your stomach seemed to forget you were chatting with lando, and not about to drop into a rollercoaster.

“And Lily, of course. Oscar will kill us if not.” He adds and you suddenly remember you're not supposed to feel like this about your best friend. 

“No, yeah– definitely,” you respond quickly, forcing a laugh to hide the awkwardness that has undoubtedly formed. To try and look busy, you pick up your clipboard, double checking the already triple checked numbers before the familiar sound of the dispatcher crackles through the speakers 

Ambulance 81: person injured, 12,725 champion street  

Your eyes meet his before you stand, coming back to reality, “duty calls,” you quip with a tight-lipped smile. 

He nods, helping you with cleaning before giving you a quick salute, “see you later!” 

You smile before your partner joins you in the passenger seat and you flick on the lights and sirens, following where the job takes you. 

──── ঌ ────

Your shift had ended an hour ago and you were sitting on Lily's bed while she was runway style showing you potential outfits for the barbecue. 

“Oscar will love anything you wear Lily,” you say, after paying no attention to her outfits past the third one she's tried on, after they all became the same pair of jeans with a different top. 

“But what if he doesn't!” She counters, studying her outfit in the mirror. 

You laugh, resuming your scrolling, “he’ll be too busy helping Max and Lando with the grill.”

She wiggles her eyebrows at the mention of the brunette, “speaking of,” she teases, “have you told him how you're feeling?”

You scrunch your face, “no, of course not.”

She scoffs, flicking a chip at you. “He’s not going to know you like him if you only look at him with those puppy dog eyes.” 

You fall back into her duvet with a sigh. You knew this. But you also knew the other factors of a firehouse relationship; the teasing when you walk into a room together, the looming fear that if Captain Brown were to find out you’d both lose your jobs. 

“It just wont work, Lils.” 

She throws a pair of jean shorts on top of you, “not with that attitude it won’t,” she declares, “now put these on, they make your ass look good.” 

You smile gratefully and change, opting to pair the light wash shorts with a grey tank top and a pink striped button up. You were doing your makeup when Lily's phone chimed. 

“It's from Oscar, he and Lando are on their way back with drinks and offered to pick us up,” she reads, waiting for you to finish carefully applying your lip combo. 

You pretended to think about it for a moment before turning in your chair to look at your roommate, “yeah of course, I’ll just grab the chips from the pantry, they said not to bring anything but I’d feel bad if we show up empty handed.” 

The girl let out what you think was a squeal and began frantically typing on her phone, shortly after it chimed again. “They’ll be here in ten!” 

It wasn't long before the boys turned up, music blasting from their shared Mercedes like they were fratboys, not firefighters. Lando rolled his window down as you and Lily approached the vehicle.

“Somebody order an uber XL?” He jokes, adjusting his cap that was sat atop his chocolate curls. Oscar was in the driver's seat, eyes fixated on Lily– you made a mental note to applaud her ability to read her boyfriend later. 

“You're in my seat, Norris!” she shouts, opening the door from the outside with a playful jab of her thumb over her shoulder while you make your way to the backseat. “Out!”

Lando makes no argument as he joins you in the back, eyeing the chip bag in your hand and shooting you a wink before clapping Oscar's shoulder from behind, making the boy flinch slightly. He laughs and merges back into the road.

Fewtrell was already running the grill like a navy general when the four of you arrived. Pietra, his lovely wife who you’ve become quick to close with over the years, welcomes you with open arms. 

“Please, somebody assist this mad man.” She sighs when Max can be heard shouting in frustration from the back patio. 

You join Lando in making your way to the deck, finding other firefights from your shift including Max, Carlos, and a younger one named Ollie, who was a recent addition to Truck. 

While Lando takes Max's side and assesses the burgers you are sure are close to burning, you take a seat in a foldable chair next to Ollie. 

“So Ollie, how are you enjoying your first months at the station?” You question, curious about the new boys thoughts on your tight-knit family 

He shrugs, taking a swig from his drink. “It's been nice, good city, with great people,” his eyes down your body and rise back up towards your face, a smirk painting over his own, “you know any good places to eat ‘round here?” He smoothly asks. 

You know where this is going, new firefighters often will flirt with the paramedics since nine times out of ten they are women, but you never liked to entertain them since your heart was currently occupied by a certain curly haired lieutenant. 

Lando’s neck snaps towards you when he hears the question come from Ollie’s mouth. If looks could kill, the boy would’ve been six feet under. His scowl audible while Max’s complaints about the grill not cooking fast enough falls on deaf ears. 

“Dude!” The older man forced Lando to pull his ice filled gaze away from you, “I think I’m low on propane. Can you grab me two from the shed?” When Lando groans, Max continues to flip his burgers. “Take y/n with you, she knows where they are,” he offers over his shoulder. 

At the faint mention of your name, your attention shifts towards the grill. Lando's eyes meet yours from across the patio, motioning you to join him. You politely excuse yourself from Ollie, the boy holding his drink up in mock cheers to send you off. 

The tension is thick when you join the boys at the grill. You assumed that Max was fussing about the hotdog to burger ratio, but were surprised to see Lando's shoulders to be up by his ears. 

Max explains the propane situation and you happily agree to assist Lando, since one summer ago you and Pietra needed propane for a wine night firepit, you’ve become an expert in navigating the Fewtrell shed. 

The two of you enter the small structure, Lando immediately taking in all the karting equipment that's resided here for years, Pietras told you. A small kid-sized kart with blue and fluorescent yellow accents propped on a rig, wheels surrounding the floor below it. 

Your eyes follow the wall, pictures of boys with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair, arms thrown around each other in race suits, an identical set of smiles etched on both their faces. When you look closer, it's almost impossible not to recognize the set of boys. 

Your fingers tap the picture lightly,  “This you?” You look to the boy who's been occupied with the pedals on the kart. He turns to look over your shoulder, the heat radiating off of his body. You can feel his breath against your ear when he points to the smaller boy in the middle. “Me,” he points to the boy on his left, “Max,” to his right, “Oscar.” 

Your heart squeezes, looking at the boy who once considered himself a racer and now races towards flames before they swallow a structure whole. 

In a way, firefighting is similar to racing– the calculation before every move, the fear of one slip causing it all to go wrong– these boys risked their safety on track the same way they do whenever they run into a burning building. 

“You seemed pretty cozy with the new guy,” Lando says hesitantly, like he's unsure if it came out formed as a joke or ammunition. Your eyes meet his back as he fiddles with a spare part. 

Something in your mind told you that this was the proof you needed, that maybe Lily was right and you should just confess right there and then.

But another quiet voice, the one that always wins against the logical part of your brain, was telling you to stop daydreaming. And so, you shrug, "He seemed nice enough. Why? You jealous?” 

He whips around to face you, brows knit and eyes wide. “What? psheesh–- no!” He says, too quickly for your heart to slow down, "I'm just saying, he's new and probably just looking to get laid or something,” he shrugs, twisting the small trinket between his fingers, trying to act like this doesn't bother him as much as it does. 

Your heart is racing, but you stay composed, crossing your arms before squinting at him. He doesn't get to act this way and get away with it. “Why do you care?” 

He scoffs, eyes falling to the part in his hand, “I don't." 

You hum, unconvinced. “Alright, then maybe I’ll go out with him, then.” 

Lando drops the part and before the loud clang can fully hit your ears he’s in front of you, his face mere inches from yours, so close you can draw constellations between his freckles. 

His eyes stare firmly into yours as you meet his gaze with terrifying confidence. His hands are planted on the table behind you, caging you in. “You're not gonna do that” he says low, his pupils dilating, absorbing the watercolour irises. 

You tilt your chin up, not backing down. “Well why not, Norris." 

His eyes flicker between yours, down to your lips, and then back up to your eyes,exhaling as he contemplates. You lean in slightly, the space between you becoming thinner with every second. 

You’re starting to lose your faux confidence, eyes falling to his lips when his tongue darts out to wet them. 

The energy between you could light a match, charged with unspoken words and feelings. You could feel his breath on your face, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Do it,” you whisper into the silence of the shed.

He waits about one second before his lips crash into yours. The outside world starts shrinking into the confines of the karting shed, just the two of you, moving in unison. 

The kiss was everything you’d hoped it would be, soft but firm, gentle but hungry; Years of pining evident in the way his lips moved against you, his tongue licking yours as the kiss deepened, hands finding your waist while yours tangled between his curls. 

You pull apart for air, his forehead falling to rest against yours, breath heavy as you both realize what just happened. Your eyes dart all over the shed, out of embarrassment, or maybe fear, but once you look back up at the curly mess of a man before you, you realise his eyes never left yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he says, a little out of breath yet still grinning. You find that hard to believe, “really?” you ask. He nods, “since the first day I walked in and saw you sitting in the ambo bay.” 

Your breath catches before you kiss him again, holding his cheeks in your hands. “I've wanted that for ages, Lan,” you say into his lips. 

He connects your lips again, kissing you until you're dizzy and breathless. You're not sure how long you were hiding in the shed, which made you want to stay there even longer. You felt like two secondary schoolers, hiding and kissing like it’s forbidden, but with him you didn’t seem to care. 

And when Oscar notices the slight flush to both of your faces when you finally return with two full propane tanks, he doesn't say anything and hands you a drink.  

──── ঌ ────

It’s been a week since the Fewtrells, when Oscar finds Lando furiously typing on his laptop for a report on the stereotypical cat-in-the-tree rescue from yesterday. He's propped against the door frame, arms crossed against his chest as he watches Lando let out another sigh when the system freezes. 

“Y’know, you could just talk to her,” he deadpans. 

Lando doesn’t look up; if he does, Oscar will see how exhausted he looks, and he’ll know something is up.

The past week has been hell for Lando. The truck needs a new spare tire, a rookie on the rescue squad just quit, and now you're avoiding him like the plague. 

Since the kiss, you’ve hardly spoken to Lando unless the job required you to and he was going insane. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was back in the shed with you, his furious gaze meeting your soft one. Even while you gave him a hard time, he still found your eyes mesmerizing.

 Most importantly, however, he missed his friend. The friend he spent downtime with in between calls and sat next to at dinner. All because he couldn't keep his feelings in check. “I don’t need to talk to her,” he lies quickly. 

“You’ve been hiding in your quarters like the old man up the street we tell the kids not to trick or treat at,” Oscar replies, seeing right through him. 

The curly-haired boy falls back against his chair, letting out a long exhale through his nose and tilting his head back to study the ceiling; there’s still a paper dart from when you took April Fools' Day far too seriously. “Ever since the barbecue, it’s been awkward.” 

Oscar raised a brow “How so?”  

Lando squeezes his eyes shut, physically bracing for the outcome of what he's about to say. “We kissed in the shed.” 

Oscar, the little fucker, just smiles before saying in the most neutral tone humanly possible, “I know” 

Now that makes Lando look at him, eyebrows shooting towards his hairline. “What do you mean, I know?” He responds in slight disbelief. 

“I'm not blind, Lando,” the man just shrugs, “when you came back wearing the same smile as the day you got promoted, it wasn't hard to put two and two together, mate.” 

Lando huffs, rubbing his temple to soothe the headache that's forming from the racing of his thoughts. “I don't know, mate, we both know how firehouse relationships work.” He sighs, “what if it doesn't work out?” he adds quieter. 

Oscar listens, being an open ear to Lando as he voices his thoughts. It's been like this since their racing days. When Lando had a tricky time correcting a corner, Oscar would listen as they ate pizza and Lando spoke his thoughts aloud, only adding his input when he felt it was needed. 

“You would never know unless you talked to her,” he simply says before he's gone and Lando is left alone in his quarters. Later, he's in the kitchen heating up leftover pasta from the first watch. The boys are scattered as it's been a quiet day already, a call here and there for small situations. 

You, however, Lando feels like he's hardly seen all shift. And when he did see you, you've barely sat long enough for him to catch you.

It's like the universe is dangling this conversation in front of him on a stick, but just as he gets close enough to grab it, the shrill ring of someone in distress rips you away from him. 

He sat on the couch, overalls bunching into his lap as he's crosslegged in front of the TV, scarfing down some food. 

The news anchor on the screen blurred in the back of his mind as he played a game you downloaded on his phone years ago, focusing on beating that level, when suddenly, the atmosphere on the small television shifted- something was wrong. 

Lando straightened up and set down his game, watching as the bold text on the screen informed the viewers of a motor vehicle accident that caught a child in the crossfire. They explained that the young girl was thrown from her car and knocked unconscious; her condition unknown when responders arrived. 

That's when it struck him, like a loud screech in the back of his mind. 

Wasn't your last call an unconscious minor? 

He waits anxiously for more coverage, waiting to see if he can spot you or your ambulance on scene. “Fuck…” He mumbles to himself as the clips keep rolling, showing more and more angles of the devastating accident. It doesn't look good. 

He knew you loved kids; he’s met your nieces and nephews. The way your face lit up when they spoke nonsense to you about their favourite paw patrol character. Lando knew your heart couldn't handle this going sideways. 

Just when he thinks it was a coincidence– that maybe somewhere a mother mistook their kid having a nap and you were begrudgingly filling out paperwork– your ambulance is shown screeching to a halt and out jump you and your partner, rushing to the little girl's aid.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he watches on. Lando is holding his breath while on-screen you is effortlessly hooking up the monitor, inserting an IV, things he has watched you do over a thousand times, yet feels that this time it weighs heavier– maybe because he hasn’t talked to you, or maybe because you’d barely look at him at the station– he still felt your heart breaking through the screen. 

What the camera almost fails to pick up is the light shake in your hands– something you told Lando during a late-night shift– that only rarely happens when your emotions are hitting you at an overwhelming rate. He saw you squeeze your fingers together to try and make it stop, but the news anchor moved on before the camera could catch it. 

He sat in silence as the coverage shifted to something much lighter, but Lando couldn't shake the memory of the look on your face, the pure devastation written across your features. 

Max had joined him now, sitting next to him in silence as they waited for your return. The firehouse felt still, like a puzzle piece was missing to function properly. 

While waiting, Zac found him– the man shaking an authoritative chill down Lando's spine as he mentioned he'd taken the truck and ambulance out of service for a few hours. 

The sympathetic look on his face told Lando the reason why. Not that he was complaining; he wanted to be there for you when you came home, regardless of whatever avoidance competition you two were competing in. 

What felt like hours was actually half until the familiar sound of the garage doors opening filled his ears. Lando didn't move, not wanting to crowd you; he stayed planted on the couch until he heard the sound of your boots frantically thud past the common room and down the hallway. Your partner entered shortly after, her posture heavy with the events of today. Lando stood, cautious with his words. 

“How is the kid?” he asked slowly. 

She just sighed, deflating into the chair beneath her, “I'm not sure if she’ll make it, she arrested again on the way to the hospital–” 

Lando didn't even let her finish before he was moving. He followed the direction you went, walking with the same urgency he has when the bell goes off. His head is storming with a hurricane of thoughts, but his sole focus is to find you. 

After checking everywhere he thought was possible to hide out in, he ended up at the laundry machines, a dead end of the hallway. Right as he turned to begin checking the rooms he just stormed past, he heard a sniffle come from an adjacent door. He threw the door open, and his heart plummeted at the scene before him, 

You were sitting on a small cot in a room that he forgot existed and was slightly shocked you knew about. Your knees were pulled to your chest, tears were streaming down your cheeks. The sobs were heartbreaking as you could barely catch your breath. 

“Hey, hey–, I'm here,” he whispers as he wraps his arms firmly around you, one hand cupping the back of your head and the other rubbing small circles on your back. “I’ve got you, it's okay” 

As the sobs wracked through your body, he never let go. He held you while you cried, gripping his uniform like a lifeline. His chin rested on your head as he rocked you both slightly, reassuring you that he was here; that he was your rock and despite any distance, he was unmoving. 

“She was so small,” your wobbly voice spoke through the tears, “she didn't deserve this.” A new wave of sobs shook your body.

Lando just held on tighter, his heart hurting at the state you were in,“you did everything you could, love,” he comforted, “what happened was not your fault.” He kept talking, reassuring you of your efforts while you cried. His fingers combed through your hair as he spoke softly. 

Your breathing slowed, the height of it had passed but your tears still fell silently. Lando moved to have you rest your head on his chest while he continued to rub your back, placing kisses to the crown of your head every time a hiccup escaped you. 

“I just wish there was something else I could've done,” you murmured, picking at the hem of your sleeve. Lando took your face in his hands. “Look at me,” he said, not firm, but stern enough to get your attention. 

Your crystallized eyes met his, his face laced with concern. His hands cradled you like you were the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. “What happened today was not a result of your work,” he assured, wiping a stray tear that escaped. He continued, “you are a brilliant paramedic, and you know you did everything humanly possible to help that girl.” 

Your eyes poured into his as he spoke, his hands cupping your face like they were made to do just that. He leaned down to be directly in your eyeline, making sure you were here with him. 

“I need you to know that you know that, baby,” he said, the last word fell quieter, but the butterflies in your stomach still fluttered awake as you nodded in his hands. 

He gave a hum of acknowledgement before pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You're too beautiful to cry,” he mumbles, more to himself, but you heard it nonetheless. Your eyes flick to his lips; he inhales like he knows what's about to happen. He doesn't stop you from leaning in and slotting your lips against his. 

The kiss is soft, slow like a Sunday morning; blooming between you like spring after a harsh winter. The kind that says I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. 

This kiss felt different than your first one in the shed, this kiss felt real, grounding, like coming up for fresh air after the waves pushed you under for too long. 

You pulled away to catch a breath, lacing your fingers together. You look at Lando, his uniform is ruffled, his lips are puffy and pink, and he looks a little dazed, but he's wearing the brightest smile you've ever seen. 

“Sorry– wait,” you chuckle, taking your thumb to wipe the remnants of your lip gloss that had smudged onto his face in the heat of the moment. 

He brushes your hand away “No, leave it,” he simply states, “it's fine.” 

You're sure that if it wasn't for him holding you up, you would've melted right then and there. You laugh and tap the end of his nose instead, the emotions of today shifting to become much lighter, “you like me,” you tease, drawing the words out to make him playfully scoff before pulling you against his chest and throwing you both against the cot so he lies beneath you. 

Your giggles fill the room as he pretends to deny his feelings, but the fact that you can count all 32 of his teeth tells you otherwise. 

You stay like that for a while, lying in each other's presence as the station continues to move outside of this room you have found yourselves in. You can feel his heartbeat beneath you, it begins to pick up slightly before he speaks. “I don't want to rush things, but I really like you,” he says, vulnerable, like he's been keeping it in for long enough he didn't know how it would sound coming from his mouth. 

You rest your chin on his chest, your gaze meeting him as he stills– waiting for you to respond to the question he convinced himself for years would bring rejection. 

The smile that etches onto your face tells him he was wrong in the best way possible.

“I’ve been gone for you since the day you made lieutenant and the first person you looked at was me,” you whisper and the words sit between you for a second, hanging like a declaration, in so many ways they were. 

He remembered that day like it was yesterday, the words Zac spoke proudly died in his ears instantly when you came into view. 

You lace your fingers with his, running your fingers along the ridges of his knuckles, “but we also work together, Lan.” 

He sucks in a breath, fingers tightening around yours like he never wants to let go. “Then let's go slow, we can do whatever you want,” he says softly, allowing the ball to be fully in your court. 

“I want to go slow, no labels,” you decide, he nods agreeing with you. “And we can't tell anybody here, if Zac finds out, we’re cooked.” He looks at you like that one was obvious. 

“M’kay, deal.” He says before hooking his hand behind your neck and pulling you in for another kiss. You could definitely get used to this. 

──── ঌ ────

And so began your surreptitious relationship. Stolen moments across shifts have been what get you both through the hard days. 

There was the time where Truck had a bad call, a miscommunication during a barbeque gone rogue ending in a flashover and a father in the hospital overnight for smoke inhalation. He came back with a storm cloud over his head, slamming cabinets like they were his enemy until you grabbed his wrist and dragged him to your new favourite spot in the city, the closet by the laundry room. 

You never said anything, just let him vent his frustration until he came back down to Earth. Until he was calm enough to face his men and not come close to punching one in the face. 

Then there was the time he had you pinned down on that same cot he held you while you sobbed, though these were sobs of pleasure that he was pulling from you as he ate you out. 

His tongue worked magic on your pussy while one hand splayed across your stomach, holding you down as you squirmed, grinding against his face. 

“Give it to me baby,” he groaned into your folds, slick coating his face as he slipped a finger inside, “gotta be quiet though– the boys’ll hear you.” 

You feel your stomach tightening, his tongue flattening across your clit, drinking everything you had to give him. 

“Lan, I’m–” you breathed, the hand in his hair gripping harder as you climbed higher, and higher, Lando being ready to catch you once you fell into pure bliss. 

Your high detonates and you hold a hand over your mouth to stay quiet, Lando, the smug bastard continues to lick you as you ride out your orgasm. Placing kisses up your stomach until he reaches your face, pecking your lips before he plops down next to you with a smirk on his face. 

“That was– wow,” you say, still catching your breath as you roll over to straddle his lap. His hands gripping the skin of your ass as you begin to grind down on the evident bulge in his pants. “Now it's your turn,” you murmur, a mischievous look on your face.

Your mouth finds the sweet spot under his ear, making him gasp. “Ooohhh fuck– baby,” your hands find his belt undoing it and pulling his pants down his knees, leaving him in nothing but his grey calvin klein boxers that leave little to your imagination; a small wet spot already forming. 

Just as you slip your hand in, teasing the waistband while you suckle at the base of his neck. 

The bell goes off. 

Ambulance 81, person in distress, 5524 beach street. 

You both freeze, Lando hides his face in your shoulder, a groan escaping him as you back away to put your clothes back on. “Nooo” he whines as you button your pants, “don’t go,” the pout on his face makes you actually consider rerouting this call. 

You giggle, lacing up your shoes before placing a quick peck to his lips and turning towards the door. “I’ll see you later, Norris,” you say before opening the door. 

“This is evil!” He shouts as you walk towards the apparatus floor with a smile. 

Back in the room, Lando was cheesing far too hard for a man who just got practically edged by his girl. 

There was also the time you almost got caught. 

You were in his lieutenant quarters, he's kissing down your neck; his hands are everywhere as you tilt your chin so he can have more access 

“Lan–” you cut yourself off with a gasp when he mouths the space between your collarbone. “Oscar could come in here any second”

“Who cares?” he mumbles into your neck before pulling away to smash his lips into yours. His tongue licking into your mouth as your hands find his curls; you grab a handful and tug lightly. Not hard, but enough that a small whimper escapes Lando. 

His hands found your ass before he squeezed tightly, pushing himself against you so there wasn’t even a hair between you. You kissed, and kissed, and kissed, you kissed so much you almost forgot where you were. 

Key word, almost.

The knock on his door made you pull apart, the door handle starting to shimmy made Lando shove you in the closet. Lando adjusts his collar, then his pants before he opens the door to find a disgruntled Max Fewtrell on the other side. 

Confused, he takes a look around the room, “why do you look sneaky?” He asks carefully, eyeing lando like a suspect in a police investigation. 

“I don't look sneaky” the boy answers quickly, “you’re the one showing up unannounced.” 

Max waltzes in, plopping himself on the chair that is threateningly close to the closet you are currently hiding in. Lando feels his pulse spike as he takes a seat, but he remains calm. Taking a seat at his desk across from him, “so what's up man, did George need help with those drills?” 

You were in the closet listening to them talk about stuff you frankly didn't understand, the firefighter lingo went out your ears as they sat there for 5 minutes discussing last week's chemistry lab fire that hit the news. 

“You seem happy lately man, something new?” Max inquiries, and Lando sits up straighter in his chair. Playing it extremely cool, blowing air through his lips and shaking his head, "No, man, nothing, I guess,” he pauses, subtly glancing towards the closet, “I guess, some things are clicking into place.” A smile works its way onto his face, unable to hide his happiness. 

Max watches him carefully, and maybe he noticed something, either way he didn't say anything. Just clapped hands with Lando when he stood up,saying a quick, “C’ya out there, mate,” before exiting. 

Lando watches the door latch, waiting for the click before scurrying to open the closet and catching you when your legs fail you from crouching in the small box for so long. 

You look up at him flustered, “Next time, put me under the bed!” You both dissolve into giggles before the bell interrupts. 

And then there was your favourite time, the time that had absolutely nothing to do with the fire station at all. 

It was your day off, you were on your couch in your apartment, grey baggy sweatpants and a navy London FD hoodie swallowing your body. 

Yesterday had been a rough shift, calls stacking up, adding on a run of minimal sleep resulting in your body being utterly exhausted. Sniffles escaping you as your nose runs. Lily left you alone about an hour ago, mentioning some day date with Oscar to a flea market followed by dinner, so this left you to your own devices while you battled the post shift plague. 

Also known as the couch, the tv remote, and 5 episodes of love island to catch up on. 

Your phone buzzed around episode 3, the goofy picture of Lando sticking his tongue at you flashed on your screen as he called you. “Hey you!” you answered, the slight rasp in your voice evident on Lando's end. 

“You sound like a sailor, you okay?” He asks immediately

“Just a post-shift illness, nothing crazy,” you shove a handful of popcorn in your mouth, watching Melanie crash out at a criminally low volume. 

A gasp trickled across the line, “Why didn’t you lead with that!” You hear rustling that sounds awfully close to keys being grabbed, “I’m on my way,” he states.

“No, Lando-” you say, knowing he had plans today, "Don't bail on Max for me, I’ll be fine–” 

“Nope! Already on my way with soup!” He cuts you off, “See you soon, baby!” 

The line goes dead. 

You stare at your now locked phone, the corners of your mouth tilting up at the confidence in his voice. Determined to cancel his plans just to hang out with you while you're ill. 

This boy has you in deep. 

He arrived less than 15 minutes later. You opened the front door to see Lando, looking adorable in black sweatpants with a grey hoodie, topped with a maroon LFD cap that was placed backwards and a paper grocery bag clutched in his hands.

He kissed your lips as you welcomed him in, “You didn't have to come, Lando." He toed his shoes off before making his way in. 

“I can't have you getting sick on me,” he joked as you followed him into the kitchen, he's been here enough times in the past two months to know his way around. 

“Besides,” he wraps his hands around your waist in a hug, “Golf is boring anyways” he says softly before leaning in to kiss you. 

You push him away, not wanting to have him get sick. “Those are words you would never utter even if it got you a pay raise.” 

He pouts, squeezing your hips like if he's not touching you in some way, the entire block will burst into flames. “L’emme be your nurse for the day, you spend so much time taking care of people.” He mutters lowly, “Let someone take care of you for once.” 

Your heart melted at the boy stood in front of you, staring at you like you were his whole world. giving you the puppy dog eyes just so he can care for you. 

It was so hard to say no to him. 

You spent the day wrapped up on the couch watching movies, your limbs entangled with his under a cozy blanket. Lando gave you medicine, attempted to braid your hair when it was in your face, doing anything he could to make sure you were the most comfortable you could possibly be. 

His fingers traced mindless patterns on the skin of your back while the two of you lay together on the sofa. The sun had begun its descent, painting the room in a mosaic of warmth. The sun filtered on his face just right, spotlighting his eyes as they shone a beautiful mix of blue and green. 

He turned to catch you staring, a warm smile forming on his face as he studied your face.

“Hi,” he said softly, his hair slightly ruffled from abandoning his hat hours ago. 

God, you could just stare at him for hours.

You drink him in for a moment, counting the moles that scatter from his forehead to his collarbone and how his curls frame his forehead perfectly to create a halo in the light. He looked angelic, truly. 

Your hands find his curls, running your hands through them in an attempt to tame them. Lando lets out a contemptuous hmm while your nails scratch his scalp perfectly. 

“Hi,” you say smugly, placing kisses across the planes of his cheeks and every ridge of his dimples. 

 “Thank you for being my cute n’ sexy nurse today.” Lando's cheeks flush pink in embarrassment, heat filtering down his neck.  

“Of course,” he says quietly into your shoulder. His breath fanned across your skin. “Anything for you,” he adds with a breath.

There was a deeper meaning somewhere in there, but the sound of a key turning in its lock put a humongous pin in this conversation. 

The door swung open and in walked your roommate and her boyfriend, giggling at something Oscar said. They looked a little drunk, whether that was because of alcohol or just being within proximity of each other, you couldn’t tell. 

They paused in the doorway, eyes falling to you and lando lounging on the couch. 

Oscar hummed, his arms draping around Lily. “Oh, hey, thought you were golfing?” He asked the lieutenant as he walked towards the couch.

Lando didn’t move from his spot underneath you, dapping up Oscar with a crisp clap. “Somebody was deathly ill and needed nurse Norris to rescue her,” he said confidently. 

His eyes flicked to meet yours, sending a wink your way. You laughed at his antics, “um–” you interjected, “I was fine on my own, thank you very much.” 

His smirk only grew, “sure you were, darling?” 

fuck, this guy is good. 

Your cheeks grew warm as you sunk deeper into the cushions beneath you. You hate the effect he has on you sometimes, making you speechless with a flash of a smile. 

As if a lightbulb went off in his head, “crap–,” he looked at his watch, “you’re due for meds.” He mumbles as he moves you gently off him, resting you back on the couch before bolting into the kitchen. 

Oscar and Lily watched, exchanging a knowing look from their place at the other end of the sofa. 

Lando returned with two small pills and a glass of water, handing you the small medication and watching carefully as you washed them down. Lily watched carefully, watching your interactions with the boy. Taking mental notes of the mannerisms she observes that resemble her own with Oscar. 

Lando resumed his position beneath you, holding you close as he turns to the room, smiling so big before he grabs the remote,

“So, football?” 

The four of you spent the rest of the evening talking aimlessly while the tv faded into the background, the sound of boys bickering at the tv filled the apartment as you and Lily gossiped about your neighbors.

Your eyelids began to grow heavy as the clock neared 11:30pm, the feeling of Lando continuing to draw shapes into the skin under your hoodie lulling you into a deep sleep. 

“I think she’s out,” Oscar says, pointing at you while Lily non-subtlety took a picture of the two of you. 

Lando craned his neck to see your face, soft and undeniably asleep. His eyes combed over your face, your eyelashes kissing your cheeks, fluttering slightly as you dream. 

There was something so vulnerable about your sleeping state, making Lando want to hide you from the rest of the world, keep you warm in his arms forever. 

“I'll take her to bed and then I'll head out, you comin’ with, Osc?” He asked as he gently gathered you in his arms. 

Oscar nodded at him as he stood, lifting you bridal style with ease. The blanket draped across you like a dress, your head falling against his shoulder allowing him to feel your breath trickle along his neck. He walked carefully to your bedroom, kicking the door open with his foot and placing you gently down on your mattress. 

As he was tucking you in, you let out a sigh of content and Lando felt the urge to get in bed with you. Instead, he pushed fallen hair from your face, revealing the soft features he was enchanted by. 

He bent down to place a lingering kiss on your forehead, holding it before moving to kiss the corner of your mouth, mumbling, “night beautiful,”  before he made his way to the door. 

He looked back before crossing the threshold, every bone in his body wanting him to get in bed with you, to wrap his arms around you while you both slept peacefully. 

But his head told him otherwise, his head let the fear of moving too fast catch up to him, what ifs lingering in the forefront. He wanted you so badly, but couldn’t bear the thought of you risking your career for him.

He knew he loved you, it was that simple. He's known he loved you for a while now. Which is why he won't allow you to risk it all for him. 

So he quietly shut the door and went back to the living room where Oscar awaited with his keys in hand. 

──── ঌ ────

You and Lily found yourselves in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of wine while snacking on some salty nacho chips. Work had kicked both your asses and you were due for a much needed girls night. These were your favourite nights, any night not spent sleeping on a small firehouse cot sandwiched between two snoring men, was something you cherished greatly. 

You just finished retelling a story from yesterday’s shift, explaining the horrible joke Lando said to Oscar before your last call. 

Lily straightens up at the mention of the lieutenant, “speaking of...” she says slowly, the tone of the night changing from lighthearted to something more serious. Lily placed her glass down before speaking again, “You two are good together.” 

Your eyes meet Lily's, your fingers running around the rim of your glass. “Yeah,” you blush, “he's been great.”

The girl raised her brow, “can I ask you something though, babe?” You take a breath, bracing for impact, "are you and Lando official yet?” 

You frown, taken aback, “no– we’re just,” you pause, finding the words “keepin’ it casual y’know, for the firehouse,” you said, words becoming less confident as they blurted from your mouth.. 

Lily paused, sitting up slightly in her chair, pursing her lips while she thought. “Babe, I love you,” she spoke, choosing her words carefully, “but that man is basically your boyfriend.”

You stare at her, recounting moments with Lando from the past month. The time he came over while you were sick, all the mornings he offered to drive you to work, every sandwich he brought you mid-shift because he knew you needed to eat. 

Your shoulders deflated, eyes stinging, “I don't know what we are, Lils,” you murmured, hiding your face in your hands. Lily knew you inside and out, even better than you knew yourself sometimes, and as much as it helps with daily decision-making, this wasn’t helping your situation at all.

“If you can’t see that that man is in love with you, then the paramedics board needs to check your sight before shift,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. 

“Lily, he’s not in love with me.”

Lily took your hand in hers, her eyes are fierce and telling you she's not joking around anymore. “There is no way he took care of you all day last week, carried you to bed and then looked depressed as he had to leave you just because this is casual for him.” 

You absorb her words, the sentences hitting you like a train. Maybe she was right. Maybe the moments you shared were more than casual, but Lando could never and would never allow it to go further, as much as that hurt to acknowledge. Your eyes found your lap, fingers picking at the stem of your glass. “It doesn’t even matter, he’s not going to ask to be my boyfriend.” 

Lily watches you fidget with your glass and practically sees the gears in your brain turn. As stubborn as you were, she knew you’ll get there eventually, she just needs to help you along. 

“Honey, it does matter,” she sighs “it matters, because you want him to be” she adds, gently. 

A pang of sadness echoed in your chest. She was right, you knew she was right; You wanted everything, you wanted dates, you wanted nights spent wrapped in each other's arms before coming into shift together the next morning. You wanted him to love you openly and loudly across the city you both have dedicated nearly a decade to. 

You didn't realize you were crying until the tears blurred your vision, Lily reaching out her hand to wipe them askew. “Talk to him, babe, I can see you want more.” 

She leaves you with your thoughts, alone in the living room as you ponder whether or not Lando wanted you at the same level you wanted him. 

──── ঌ ────

The firehouse was always quiet in the morning, fighters coming in slowly with coffee cups clutched like a lifeline. 

You were waiting for Lando on the cot by the laundry machines. After your talk with Lily, you decided to talk to him. 

You had messaged him to meet you at your spot, saying you wanted to talk. The ticking clock on the wall didn’t lessen your anxiety as its legs reached just past 9:30a.m. 

The door opened quietly before Lando snuck his way in, curls still damp from his shower and a crisp uniform on. You noticed the slight tense in his shoulders, followed by the crease in his forehead he gets when he's stressed. 

“Hey,” he says shortly, taking a seat next to you before placing a sweet kiss on your cheek. His eyes looked tired and you began to regret choosing now as the time to bring up your relationship. 

“Morning, everything okay?”  

He sighs, “Zac just dropped a whole stack of reports from last week that admin filed wrong,” he vents, “now I need to go through them all.” 

“Oh, well this can wait then,” you stand to leave, but he grabs your hand, spinning you back around to face him. 

“No,” he breathes, "don't do that. What's on your mind, love?”  

You stare at him, eyes darting across his face to find any excuse to not utter the words you're about to say next. But the steady hold he had on your hand was enough to tell you this was happening now, whether you wanted it to or not. 

“What are we, Lando?” You sigh, shoulders falling. 

The boy blinks, wrinkles forming between his brows, “what do you mean?” 

“I mean us, Lan– what is this?” You say, jutting your hand between the two of you. “Are you planning on being fuck buddies forever?” You add, anger rising in your tone. 

You watch the gears turn in his brain, he tilted his head before scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. “I thought we were just keeping things casual,” he says, his voice an octave lower than usual. 

You roll your eyes, a scoff escaping your lips before you can shove it down. Taking your hand from his, you cross your arms across your chest. 

“No–” the boy catches your attitude, “you were the one who decided no labels,” he argues, utter confusion written across his face. 

“I said that three months ago, Lando!” you snap, the boy pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled, running a hand down his face before fanning it out in front of him. 

“So what are you saying, you want more now?” he asks, “While zac is breathing down my neck you wanna throw this at him, shall we give him a heart attack while we're at it? Stroke maybe?” he quipped, sarcasm oozing from the anger in his voice. 

You watch him rub his temples, your lip trembling slightly as he sighs, calming his emotions before he speaks. 

“We work together, y/n, this can't be anything more than casual.” He said gently, like he's trying to let you down easy, it broke your heart. 

“Its just easier.”

It was like glass shattering, your chest felt the blow as the words landed. 

“Easier...” you parroted, eyes swimming as Lando slowly realized what he'd implied, his face morphing from frustration into regret. 

You lick your lips, emotion draining from your face while your eyes dart everywhere but him. “You want easier?” you question, Lando shrugs lightly where he stands, his words failing him in fear of making this conversation fly further south.

“I will do you one better,” the coldness in your voice shook him to his core, and as you said the following words, he felt his heart shatter, “it's done.” 

 The boy's eyes went wide, breath catching in his throat. “No– what?” 

“We’re done, Lando, it's done.” you repeated, voice shaking.

His eyes met yours then, both red rimmed and wide before you turned to leave. He steps in front of you blocking the door. “y/n– baby, wait–”

He's cut off by an unpleasant ring sourced from the ceiling. 

Ambulance 81, Truck 81, Squad 4, Engine 81, Structure Fire, 7625 Silverstone Road.

You both freeze, eyes locked on each other as the bell reads out. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears as Lando opens the door slowly. 

He looks at you, eyes glassy with unleashed tears of frustration, “this conversation isn't over,” he mutters, low but firm.

“I think it is, Lando,” you respond, brushing past him as you rush to the garage. 

Your partner falls into step beside you, sensing your tension immediately. “You okay?” 

You stare forward. “Can you drive?” 

She says nothing as you hand her the keys and walk to the passenger side, slamming the door as she starts up the lights and sirens. Your ambulance led the train of first responders down the street towards the cloud of smoke gathering in the sky ahead. 

You leaned your head against your hand propped on the window, your mind still reeling from your fight with Lando. You wiped the stray tear that made it past your waterline. 

Three trucks behind you, Lando sat furious.

His silence was thick in the front seat; Max in the driver's seat slightly worried his friend had sung into a seashell and a seawitch stole his voice. This wasn't normal for him. 

Usually he was listing orders, giving everyone a job to do once they land. Leading his team in the race against time. But today, he looked like he’d rather let the stopwatch win. 

Max looks over, finding him starting dead straight at the dash. His fire helmet was held in his hands between his legs. His mind anywhere but the truck.

“You alright, mate?” He shouted over the drilling sound of the siren. 

Lando locked eyes with him, empty and cold. “Yeah, I'm fine.” 

He lied, he knew he shouldn't've. But how can he say 'my semi-girlfriend just broke up with me and now I have to run into a burning building' without causing Max to crash into a telephone pole. 

He just shrugged and looked out the window, shoving the rock in his gut further down. The community needed him, so he needed to shut up and fight a fire. 

He smells the smoke before he sees it. The tinge fills his nose as the truck makes a wide turn onto Silverstone road, he spotted the cloud instantly. The black smoke rose rapidly as civilians crowded the road, watching in horror as the house went up in flames. 

The truck halts to a stop and Lando jumps out, boots hitting the ground with a loud thud before he's shrugging his jacket on. He turns to his crew, Oscar already grabbing air tanks from the side compartment. 

“Mask up boys–” Lando orders, analyzing the flames that are spitting from the first story window. “Gonna be a long one.” he pulls his SCBA over his head, adjusting his balaclava. 

Max eyes the house before turning to Lando, skepticism written across his face. “Are you sure you wanna go in, lieutenant?” he asks, shouting over the roar of glass shattering and wood burning. 

Lando turns to him, “We have to make sure no one's inside,” he turns to his crew, pointing at Oscar and Carlos. “You two, with me on primary search.” 

They take off towards the front door, Lando's step falters when he hears a vehicle door slam shut to his right. He turns to be met with you, staring dead into him. Your eyes narrow, but he can decipher the concern hidden behind your cold gaze. 

He holds your gaze for a moment, before shaking from it, his helmet sliding atop his head.“Oi Fewtrell, you coming or what?” He yells at the man scrubbing his mask on. 

The door busts open with a satisfying boot kick. A gust of wind follows as flames lick up the walls and devour what's left of what, Lando assumes, was a living room. 

The men make their way through the foyer, passing the stairs as the first floor took priority. 

Smoke blackened out their vision as they came through, bracing their hands on the wall for any sense of direction. Carlos takes the lead, guiding the group throughout the first floor. Keeping low as they come into a engulfed hallway. 

“I’ve got one!” He bellows, spotting a body limp on the floor. A teenage boy with arms singed in burns. Carlos puts two fingers to his neck, “He’s got a pulse!” He shouts down the line. 

“You and Piastri take him to the paramedics,” Lando responds, “Fewtrell and I will continue upstairs.” 

The two men drag the young boy out past Lando and Max, reporting on the radio to Chief Brown outside. Lando continued on with Max on his heels, the pair finding their way back to the stairs. His heart was pounding as they made their way up, his gear heavy, weighing down his body. The routine hiss from his air tank whispered in his ears every time he took a breath. 

The second floor wasn’t much better, fire raging in every direction he could see. The flames screamed a warning, angry red as Lando and Max began their search. 

Coming to a closed door, he places his palm backwards against the middle, no immediate heat. Sending a nod to Max, a signal to force entry. 

“Fire department, call out!” He roared out once Max kicked in the door, finding a bedroom wrecked from an attempt to control the fire.

He dropped down, checking under the charred twin bed, nothing; behind the rocking chair, nothing. 

He turned to Max, the man shaking his head. Just when the flames gave them a moment to think, a woman's voice came from the closet. 

“Here!” She screamed out, “we’re in here!” 

They followed her voice, throwing the door open to find a mother and son huddling together under a blanket. Jumping into action, Lando assists the mother up, her wincing once she puts weight on her leg. Lando looks down to see burns, bad ones, covering her lower thigh. The skin seared through to the muscle. 

“We’ve got you guys, we're gonna get you out,” he assures as he takes her arm around his neck, helping her walk through the hallway and down the stairs. Max moves ahead with the boy in his arms, rushing him to paramedics, leaving Lando to take mom to safety. 

They're halfway down the stairs, the sunlight beaming through the smoke as the front door is in sight. But the lady suddenly braces her hand on the railing, halting their step. 

“Wait! My husband is in the kitchen; he went back for our dog!” 

Lando’s brain short circuits, of course there’s a fourth, unidentified victim. Because the universe wants to play with him today. 

“Ma’am, I'm sure he's fine–” he speaks but the lady pushes.

“No you have to find him- I can't live without him.” 

Lando could laugh at the sheer irony. But he doesn't, instead he thinks about what to do next. 

The smoke gathered at the ceiling, they were running out of time. He needed to think. C’mon Lando, think!

Then, like an angel sent from heaven, Oscar appeared through the smoke, breaking it to reveal the exit ahead. “Need some help?” he queried, taking the woman's hand. 

“She says her husband is in the kitchen, did another man come out?” Oscar shakes his head, and Lando curses behind his mask. “Okay, I’m going back, you take mom to ambo–” 

“It might be too late, lieutenant!" Oscar argues, his voice wary as Lando shakes his head. 

“I have to try!” He shouts before he's gone, leaving Oscar and the women standing in the foyer. The firefighter grumbles before taking the victim under his arm, leading her out the door. 

You watch as Oscar carries the woman to an open gurney, allowing you to jump in with an O2 mask, pressing it against her mouth as she gasps from the relief of fresh air. You dress her burns while Oscar stands by his mask hiked up on his face, eyes focused on the front door he just emerged from. 

Chief Brown stood tall on the sidewalk, watching as the fire spoke to him. Black smoke began to roll from the second floor, telling him their time was up. 

“Alright, nobody in or out, this is gonna blow,” he authorizes, turning to count his men. 

Oscar is the first to speak up, “Sir wait–” 

Time slowed down in the seconds he paused. 

“Lando’s still in there.” 

Your heart plummeted, fingers stuttering on the bandages you had just carefully wrapped. You couldn't panic yet, Lando was smart and this woman needed you to be composed.

Even if you were anything but.

Zac grumbles, hiking his radio towards his mouth, “Norris, report” booms through the surrounding radios. 

There's silence for a moment. You held your breath, all eyes watching the burning house.

The crackle came through followed by the frantic voice of Lando Norris. 

“I’ve got a victim down in the kitchen here, chief," he says, grunted and loud, shouting over the flames you imagine that surround him. 

Zac curses under his breath, bringing the radio higher, “Norris, you gotta get out of there right now.” He says firmly, leaving no room for argument.

The silence that followed made you stop, panic rising in your chest as Lando failed to respond. You watch, waiting for him to say something, anything on the radio. You took your lip between your teeth, “c’mon lando,” you mumbled to no one.

The world went silent for a moment. The eye of the hurricane, taunting you with the illusion of safety.

Then it erupted. 

There's a deafening clap as the fire flashes, an explosion of flames snapping, shattering any glass that remained. Bystanders screamed in horror as the smoke curled, black and evil like the supervillain had won. 

Oscar took off running, securing his mask before rushing inside. Despite the order of Chief Brown and multiple other firemen. 

“Piastri– Don't!" 

He disappeared into the smoke and your stomach couldn't settle what it was going to be like planning two funerals. 

You stood frozen at the ambulance, your partner taking over the care of two patients while you stood useless. Your ability to move stolen as the entire block stood in silence. 

Your eyes began to well up as the seconds ticked on, water streaming from the fire hydrants as men began to take off their helmets, all efforts to tame this fire abandoned. 

Carlos and Max stood with their hands on head, stress heaving from their bodies as they waited for a sign of life. 

Losing one firefighter was enough. Losing two would be devastating. 

You all waited anxiously, smoke still filing from the front door. Minutes ticking by, still radio silence.

You covered your mouth to muffle a sob, you think of your fight this morning. How small it now feels to have asked to be his when he was being ripped away entirely. 

You shake your head as Zac silently nods to the engine. His signal to ready the water canons, sorrow written across his face as he turns his back to the house. 

Your knees feel weak, you crouch with your head in your hands. Tears freely flowing as they prepare to fry two of your best friends alive. 

The booming voice of max is what draws you back,

“They’re coming out!”

You lift your head to see the smoke part; a man held up by two firefighters emerges, walking towards the ambulances. 

Holy shit they’re alive.

You rush with a gurney, your partner in tow to catch them. You meet them halfway, Lando's mask slightly cracked and his helmet was off centered, but he was standing, breathing here in front of you.

He fell onto your gurney before you –along with Max and Carlos– assist him in shedding his gear, holding an O2 mask to his face, coughs shaking his body as the smoke inhalation takes its toll 

“You’re okay, breathe, Lando, breathe,” you shush, voice as calm as you can make it while he gasps for air. His balaclava is toasted, revealing burns running along his neck. Your heart lodges itself in your throat as you dress them. 

Your partner shouts, taking the lead. “Alright, let's load ‘em up!”

You stay by his side as they roll him towards the ambulance, his hand searching for yours along the side rail. You link your hands instantly, squeezing his fingers tight. 

“I’m here baby, I'm here,” you assure wobbly, the boy lifts his head to look at you, tears filling his eyes in shame. 

“I’m–” he chokes out, "I'm sorry” 

You shake your head, your own tears blurring your vision. “No, Lan– none of that right now.” 

“But I–” He grunts in pain, his grip on your hand strengthening. They load him into the ambulance and you take a seat, wrapping both your hands around his. 

“It's okay,” you whisper, placing a kiss on his fingers. “Let’s just get you to the hospital, okay?” 

The paramedic hangs him an IV, informing you the sedative will kick in soon, his eyes begin to droop and you watch as the pain fades from his eyes, your heart finally beating steady again. 

Lando mumbles incoherently before he's out, his eyes meeting yours before he nods off. “M’kay,” he says, sleepy. 

What you didn't hear, lost in the chaos of sirens and potholes, was a faint “I love you” whispered before the meds pulled him under.

──── ঌ ────

At the hospital, nobody dared to speak. 

Firefighters taking up the waiting room, gear hanging over their chairs as the whole crew sat in silence. 

You were sitting in a plastic waiting room chair that gave no sense of comfort while nurses ran back and forth across the burn unit. 

The silence was deafening, you felt underwater. Sound muffled in your ears as the men around you talked amongst themselves, trying to take their mind off the boy sitting in pain somewhere within these walls.

Oscar was sat to your right, fire jacket still on, soot staining his face from the flashover he dove into to save his lieutenant from becoming a cautionary tale. 

He hasn't spoken since he emerged from the burning house, refusing to leave your side as you watched them roll Lando into the ICU. 

He didn't speak when you took a seat next to him, eyes solely focused on the floor in front of him. 

You’ve seen Lando do this before, replaying every moment of the call before it went wrong, trying to understand what he could've done differently so maybe they wouldn’t have to be sitting in the harsh light of the hospital. 

Your station was no stranger to the burn unit; in fact, you could probably name every nurse and direct anybody towards a functional vending machine, if needed. 

But it was different when you were the one waiting.

It was different when you were the one holding your breath every time a doctor came through those double doors; it felt heavier, it sat with you as the image of Lando's burned, limp body plastered itself behind your eyelids. 

You’ve had men in here before, but none of them held the weight lando did. 

You sat there for almost an hour before a nurse came out, her hair tied back perfectly in her peony pink scrubs. She locked eyes with chief brown, making your stomach drop. 

You stood as she approached; Oscar and Lily–who had recently arrived– rose beside you, everyone waiting anxiously. 

The nurse took a breath before turning towards Zac. “He sustained first-degree burns across his neck and a very small second-degree burn along his left ear, along with heavy smoke inhalation,” she began. You felt sick. “But he's going to be fine, just a few days' rest–” you stopped listening then; he was fine. 

Lando was going to be fine. 

The tears flowed before you could stop them, your breathing stuttered as you sobbed from relief. The world fading as a pair of arms–who you later realized were Oscar’s– pulled you in, holding you tight as his own eyes filled. 

The crew watched as you cried, your body shaking as Oscar held you. The nurse leaned into Zac, her brows knit together. 

“Girlfriend?” she politely asks, pointing. 

Zac tsks his lips, trying to piece together a three month long puzzle that he doesn't even have the reference for.  “Um," the man responds, “I'm not sure.” The nurse just smiles, a nod of understanding as she takes a step towards the group of firemen. 

You lift your head from Oscar's shoulder, eyes while redrimmed and wet, full of hope. 

The nurse stares directly at you when she asks, “do you want to see him?”

Lily held your hand as the crew walked through the hallways, passing hundreds of doors, waiting for Lando to be behind one of them. 

She finally paused near the end of the hallway, stopping in front of a pale beige door.

“He’s a little loopy from the pain meds we gave him, but he's alert and responsive.” She warns as the door opens with a soft click and ten firefighters along with two paramedics file inside. 

The room was spacious, though you and Lily stayed near the door. You weren't sure whether he wanted to see you, granted you weren't sure if you were ready to see him. 

“Heyyy,” his cheery voice fills the room, “there's my people!” 

Laughter fills the room as Lando motions you all to come in, a dopey smile etched across his face.

“Thought we lost ya there, pal!” Max jokes from the end of his bed, slapping his calves lightly. 

Lando just laughs, “it’ll take more than a fire to get rid of me, maxie!” 

The room was lighter, laughter and jokes filling the space. You're still leaning against the door, eyes studying his burns, predicting which will fade with time and which will become a story he tells his grandkids. 

You keep an eye on his monitor, checking his vitals like your triple checking he's alive. 

“Got burned pretty good there, cabron," Carlos says, pointing to his ear. 

Lando just pushes air through his lips, waving his hand in dismissal while he shakes his hand, his curls shaking with him. 

“No– guys,” he drawls, those meds must be amazing, "I'm fine, promise!” He declares sitting up straighter, playing into the bit. You watch his eyes scan the room as the room continues to converse, as if he was searching for someone. 

“He's looking for you,” Lily whispers next to you and you snap your neck towards her. 

You lean further into the wall, slightly hoping it would swallow you whole. You haven't forgotten this morning, and you were unsure if you and Lando stood on solid ground. 

The last thing you wanted was to overwhelm him in a hospital bed, but fate seemed to disagree.

“Alright crew, let's leave your lieutenant to rest.” Zac announces after a while, motioning towards the door. His eyes lock with you. “I'm sure he doesn't need you smelly lot crowding him” he finishes as the crew begin to exit. 

Zac stops in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You're done for today, stay with him,” he says low, your eyes widened before sending him a grateful smile, nodding. Patting your shoulder, he follows the crew out the door. 

The door shuts softly, leaving you and Lando alone. The rhythmic beating of his heart monitors ground you to this moment, drinking him in as he notices your hesitation to come closer. 

He looked so small lying in that hospital bed, his tan skin glowing against the harsh white sheets. His hair askew from nurses adjusting his bandages. You hated it. You hated seeing him in this state. 

It reminded you of how real your job is, how quickly the world can take something you love away. 

He slowly reaches his hand out– his palm facing up– inviting you to take his hand. 

“C’mere,” he says softly, eyes pouring into yours like the only thing that mattered was you. You take a seat in the chair by his bed, placing your hand in his, sighing at the feeling of his fingers between yours. 

You feel yourself choke up, lip wobbling while your eyes swell. “You really scared me,” you say, voice shaking. His thumb rubs soothing circles on your knuckles.

 “I know,” he exhales, turning his head towards the window, looking out over the sunkissed city. “I’m so sorry.” 

The silence was full between you, not awkward– but thick. Waiting for someone to speak, you stayed with your hand in his as he searched for his words. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was small.

“All I could think about,” he murmurs, looking down at his lap, “during those moments, was how I would never see you again.” 

Your eyes rose to meet his, the world fading away to leave just you and him, together. 

“How I would never get to have a life with you,” he continued, his heart picked up. “We’d never get to do everything I planned.” 

You paused, tilting your chin, “what did you have planned?” 

He smiled, thinking for a moment.“I was gonna talk to Zac,” he starts, “y’know, get his blessing,” he adds quickly, you let out a laugh. 

“Then I was gonna take you somewhere special, ask you properly.” 

You listen, digesting his words as he pours his heart to you. Laying himself bare before you, he squeezes your hand three times. 

“I wasn't with you because you were easy,” he said, you feel your stomach twist.  “You make everything lighter,” he utters, tears flowing down both of your cheeks. “Just by being you, your smile, your laugh, that little scrunch of your nose you do when you concentrate,” he confesses, your heart doing somersaults in its chest cavity. 

“You’ve always caught me when I fell, showed me what it was like to be loved.” he states. Your fingers trembling in his hand. 

“What are you saying, Lando?” you sniffle, wiping your tears. 

“I want everything, I want to take you on dates, I want to kiss you in my quarters without having to check if the blinds are drawn,” he lists, his eyes never leaving yours. “I love you so much, I can’t hide it anymore” he confesses, and your heart breaks open. You smile, warm and bright as he mirrors your expression, his tooth gap on full display. 

“You love me?” you question quietly, “it would be hard not to” he says, eyes bright and full of hope. 

“I love you, too,” you respond, and he somehow smiles wider, his dimples shifting even higher to meet the crease of his eyes. 

“Yeah?” he asks, sitting up as you nod, tugging your hand slightly. “Can I kiss you now?” his eyes begging you to come closer. 

You hesitate, not wanting to crowd his burns. But he pulls out those puppy dog eyes, pouting his lip and your defence weakens. Heart melting when your lips brush across his in a sweet kiss. 

He pulls you into bed with him, letting you lie on his chest. Careful of his IV and other monitor wires. His chin rests on your hair as he holds you tight. 

“So, no more casual?” you say lightly, and tilt your chin to face him. His eyes are serious before he kisses you deeply. Lips sealing over yours as you sigh into him. 

“There was never anything casual about this,” he mumbles against your lips, his thumb rubbing up and down your cheekbones. 

You smile before returning to your previous position, your head resting just above his heartbeat. A steady thud that brings you back to your stolen moments by the laundry machines. 

And when Zac Brown returns at the end of shift to find you both sound asleep, limbs tangled with one another in the small hospital bed, he doesn’t say anything, he just smiles and quietly retreats out the door. 

The chatter of the keyboard was already needling at your nerves, and you hadn’t even been in the café for a full hour. Your nail kept tapping the space bar, gentle and relentless, only for you to erase everything with a furious swipe a second later. The cup beside you —a hot latte, even if autumn still refused to fully arrive— had long gone cold, forgotten while your mind clung to the blank document before you. The open email in the tab above seemed to mock you with its silent impatience.

Four hours and thirty-eight minutes. That was how long the assignment had been sitting on the university’s webpage. The final assignment, the last offering of your entire degree before graduation. A sprawling project meant to consume your remaining two semesters.

With a frustrated exhale, you dragged a hand across your forehead, pushing your hair out of your sight. You were screwed; there was nothing in you. Not a single idea sprouting through the cracks. So much dedication poured into the degree you had dreamed of, only for you to feel yourself collapsing under the weight of one task.

The last damn task.

“Can I get you anything else?” You lifted your head and tore your gaze from the screen for a few seconds, startled by the soft voice of the girl who’d been tending to you all afternoon.

Your eyes ached from spending so long folded inside your own mind while pretending to stare at your work. You sighed, offering the girl —Karin, said her name tag— a belated smile. You really shouldn’t order anything else, not after the ham-and-cheese croissant you had already devoured.

And yet you found yourself answering:

“One of those cheesecake slices in the display would be great.”

“Berry or caramel?” she asked.

“Caramel, please.”

“Right away.” And just like that, Karin vanished again.

You were free to return to your misery for a few more minutes. She came back with a generous slice of cheesecake, and you granted yourself fifteen minutes of harmless indulgence, eating in silence and finally finishing the cold —yet still delicious— coffee.

You stretched your neck, feeling the dull ache blooming from sitting too long in the same position.

Curse this compulsive hunt for perfection.

Clearing your throat, you closed your laptop. You tried to convince yourself that you still had at least three hundred days left to work on the project. To at least begin it. Sometimes the best ideas refused to arrive when you chased them too hard. So you packed your things, paid for everything —and tried not to cry at the numbers on the receipt, the tax of a broke student in her final year— and left the café with the bitter taste of stagnation on your tongue before heading home.

“Hey, sweetheart. How was university?” Your father greeted you as soon as you stepped through the door, kissing your forehead while you slipped off your bag.

“Fine,” you sighed, dropping the bag on the couch, where he sat down again to continue watching TV.

“That doesn’t sound fine,” he teased.

“It’s just this long-term project. I still don’t know how to start it.” You smiled weakly as you took off your jacket. You could hear your mother moving around in the kitchen.

“What’s it about?” he asked, torn between the fight on the sports channel and your academic struggles.

“That’s the problem. It’s completely free-topic.” You shrugged, sinking onto the couch and staring at the TV without really seeing it. “I have no idea what to research.”

“Do it about boxing,” your father said instantly, making you roll your eyes with amusement.

“Okay, I'm going back to mom now,” you mocked, rising to your feet.

“I’m serious, babe. There are fascinating topics. Look! That one there used to be a superstar and retired after his last fight with a rookie. He was disqualified after landing a blow that—”

At some point, you stopped listening. You adored your father, but sometimes his enthusiasm swallowed entire rooms, and it felt like the whole world —his world— orbited only the things he loved, leaving little space for anything else. And he loved boxing so much that he’d talked your older brother into going pro when he was barely out of childhood… and he had tried the same with you.

The truth was that boxing had never really interested you, and there were so many fields you could explore for your final project. Could boxing truly cover everything you needed, when the pressure to deliver something perfect was clawing at your ribs?

“I expect great things from you,” your professor had said earlier that morning when you approached her after class to ask for more details. “You always make your assignments personal. I expect the same for this final project. Don’t disappoint me.” Then she walked away, leaving an even heavier weight on your shoulders.

“You look like you’re trying to solve your entire life in one afternoon,” was the first thing your mother said when you stepped into the kitchen. She loved spending time there, baking pastries and cakes whenever she had a spare hour.

“Because I have to solve the rest of my life today, if possible,” you whimpered, hugging her as she patted your back and kissed the top of your head.

“Don’t force it. Breathe,” she murmured.

It didn’t help much, if you were honest. But she was your mother and you loved her, and you would never say that aloud. So you only smiled faintly. You stayed chatting with her until the hour grew late enough that you reluctantly returned to your room to keep being frustrated at a project you didn’t know how to even begin.

“Come here, sit with me,” your father called out the moment you emerged from the kitchen.

“I have to study, Dad—”

“Five minutes. Give it five minutes, stay a little.” He insisted until you sighed. “You’re always studying. A five-minute break won’t kill anyone.”

You let out a soft laugh and indulged him, sinking onto the couch. You knew enough about boxing to follow the fight on screen, even if you didn’t enjoy it with the same feverish devotion as the old man beside you, who flinched dramatically at every punch.

“There he is, that’s the one I was talking about,” your father said, pointing at the screen just as the camera showed a trainer speaking to his fighter in a corner, probably planning the next round.

“What about him? I thought coachs were older.”

“He was a beast five years ago, but he retired,” he explained, earning an “ah” of understanding from you.

“And why did he retire?”

“Rumors, mostly. Nothing confirmed,” your father hesitated. “In his last fight he practically knocked out a rookie. The rookie retired right after too, but no one knows why, the family refuses to talk.”

“Isn’t knocking your opponent out normal in boxing? Comes with the territory,” you teased.

“Some say the kid might have suffered an injury that kept him from ever fighting again. But Norris never said a word.”

Your eyebrow arched, that spark of curiosity twitching to life at the base of your skull. Genuine, insistent.

You stood up before your father could protest and hurried to your room, opening your laptop again as you dove into column after column written about Lando Norris.

Columns from 2015, columns from 2019, just before he retired. Very few after that, from the years he dedicated himself to teaching. Many pieces about his last fight, and even more criticizing his attitude. None offering anything truly relevant. All riddled with speculation that didn’t feel remotely close to truth. Most were nothing but hollow tirades disguised as journalism, weak narratives built on sand.

It was almost pathetic.

“Illegal Strike, Gentle Consequence,” written by Hill West.

We’ve witnessed hard blows, dirty blows, blows argued about in bars for years. But last night reminded us that sometimes the rulebook sits prettily on the table and nowhere else.

The veteran threw an illegal so blatant even the referee seemed startled to actually react. And still, the punishment was light, almost courteous.

The fighter slipped out of the ring minutes later, as though the disqualification were a footnote in his autobiography. But many will remember this bout as the final mark of someone who forgot greatness requires boundaries.

You frowned, scrolling and scrolling through more opinion pieces, feeling your mind bruise beneath the emptiness of them all.

The last column, the most recent one, was more than three years old.

And you realized this might not be a bad place to start.

The corridor reserved for the victors was narrow and grimy, the kind of passage that clung to the walls of a third-rate gym hosting a fight barely worthy of a flickering spotlight. You had left your father behind a few minutes earlier, keeping watch over the car while you claimed you needed the bathroom.

Except you weren’t going to the bathroom at all.

You quickened your steps, clutching your bag, and slipped in beside Lando Norris himself, matching his pace as if borrowing his shadow. He wasn’t much taller than you; his height was unremarkable, but his body was broad and emanated a self-assurance that pushed you instinctively toward retreat.

“It was a good fight,” you offered, uncertain how to catch his attention in a way that wouldn’t bounce off him like a dull coin.

How did one speak to a man with whom you shared no interests when all you needed from him was information?

Lando turned at the sound of your voice, as though only now noticing the presence walking beside him. You watched his brow furrow, genuinely puzzled.

“What? Do I owe you something?” The question rattled you.

“No,” you answered, as if it should have been obvious.

“Then what? What do you want?”

You lifted your shoulders a fraction, your mind stalling for a few extra seconds as it tried to stitch together a lie convincing enough to save you. You were impulsive by nature, and you knew—given the infuriating lack of information about this man online—that he had absolutely no inclination to talk to any journalist looking to siphon off a few quotes.

No, that approach was doomed.

“I saw your fight,” you blurted out. “Well, your boxer’s fight. It was incredible.” You corrected yourself immediately.

“Right.” His tone was flat, bored.

“I thought you might be interested in training someone else,” you ventured. “I boxed when I was a kid, and I’d like to—”

“I don’t train women.” He cut you off without hesitation.

“Why not?” you asked, offended and disappointed in equal measure.

“Simple lack of interest. Don’t take it personally.” He shrugged.

It wasn’t personal, but you needed this man if you wanted a strong project. You were already obsessed with the scraps of information available about him, and with the idea of how much more you could uncover if you could only stand beside him long enough.

“It’s not personal, but I’m very good,” you insisted. A lie. You hadn’t touched a pair of gloves since you were eleven. “I won all my matches when I fought at flyweight.”

“Hooray. Congratulations. Still not interested.” Lando grew tense, walking faster, eager to shake you off.

“I’m sure I can—”

“Nope. Good night.”

You growled under your breath as he strode ahead, carried by those damn athlete’s legs and graceless efficiency. Maybe you needed more exercise after all; a life spent folded behind a computer screen was taking its toll, and you were only twenty-three.

Still, you were nowhere near giving up.

The leggings felt uncomfortable, squeezing your legs in all the wrong ways, but you forced yourself to ignore it as you pushed open the heavy gym door. The smell of sweat and cheap air freshener rolled over you, though at least the air conditioning breathed a cool, crisp relief across your skin as the door swung shut behind you. Anywhere else the noise might have drawn attention, but the sharp rhythm of punches, the ragged breaths, the shouts echoing off the walls drowned it beautifully.

The entrance was carpeted. Bags cluttered the shelves on the left, and a heap of foul-smelling sneakers claimed the corner. Half-empty water bottles stood abandoned like little monuments to exhaustion.

As you stepped farther in, you collided straight into the sight of the ring: a raised platform, half a meter tall, roped in and holding two people trading blows in a sparring session. You tore your eyes away only to crash into your reflection in the large mirror, and then into the cluster of men gathered around it, all of them watching what seemed to be a demonstration.

You felt so out of place it tightened around your lungs. When you boxed as a child, you never had to stand among grown men, never had to reckon with their size or their presence. Of course you felt uncomfortable in a gym built out of nothing but male sweat and feral energy.

You set your bag down and planted yourself in front of a heavy bag. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you could feel the weight of their stares burning into the back of your neck. They knew you didn’t belong, and somewhere beneath your stubbornness, you knew it too—your posture awkward, your gaze skittering over the room every few seconds, alert in that brittle way prey learns to be.

Still, you told yourself this was a thousand times better than giving up and starting from zero again. Better than chasing a new idea.

So you began hitting the bag. You had no wraps, no gloves, nothing. Not yet. Your scholarship money always arrived at the end of the month, and there were still twelve long days to go. You had no idea how to stretch your monthly budget far enough to add two new purchases with the fifty dollars the state threw at you.

Working wasn’t an option, you thought as your poor technique sent a dull pain through your knuckles. Classes drained too much time and energy already, and your scholarship didn’t allow you the luxury of easing your workload. You couldn’t afford fewer credits. And now you’d be spending even more time training.

This final project would devour you alive. But it was the last one.

“What are you doing here?” It took you a few seconds to realize the question was meant for you.

Lando had a strange, suffocating presence. He was young—likely nearing thirty—but the way he moved, the way he stood, was nearly frightening. He demanded to be looked at, admired even, and he probably knew it.

“I’m training,” you answered, as if it were obvious.

“Not in my gym,” he snapped. “People will think I’m training you.”

“And is that such a terrible thing?” you asked with a smile.

“With that technique, yes.” Your smile died, and heat flushed your cheeks.

Fine. You were terrible.

“I’ll pay you.”

“I don’t want your money.” He said it easily, carelessly.

“Please, I’m genuinely interested. I want to see how far I can go.” You tried to insist.

“I don’t care. I’m not training you.”

You sighed, frustration coiling tight in your chest.

“I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”

“You already are.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’ll stay in a corner. I won’t bother anyone. I’ll pay for every hour.”

“The gym isn’t set up for you.” Lando folded his arms, and you tried desperately not to stare at the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.

“What?”

“We don’t have women’s bathrooms or showers. This has been a men-only space since it opened. I’m sorry, there’s no place for you here.” He shrugged. “And I’m not making an exception. Renovations cost money.”

“I don’t need exclusive bathrooms. I just need you to train me. I can shower at home.” Lando frowned, and only then did he actually look at you, as if seeing you for the first time.

“That’s gross.”

You rolled your eyes at the jab, trying to ignore the fresh rise of heat in your cheeks. This was bordering on humiliating. You had never sounded so pitiable.

“I don’t know how else to ask.”

“I don’t care. I already said I’m not training you.” His posture settled back into something fortified, his gaze sweeping you like he was hunting for flaws. “You know where the exit is.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and stood frozen for a moment, unable to believe that was truly all he had to offer. With a long exhale, you turned and walked away, a knot of disappointment sinking under your ribs.

But that wasn’t the end. Because you returned the next morning, far earlier.

It was 10 a.m. when you stepped into the gym, now completely empty. You tossed your bag into a corner near the punching bags, slipped off your shoes at the entrance, and began striking the bag with clumsy, inexperienced blows, trying to imagine how you were supposed to approach this man and convince him to train you.

You knew you couldn’t come to Lando as a journalism student. Given his reputation and his history with the press, he would tell you to fuck off before you even finished saying the word “project.” No, the only way to reach him was through what he still loved, even if that passion didn’t quite beat in your own blood.

How hard could it be? Ten months tethered to boxing, just long enough to uncover who he was, what he’d lived, and all the things the internet refused to say about Lando Norris. Then you’d graduate. Then you could build something stable. You only needed the idiot to soften—maybe if he saw how persistent you were, he would eventually say yes—

“You again. Classes start in four hours.”

Lando’s voice cracked across the empty gym, and you heard his footsteps rushing down the stairs.

You followed the sound and caught sight of his curls descending from what looked like a raised office before he closed in on you, barely three meters away, his stride sharp, his expression carved from ice.

“I’m not enrolled in any of your classes,” you said.

“Of course not. Which is exactly why you need to leave.”

“I’m paying for the hours I use.”

You said it as though the logic were unbreakable, turning back to the bag even though you had no idea what you were actually doing.

Lando stared at you in silence for a few seconds. You tried your best not to feel like an idiot dissolving under his gaze.

“You need wraps. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh, brilliant,” he mocked. “You claim to care about boxing and don’t own the basic essentials.”

“Lend me yours. I’m sure you have extras.”

Lando let out a short laugh, almost surprised.

“Get out of my gym, kid.”

His voice held no room for discussion.

You ignored him, focusing on your hopeless punches. Sweat was already gathering on your skin, your breath uneven, your knuckles reddening painfully. You heard Lando click his tongue before stepping closer.

“Spread your feet.” His leg slid between yours, nudging you into a shoulder-width stance. You swallowed a startled sound. “Chin down.” Before you could react, obey, he pushed your chin down with a single finger. “And you hit from your hips.” His hands rested on your hips, respectful but firm, guiding the movement you lacked. His body radiated warmth against your back.

There was nothing improper in his touch, nothing predatory. And yet a spark lit deep inside you, unwelcome and undeniable.

“Hit with my hips?”

“From your hips,” he corrected. “Your whole upper body moves when you punch, whether it’s your right or your left. Using your whole body gives you more power, and it keeps you from injuring yourself if you rely only on your arms or wrists.”

You nodded awkwardly, copying each instruction. Lando stared back with a flat expression when you lifted your head, almost as if you were expecting praise.

“Now get out of my gym.” That was all he said before turning away.

You left that morning with more than disappointment. You carried a thin thread of hope with you too. Maybe if you kept pushing, something—anything—might give.

What did you have so far?

Nothing.

Only the certainty that he really did have the shitty attitude all the other journalists complained about.

The following days unfolded much the same. Lando had no intention of yielding, and neither did you. Sometimes you arrived later, when the gym was busier, and Max —the man who worked with him, as you’d learned— would watch you from afar with that amused little grin that declared you won’t last as long as you think before turning away to mind his own business. Lando remained a perpetual headache, always telling you to get out of his gym yet never truly lifting a finger to remove you. Most of the time you gave in anyway, only to return hours later.

The Thursday of the next week you had early classes, so you couldn’t be at the gym at ten. But you were there at three in the afternoon, when the place teemed with students and men training in every corner. You slipped off your shoes near the entrance, pulled your water bottle from your bag, and returned to the same spot you’d claimed over the past days, punching the heavy bag with the only scrap of instruction Lando had begrudged you once.

Your knuckles throbbed against the canvas, and your stance felt clumsy. You felt small, inelegant, and painfully aware of yourself every time your gaze drifted and caught someone watching you with mild, mocking amusement.

You swallowed it whole. You’d already begun this. Even if you still had time to change your idea and the angle of your project, you were far past retreat. It was a sport, and Lando didn’t speak to journalists, which meant there was little recent information circulating about him. Perfect, you thought. A personal project.

“You’re going to injure yourself if you keep that up.”

You could already recognize Lando’s voice when it cut through the noise, forever serious, forever weary, as if speaking to you cost him something.

“If you’re that worried, you could always teach me,” you replied, a sly little smile tugging at your mouth.

“I’m sure there are plenty of trainers willing to work with you. Boxers who actually train women. Go to them,” he insisted.

“I don’t want them. I want you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Fine.” You shrugged, but kept punching.

You saw Lando roll his eyes before he walked off, and then Max approached you for the first time since you’d begun this idiocy.

“I’m not a coach, but you might want to move,” Max Fewtrell said, nearly laughing at the confusion on your face. “The whole point of hitting a bag is eventually leveling up to fight an actual person. And a real person won’t stand still waiting to be hit.” He lifted his shoulders in a mild shrug.

You glanced at the bag, then at your feet. He seemed to hear the gears squealing inside your head as you tried to piece the idea together.

“Move around. Your opponent will move with you. You don’t want to hit them as they come in or you’ll lose your balance. Circle the bag and hit it,” he explained, patient and kind.

“Oh.”

You nodded.

“Come,” he said, guiding you to the back of the room.

You understood where you were once he switched on the light inside a small shed-like storage room, revealing shelves stuffed with equipment. Gloves, wraps, speed bags, more heavy bags, cones for drills, everything you could imagine. He reached the section with the hand wraps and pulled out a black pair, simple and tightly rolled, the label noting approximately four meters.

“If you keep hitting the bag barehanded, you’ll injure your knuckles or your wrists.” Max held the wraps out to you, and you took them almost instantly. “Do you know how to put them on?” You shook your head, quick and sheepish. He smiled, as if the obvious one here was him for even asking.

He stepped closer and held out a hand for the wraps. He unrolled one until it was a long ribbon of cloth and took your right hand, extending it between you both as he began wrapping it with strategic precision.

“Two turns around the wrist. Wrap each finger so your knuckles are protected. Two more horizontal passes. And whatever’s left goes back around the wrist,” he said as he worked, showing you visually how it should be done. “Now the other.”

Max was strangely gentle as he held your wrist with one hand and wrapped the fabric with the other. He felt so much more approachable than Lando, and you thought maybe he could give you what Lando refused.

“You said you’re not a trainer… so you’re a boxer?” you murmured, lifting your gaze to study his face as he passed the wrap over your knuckles.

“Not really. I just work with Lando.”

You nodded.

“As friends?” you tried again.

“As friends, yes.”

Max finished adjusting the wrap on your other hand, and you flexed your fingers, testing how it felt. You nodded, approving the sensation.

“How do I convince him?” you asked after a few quiet seconds, just before he could speak. You saw him hesitate, weighing whether to answer.

“Look. He’s right. If you’re genuinely interested, there are plenty of great trainers, even better than Lando, with more patience and better tempers,” he said, rolling his eyes, “who would happily train you. I think you’re wasting your time.”

You exhaled, heavy.

“But you’re just as stubborn as he is,” Max added with a shrug. “So I have no idea which one of you will crack first.”

He walked out of the equipment room and you followed a moment later. Returning to your spot, you noticed the wraps made everything infinitely more comfortable. They were rough against your knuckles, but they softened the impact and kept the bag from biting into your skin. A makeshift cushion.

You stayed there for a long while, replaying the corrections you’d been given as you occasionally watched Lando instruct the others, the younger kids, the teens, the young adults who stood around him eager to learn. You almost envied them, seeing how naturally Norris behaved with them. Less tense, more playful. Good grief, you even saw him smile. He looked younger like that, lighter.

“Take those off. Where did you get them?” His tone was not the one he used with the others.

“Max gave them to me,” you replied, frowning slightly.

“They’re mine, and I don’t want you using them. People will think—”

“That you’re training me?” you cut in, raising a brow as he hummed a curt confirmation. “Heaven forbid someone thinks that.” You rolled your eyes.

But you were already peeling off the wraps, frustrated. You were lucky you liked things difficult; otherwise you’d have thrown in the towel long ago and told both the project and Lando —especially Lando— to go to hell.

“You’ll live,” he muttered, taking the first wrap while you removed the second. “Besides, you need to buy your own things if you plan on staying.”

You looked up at him immediately.

“I thought you wanted me gone.”

“Max told me you paid six months in advance.” Lando grumbled, and you frowned.

“That's…” something in you warned you to shut up. “You said you wouldn’t take my money. What changed your mind?” you asked, brow lifted.

“He already spent it, so I can’t return it,” he muttered through his teeth, snatching the second wrap and walking away, his broad back retreating across the room.

Only then did you allow yourself a quiet, incredulous laugh. When you glanced up, Max was already watching you from the second floor, wearing a conspiratorial smile. You mouthed a thank you toward him, soft and secret, meant only for him to understand.

At least someone's on your side.

Lando didn’t bother you again after that. In truth, he simply proceeded to ignore you… most of the time.

Which suited you well enough. It allowed you to keep training, even if you were still nowhere near your true goal. The weeks crawled forward, slow and stubborn. You managed to hand in the first draft of your final project to your professor, correcting the loose threads you hadn’t fully understood, all while continuing to train on your own every afternoon.

Eventually you had to tell your parents about your extracurricular adventures, once they began asking why you were getting home later than usual. Your father, of course, was more than delighted by your decision, because you hadn’t been able to confess that all this was only to secure that final grade. You blamed his earnest excitement for your cowardice, for the way the truth stuck to the back of your tongue and never made it out.

Which brought you to today. You’d gotten out of class an hour later than usual, which meant training later, and leaving the gym later as well. You sat on the carpeted floor, slipping on your shoes while you waited for your father to text you that he was outside, after insisting on picking you up because of the hour.

It was dark outside, and Lando was beginning to close the gym when you were finishing up.

“I need to lock up, and you’re in my way.” You rolled your eyes at Lando’s voice.

There was something almost amusing about how he always seemed particularly sour around you, as if your very existence grated on him. Ever since he’d given up and grudgingly allowed you to use the gym whenever you pleased, instead of kicking you out and forcing you to surrender, you’d grown slightly more comfortable. Looser. Less on edge.

You couldn’t say the same for him.

“Sorry. I’m just waiting for my ride,” you said as you tightened your laces.

“Then wait outside.”

“It’s dark and freezing.”

“Do I look like I care?”

You laughed, but didn’t argue, and for some reason, Lando didn’t push further. You could feel his gaze on you as you texted your father, sitting on his grimy carpet with sweat in your hair and your cheeks flushed from exertion.

“Why do you push yourself so hard?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence you hadn’t even noticed had thickened between you.

You looked up, startled by the almost intimate air that had settled there. You raised a shoulder.

“Once an idea lodges itself in my head, it’s hard to shake it off. I… fixate, I suppose,” you answered truthfully.

A controlled honesty. A half-truth.

“You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“I’ve been told.”

Silence. You returned your attention to your phone.

“Here.”

Before you even lifted your gaze, something soft yet firm hit you square on the head, bouncing into your lap while you let out a startled yelp. The wraps. The ones he’d taken from you days ago because it annoyed him to see you using them.

“Why—?”

“Monday to Friday. Six a.m. I want you here, and you better be on time,” he said, deadly serious.

“But I have classes at ten…”

“Do you want me to train you or not?” His stare somehow hardened, as if he already regretted the offer.

“Yes sir!” You shot up from the floor like a spring, clutching the wraps awkwardly in your hands.

“Then don’t argue. Six a.m., we start. You’ll be doing strength work, and I’ll teach you how to hit the heavy bag properly. After that, I’m putting you to spar with my other fighters.”

You nodded at every word he spoke. Because the closer he allowed you to stand, the more bridges you could build with the people around him, and the easier your work would become.

“But if you miss a single day, it’s over.”

His tone was iron.

“If you skip even once, that’s it. You’ll take your things and leave, and you won’t bother me again.”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes s— yes.” You cleared your throat, mildly embarrassed.

“Now get out.” He turned his back to switch off the lights.

“My dad isn’t here ye—” you began.

“Out of the gym. I need to close,” he growled before plunging the room into complete darkness.

You stepped back reluctantly, stumbling a little as you fumbled toward the faint outdoor light and slipped through the heavy door, shutting it behind you.

You had to wait for your father in the cold bite of late autumn, under the thick darkness of seven in the evening. Lando didn’t come out, and you didn’t ask to go back in.

You just went home.

Waking up early the next day was the hardest part. You were never the type to rise before dawn for your classes; one spare hour was usually enough to shower, get dressed, and grant your body and mind the sleep they truly hungered for. Now the sun hadn’t even considered lifting its face from the horizon when you stepped out of your dad’s car. Two minutes to 6 a.m. The gym lights were already burning, which meant Lando was awake. And waiting.

“Good luck, sweetheart. I’ll be back in two hours.”

You kissed your dad’s cheek before climbing out. You clutched your hoodie closer, shielding your neck, and pushed the gate open to slip inside. The cold was nearly identical to the air outside; Lando always kept the place cool, never warm enough to make the world beyond feel like a shock.

You kicked off your shoes in the entrance, staring at the empty gym and feeling like a stranger once again. You left your things in the same cubby as always and walked in.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Lando’s voice startled you. You watched him descend the stairs with that measured, deliberate pace.

He already looked fully awake, energized, composed. His curled hair perfectly kept, his jaw freshly shaved.

“Nope,” you replied honestly, without thinking.

“First mistake. You need to eat before training or you’ll burn out. Less energy, shorter stamina.” His tone had an edge as he passed you, heading toward the second wing of the gym.

An area you had never seen before.

“When I eat before training my stomach hurts. Then i wanna throw up.” Lando turned to you, almost affronted.

“Then wake up earlier and eat two hours before training, but eat.” You grimaced but didn’t argue.

No point in picking a fight with him.

He guided you through the second wing, filled with weight machines like any conventional gym. Same orderly rhythm as the rest of his space; two of the four walls were enormous mirrors. Machines for legs, machines for arms. Some you couldn’t make sense of, others you vaguely recognized from photos or half-watched videos online.

“Routine matters. Every day we’ll do the same thing.” He stopped beside a leg press. “Weights first. Build strength. Add muscle mass. Then we move to the bag. Then sparring.”

You nodded, shifting anxiously.

“I’m going to fix your technique, because right now it’s atrocious,” he continued. “And eventually, when you make decent progress, you’ll join the others in the afternoon. I don’t care that they’re men and you’re a woman. I’ll tell them to hit you like an equal.” You swallowed and nodded. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Lando narrowed his eyes, and you rushed to correct yourself. “Yeah. Yes, I understand.”

“Now watch.”

The next hour unfolded exactly as you feared. He forced you to lift weights until your arms and legs shook, until fatigue wrapped itself around you like a stubborn fog. And he did everything alongside you, twice your weights, flawless form, a quiet elegance that sparked a sting of envy. Halfway through, you realized you were intruding on his usual routine.

He did this every day; staying in shape, training for himself rather than teaching. And now you were part of that cadence.

After weights, he guided you through footwork, the basic lower-body movements you had to internalize. He made you use your own body weight to build control and force for later strikes. He even put you through a circuit that left you sweaty and gasping like your lungs had shrunk, humiliation prickling under your skin each time you caught him biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing outright.

“Enough for today,” he said when you were collapsed on the floor, catching your breath. Sweat dripped from your hair, your face prickled with heat.

“But you said I’d hit the bag and we’d spar.” You attempted to protest, nearly tripping over yourself as you tried to stand. Your arms trembled uselessly.

“You’ll faint if you keep going.” There was teasing in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. “Besides, you have plenty to master before we advance to sparring.”

You let your body fall back onto the mat, grumbling at your racing heartbeat. He almost made you regret your choices. Almost. Because you were sure he was doing it on purpose, the bastard.

Pushing you to the edge, draining you so thoroughly you’d start believing quitting was your own idea.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked.

“Same time,” he confirmed, turning his back.

You watched him position himself before one of the punching bags, and the urge to leave, to give him space, swept through you. So you obeyed it.

You peeled yourself off the floor with clumsy effort.

“You can use the showers. You stink,” he said casually.

“You said the gym isn’t set up for women,” you reminded him.

“It's just you and me now. Nobody's going to see you using the men's showers.”

You shrugged, taking it as permission, and dragged yourself to the showers. Men’s showers, obviously. You winced at the lack of curtains, locked the door, and finally let the hot water rinse away the sweat and heat that had begun to cling to you like a second skin.

Your arms ached as you washed your hair, but there was a strange glow around you, some kind of quiet revelation. You still knew very little about Lando, but only three weeks had passed.

Three weeks out of almost ten months. You could do this. Truly. The goal no longer felt unreachable from where you stood.

You took your time drying off and slipping into fresh clothes. When you walked out, clean and light and tired in a pleasant way, you noticed Lando was still training. He moved with the certainty of someone shaped by years of repetition. His feet quick, his movements deliberate, almost premeditated.

“So...” you began.

“See you tomorrow.” He cut you off before you could ask anything.

“Yep.” You swallowed the awkwardness and headed to the exit.

Maybe another day.

You put your shoes back on and left the gym without complaint, settling outside to wait for your dad to pick you up.

Over the following month, you slipped into a routine that was almost pleasant. Lando was, to your delightful surprise, just as structured as you—if not more. You trained every single weekday morning without fail, from six to eight. Then, you would leave the gym and head straight to your university classes. Most mornings, you found yourself with time to spare, giving you a quiet window to polish upcoming assignments or study for exams. The afternoons became the sole pocket of the day where you allowed yourself to chip away at your research before drifting off to an early sleep.

Your classes droned on as they always had. Listen, take notes, research, present, repeat. The narrative thread had always been the most captivating part of your degree, even if you still had professors who accused you of being far too poetic in every assignment. But you were so thoroughly consumed by this new rhythm—by the obsessive training and the desperate need to keep performing at your usual standard—that you failed to notice how quickly everything else began to fray at the edges.

And it was, quite literally, *everything* else.

Soon, you forgot to cook in the evenings, only remembering your empty kitchen when you unzipped your bag at university to find nothing inside. In that same quiet drift, you let slip the planned outings with your friends, and the cozy evenings spent with your mother watching movies. Slowly, your entire world narrowed, orbiting solely around your studies and the sweat of the gym.

Every time things began to feel a fraction easier, Lando pushed harder. He stacked more weight on the machines, introduced new techniques, or demanded a faster pace. Perhaps that was precisely what made it so addictive—the knowledge that he was constantly, relentlessly forcing you past your own boundaries, offering no reprieve.

And yet, he never offered a single word of praise.

Lando was inherently a man of few words, or so it seemed to you. He had a way of cleanly cutting off any attempt you made to converse or pry, which was terribly frustrating. This assignment was dragging you far outside your semi-professional comfort zone; while you were used to people opening up easily once you knew which questions to ask, Lando was an emotional brick wall. Thick, imposing, his sheer presence made you want to take a step back.

It wasn't something you were used to. And that only made it more intriguing. You became obsessed with how much you could pull from this story, how much you could evolve as a journalist if you could just break through. At some point, the level of dedication you were pouring into this should have probably been alarming, but there was no one around to pull the reins.

The only time you managed to draw your father's attention was when you started leaving practice later and later. You went from keeping him waiting for fifteen minutes outside the gym to making him honk his horn repeatedly before you finally emerged. Yet, he would always greet you with a sweet smile as you rushed out, cheeks flushed and hair damp, jogging to hop into the passenger seat. Eventually, the delay grew even longer. There were days you’d ask him to pick you up thirty minutes later than usual just to save him from waiting anxiously outside. Other days, you simply forgot the time entirely.

You had been living in this haze for two weeks when your father finally ran out of patience. You were mid-workout when he walked straight into the gym to find you. Lando was guiding your technique, holding up the focus mitts inside the ring, when the heavy thud of the door closing echoed through the space. Both of you snapped your heads toward the sound, as if it were the only thing capable of breaking the trance you were under.

"Dad," you gasped, a sudden, hurried squeak as your old man slowly approached the ring. He wasn't even looking at you directly, too busy marveling at his surroundings to care about anything else. "What are you doing here? It's still early—"

"It's almost nine in the morning," he interrupted, his tone distracted.

"Really?" you mumbled under your breath, scrambling to find your phone to check. 8:48 AM. *Shit.* "Sorry, I lost track of time. Let me get changed and—" You began gathering your things in a frantic rush.

"Good morning. I'm John. Father to this creature." Before you knew it, your dad had stepped up to extend a hand to Lando, who—you only just realized—was no longer standing beside you in the ring, but had already hopped down to greet him.

"Lando Norris," he introduced himself politely, shaking your father's hand.

"Yes, I know who you are." The grin on your dad's face was almost embarrassing; he was looking at Lando with the kind of awe you usually only saw when he was watching sports on television.

"Dad," you muttered through gritted teeth, climbing down from the canvas. That was when you saw Lando smile—a genuine, amused curve of his lips that felt so entirely out of character it threw you completely off balance.

"My daughter and I used to watch you on TV," your father said, offering it up as a crucial piece of trivia. Lando had the decency to look genuinely flattered.

"No, we didn't," you rushed to interject.

"Well, *I* followed your career almost from the very beginning. Back when you were younger and training under Zak." Lando let out a soft "Ah," which would have been comical if you weren't currently on the verge of dying of embarrassment. "It’s an honor that you're the one training my girl. She loved boxing when she was a kid, and her mother and I are thrilled to see her taking it up again."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. She used to be quite good." Your dad nodded with a pride that made you feel incredibly small. "How is she doing now? Is she keeping up?"

You averted your eyes the moment Lando looked over at you. You had rarely seen that particular smirk on his face—the one whose meaning you could never quite decode. He kept his professional boundaries so strictly defined that he rarely smiled or laughed with you; seeing this side of him as he conversed with your father felt surreal.

"She's doing well. She's good," Lando said carefully. His voice carried a rare, soft note of genuine honesty. It was far too gentle for someone who hadn't given you a single direct compliment since your training began. You could swear your father's eyes lit up with pure joy.

"Is she?" your dad sighed, sounding utterly delighted.

"Dad," you almost growled, desperate to snap him out of his reverie.

It worked. Your father pulled his gaze away from Lando and frowned at you, a mix of confusion and mild irritation crossing his face.

"What are you still doing standing there? You're going to be late for class," he scolded, leaving you mildly offended and scowling. "Go take a shower, you stink." You opened your mouth to protest, but your father was already shooing you away with his hand as if you were merely blocking the view, his attention already drifting back to Lando.

You had no choice but to obey.

You rushed into the showers, moving in a blur. You could faintly hear the low murmur of your father's voice mixing with Lando's, but from where you stood with the water rushing down, you couldn't make out a single word. Every now and then, a burst of laughter drifted through, making you scrub faster—driven by both the panic of leaving them alone together and the sharp reminder that you were incredibly late. More than ever.

You managed to shower in ten minutes and throw your clothes on in another five. You were still shoving things into your bag as you emerged from the locker room.

"I'm done! Ready to go," you announced, stumbling your way back to them.

Fortunately, your dad seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.

"A pleasure to finally meet you. Now, I must go drop my baby off at university." You tried to offer a tight smile. You were past the age of being genuinely embarrassed by your father babying you in front of people, but having Lando’s amused gaze fixed on you made the moment feel deeply mortifying anyway.

It was the most relaxed and normal you had ever seen him.

"Of course. Likewise, have a great day," Lando said, stepping forward to shake your father’s hand once more.

"You should come over for dinner sometime," your dad chuckled.

"You invited him to dinner?!" you gasped, the words finally registering in your brain.

Your father clicked his tongue and nudged you by the shoulders to get you moving before you could protest any further. Lando simply gave a polite nod of farewell, leaving you to wrestle your way out of the gym while trying to pry answers out of your father.

"Why would you invite him to dinner? Are you crazy?"

"Relax," your father sighed, rolling his eyes as he used your name like a gentle weight. "I was just being polite."

"Polite," you muttered, sliding into the passenger seat and quickly clicking your seatbelt into place. "What did you even tell him? Did you talk about me?"

"I just met one of the most brilliant stars in boxing, and your biggest worry is that I spent fifteen minutes talking about you," your father remarked, dripping with sarcasm. You let out a huff, your cheeks burning slightly as you looked out the window, finally shutting your mouth.

Perhaps he was right.

Perhaps you were just being incredibly paranoid.

But you remained paranoid for another week.

The training sessions with Lando began to feel a bit more like a chore, mostly because you were far too busy trying to keep the anxiety from registering on your face. You practically vibrated in place whenever you didn't have something to occupy your hands. You never quite knew if Lando simply didn't notice, or if he was just being polite enough not to pry. What you did know was that your gaze was heavy and entirely lacking in subtlety; he caught you staring more than once—long past the point of politeness—as you analyzed and weighed his facial expressions and body language, trying to decipher whether he was annoyed with you or not.

Then again, Lando looked angry about ninety percent of the time. But he never seemed exceptionally angry about anything involving you.

Nothing, at least, that suggested he had discovered some displeasing truth about your motives.

By the end of the week, you had convinced yourself that he was simply grumpy at a level that was... well, entirely normal for him. Nothing more.

Except Lando wasn’t just in a bad mood. While you had grown accustomed to his natural curtness and strict professionalism inside the gym, it had always been just that—until now. For over a month, you were fairly certain he hadn't been taking you seriously; that he was merely testing you, waiting for you to quit so your presence wouldn't claim too much of his time. But during this past week, it was almost... as if you both genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

Almost.

He was still an insufferable coach, carrying that disgustingly arrogant attitude typical of a retired star who still kept in peak condition. You absolutely loathed the way he demonstrated how to throw punches—making it look effortless, almost fluid and stylish—while your own body was left broken, patterned with the occasional dark bruise.

You managed to complete four and a half months of training before the university's Christmas break arrived.

It surprised you when Lando claimed the days surrounding Christmas as a definitive rest period; the gym would remain closed for the week. A few days later, Max mentioned that they would both be traveling to visit their parents, so you didn't question the decision.

Mostly because, in truth, the timing was perfect.

Upon returning from the holidays in January, you were required to present a draft progress report on the research project you were so desperately focused on. In reality, you had barely scraped together any of the investigation or the actual writing. Lando was excessively guarded with any information regarding himself—undoubtedly a habit born from years of dealing with gossips and reporters. It didn't help that the internet offered very little about his sudden retirement or the reasons behind it. Nor was there any trace of information regarding Isack Hadjar, the rising star Lando had knocked out in his very last fight before stepping away from the ring.

Though you were beginning to piece together where the threads might lead, you couldn't build a thesis on mere assumptions and whispers. You needed hard, concrete facts.

The gym closed on December 22nd, leaving you with exactly five days of actual rest to make headway on the project. You sat for hours in front of your computer, staring at a semi-empty document that you eventually filled with hollow, rushed words born of sheer panic. You had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

To make matters worse, you had grown so accustomed to the daily grind of training that you had to admit to feeling a strange, hollow ache during those five days of stillness.

But after the blur of Christmas family traditions—feasting extravagantly for three consecutive days, opening small, mutual gifts, and torturing yourself for hours in front of your university laptop—the gym finally reopened.

You knew this because your desperation had mounted to the point where, since the afternoon of December 25th, you had begun patrolling the block just to see if Lando had returned.

By the 27th, the world had corrected itself.

"You're back," was the first thing you said as you pushed the heavy entrance door open and saw Lando wrapping his hands.

He looked up, caught off guard for a fleeting second. And perhaps it was just your imagination, but his expression seemed to soften slightly the moment he saw you standing there.

"What are you doing here? We're closed until the New Year."

"Well, the door was open," you shrugged, stepping closer and burying your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket. It was warm inside, a stark contrast to the biting frost painting the streets outside. "And you're here before the New Year, too."

"Couldn't stay at my parents' place for that long," he said simply, his focus returning to the scarlet wraps in his hands.

The detail might have slipped out by accident, but you pretended not to know about it anyway.

"So you visited your parents," you smiled, leaning back against the ropes of the ring.

"Yeah. Max and I went together."

You knit your brows slightly.

"You're in a good mood," you let slip without thinking. The comment earned you a bewildered look from Lando, but the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to suppress a smile. "You don't usually talk this much."

You watched him roll his eyes before he countered, "That’s because we aren't friends."

"Right," you sighed. "Still, you're in a good mood. I mean, I just learned you actually have parents, and we've known each other for nearly half a year."

"Everyone has parents," he said, as if stating the most obvious law of nature, looking at you as though you were an idiot while he finished fastening the wrap on his left hand and began on the right.

"No kidding," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Shut up and wrap your hands."

Lando shook his head gently, but you caught the faint smile lingering on his face. You didn't want the conversation to end; it was the warmest interaction you’d had in months. Perhaps visiting his family had relaxed him enough to let his guard drop, if only a fraction.

"Are we training?" you asked, stepping through the ropes into the ring.

"What else did you come here for?" He arched an eyebrow, and you merely shrugged, shedding your jacket and bending down to pick up a hand wrap from a gym bag overflowing with them.

You were just beginning to wind the fabric around your left hand when Lando stepped close.

"You're doing it wrong," he said, taking the wrap from your fingers and beginning to wind it himself. "You're still quite incompetent, considering we've been training together for almost half a year."

And just like that, he was back.

"First, you wrap each of your knuckles like this. Not too tight, not too loose," he explained, threading the cloth behind each of your fingers, crossing over your knuckles in precise, protective patterns. "Leave enough room so you can close your fist." He squeezed your fingers closed to test it, then made you open them again. "Then the thumb... then the wrist..."

You let him work in silence, simply watching him. His hands were slightly rough, but not nearly as calloused as you would expect from a professional fighter. He probably used some sort of lotion. He likely cared for his skin, because standing this close, you were certain you caught the faint, clean scent of melon cologne. You inhaled quietly as he finished your right hand and tossed you another roll of slightly soiled white wrap.

"Now you do the other."

You made a face as he stepped away, but you tried your best to mimic his handiwork. It wasn't nearly as neat—especially since you had to use your non-dominant hand—but it was something. If you did a poor job of it, Lando didn't say a word. He simply walked away, his back to you, until he turned around holding a pair of gloves.

Only when he tossed them to you and headed to the corner to retrieve another pair did the realization hit you.

"Are we sparring?" you inquired, your muscles tensing slightly.

Until now, the closest you had come to combat in the ring was hitting the focus mitts. It was a dance of shadow-sparring where Lando was fully engaged—feigning strikes, demanding constant eye contact, forcing you to follow his movements like a moth drawn to a flame.

But you had never, ever sparred with him directly.

Sure, you had sparred with some of the newer guys who joined the gym—the scrawniest, most clumsy of the lot.

But this was an immense leap.

Lando looked up, his gaze carrying a playful, teasing edge that sent a nervous flutter to the pit of your stomach.

"What, are you scared?" he smirked, stepping forward as he pulled on his gloves.

"No," you shot back quickly. "It's just... we haven't sparred until now." You hurried to slip your gloves on, your movements clumsy, fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline.

"From now on, we're splitting our training hours evenly," he explained, beginning to circle you, slipping into a flawless defensive stance. You quickly copied him, facing him down. "One hour of lifting and conditioning. One hour of sparring."

"You and me?"

"And any of your other classmates. Not just the fresh, clumsy ones."

You barely managed a nod before Lando connected a sharp, light blow to the center of your stomach. You weren't ready, and that was all the invitation he needed to begin pushing you.

"Focus. Eyes on me."

"But we aren't wearing headgear!" you squeaked almost immediately, taking a hasty step back. He closed the distance instantly, hunting you down.

"Then keep your hands up and protect your head."

Despite the warning, Lando barely touched your head. It was unsafe to do so, and he knew that better than anyone. Instead, he chose to land precise taps on your arms, intentionally slipping past your guard to give you playful nudges against your forehead—gentle reminders to protect your face whenever you spent too much time defending your ribs.

It was as frustrating as it was exhilarating. He was so incredibly trained, disarming you with an ease that made you feel utterly helpless; you probably only managed to land about seven clean hits during the entire session. Yet, Lando laughed every time he caught you off balance, looking genuinely amused rather than just dutifully teaching, though he still took the time to instruct you amidst the exchange of blows.

"Keep your elbows in."

"Watch your chin."

"Stop crossing your feet or you'll lose your balance!"

"Remember to breathe with every punch. Inhale, exhale."

"From the hips, throw it from the hips."

By the time Lando decided you had had enough, you were drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as you struggled to find air.

"Catch your breath," he ordered, as if breathing weren't a desperate biological struggle at that moment. "Water comes after."

To be fair, he was sweating too. Considerably less, but sweat nonetheless—hardly surprising, considering he had kept you moving at a relentless pace for nearly twenty or thirty minutes when standard rounds rarely lasted more than five. He was forcing you to control your breathing so you wouldn't collapse, conditioning you to survive three minutes of absolute, unyielding action.

It was... brilliant.

You watched him take a long draught from a water bottle before capping it and tossing it to you to drink once your breathing finally steadied. Your chest ached with a dull, warm burn.

"You have to learn to breathe through your nose. You're breathing too much through your mouth," he explained, gesturing to the lower half of his face. "A real round is three minutes, but you have to be active the entire time. They can attack you at any second, and if you don't control your breathing, you're finished."

You swallowed hard, panting heavily before twisting the cap off the bottle and drinking deeply to soothe the dry scratch in your throat.

"You're terrible at this," he remarked, his brow furrowing. "How did you convince me that you won all your fights in flyweight?"

You let out a breathy laugh.

"I might have... exaggerated a little," you finally confessed, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the canvas floor.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his expression turning serious, yet laced with an undeniable curiosity.

A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. A flicker of anxiety, a quiet warning that perhaps you were letting too much slip.

"I did win a lot of my flyweight fights. Most of them," you said, opting for a half-truth. "But that was years ago. I'm out of practice." You shrugged. "You've seen how much of a boxing fan my dad is. I guess I still do it because of him. It’s why I keep trying, even though we both know I suck."

Lando made a quiet face of understanding, and for a moment, you thought the conversation would end there.

"I was awful when I started, too. I was four years old. But everyone is absolute garbage when they don't know what they're doing," he said, and you nodded along. "You can't compare someone who is picking it back up in their twenties to someone who has been doing it since they were old enough to go to school."

You pressed your lips together, quietly touched by his words. It was almost sweet—a side of him you rarely, if ever, saw.

"My dad always wanted me to follow in your footsteps," you confessed. "At first, it was because I'm his only daughter, and I suppose fathers always want to know their girls can defend themselves. You know, to be self-sufficient so no one can ever lay a finger on them." Lando nodded, listening intently. "But he’s always loved boxing. He always wanted a son who boxed, and my older brother quit. So, it was me. It had to be me."

"But you like it now, don't you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You gave a soft nod, wetting your lips before answering.

"The way you teach it..." You hesitated for a beat. "If I liked it before, I think you've made me love it twice as much. You're... a really great coach."

Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking onto yours for a few silent seconds. It was a long, suspended moment; you didn't look away either, waiting to see what he would say next. But nothing came. Not until he straightened up, and instead of addressing your compliment, he simply spoke with his usual authority:

"We're done for today. Go home, and don't come back until after the New Year," he commanded, already pulling off his gloves without looking at you. You followed suit, unstrapping your own.

"Yes, sir."

"I told you not to call me sir."

"Yes, Lando."

The days that followed were a living hell. Not only did you spend concerningly long hours glued to your laptop screen trying to force some progress on your project, but Lando had also forbidden you from training until after the New Year. And so, you found yourself trapped within the four walls of your home, compelled to keep digging into your own mind in a desperate bid to drag something useful to the surface.

As it turned out, working on the project was fun—until you actually had to work on the project.

You loved training with Lando and seeing your own progress, but when you compared your actual research notes to those of the rest of your class, you had absolutely nothing. A void, essentially. Not a single shred of the information you actually hoped to uncover. With every passing second, a quiet, suffocating anxiety bloomed inside you, fed by the looming threat of the progress draft presentation awaiting you right after the holidays.

You had two weeks.

Two. Miserable. Weeks.

And there was nothing.

Nothing in your head, and nothing on the page.

Minutes stretched into hours, and with each passing day, the stress tightened its grip because you couldn't shake the persistent feeling that you were constantly bleeding time. Sometimes your mother would slip into your room just to check on you, placing a soft, supportive kiss on your forehead; other days, she would quietly leave a plate of pancakes to lift your spirits when she saw how tense you were. But nothing truly seemed to work.

You wrote, and you erased. You spent hours spinning aimlessly in your chair, utterly paralyzed.

Celebrating the New Year felt like a temporary reprieve, even if your anxiety dragged your focus right back to the stagnant project the moment you started to actually enjoy yourself.

Seeing Lando again on January 2nd did nothing to ease the weight. You were so desperate you felt as though you might show up at the gym with a wiretap hidden on you, catching him off guard with a barrage of questions. But doing that would mean burning whatever fragile bridge you had built so far, and you couldn't afford that. You just needed a little more time. You needed to stop being so distracted, too.

"[Name]," Lando called out once more, snapping the focus mitts together to catch your eye. "Focus," he said sharply the moment you looked up.

You nodded, slipping back into position, but your mind was only half-present; the other half was drifting far away, and it showed. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you when you saw Lando sigh and look away.

"We're done for today."

"No, I'm fine, I'm just a little distracted," you finally admitted, letting out a heavy sigh. You wiped away the sweat stinging the skin beneath your nose and raised your guard again.

"I'm not going to waste my time with you if you don't want to train. I told you that from day one," he reminded you, pulling off the mitts. You inhaled sharply, deflating a little as he turned his back on you. "Go home and come back tomorrow. Rest."

You felt like you could cry.

It was stupid, really—you were just overwhelmed by university and the deadline rushing toward you like a freight train. Lando could have at least tried to show a sliver of compassion.

"Fine, yeah," you muttered under your breath, swallowing whatever passive-aggressive retort was fighting to escape.

You stripped off your gloves and wraps and called it a day.

But a single day of rest was never going to untangle the knot of stress you were carrying. You were like a guitar string being wound tighter and tighter to play a note, right on the verge of snapping.

And on the day of the review, you finally did.

Lando gave you absolutely nothing over the next two weeks. In fact, it felt like the small amount of ground you had gained with him was actively slipping away, doubling your frustration. When you finally turned in your draft, it was embarrassing. And your professor was not kind.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing to the document on her screen.

The classroom was quiet, everyone quietly focused on their own work. She had decided to call everyone up in alphabetical order to personally review the submissions sent the night before.

You leaned down beside her desk, feeling a hot flush creep up your cheeks and ears.

"I know it's not finished—" you began, but she cut you off immediately.

"It's more than that. It's poor. Frankly, it's embarrassing. Don't think I don't notice how you're trying to convince me—and yourself—that you know something through your writing." You sighed, hanging your head slightly. Your stomach ached; you had never turned in such a terrible piece of work in your entire academic life. "Your concept is brilliant, [Name], truly. But you have nothing here. What have you been doing these past few months? Because you certainly haven't been working on this document."

You pressed your lips together, wanting to scream that it was hard. Lando was a difficult, fortress of a man, and you couldn't just pivot to a new topic at the start of the second semester. If you failed this course, you wouldn't be able to present your portfolio to graduate. She seemed to read the heavy stress radiating off you, and seeing your silence, she sighed.

"I'll give you a 5.0 and mark it as incomplete. For the final submission, you need to give me something far better than a single page of text, or you won't pass my class."

You simply nodded, the severity of her words settling like lead in your mind and chest. The pressure felt like a physical weight, forcing your shoulders straight as you walked back to your desk.

That pressure stayed with you for the rest of the day. You had rescheduled your session with Lando to the afternoon that week because, honestly, your brain wouldn't let you wake up early to train when your mind was consumed by the dread of the review. Though, in hindsight, training with him after a humiliating evaluation was a thousand times worse.

Maybe it was the accumulated stress, or maybe it was the fact that when you arrived, there were still students from his previous class lingering around—people who definitely heard every sharp correction he threw your way and saw every time he tapped your nose with the mitts to force you back into the present.

"Focus, or I'm sending you home," he threatened, his voice dead serious before he snapped the mitts and held them up in front of your face.

Frustration made your punches wild and erratic. You weren't controlling your breathing, your shoulders were stiff, and at some point in the combination, the only thing you wanted was to plant a clean right hand dead center on his face.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?" Lando barked, dodging your strike with insulting ease before catching your wrist mid-air, forcing your guard down.

Bastard.

"Nothing," you spat through your teeth.

"Don't give me that shit. You're acting like a throwing-a-tantrum toddler, and you're an adult. Behave."

"Just shut up and let's keep training," you finally snapped, your voice echoing in the now-empty gym.

The last person had slipped out no more than three minutes ago, leaving the two of you entirely alone.

"Excuse me?" He tilted his head, his voice dangerously low. You'd be lying if you said it didn't frighten you a little, but anger and frustration won the fight.

"You heard me. You're being unnecessarily dense today, and I'm not in the mood. I'm tired." You finally let some of the defensive wall crumble, sounding almost small, embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is your life too difficult for you to focus for two hours a day on boxing?" His sarcastic, condescending tone sent a sharp spark of fury through your veins.

You rolled your eyes before shooting back, "Go to hell, Lando. Not all of us can box all day long. Some of us actually have lives and things we have to worry about. You could try being a little nicer."

"Nicer? Oh, come here, sweetheart. If you need me to, I can gently stroke your hair," Lando sneered, stepping toward you slowly, his eyes flashing with irritation and mockery. "Do you think this is a social club? You didn't come here to make friends. In fact, you were the one who begged me for weeks to train you, and now it turns out it's too much for you."

"I begged you to train me because I thought beneath all that bitterness, there was still a real boxer left. But I see I was wrong," you snapped, completely losing your filter. "You're just a frustrated coach who couldn't cut it, and now you take it out on your students."

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

"Repeat that," Lando said, his eyes narrowing. You saw how tight his jaw was, the way he stalked you, forcing you to step back with every step he took toward you. It reached a point where you could feel the heat radiating off his skin—from the training, from the venomous words hanging between you. The silence was so heavy you could hear your own ragged breathing, and his too. "Stop shaking, and repeat exactly what just came out of your mouth."

You clenched your jaw, too. You were shaking; his observation only made you ball your hands into tight fists, wanting nothing more than to disappear. But you didn't. It was far too late to back down now, so you took a breath, muttering through your teeth.

"You're just a—"

Lando didn't let you finish. For a fraction of a second, you braced for a physical blow, but what crashed into you instead was his mouth.

It was a punishing, rough kiss, entirely stripped of any tenderness. A gasp of surprise escaped you, which he immediately smothered, consuming your lips with a desperate, aggressive hunger. You tried to push him away, but his free hand gripped your jaw with iron firmness, forcing your mouth open to receive his tongue. The invasion was wet, hot, and so entirely dominant it forced your neck to arch back.

Never in all the months you had spent training with him had the thought of his tongue in your mouth crossed your mind—and certainly not the realization of how much you would crave it.

You bit down on his lower lip until the metallic tang of blood filled your mouth, earning a low, gravelly growl from him. The rough stubble of his days-old beard scraped against your chin, and his hands, calloused and firm, slipped beneath your training shirt, squeezing your hips with a breathless urgency. He pressed you hard against his pelvis, forcing you to feel the rigid length already straining against his pants.

Oh.

"Max—" you stammered, trying to speak without moaning as Lando dragged his lips down to press feverish kisses against your neck. "Wait—Max—"

"Stop talking about Max." His hands slid down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling your legs to wrap around his waist before he dropped to his knees on the canvas, guiding you down onto your back with him looming hot between your thighs. "Max is gone. It's just you and me."

The wave of relief that washed over you was instantly cut short as he set to work on your sweatpants, tugging the fabric down along with your underwear.

"I'm all sweaty," you protested, trying in vain to stay his hands. But Lando was stronger, driven by a singular, unyielding focus.

"Good. Slips in easier," he murmured, his voice thick and breathless. "I'm going to put that pretty mouth of yours to better use than complaining."

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath about what an asshole he was even now, your cheeks burning with a cocktail of exertion, anger, and desire. He gave a mocking tilt of his head as he kicked your shoes aside, finally leaving you bare from the waist down.

"Oh? Did the princess get upset?" he teased, gripping your hips to drag you flush against him. It was only then, as you saw his face hover near your knees, that you realized he was at least attentive enough not to just plunge right in.

"Learn to shut up," you rasped, grabbing a handful of his curls and pulling him down against your center.

For a second, you thought he might offer some sarcastic retort, but instead, he simply went to work. He forced your legs wider apart and parted you with a low groan, his flat tongue sliding over your clitoris before sucking on it aggressively. Your back arched off the mat at the sensation, bordering on a delicious ache, and your hips shifted restlessly.

"Stay still," he murmured, pulling back for a brief second before diving right back in. His hands clamped down on your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he drank you in greedily.

You let your head fall back onto the canvas, gripping his dark curls and pulling hard. You weren't gentle either; you gave him no room to breathe, more than once trying to lock your legs around his head in retaliation. But every time you did, he seemed to take it as a personal challenge, lapping at you with a fierce intensity that shattered your resolve.

He offered no mercy. He fought back against every squeeze of your thighs, his rough stubble scratching against your sensitive skin while his tongue moved frantically, shifting between overstimulating your center and dipping low into your heat to gather your slick.

Just as your climax began to build—sharp and demanding—Lando pulled away, leaving you to let out an frustrated groan at the sudden loss.

"What were you saying?" Lando asked, his voice raw and completely out of breath. His dark gaze remained fixed on you as you watched him pull at his own clothes. "Just a frustrated coach?"

You let out a breathless laugh, completely disbelieving, as you watched him free himself and stroke his length. The sight was dizzying.

The corners of Lando's mouth glistened with your wetness, his eyes dark and heavy. His training shirt was damp with sweat around the collar, hitched up just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his lower abdomen. His erection disappeared into his fist with every solid stroke. He wasn't small by any means, nor intimidatingly large, but he was thick—thick enough to make you wonder if you could slide him into your mouth without trouble.

The skin of his shaft was flushed a deep red, the head swollen with blood. He was circumcised, a detail that struck you as remarkably aesthetic.

"What's the matter? Can't handle it?" The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you took the bait.

"Is this your way of asking if I'm a virgin?" You arched an eyebrow, almost smiling as he shrugged with supreme arrogance. He was so incredibly full of himself.

"Maybe."

"I'm not."

"Good." Lando gripped your thighs again, dragging you down to meet him. "Because I didn't plan on being gentle even if you were."

You felt the blunt head of his length graze against your wet folds before pressing firmly against your entrance. You were surprised by how slick and open you were, yielding to him with the slightest push of his hips. Against all expectations, Lando went slowly, burying himself to the hilt with a cautious deliberation, as if—for a fleeting second—he was genuinely afraid of hurting you.

It didn't last.

"Nothing to say now?" he let out a breathless chuckle, looking down at you. His body was heavy against yours, solid and muscular. "Come on, say it again. What am I?"

You rolled your eyes, your chest rising and falling erratically before you gasped, "I said you're just a—uh... Uhm..."

His hips cut your sentence short, drawing back and driving in deep until his pelvic bone slammed against you, forcing you to bite your tongue.

"Again. I didn't hear you," the bastard taunted.

Then his pace shifted into a rhythm that became critical almost instantly. His hand pressed firmly against your lower abdomen, forcing you to tilt as he leaned in, finding the perfect, devastating angle to strike that sweet, sensitive spot inside you. It sent a violent shiver down your legs, forcing you to cling to his arms.

"That's it," he muttered. You could tell he was trying to keep his voice flat and detached, but he was breathless, thoroughly undone, watching every inch of himself slide in and out of you. "Not so talkative now, are you?" He stared down at you, and you gritted your teeth.

"The punching bag hits harder," you managed to gasp out, offering a breathless, mocking smile.

He let out a sharp laugh, but you knew you had struck his ego when he folded you back until your knees practically touched your chest, driving into you so hard that all you could do was cling to his shoulders and let out a broken whimper.

You wanted to scream at him, but you could only claw at his bare back, digging your nails deep into his skin as a quiet punishment. Lando didn't seem to care that you were leaving marks, which only frustrated you more. You hated that he held a power over you that you couldn't match, and above all, you hated how incredibly well he moved inside you. The bastard knew exactly what angle to use to keep you completely soft and unraveling; the sound of your skin meeting with every deep thrust was utterly obscene.

You could feel your release building again—fast, sharp, and overwhelming. Every thrust sent a tremor through your thighs, and you couldn't help but sink your teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder as the climax shattered inside you. Your walls clamped tight around him, and you heard him let out a sharp hiss. He gave two more heavy, desperate thrusts before pulling out of you in a frantic rush.

You watched Lando stroke himself once more before spilling into his own hand with a low, muttered curse.

Your legs trembled as you drew them together and began to sit up, thoroughly satisfied but slightly dazed. Lando seemed to feel the exact same awkwardness as he turned his back to you, pulling his sweatpants up his legs with some difficulty with his occupied hand.

The silence fell heavy between you as you reached for your underwear with clumsy, distracted fingers.

You realized then that the anger and frustration had completely evaporated from your chest. You let out a quiet sigh, the warm haze of the orgasm still clinging to you.

"I didn't mean to scream at you earlier," you finally spoke up, cutting through the thick quiet. Lando didn't look at you; you heard him sniff quietly, just to do something, while you finished pulling up your pants. "I was just stressed about school, okay? If I don't turn this project in, I won't graduate, and I have absolutely nothing. My professor gave me an ultimatum today and... I don't know, I've just been frustrated and distracted. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

You heard him let out a dry chuckle, and for a second, you genuinely expected a mocking reply.

"I know what it's like to be knee-deep in shit," he said. You hadn't expected an apology, and you were certain Lando had no intention of offering one anyway. "But next time, leave your shit outside the gym doors when you come to train. Trust me, it's better that way."

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. You thought that would be the end of it, but Lando continued.

"I don't care about your personal frustrations. But if you're in a fight, you can't have your head somewhere else, or you're going to get hurt. You can't just check out when you have an opponent in front of you who actively wants to do you damage." Finally, he turned to look at you, now that you were both decently dressed.

"Is that what you did when you boxed?" you asked, slipping on a shoe. "Clearing your mind and keeping distractions out, I mean," you added quickly.

You saw him nod.

"But I didn't have a coach as good as me," he smirked, a familiar trace of self-assurance returning to his voice.

You saw the perfect opening to ask.

"Zak? What was he like?" you inquired, resting your chin on your knee as you tied your laces.

"A thousand times worse than me," Lando replied bluntly. "He was cruel." The sheer weight in his voice made you look up to study his face. "He was never satisfied. He made us train at least four hours a day and gave us barely any rest. I had a teammate who fainted once during training, and Zak just said, 'It's a hazard of the trade.' I was glad when he retired."

"That sounds horrible. Why would you ever let someone treat you like that?" You arched your eyebrows.

"I used to think Zak was a genius for pushing all of us to our absolute limits." Lando shrugged, seemingly unaware of how much he was opening up, or perhaps he simply didn't care anymore. "Later on, I realized that to him, everything was just money. Even the people."

"Is that why you retired?" The words slipped past your teeth before you could stop them.

The instant the question left your mouth, you knew you had ruined it. Lando locked his eyes onto yours in a heavy, freezing silence. You could swear you physically saw his walls go up, stone by stone, sealing him away once more.

"Go home," he said flatly, before stepping down from the ring.

And, having no other choice, you simply did as you were told.

By the time you got home, you were finally be able to open the poorly written document, and started writing.

Sleeping with Lando was never supposed to become a routine, but it did.

​It all started the first day you managed to rearrange your schedule to train early in the morning. You were taking a quick shower in the men's locker room—the only place with genuinely hot water at that hour—your eyes closed under the stream, mind still hazy with sleep, when you heard the heavy metal door click shut. Before you could even react, Lando was already inside your stall, pressing you against the cold tiles. His rough, eager hands contrasted sharply with the warmth of the steam, and he gave you a morning orgasm so intense it left your legs trembling over the drain.

​After that day, the gym's hot water began running out suspiciously fast almost every morning.

​The boundaries simply dissolved. If it wasn't the showers, it was the metal desk or the couch in his second-floor office, where you had to cling to his shoulders just to keep from falling. And if it wasn't there, Lando always found a way to drag you back to the canvas of the ring when the building was empty, using it as a rough, makeshift mattress.

​You couldn't complain. Sex with Lando was addictive—a wild, selfish rush of adrenaline that you both desperately needed. But the best part came afterward.

​It was in the haze of exhaustion and release, when he lay beside you with ragged breath and his defenses down, that you found your finest opportunities. A lazy question tossed into the air while you fastened your bra was all it took for Lando, too exhausted to build his usual walls of distrust, to let slip some bitter phrase about his past. Small crumbs of information that you devoured in silence, memorizing them before his coldness took over once more.

​"You have a scar..." you mentioned once, after you both had showered. Lando had his back to you, and you stepped closer to trace the mark on his right shoulder blade. You felt him tense slightly beneath your touch.

​"Training," he said shortly, as if wanting to lay the conversation to rest.

​But you still hadn't learned when to stop asking.

​"Back when you trained with Zak?" you inquired, seeking his gaze over his shoulder.

​"Yeah," he replied, pulling on a clean t-shirt. "With him, it never ended with a knockdown."

​"That means leaving your opponent on the canvas with a single blow, right?" you tried to verify, watching him nod. "Isn't that illegal? I mean, to keep hitting someone who's already down?"

​You watched him move toward the door.

​"You always have a few seconds before the referee notices." And with that, he was gone.

​It was only later that you allowed yourself to feel guilty, when you were locked in your bedroom at night, typing away the secrets Lando was confiding in you, using his trust to advance your professional career. Every time that guilt crept in, you forced yourself to drown it. You told yourself it was necessary, that it was just a university assignment, and that he never had to know.

​But it was hard.

​Mainly because every time Lando mentioned anything about Zak, your stomach turned. You could picture him—a much younger, clumsier, more naive version of himself—trusting every single word that man said, training until his muscles collapsed under the promise of a professional career in the sport he loved.

​It was impossible not to empathize when you spent nearly three hours with the same man every single day, when you caught yourself looking at him just a little longer than politeness allowed. When you began to notice how he interacted with others, how he scratched his stubble when he spoke, making faces, and how everyone seemed to orbit around him and adore him, despite how insufferable he could be as a coach.

​And when his walls began to fall, it only grew worse.

​Guilt was no longer the only thing twisting in your stomach when Lando started joking with you more often, when you noticed he didn't seem so bitter most of the time. Suddenly, it became much easier to see all his other qualities.

​The way his face lit up when you teased him, his eyes crinkling into a smile. The way he had a rather peculiar, endearing laugh that didn't align at all with the persona you had first met. How he bit his lip whenever he had to explain something to you, watching you intently while you spoke.

​It was a beautiful torment.

​"When is Lando coming over for dinner?" You looked up from your breakfast to find your father staring at you, snapping you out of your daydream.

​It was six in the morning, and he was already awake, fully prepared to drive you to your daily training session—simply because it gave him the perfect excuse to talk to one of his favorite ex-boxers.

​"Huh, I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourself?" you tried to dodge the question.

​The truth was, you didn't want to ask Lando. You didn't want to invite him in the first place, because it implied things were getting serious. Even if your father had invited him before your relationship had shifted, there was still an invisible line crossed when meeting the parents.

​Especially over a dinner.

​"You're right, that's a great idea."

​You watched your father pace around the kitchen before walking out with a knowing, clever little smile.

​"Let me know when you're ready!"

​You sighed, knowing there was no escape. Your father was a true boxing fanatic; any chance to be near Lando would be thoroughly exploited, and he lost no time.

​Later, when he dropped you off outside the gym, he didn't leave right away. He waited until the moment Lando unlocked the gate to approach him with a wide smile.

​"My wife and I want to know when you're coming over for dinner."

​You saw Lando frown for a few seconds before seemingly recalling a promise made weeks ago.

​"Oh, right. I remember," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't know. When works for you?"

​"How about tonight?"

​"Tonight?!" you interrupted, only to be brutally ignored by both men.

​"Sure, yeah. I'll bring dessert," Lando smiled at your father before your dad gave him a playful tap on the arm and turned back to you.

​"Give him our address later. Don't forget!" he threatened playfully before walking away, pleased with himself.

​You rolled your eyes, hearing Lando's soft chuckle before he guided you inside, his hand resting gently against your lower back.

​"Did you seriously just agree to dinner with my parents?" you asked, knitting your brows, pretending the idea didn't terrify you to no end.

​"Your old man is funny," he shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. You had to look away just to keep yourself from smiling back.

​You spent the rest of the day tense and anxious. You finally gave Lando your address before heading to your classes, but your mind remained hyper-focused on one thing: you had to get home early, tidy your room, and hide every trace of your essay—any clue that might tip Lando off that you were studying to be a journalist in the near future. You would have to talk seriously to your parents about avoiding the subject entirely, or at least dodging it as much as possible in front of him.

​The rest of the afternoon was a frantic blur. You rushed home after classes, sweeping every corner of the living room with your eyes before locking your laptop and notebooks away in your bedroom wardrobe. By the time you finished getting ready, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen signaled that your moment had arrived.

​You hurried down the stairs, finding your parents putting the finishing touches on the table setting.

​"Listen to me for a second," you said, intercepting them before they could pour the wine. "Could you please avoid mentioning my studies or anything about my university work? Nothing about my thesis, my college, or my research. Do you think you can do that?"

​Your father frowned, pausing with the silverware in his hand.

​"Why all the secrecy? It's your career, sweetheart, you should be proud of it. Besides, I wanted to ask him about his old boxing days; maybe that could help with your research..."

​"No, that's exactly why!" you cut him off, trying to suppress the rising panic in your voice. "He doesn't know anything. Lando is incredibly guarded and bitter about his past. If he finds out I'm writing about boxing or studying journalism, he won't say another word. He'll walk out. Please, let's just pretend I'm studying something else if he asks, or just change the subject. Do it for me, Dad."

​Your parents exchanged glances, bewildered by your urgency, but the sheer gravity in your expression made them give in. Your mother nodded first, placing a reassuring hand on your father's arm.

​"It's alright, darling. We'll talk about anything else," she promised. "We won't ruin your research."

​A heavy sigh of relief escaped your lips, but before you could thank them, the doorbell echoed sharply through the ground floor. Your heart took a violent leap inside your chest.

​"I'll get it," you called out before heading to the front door.

​You smoothed down your shirt before opening it, offering an uncomfortably polite smile to Lando, who stood there holding a dark bag.

​"Hey," he greeted with a small smile—one that felt much truer, much more relaxed. "I brought dessert," he noted, lifting the bag and shaking it gently.

​"Oh, wonderful!" your mother interrupted from behind you, forcing you to step aside as she approached to let Lando in. "Thank you so much, I'll put it in the fridge."

​She took the bag and vanished into the kitchen while you shut the door.

​"My mother," you sighed, a half-hearted introduction. You heard Lando let out a quiet laugh.

​"She seems nice." He was in a good mood.

​"Come on. Dinner is almost ready." With a slight tilt of your head, you led him toward the kitchen.

​From that moment on, you became a mere spectator to everything that unfolded. You watched them chat; your father poured him a glass of fruit wine, and the two of them simply drifted into their own world of boxing, reminiscing about the old days. Once everyone took their seats, it was inevitable that the conversation would shift back to you.

​"You've done an incredible job with my daughter," your father said. "Her fitness has improved immensely." You flushed under the sudden spotlight.

​"I've been giving it to her hard," Lando replied.

​His words made you choke on your wine. Unnecessary. Utterly unnecessary for him to use that double meaning at the table.

​"I can tell," your father nodded, spearing a few vegetables from his plate while he finished chewing and swallowing. "And how do you see her now? Has she improved enough?"

​Lando shot you a slightly mocking, playful glance before turning back to your parents.

​"She’s improved, yeah. A bit distracted these past few weeks, but she’s doing well. I think I’ll be submitting the formal application for her license to the board soon, so she can start competing."

​You did your best to pretend the idea didn't terrify you, while your father looked absolutely thrilled.

​"That's wonderful, thank you. Anything you need from us, just say the word," he said, genuinely impressed, before adding, "I'm really glad you're my daughter's coach, Norris. You're a very grounded guy despite everything. Honestly, I didn't think you would be... considering what happened with Hadjar."

​The air seemed to vanish from the dining room. You stiffened completely in your seat and glared at your father.

​"Dad," you warned in a sharp whisper.

​"No, it's fine," Lando interjected, a soft smile on his face that looked more like a practiced grimace. "What happened to Isack was an accident."

​You swallowed hard. You never would have thought Lando would address the matter so directly. You had danced around that name for months at the gym, and now your father was asking, without a shred of fear, the very thing you had been dying to know for ages.

​"I'm just saying..." Your father shook his head, oblivious to the invisible alarm that had been tripped. "You seemed pretty sure of what you were doing in the ring for it to be a simple accident. Mind you, I'm not trying to blame you for anything!"

​"Don't worry, I don't feel guilty," Lando replied almost instantly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

​His voice was too quick, too clean—a mechanical response that froze the room entirely. He locked his dark eyes onto your father, drawing a sharp boundary.

​"I know perfectly well that what happened was an accident, sir."

​Your father blinked, caught off guard by the boxer's sudden coldness, and simply nodded.

​"Please, let's drop the subject," you requested gently, stepping in before the thread could snap completely. You could feel Lando's discomfort; it radiated off him in heavy, dense waves. After months of knowing him, you preferred him in a good mood. "Let's just have a normal dinner."

​"Yeah, of course."

​Fortunately, dessert served as the perfect lubricant to dissolve the awkwardness that had settled over the dining room. Your mother, with her usual warmth, monopolized the conversation by talking about the London weather and some light neighborhood gossip, giving Lando the perfect opportunity to retreat into his short, polite answers without having to speak about himself. Your father, having caught the implicit warning in the air, limited himself to nodding and enjoying his food, keeping his questions strictly away from the ring for the rest of the night.

​Slowly, the tension in Lando's shoulders gave way. He didn't relax completely, but the room regained a peaceful normalcy that allowed you to breathe easy again.

​When the plates were cleared and the living room clock ticked past ten, Lando laid his linen napkin on the table and squared his shoulders, dictating the unwritten end of the evening.

​"Ma'am, sir, dinner was excellent," he said, standing up. "Thank you very much for the invitation, but it's about time I head out. I open the gym early tomorrow."

​Your parents stood up immediately to say their goodbyes with warm smiles and affectionate handshakes. Your mother even insisted on packing the leftover vegetables into a container for him—a domestic gesture that left Lando blinking, visibly out of his element, though he managed a gruff "thank you."

​"I'll walk him down," you intervened quickly, before your father could offer.

​Lando, holding the container of cold, sautéed vegetables in his hand, followed you down the hallway to the door. Once outside, you both walked toward the elevator and made your way out of the apartment complex in absolute silence.

​"I'm sorry about my dad acting like that," you spoke up once the elevator doors slid shut behind you and you led him outside the building to say goodbye. "I tried to tell him before you arrived that you don't like talking about it, but he's so nosy—"

​"I lied," he interrupted, turning to look at you with a grimace. "I still think about it. I do feel guilty."

​You felt your stomach knot, and for a few seconds, you truly didn't know what to say. Nothing had prepared you for this sudden burst of honesty, for this piece of his trust. He kept speaking before your brain could formulate a response.

​"Isack ended up in a really bad way after our fight... He went into a vegetative state." The truth settled deep inside you like a sickening ache.

​"Oh," was all you managed to say.

​"His parents took him off life support after a few months," Lando continued, and you felt a wave of dizziness wash over you. "Zak paid them a stupid amount of money to keep them quiet. So the journalists wouldn't ask questions."

​"It wasn't your fault, Lando. It was an accident," you managed to repeat his own words back to him.

​If there was one thing you had learned from everything Lando had told you, it was that Zak had been a terrible trainer.

​"But I should have said no when Zak told me where to hit him. I knew what that would do. I'm just as responsible."

​"You were a kid," you tried to reason.

​"I was of age. I knew what I was doing."

​"But you didn't know any better than you do now," you interrupted him once more. "You were under the care of a man who only cared about you winning and how much money he could make off you. You believed him, and that doesn't make you guilty."

​You heard Lando sigh, and the only thing you knew how to do was wrap your arms around him. It felt strange—hugging him, that is. He was stiff in your embrace at first, before finally surrendering and wrapping his arms tightly around you.

​"You're a better coach than he ever could have been." You felt him relax against you, and that brought you an immense sense of relief.

​"Thank you," Lando murmured over your shoulder before slowly pulling away.

​You looked up at him with a soft smile, trying to reassure him. He looked shattered, his eyes bright and rimmed with red, surely from holding back tears. He reached out and stroked your cheek, cradling the side of your face before leaning down to kiss you squarely on the mouth.

​He had never kissed you outside of sex, and more importantly, he had never kissed you with such tenderness. He was usually unnecessarily rough and teasing, but he was none of those things now. The stubble of his beard still pricked your skin, but it was deeply comforting when his lips weren't trying to punish you. You managed to return the kiss before he pulled back.

​"Early tomorrow."

​"Early tomorrow," you repeated, nodding.

​You stood outside for a few seconds longer, watching him walk away with a knot twisting in your stomach. And the moment his silhouette faded into the night, you ran back upstairs.

​You forgot all about helping your mother with the dishes, locking yourself in your room just to write.

​And if you were late for training the following morning, it was merely because you had stayed up until dawn, finishing a nine-page essay.

Good morning!

Apologies for the hour. I know there is still a week left before the final project deadline, but I wanted to check if there was any chance I could get one last review before that day.

Thank you so much in advance!

[Attached file]

Good morning, [Name],

After reading through the 10 pages of your essay, I don't think there is much to correct, except for a couple of phrasing adjustments and some minor punctuation fixes. Let's meet at the end of Monday's class to go over those details before the deadline, does that work for you?

Have a great weekend!

The relief you felt after submitting the essay felt exactly like shedding a coat of lead from your shoulders.

Ten pages of beautifully structured secrets finally rested in the professor's inbox, leaving you with a wonderful sense of lightness. The double game was over; everything was back to normal. A normalcy where the gym was no longer a journalistic research ground but your new sanctuary, and the man in front of you was no longer a subject of study but... well, Lando.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start charging you by the hour for contemplation therapy," his husky voice snapped you out of your thoughts, laced with a light mockery that made you smile instantly.

You blinked, focusing your gaze on the weathered leather focus mitts he held loosely against his chest. Lando wasn't wearing his usual rigid posture; his shoulders were relaxed and one eyebrow was slightly raised, looking at you with an amusement that made his dark eyes gleam.

"I am focused," you lied, adjusting your gloves with a swift movement.

"Right you are. That'll be why you nearly tripped over your own feet two minutes ago," he teased, taking a lazy step forward. He gently tapped the side of your headguard with one of the mitts, just a playful touch. "Your body is here, but your little head is still floating off somewhere. What’s the matter? Why so cheerful today? Did you finally finish saving the world with your university assignments?"

A tiny prickle of adrenaline—the last lingering ghost of the secret you had just buried—tickled your stomach, but you brushed it away with a flirtatious smile. You raised your fists to your chin, slipping back into your guard with renewed energy.

"Something like that," you replied, throwing a quick jab that landed with a sharp thud! against his left mitt, followed by a subtle sway of your hips. "Let's just say I closed a pending chapter. No more pressure, so I can focus entirely on winning a round against you."

Lando let out that short, peculiar chuckle you loved so much, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and instantly wiped away any trace of the bitter guy he pretended to be to the rest of the world. He licked his lips, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his chest almost brushing against your gloves.

"Ambitious," he murmured, lowering the mitts completely to rest his hands on his hips. His eyes raked over you, lingering a second too long on your lips before meeting your gaze again with a roguish little smile. "Glad to know your precious free time belongs to me now. But if you really want to win a round against me, you’re going to have to work harder than that... Come on, guard up," he said, lifting the mitts back into position. "One-two, slip to the left... and if you do it right, maybe I'll reward you in the showers."

You burst out laughing, ducking the mock punch he threw your way.

The training session was tougher than other days, and true to his word, Lando rewarded you later in the showers. The relief you felt was beyond compare; it finally felt like your life was falling into place. You had found a hobby you never thought you’d love so much, and you were only months away from finally graduating.

However, when you walked into the gym the following day, you weren't greeted by the same warmth as the day before.

"What the fuck are you doing in my gym?"

"Huh?" You lowered your gym bag carefully, a confused little smile on your face. Lando looked angry. No, beyond that. He was furious. "What do you mean? Didn't we have a session today?"

"You don't train in my gym anymore." He wasn't even looking at you, throwing things blindly into a duffel bag.

"Is this a joke?" You felt your heart hammer wildly against your chest. A sickening sensation settled deep in your stomach.

"After what you did? You've got some nerve showing your face here again," you heard him let out a humorless laugh. "This is exactly why I don't train women. I should've known I'd feel like knocking your bloody teeth out one day."

You swallowed hard.

"Lando, what are you talking about?" Your voice sounded incredibly small when you asked.

"I’ve already read your little piece. In fact, the whole country could have read the utter shit you wrote about me."

You felt your stomach drop at his words, and your hands began to tremble.

"Takes some real guts to write all that crap, but to actually publish it and then come crawling back to me like a desperate bitch? You've truly outdone yourself." You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat.

"I didn't publish it—"

"Oh, right, so you only wrote it. You only came to my gym to bleed me for information, you only made me—" He cut himself off before he could say another word, and you felt your eyes sting as they filled with tears. "Get out of my gym and don't you ever come back."

"Lando, please. I swear there's an explanation."

"Yeah, maybe there is. But I couldn't care less to hear it." Finally, Lando snapped his head around to look at you.

His eyes were bloodshot and puffy—the living proof of his vulnerability. But they were also filled with pure hatred, entirely hollow. There wasn't a single shred left of the affection you had managed to build over the past few months. Everything lay shattered on the floor.

"Leave before I call the police."

Your chest heaved as you tried to breathe.

"I'm sorry," you managed to choke out before grabbing your things and rushing out.

The moment you got back into your father's car, you decided you wouldn't be going to classes that day. And when you walked back into your bedroom, lying right there on your desk was the living proof of your descent into hell. An email from your professor, sent yesterday afternoon, which you hadn't managed to read until now.

Good morning, [Name]!

Apologies for the hour, but I wanted to let you know that I managed to get in touch with a publisher to edit and release your opinion column about Lando Norris. The insight and the phrasing are exquisite—a deeply personal project under your name, and one that I am certain will open doors for your career in the future.

By the time you read this, it will already be published! We can discuss the details tomorrow after class. As always, I am so proud of your results. You are going to be an incredible journalist.

Max’s best friend. His best man. The human equivalent of a migraine wrapped in a tux.

He was somehow still laughing, still talking, still managing to irritate you from across the room without even opening his mouth. It was a talent, really. You thought he was smug, insufferable, and entirely too pleased with himself for someone who hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to society except chaos and a few podiums.

As for what he thought about you?

You didn’t care. Truly. Deeply. Profoundly.

(And if you repeated that enough times, maybe one day it would even feel true.)

The only downside to Pietra marrying Max was the unfortunate, unavoidable reality that Lando Norris was now a permanent fixture in your life. A recurring character. A long-term problem. A headache with a lifetime warranty.

The thought alone made your skin crawl in a way that felt almost personal.

The weirdest part wasn’t the disappearing guests or the suspiciously pale groomsman who nearly face‑planted into the cake. No, the weirdest part came when you realized you hadn’t seen Pietra in… a while.

At first, you brushed it off. She was a newlywed. Newlyweds vanish. It’s practically a wedding tradition. Maybe she was touching up her makeup. Maybe she was having a moment with Max. Maybe she was hiding from Lando, which would be completely understandable and honestly relatable.

But something felt off.

Pietra wasn’t the type to disappear without a word, especially not from her own reception—the event she’d planned down to the color of the napkin rings. And the longer you went without seeing her, the more that uneasy little knot twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t panic yet, but it was definitely panic‑adjacent.

So, for your own peace of mind, you pulled out your phone and called her.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then it connected.

“P? Where are you? Are you okay?”

There was a pause—the kind that immediately tells you the answer is no.

When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and shaky, nothing like the glowing, ecstatic bride you’d been celebrating with an hour ago.

“Can you come to our room?”

That was it.

No explanation. No reassurance. No “don’t freak out.”

Just those six words.

The call ended a second later, leaving you staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.

And suddenly, that uneasy feeling in your stomach sharpened into something much closer to full‑blown panic—the kind that makes your heart thump too hard and your brain start listing every possible worst‑case scenario in alphabetical order.

Because if Pietra sounded like that on her wedding night, something was very, very wrong.

You hurried through the hotel hallway, moving as fast as your heels would let you—which, unfortunately, was not very fast at all. Your phone was still in your hand, screen glowing with the last call, and you were so focused on Pietra’s shaky voice replaying in your head that you didn’t even look up when you turned the corner.

Which is exactly why you slammed straight into someone.

“Ow!”

You stumbled back, clutching your phone like it might soften the impact. And then you looked up.

Of course.

Of course it was Lando Norris.

Because why wouldn’t the universe add insult to injury.

He steadied himself, then gave you a once‑over that somehow managed to be both annoyed and judgmental, like you’d personally offended him by existing in his path.

“Watch it,” he said.

“You watch it,” you shot back, because you refused to let him have the last word. Not tonight. Not ever.

You pointed a finger at him, ready to continue the argument you two had apparently been having since the day you met—but then you both reached for the same door handle.

Pietra and Max’s room.

You froze.

He froze.

“What the fuck are you—”

Before either of you could finish, a voice croaked from inside the room. Weak. Miserable. Dramatic in a way only one person could manage.

“Stop flirting and come in! Both of you!”

Max.

Or, more accurately, whatever was left of Max. 

Lando grimaced so hard it looked painful. “If he says that again, I’m going to be sick.”

He shot you a look—the kind that said this is your fault somehow—before pushing the door open.

Honestly?

You felt the same way.

Instead of dignifying him with a response, you rolled your eyes so hard it was practically a workout and followed him inside.

Whatever was happening inside the room looked like something straight out of a low‑budget horror movie—the kind where you already know half the cast won’t make it to the sequel.

The wedding? Completely forgotten. Pietra’s dress was crumpled in a sad little heap on the floor, like it had given up on life. Max’s tux jacket was draped over a chair in a way that suggested he’d either thrown it or collapsed out of it. Hard to tell.

Pietra was curled up on the bed, pale and miserable, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Max sat hunched over at the table with his head in his hands, breathing like someone who had seen things. Terrible things. Things he would never emotionally recover from.

“For newlyweds, you two look horrible,” Lando observed, because apparently he felt the need to narrate the obvious.

As if the scene didn’t already scream we are dying.

“You have no idea,” Pietra groaned, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Never eating seafood again,” Max muttered into his palms.

You frowned, stepping further into the room. “What happened?”

“The seafood happened,” Pietra said weakly, like the words themselves were painful.

Max lifted his head just enough to confirm it. “It was bad. Everyone’s sick.”

“Everyone?” you repeated, because surely this couldn’t be as dramatic as it sounded.

“My parents are sick. Pietra’s cousins are sick. Half the wedding is sick.” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I think I’m gonna thr—”

“Okay, mate, we get it,” Lando cut in quickly, hands up like he was warding off a demon.

Neither of you needed the visual.

A heavy silence settled over the room—the kind that comes right before someone admits something truly stupid.

And then Lando, because he physically could not help himself, added,

“I told you seafood was a terrible idea.”

Max slowly lifted his head, eyes dead, soul gone. “Not helping.”

“Just saying.”

Of course he was.

Suddenly, a thought hit you—sharp and obvious, like the kind of realization you really should’ve had ten minutes earlier.

You turned to Lando, narrowing your eyes.

“If everyone ate the seafood… why aren’t you sick?”

He looked at you like you’d just accused him of kicking puppies for fun. His whole face twisted, offended on a spiritual level.

“I hate seafood,” he said, dripping with disgust. Like it was common knowledge. Like it was printed on his passport. Like you were personally stupid for not knowing his dietary preferences.

Before you could roll your eyes hard enough to sprain something, he pointed right back at you.

“Could ask you the same. Why aren’t you sick?”

“I’m on a diet,” you said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

His eyebrows shot up, and he looked far too pleased with himself as he looked toward Max.

“See? This is what happens when you order seafood even though half your guests don’t even eat it.”

“You two don’t mean half the guests,” Pietra muttered from the bed, rolling her eyes so weakly it was almost impressive she managed it at all.

“Well—but that’s not why you’re here,” Max started.

The tone in his voice shifted. Instantly. Like someone had dimmed the lights and added ominous background music.

This wasn’t a joke anymore.

Even Lando went quiet—which was honestly the most alarming symptom in the room.

“We can’t go on our honeymoon,” Max said weakly. “We literally can’t even stand, let alone fly to the Maldives.”

Pietra raised a shaky hand from the bed, like she was giving sworn testimony. “Also… it’s non‑refundable.”

As if that somehow made the situation more tragic.

Which, unfortunately, it did.

“And?” you asked slowly, because you already didn’t like where this was going. “What does that have to do with us?”

Max glanced at Pietra.

Then at you.

Then at Lando.

Then back at you.

“Since you’re the only ones who are able to go…”

No.

No, no, no.

Absolutely not.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.

Did they just—

Did they seriously just—

“Absolutely not,” Lando cut in immediately, shaking his head so hard his curls bounced.

For once, you agreed with him.

Violently.

Because there was no universe—none—where you and Lando Norris should be sent on a romantic, luxury honeymoon together.

Which, of course, meant that was exactly what was about to happen.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Your stomach dropped so fast you felt it in your toes. They weren’t actually suggesting this. They couldn’t be. This had to be a fever dream caused by secondhand seafood fumes.

For once, you were perfectly aligned with him. A rare, terrifying moment of unity.

But Max wasn’t done.

“It’s a private villa,” he said, voice wobbling. “Some newlywed activities—”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Did you hit your head while eating the seafood too?”

Because that was the only explanation. Truly. The man had lost brain function. You were going to wake up any second now. Maybe you’d fall off a chair and snap back into the correct timeline. Or maybe you should hit your head and skip straight to the part where none of this was happening.

“It’ll go to waste if you don’t go,” Pietra added, sounding both tragic and dramatic, which was impressive considering she looked like she might faint at any moment.

Lando let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Then let it go to waste. Problem solved.”

“Good thing we’re not asking you,” Max said, ignoring him completely. “We’re telling you.”

Silence fell over the room.

Not the normal kind.

The bad kind.

The kind that meant decisions had already been made without your consent.

“I already called the resort,” Max continued, like he was ripping off a Band‑Aid. “We told them we’re sick and can’t go. But our—also freshly married—friends will go instead of us.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

No.

No.

Absolutely no.

What the actual fuck.

This had to be illegal. Or a prank. Or a shared hallucination brought on by the cursed seafood poisoning half the hotel.

Max was clearly too exhausted to keep talking. Pietra, unfortunately, was not. She pushed herself up just enough to finish his sentence, her voice thin but determined.

“We just changed the names,” she said, like that explained anything at all.

You stared at her, waiting for the part where she clarified. She didn’t.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Pietra smiled—weakly, proudly, and completely out of touch with reality. She looked like she might faint at any second, yet somehow she still had the nerve to look pleased with herself.

“From now on, you’re Mr. and Mrs. Norris!”

The words hung in the air like a bomb that hadn’t decided whether to explode or not. Too cheerful. Too final. Too insane to process.

For a moment, nobody reacted. The room went still, like even the walls were trying to understand what she’d just said.

Then everything reacted at once.

“I hope you’re fucking kidding,” Lando said, voice flat and sharp.

“No,” Pietra replied immediately, not even blinking.

“I’m not going anywhere with her,” he snapped, pointing at you like you were the problem.

“I’m not going anywhere with him,” you shot back at the exact same time, because if he was pointing, you were pointing too.

Silence fell again—heavy, miserable, the kind that made you want to walk straight into the ocean.

Max didn’t even lift his head. He just groaned into the table like he’d accepted his fate and yours.

Pietra sighed, sounding far too calm for someone who had just detonated your life. “Well,” she said, “good thing it’s already done.”

And just like that, your nightmare didn’t just have a name.

It had a reservation.

A villa.

A flight to the Maldives.

And a husband you didn’t even like.

When the realization finally settled between you and your apparently new husband, all you could do was let out a long, exhausted groan—the kind that came from deep in your soul, the kind that said I did not sign up for this. It was the only reaction your brain could manage. Your thoughts were basically just static and disbelief.

Lando, on the other hand, had plenty of energy left to complain.

“Mate, I love you,” he said, turning toward Max with the dramatic flair of someone delivering a eulogy, “but right now I hate you so much.”

Max didn’t even lift his head. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just sat there, hunched over the table like a man who had accepted every bad decision that led him to this moment.

Pietra gave a weak little wave from the bed, like she was blessing a doomed union. “You’ll thank us later,” she mumbled, which was bold for someone who looked like she might pass out mid‑sentence.

Lando exhaled sharply, then looked between you, Max, and Pietra with the expression of a man who had lost all hope in humanity. “Enjoy your free honeymoon,” he said flatly. A beat. “Lovebirds.”

You and Lando turned to each other at the exact same time.

“No.”

It came out perfectly synchronized—same tone, same disgust, same absolute refusal. If you weren’t so horrified, you might’ve been impressed.

And for the first time all night, even Max looked slightly amused. His mouth twitched, just barely, like he wanted to smile but didn’t have the physical strength to commit to it.

Which was great.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

At least someone was enjoying the beginning of your shared nightmare.

────────────

The moment you stepped off the boat, you regretted not eating the seafood too. Honestly, at least then you’d be back at the hotel, curled up on a bathroom floor, dramatically begging for death like everyone else. Instead, you were here—in paradise—with the one person who could make even the Maldives feel like a punishment. You were at that stage of life where you would genuinely prefer food poisoning over spending any time alone with Lando Norris. And that said a lot.

The Maldives were gorgeous, of course. The water was so turquoise it looked fake, the sand was blindingly white, and the palm trees swayed like they were performing for a commercial. Everything around you was warm and soft and perfect, the kind of place people saved up for years to visit. It should have been paradise. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic.

But then there was the idiot standing next to you.

Lando looked around with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, somehow managing to look annoyed despite being surrounded by literal postcard scenery. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. You hoped he was regretting this as much as you were. Preferably more.

A pair of resort employees approached with bright, excited smiles—the kind of smiles people only have when they have no idea what kind of disaster they’re dealing with.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris! Congratulations on your honeymoon.”

Your eye twitched so hard you were surprised it didn’t fall out. If one more person called you that, you might actually swim back to the mainland.

“Thanks,” Lando said smoothly, flashing them one of his signature smiles like he hadn’t spent the last 48 hours insisting he wasn’t going anywhere with you.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

What happened to I’m not going anywhere with her?

He caught your glare and shrugged, all innocent and useless.

Traitor.

Not wanting to be rude to the only people here who hadn’t personally ruined your life, you forced a polite smile. Before you could correct them—or scream—one of the employees picked up your suitcase with cheerful efficiency.

“Come with us,” she said brightly. “We’ll show you your villa.”

The walk to the villa was painfully, almost comically silent. Not a single word passed between you. You stared straight ahead like you were being marched to your doom. Lando did the same, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he was being forced to attend his own funeral. The two resort employees leading the way kept glancing back at you both, probably wondering what kind of honeymooning couple walked like they were on their way to court.

Eventually, one of them cleared her throat, clearly trying to break the tension before it swallowed all four of you whole.

“I’m sorry about your friends.”

You blinked, pulled out of your internal spiral. Right. Max and Pietra. The actual newlyweds. The ones currently dying in a hotel room.

“Yeah,” you said. “It sucks.”

“They were very upset when they called,” she continued gently. “But they seemed happy that you two could still enjoy the honeymoon.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

Happy.

That was certainly one way to describe it. Delusional was another. Criminally optimistic was a third.

Beside you, Lando made a noise—something between a laugh and a strangled groan. Honestly, it could’ve been either. Or both.

“And how long are you two married?”

You froze.

Well.

Eh.

You didn’t exactly have a script for this. You didn’t know whether to lie, tell the truth, or throw yourself into the ocean and let the fish sort it out.

Before you could decide, Lando spoke.

“Two months.”

You whipped your head toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Lando didn’t even look at you. He just kept walking beside you like he hadn’t casually invented an entire fake marriage timeline out of thin air. No hesitation. No shame. No warning. Just two months tossed into the universe like it was a normal, reasonable answer.

The employee beamed at the both of you, completely fooled.

“How lovely! Newlyweds.”

“Yeah,” Lando replied smoothly, slipping into the role like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Still getting used to it.”

You stared at him, your brain short‑circuiting.

Still getting used to it.

Still. Getting. Used. To. It.

Was he insane? Was he actually insane? Because that was the only explanation for the confidence with which he delivered that line. You caught the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smallest hint of amusement, like he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of your suffering.

The bastard was enjoying this.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile so stiff it could’ve cracked. “Every day is a surprise.”

Lando finally glanced at you, and for a split second, you saw it—the spark of amusement in his eyes, the quiet little I’m having fun and you can’t stop me glint.

You hated it.

You hated him.

The villa was ridiculous.

Not just nice—insultingly nice. The kind of nice that made you question every choice you’d ever made in your life. The terrace stretched out over the water like it was showing off. There was a glass slide straight into the ocean, an infinity pool that blended into the horizon, an outdoor shower, two separate bathrooms (mercifully), and enough space to host three families, a wedding, and maybe a small cult.

It was paradise.

And you hated that you were seeing it with him.

The second the employees left, you spun toward Lando.

“What the hell was that?”

Lando dropped his bag onto the floor like he owned the place. “What was what?”

“‘Two months’?” you repeated, voice rising. “Where did you even get two months from?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Sounded believable.”

“Believable?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he shot back. “‘Actually, we’ve known each other for years and can’t stand one another, but our friends got food poisoning and sent us on their honeymoon instead’?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it. and opened it again.

“…Well, maybe not like that.”

“Exactly,” he said, like he’d just won a debate on national television.

“That doesn’t mean you get to invent an entire marriage!”

“Oh, come on,” he said, already wandering deeper into the villa like a man on vacation. “It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“Yes.”

“You made me your wife.”

Lando paused mid‑step and turned, looking genuinely confused.

“You already were my wife.”

The room went still. You stared at him. He stared back.

Three long, painful seconds passed.

Then something flickered across his face—realization, horror, embarrassment, all at once.

“Oh.”

Your eye twitched. “Oh?”

“Okay,” he winced, “that sounded worse out loud.”

“You think?”

“I mean she called you Mrs. Norris first. She made you my wife,” Lando tried to defend himself.

Before you could continue tearing him apart, a knock interrupted you.

Both of you froze.

The door opened immediately—because apparently privacy was optional here—and one of the resort employees peeked in with an apologetic smile.

“Oh! Sorry, one more thing.”

You instinctively stepped away from Lando like he was radioactive. He noticed. Of course he did. The employee didn’t.

“Your first romantic dinner is at eight tonight.”

Silence.

“What?” you said.

“Romantic dinner,” she repeated cheerfully. “On the beach. Just the two of you.”

You slowly turned your head toward Lando.

He turned toward you. Then both of you turned back to her.

“We don’t need—”

“Wonderful!” she cut in. “See you at eight!”

The moment she left, you pushed open the bedroom door.

And immediately stopped. Of course.

Of course there was one bed. Not just any bed—one large, perfectly made, aggressively romantic bed positioned directly in front of the ocean like it was trying to prove a point. Rose‑petal energy without the actual petals. The kind of bed that practically whispered consummate something.

You just stared at it, frozen in place.

Lando leaned against the doorframe, peered inside, and let out the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “There’s really only one bed in this big‑ass villa?”

“Well obviously,” you snapped. “It’s a honeymoon villa, dumbass.”

“Right,” he muttered, like the universe had personally wronged him.

Silence settled between you—thick, awkward, the kind that made everything feel ten times worse. You could practically hear the ocean outside judging both of you.

Then Lando nodded toward the bed with the seriousness of someone offering a noble sacrifice.

“I’ll happily take the floor,” he announced.

You blinked.

Once. Twice.

“Wow,” you said. “Generous of you.”

Then you turned fully toward him, crossing your arms. “I’m going to be kind and let you take the couch in the living room. You’re absolutely not sleeping in the same room as me.”

“Right,” he said slowly, glancing toward the living room. “The couch.”

He nodded like he was processing a complicated mathematical equation.

“I should’ve thought about that earlier.”

────────────

The restaurant was somehow even more ridiculous than the villa—which felt almost impossible, but here you were, living proof that the universe had a sense of humor and it wasn’t a kind one.

A table for two sat directly on the sand, candles flickering in the warm evening breeze while waves rolled onto the shore like they’d been hired for ambience. Fairy lights hung from the palm trees overhead, glowing softly against the darkening sky. Music drifted through the air, gentle and warm, the kind that made everything feel softer than it actually was.

And you…

You looked beautiful. A yellow summer dress, light and easy, catching the breeze just enough to move with you. Your hair had settled into soft waves, brushing your shoulders every time you turned your head. You definitely hadn’t taken extra time to get ready because of your “husband.” Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous.

It looked like a scene from a romance movie.

Unfortunately, you were starring in it with Lando Norris.

The hostess smiled as she pulled out your chair, glowing with the kind of joy only people who believe in love have.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris. We hope you have a magical first dinner as newlyweds.”

You forced a polite smile, the kind that felt like it might crack if you held it too long.

“Thank you.”

Lando matched your expression perfectly, like he’d been trained for this exact moment.

“Very kind of you.”

The hostess practically melted on the spot.

“Oh, you two are adorable.”

The second she walked away, both of your smiles dropped so fast they might’ve left dents in the sand.

“She called us adorable,” you muttered.

“She also called us married,” Lando replied, sounding personally offended.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

And for a moment, the two of you sat there in the middle of paradise, united only by mutual suffering.

You reached for the bread basket.

At the exact same moment Lando did.

Your hands collided in the middle of the table, a sharp little smack that made you both freeze. You pulled yours back instantly, like touching him might give you a rash.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back, just as fast.

Before either of you could escalate, a waiter appeared beside the table carrying what looked like a tropical explosion in a glass—flowers, fruit, colors that didn’t exist in nature.

“For the honeymoon couple!” he announced proudly.

He set it down between you.

One glass.

Two straws.

A crime.

You and Lando stared at it like it had personally insulted you.

“No,” you both said at the same time.

“Oh, it’s complimentary!” the waiter beamed, completely missing the mutual horror, and vanished before you could protest.

Silence settled over the table again, warm and heavy like the night air.

“Well?” Lando said.

“Well what?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“So am I.”

Another long stretch of stubborn quiet passed—thirty seconds that felt like a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.

Finally, you both leaned forward at the same time.

And immediately bumped foreheads.

“Ow!”

You rubbed the spot, wincing, while Lando leaned back with a glare sharp enough to cut through the candlelight.

“Could you be any more dramatic?”

“You literally ran into me.”

“You ran into me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

The argument fizzled out only because you both leaned in and took a sip of the drink at the same time—careful this time, no forehead injuries—and neither of you dared admit it tasted incredible. Sweet, cold, perfect. A tiny piece of heaven in the middle of your personal hell.

The appetizers arrived a few minutes later, carried by a waiter who looked like he’d been waiting his whole life to serve a honeymoon couple. Every time he or anyone else walked by, you and Lando transformed instantly into the world’s most convincing romantic pair. It was almost impressive how fast the switch flipped.

“So, darling,” Lando said with a smile so bright it could’ve powered the fairy lights above you, “would you like the lobster?”

“No, sweetheart,” you replied just as sweetly, matching his tone like you’d rehearsed it. “You know I don’t eat seafood.”

The waiter’s face lit up.

“How lovely.”

The moment he walked away, your smile dropped. You kicked Lando under the table.

“Ow!” he hissed, jerking his leg back.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me darling.”

“You started it.”

“You kicked me.”

“Good.”

Another waiter approached, moving carefully across the sand as if he were carrying something sacred. He placed two plates in front of you with a soft smile.

Steak and fries. Finally.

Separate plates.

Thank God.

You sat up a little straighter, almost relieved enough to forget who you were sitting with.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her smile warm and hopeful, like she genuinely wanted your night to be perfect.

You returned it, stretching your own smile so wide your cheeks started to ache. “Everything’s perfect.”

Beside you, Lando nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who had fully committed to the bit. “Best honeymoon ever.”

The waiter beamed, delighted. “We’re so happy to hear that. Enjoy your evening!”

She walked away, leaving the two of you alone again—candles flickering, waves rolling in, the whole scene soft and romantic in a way that felt almost cruel.

The second the waiter disappeared, your foot shot out under the table and connected with Lando’s shin again. Maybe you were provoking him. Maybe you weren’t. Maybe the universe was simply guiding your leg. Either way, you weren’t about to admit anything.

He jerked back, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his life.

“Can you fucking stop?”

“Stop lying.”

“You’re the one smiling.”

“I’m being polite.”

“You look psychotic.”

“Because of you.”

Lando stabbed another fry with his fork, then looked up at you with a confidence he absolutely did not deserve.

“You know,” he said, leaning back slightly, “for someone who supposedly hates me, you’ve been looking at me all evening.”

You scoffed, loud and sharp.

“Could say the same about you.”

And that was the first time since arriving that he actually went quiet.

Because you had noticed.

The little glances he kept sneaking across the table.

The way his eyes lingered a second too long before he looked away.

The absent-minded way he wet his lips whenever he was thinking.

The way he kept shifting in his seat like he was trying not to stare at you too openly.

None of it meant anything.

Obviously.

You weren’t delusional.

Still, something flickered across his face—something quick, something he tried to hide—before he straightened again.

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

“Am I?”

He held your gaze for a beat too long.

“Trust me,” he said, voice low and annoyingly confident. “If I was staring, you’d know.”

Your heart did something incredibly inconvenient—a tiny jump, a tiny skip, the kind of reaction you immediately wanted to throw into the ocean. You grabbed your glass instead, lifting it like it could physically reset your brain.

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he replied, reaching across the table to steal one of your fries like he had every right to, “you haven’t left.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was my fry.”

He took a slow, deliberate bite. “Tastes better when it’s yours.”

You kicked him under the table. Hard.

He hissed, jerking his leg back. “Jesus—are you trying to break my leg?”

“Debatable,” you said, taking a calm sip of your drink like you hadn’t just committed violence.

Lando rubbed his shin under the table, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his evening. “You’re a violent wife.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “You’re an annoying husband.”

A beat passed—warm, tense, too quiet.

Then he leaned back slightly, smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“You realize if you break my leg, you’d have to take care of me, sweetheart?”

You didn’t even blink.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

His smirk widened, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

And the worst part?

Your heart did that inconvenient little jump again.

────────────

The morning started peacefully. Too peacefully. The kind of peaceful that made you suspicious, like the universe was holding its breath before dropping something heavy on your head.

You and Lando sat at the breakfast table like two people who had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. No shin‑kicking. No dramatic sighs. No sarcastic comments sharp enough to cut through the tropical air. Just quiet eating, the soft clink of cutlery, and the occasional scroll through your phones.

Almost normal.

Almost comfortable.

Then Lando opened his mouth.

“We’re going golfing,” he said casually, not even looking up, biting into a pastry like he was reading the weather report.

“No.”

That one word snapped his attention up instantly. He blinked at you, confused, like he’d never heard the word before.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I hate golf.”

“That’s not a valid reason.”

“It’s a very valid reason.”

He sighed dramatically, like you had personally ruined his entire morning, his week, and possibly his life.

“I can’t play alone.”

“You absolutely can.”

“I can’t.”

You narrowed your eyes. He was lying. Badly. A man who drove cars at terrifying speeds for a living could absolutely survive a solo round of golf.

“You race cars for a living.”

“And?”

“You can function independently.”

He ignored that completely, like you hadn’t spoken at all.

“We’re going. It’s already booked.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You’re my wife,” he said flatly.

You froze.

Slowly lifted your head from your plate.

Stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

“I’d rather swim back than be your wife.”

“From the Maldives?”

“Especially from the Maldives.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something smug, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“And I’d make it.”

He snorted. “You’d get eaten by a shark.”

“Better than golfing with you.”

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the golf club lobby anyway. You still weren’t sure how it happened. One moment you were saying no, the next you were being dragged into a shuttle like a hostage. Against your will, obviously. Completely against your will.

Lando was at the counter, talking to the staff like he owned the place, arranging equipment and carts as if this was his idea of a perfect morning. He looked relaxed, confident, annoyingly at his element.

You slipped away toward a small souvenir shop tucked beside the path.

Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

Inside, everything was glossy, overpriced, and aggressively tropical. Shelves full of shell necklaces, handmade bracelets, tiny carved wooden animals, and bright fabrics that probably cost more than your entire suitcase. The kind of things tourists bought when they were sun‑drunk and sentimental.

Then you saw it. A necklace.

A simple one—a thin cord with a small carved turtle pendant hanging from the center. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… cute.

You picked it up, letting the pendant rest in your palm. It made you smile before you could stop yourself.

You flipped the tag over and your smile died instantly.

You frowned. Hard.

“You like it?”

Lando’s voice came from behind you.

You jumped slightly, turning to see him leaning in the doorway, holding two golf clubs in one hand and the cart keys dangling from the other. He looked annoyingly casual, like he hadn’t just snuck up on you.

“It’s cute,” you said, “but the price is not cute.”

“How much?”

You held it up for him to see.

He squinted, leaned in a little, then let out a laugh—loud, surprised, real.

“Jesus Christ. That’s the price of the whole honeymoon.”

You huffed. “Exactly.”

You placed the necklace back carefully, almost gently, like it had personally betrayed you but you didn’t want to hurt its feelings. Way too expensive for something that would end up tangled in a drawer anyway.

“Be right back,” you said, already backing away from him. “Bathroom.”

“Don’t get lost,” he muttered without looking up.

“Try not to choke on your ego,” you shot back, turning before he could respond.

The bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place like this—unnecessarily fancy, spotless, and scented with something soft and expensive you’d never be able to justify buying in real life. You lingered longer than you needed to, letting the quiet settle over you. It wasn’t the bathroom you needed. It was the break from him.

When you stepped back out, the sun was brighter, the air warmer, and Lando was still near the shop.

Except… something was off.

He wasn’t doing anything dramatic. He wasn’t pacing or fidgeting or causing chaos. He was just standing there, a little too still, a little too focused on nothing. And the second he saw you, his eyes flicked up fast, scanning you like he was checking for something.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you walked toward him.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

That was worse. Lando never said nothing quickly. If anything, he usually dragged it out just to annoy you.

You frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just waiting.”

“For what?”

He shrugged, already turning away, heading toward the golf carts like the conversation bored him. “Nothing.”

You watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what that tiny shift in his expression had been. Something flickering behind his eyes. Something he clearly didn’t want you to notice.

But you decided you didn’t care enough to dig into whatever weird Lando thing this was.

Probably just him being annoying.

You followed him anyway, even though you told yourself you weren’t following him at all—you were just walking in the same direction.

Coincidentally.

Obviously.

The golf course looked like it had been designed specifically to humiliate you. Endless stretches of perfect green, artificial lakes sparkling in the sun, and way too much open space for you to miss shots in front of strangers. It was beautiful in a smug, taunting way.

Lando, unfortunately, looked right at home.

“Okay,” he said, handing you a club like he was already regretting every life choice that led him here. “Just don’t hit anyone.”

“I’m going to hit you.”

“You’re not strong enough.”

That alone made you swing harder than necessary.

The ball went approximately nowhere. It hopped. Maybe. Barely.

Silence.

Then Lando clapped once.

Slowly.

“Fantastic.”

“It moved,” you said defensively.

“Barely.”

“It moved.”

He shook his head, stepping up beside you with the confidence of someone who had been waiting all morning to show off.

“Okay, watch and learn.”

You crossed your arms. “Impress me.”

He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk. It stretched across his face, warm and smug, like he’d been born for this moment.

“One day you’re going to have to admit I’m good at something.”

“Not likely.”

He swung.

Perfect form. Perfect sound. Perfect shot.

The ball sailed clean across the course, cutting through the air like it had been personally trained by God.

Of course it did.

You hated that. You hated how easy he made it look. You hated the way his shoulders relaxed after the swing, the way he exhaled like he’d just done something casual instead of showing off in front of you.

“Show-off,” you muttered.

Lando didn’t even look at you. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not jealousy. It’s disappointment.”

“In me?”

“In the universe for letting you be this confident.”

He finally turned, leaning on his club like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t actively ruining your morning.

“You know, for someone who keeps insulting me, you’re very invested in my performance.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he said easily. “Just observing.”

“Stop observing. It’s creepy.”

“You started it.”

“I did not start it.”

“You literally tried to hit me ten minutes ago.”

“That was character development.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

“A perfect match, then.”

You shot him a sharp look.

“Don’t get delusional. This is a forced golf situation, not a personality assessment.”

He stepped closer—not much, just enough to make the air feel warmer—lowering his voice like he was letting you in on something you didn’t want.

“Careful,” he said. “Keep talking like that and people might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

You rolled your eyes. “In what world?”

He tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“The one where you’ve been watching my swing for the last ten minutes.”

“That’s because I’m hoping you fall into one of those lakes.”

“Sure,” he said, smirking wider. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You opened your mouth to fire back—

But he cut in, casual, careless, like he wasn’t dropping a verbal grenade at your feet:

“Relax. I promise I’m not trying to get you into bed over a golf lesson.”

You froze.

Then stared at him.

“…What is wrong with you?”

Lando blinked, like he genuinely didn’t understand the problem.

“What? I was being nice.”

“That was not nice.”

“It was honest.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Gimme the keys. I’ll drive,” you said, holding out your hand like you were doing him a favor he didn’t deserve.

“Absolutely not.”

“You race cars for a living,” you reminded him, already leaning toward the ignition with far too much confidence for someone who had never driven a golf cart before. “And you’re scared of a golf cart?”

“I’m not scared of it. I’m scared of you driving it.”

“You should be,” you said with a small, satisfied smile as you climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get your ass in there or walk.”

Lando let out the kind of long, dramatic sigh that suggested he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment. “Do you even have a driving licence?”

“I do.”

You absolutely did. Unfortunately for him.

He hesitated for a beat too long before climbing in beside you, gripping the side of the seat like it might suddenly eject him into the bushes. The second you pressed the pedal, the cart lurched forward—not dangerously, not wildly, just enough to make him tense like you’d launched a rocket instead of a glorified toy car.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, steering them down the path with what you considered perfect control. The breeze was warm, the sun was bright, and the cart hummed along peacefully. “You’re sitting in a golf cart, not a missile.”

“I’m observing risk factors,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead like he was preparing for impact.

“That’s exactly what someone driving like you would say.”

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

He was absolutely not relaxed. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, and he kept shifting like the seat was made of spikes. You took a slightly sharper turn—not reckless, not even fast, just sharper—and the cart tilted a little to the side.

Lando jolted.

His hand shot out without thinking, grabbing your thigh to steady himself.

Both of you froze.

The warmth of his hand lingered for a second, heavy and unexpected, before he snatched it back like it had betrayed him. His face was tight, his voice too quick.

“…That was balance,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I was balancing.”

You looked down at his hand, then back at him, unimpressed and far too aware of the moment. “Put that away.”

“I didn’t mean to—it slipped.”

“Sure it did.”

“It did.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t even look at him again. You just kept driving, eyes on the path, pretending the moment hadn’t happened. And you definitely didn’t mind that it had.

Not that you would ever admit anything.

────────────

The boat rocked gently over the turquoise water, sunlight bouncing off the surface so brightly it almost hurt to look at. It should have been peaceful, the kind of morning people wrote postcards about. But unfortunately, part of the honeymoon package included couples snorkeling—something that would have been lovely if your “husband” wasn’t Lando Norris.

You sat beside him with your legs tucked under you, still mid‑argument from the pier, still annoyed, still refusing to let him win even a single point.

“No, I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at him like you were presenting evidence in court, “you cheated yesterday.”

“I did not cheat,” he replied flatly, not even blinking. “You just don’t understand basic physics.”

“I understand physics perfectly fine, actually.”

“Clearly not.”

“You literally aimed your ball into a bush and called it strategy.”

“It was strategy.”

Before you could continue, another couple sitting nearby—around your age, relaxed, sun‑kissed, clearly enjoying their vacation—turned toward you with amused smiles. They had that look people get when they stumble into entertainment they didn’t pay for.

“Are you two always like this?” the woman asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even a breath.

“Yes.”

You cut in immediately, shaking your head. “No.”

That earned you a side glance from him, sharp and quick, like he couldn’t believe you’d contradict him in public.

The couple laughed, clearly delighted.

“You’re on your honeymoon, right?” the man asked.

Silence.

A very suspicious silence.

Lando nodded slowly, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. “Unfortunately.”

You kicked his foot under the seat, not gently.

The man looked between you both, still smiling, clearly enjoying the chaos you and Lando brought with you like it was part of the entertainment package. The boat rocked gently beneath you, warm wind brushing your face, but the question he asked cut straight through the easy atmosphere.

“So… why did you get married then?”

It hit a little too directly. A little too cleanly. You didn’t even think before answering.

“Because he’s rich.”

Lando’s head snapped toward you so fast you genuinely thought he might fall off the boat. His eyes were wide, offended, and a little betrayed.

“What?”

The couple laughed, assuming it was a joke—because of course they did. No one sane would say that seriously on a honeymoon boat.

You waved your hand quickly, trying to soften it. “I’m joking.”

“Mostly,” Lando muttered under his breath.

You elbowed him, but the couple didn’t seem to notice. They were still smiling, still entertained, still convinced they were witnessing some adorable newlywed banter instead of two people barely holding their fake marriage together.

“Fair enough,” the man said with a shrug, still amused. Then he leaned forward Lando slightly, curiosity bright in his eyes. “So what do you do, then?”

Your eye twitched at the word husband. It felt too heavy, too sharp, too wrong in your ears.

Lando answered before you could even inhale.

“I drive.”

The man blinked. “Like… cars?”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat—a tiny pause where the man’s face went blank, like his brain was flipping through a mental Rolodex. Then his eyes lit up all at once.

“Oh! Formula 1?”

Lando nodded once, calm on the outside, but you saw the tiny shift in his shoulders. The man’s expression changed instantly, excitement blooming across his face like someone had just handed him front‑row tickets to something huge.

“No way—Lando Norris? My brother is a huge fan! He never shuts up about you.”

Lando froze for the briefest second. It was small, barely there, but you noticed. Of course you noticed. You always noticed the little things he tried to hide.

“Oh,” the man continued, grinning even wider now, “I didn’t know you were married, mate.”

The silence that followed could’ve sunk the boat. It stretched between you and Lando like a rope pulled too tight. You both turned to look at each other at the exact same time, eyes locking in a silent, panicked conversation neither of you wanted to have out loud.

Then, without missing a beat, Lando smiled.

“It was a small wedding, y’know. Kept it private. I like keeping some things to myself.”

The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly it was almost concerning. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t hesitate. He just… said it. 

The man nodded approvingly, buying every word, then turned to you with a warm smile.

“Well, you’re lucky. Having a world champion at home.”

Pardon?

Absolutely not.

You smiled sweetly, matching his tone with practiced ease. “He’s the lucky one.”

Lando glanced at you, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, amusement, maybe a hint of something softer—but you didn’t give him time to process it.

“He’d be hopeless without me,” you added, completely unfazed.

“Oh, absolutely,” Lando replied, his grin returning, though it was a little tighter this time. “I’d forget where I left my trophies.”

The couple laughed, delighted, convinced they were witnessing a charming, playful honeymoon moment.

They had no idea you were both lying through your teeth.

Five minutes later, another problem appeared—one that had nothing to do with fake marriages or curious strangers. The snorkeling mask refused to cooperate. You adjusted the strap once, then again, then a third time, each attempt somehow making it sit even more crooked against your face. The elastic kept slipping, the plastic pressed awkwardly against your cheek, and the whole thing felt like it had been designed specifically to test your patience.

“For God’s sake,” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap like it had personally wronged you.

Lando looked over from where he was already wearing his own gear, mask perfectly fitted, snorkel in place, looking like someone who had never struggled with anything in his life. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to make this stupid thing fit,” you snapped, still wrestling with it.

He watched you for a few seconds—long enough to be annoying, long enough to make you feel judged—before letting out an exaggerated sigh that carried across the entire boat. “C’mere.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Clearly.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the ocean breeze. “I said I can do it myself.”

“Just come here,” he said, already holding out his hand like he’d made the decision for you. “I want to look like a decent husband while I’m apparently married. The last thing I need is gossip pages saying I abandoned my wife before she even got in the water.”

“How embarrassing,” you muttered, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

He ignored the comment completely. Instead, he reached out, gently catching your wrist with warm fingers, pulling you the last step closer before you could protest again. The movement was soft, almost careful, and your argument died somewhere in your throat before you could shape it into words.

He reached behind your head with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed he knew what he was doing. His fingers brushed your hair as he tried to fix the loose strap, and within two seconds you felt a sharp tug at your scalp.

“Ow! Stop pulling my hair!”

“I’m not pulling your hair,” Lando said immediately, like the accusation offended him on a personal level.

“You are pulling my hair!”

“Then stop moving!”

“I’m not moving!”

“You’re literally flinching.”

“Because you’re yanking it!”

A couple of snorkelers nearby glanced over, clearly wondering if they needed to intervene. You forced a bright, strained smile, teeth clenched so tightly it almost hurt.

“Everything’s fine,” you said, voice pitched a little too high. “Totally fine.”

Lando didn’t even look up. He was still tangled in the straps, still muttering under his breath like you were the problem and not his complete lack of technique.

“It is not fine,” he grumbled. “You have the coordination of a broken GPS.”

You stared at him, offended on a spiritual level. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He tugged again.

“Ow—Lando!”

“Relax, I’m fixing it.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Yes, you are.”

He paused, leaning back just enough to look at the mask like it was a failed engineering project he’d been assigned against his will. His brows pulled together, his mouth flattening into a line that told you he was already blaming you for whatever he saw.

“…Okay, I see the problem.”

“You are the problem.”

He ignored that completely, like he’d trained himself not to hear your insults anymore. Instead, he shifted closer again, this time slower, more careful, his fingers brushing your hair aside so he could get to the strap properly. The boat rocked gently beneath you, and for a moment the world felt strangely quiet—just the warm air, the soft slap of water against the hull, and his hands working behind your head.

“Stop moving,” he said again, but his voice was quieter now, less irritated and more focused, like he was trying not to mess it up this time.

You went still.

Not because he told you to.

Definitely not.

It was just easier than arguing while he was this close, while his fingers were sorting through your hair with surprising gentleness, while the sun warmed the back of your neck and made everything feel a little too noticeable.

After a few seconds of concentrated effort—the kind where he muttered something under his breath that you pretended not to hear—he tightened the strap properly and stepped back, letting his hands fall away.

“There,” he said, sounding far too proud of himself.

You tested the mask with a small tug.

It didn’t move. Not even a little.

“…Huh.”

“Yeah,” he said, smugness blooming across his face like he’d just solved world peace. “Miracles do happen.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

“Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned, bright and unbothered, the wind catching his hair as the boat rocked again.

“No promises, wife.”

The boat slowed to a stop, the engine cutting out until all you could hear was the soft slap of waves against the hull. It rocked gently over the open water, turquoise stretching in every direction, sunlight so bright it turned everything into glitter. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic. It should have been the kind of moment people remembered forever.

But you were here with Lando.

A guide stepped forward with an easy smile, gesturing toward the water. “Alright everyone, this is one of the best spots. Coral reef just below, lots of fish. Stay in pairs, enjoy yourselves, and don’t wander too far.”

“Stay in pairs,” Lando repeated under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Heard him, wife?”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

But he was already smirking, already enjoying himself far too much for someone who’d spent the entire morning annoying you.

Before either of you could argue, the guide clapped his hands. “Okay—snorkeling time!”

You turned to adjust your mask one last time, fingers brushing the strap—

And Lando shoved you. Hard.

There was no time to react. No time to yell properly. Just a sharp gasp and the sudden, shocking drop as the world tilted.

You hit the water with a splash that swallowed the sound instantly. Cold, bright blue wrapped around you, rushing over your head, filling your ears, stealing your breath for a moment. The ocean felt huge, endless, everywhere at once.

You resurfaced seconds later, coughing, hair plastered to your face, mask askew.

“Lando—!”

He was already in the water beside you, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. The sun caught the droplets on his face, turning him into something annoyingly golden and carefree.

“You were taking too long,” he said, still grinning.

“I hate you!” you yelled, already swimming toward him with more force than necessary.

He only laughed harder, kicking away just enough to stay out of reach, the water rippling between you.

You made it exactly two strokes before something brushed your foot again. It was light, barely there, just a soft flick against your skin—but it didn’t matter. Your entire body locked up instantly, every muscle going stiff like you’d been hit with electricity.

“Nope—nope—nope—” you sputtered, kicking upward in pure panic.

“Relax,” Lando called, still laughing, still floating like this was the easiest thing in the world. “It’s just fish.”

“I don’t care what it is!”

Another brush—this time against your ankle, quick and cold.

That was it.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan. You didn’t even breathe. You just launched yourself forward on instinct, arms flailing, legs kicking, heart pounding so loudly you could hear it in your ears—

—and you basically jumped straight into his arms.

Lando caught you automatically, the impact pushing him backward a little in the water. His hands came up around you without hesitation, steadying you, holding you up as you clung to him like the ocean was trying to drag you under.

For a second, he didn’t move. He just stood there in the water, arms half‑raised, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure what version of reality he’d just stepped into.

Then he looked down at you.

“…Are you hugging me right now?”

“No.”

“You are literally attached to me.”

“I am stabilising myself.”

“Against my chest?”

“Shut up!”

His laugh came immediately—bright, loud, helpless—the kind that shook his shoulders and made the water ripple around you. He tilted his head back, still laughing, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

And even though your heart was still racing, even though your legs were still wrapped around him more than you wanted to admit, even though you were absolutely not letting go yet…

You felt something warm slip into your chest.

Something you refused to name.

────────────

By the time the snorkeling trip ended, you had decided—very calmly, very rationally—that you deserved a drink. Preferably several. The kind that came in tall glasses with too much ice and not enough sense. The resort bar overlooked the ocean, the sky turning soft shades of gold and pink as the sun dipped lower. Music drifted through the warm evening air, blending with the sound of waves and the low hum of guests laughing around candlelit tables.

Lando stood a few steps away, somehow already deep in conversation with his new friend from the boat. They were talking with their hands, laughing too loudly, probably bonding over Formula 1 or golf or whatever else inflated his ego. You didn’t care enough to find out. You just wanted something cold, something strong, something that would make the memory of fish touching your legs fade into the background.

You leaned against the counter and ordered the strongest cocktail on the menu. The bartender slid it toward you with a practiced smile, the glass sweating in the warm air. You wrapped your fingers around it, grateful for the chill, ready to take the first blessed sip—

When a voice spoke from beside you.

“Try smiling a little.”

You turned your head slowly, already tired, already annoyed. A man stood there, a few years older, wearing a shirt that tried too hard and a smile that tried even harder. He looked at you like he’d just delivered the most charming line in the world, like he expected you to melt on the spot.

You looked at him. Then at your drink. Then back at him.

“Try minding your own business a little.”

“I’m just being friendly.”

“Then be friendly somewhere else.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh men use when they think you’re playing hard to get instead of trying to end the conversation. His elbow slid onto the bar, his posture loose, confident, practiced.

“That attitude won’t get you very far.”

“I’m already exactly where I want to be,” you said, lifting your drink like a shield.

“You sure?” he asked, leaning in just a little. “You look lonely.”

You opened your mouth—ready to shut him down properly this time—when a warm hand settled lightly on your waist.

Not gripping.

Not pulling.

Just… there.

“Everything okay, baby?”

Lando.

You turned so fast you nearly sloshed your drink over the rim. For what might have been the first time since this entire ridiculous honeymoon began, you felt something close to relief wash through you. His presence cut through the moment like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

The stranger blinked, looking between the two of you, confusion flickering across his face.

“And you are…?”

Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even for a breath.

“Her husband.”

He said it smoothly, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand stayed on your waist, warm and steady. The stranger’s expression shifted, surprise tightening his mouth before he stepped back a little.

“Oh,” the man said after a moment, blinking like he’d just been handed information he didn’t know what to do with. “Didn’t know she was married.”

Lando offered a small, polite smile—the kind he used in interviews when he was pretending to be patient.

“She is.”

The conversation should have ended there. It should have drifted off into the warm evening air and disappeared like every other awkward bar interaction on vacation.

Instead, the man chuckled and looked right back at you, like he hadn’t learned a single thing.

“You should teach her some basic manners, man.”

The easy smile vanished from Lando’s face so fast it was almost impressive.

“What?”

The stranger shrugged, casual, careless, like he was commenting on the weather. “She’s got quite the attitude.”

“And so what?” Lando shot back, voice sharper now. “She doesn’t owe you a shit.”

The man lifted a brow. “Doesn’t mean she can act like a bi—”

“Hey!” Lando stepped forward so quickly the man actually leaned back. “Don’t talk about my wife like that or I’ll beat the shit out of—”

He was too close now. Way too close. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the guy like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be an act. You didn’t even know if he was pretending anymore.

“Lando,” you said quietly, reaching for his wrist. Your fingers brushed his skin, warm and tense. “Drop it.”

He didn’t look at you right away. He stayed there for a heartbeat longer, breathing hard, anger still simmering under the surface.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

Not because the man deserved it. But because you asked. The irony wasn’t lost on you—the one time he actually acted like a husband was the moment you needed him to stop.

“You okay?” Lando asked.

You blinked, because the question caught you more off guard than the argument ever had. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the way he said them, low and tight, like he’d been holding them in since the moment he stepped between you and that guy at the bar.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I had it handled.”

Lando let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t even come close. “Yeah. I could tell. You were doing a great job being harassed at the bar.”

Your jaw tightened, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t need you to save me like that.”

“Right,” he said, nodding once, sharp and clipped. “So next time I should just stand there and let him keep going?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“I didn’t ask you to play my husband.”

That one landed differently—you felt it the second it left your mouth. Lando went quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t defensive or angry, just… wounded. He exhaled through his nose, looking away toward the ocean like he needed a second to reset whatever expression had almost slipped through.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Fair.”

You took a sip of your drink, more out of habit than thirst, trying to steady yourself, trying to find the right words before the wrong ones kept spilling out.

“I can handle myself,” you added, quieter now, softer, because you meant it but you didn’t want it to sound like a wall.

“I know you can,” he replied immediately.

That made you pause.

He looked back at you then, the sharpness in his expression easing just enough that you could finally see the truth sitting underneath it—not anger, not irritation, but something quieter. 

“I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you,” Lando said, voice low, steady, almost too honest.

You scoffed lightly, because that felt safer than acknowledging whatever was happening in your chest.

“Since when do you care?”

That earned you a small, humorless smile—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, the kind that told you he’d already had this argument with himself long before you opened your mouth.

“I don’t,” he said. “Usually.”

A beat.

“But he was being a dick.”

You rolled your eyes, but it wasn’t as strong as you wanted it to be. It felt flimsy, thin, like you were trying to hold onto a version of the conversation that had already slipped away.

“And you decided that made you responsible for the entire situation?”

“I decided,” he corrected, leaning back slightly, shoulders tense, “that I didn’t want him standing there talking to you like that.”

You studied him for a second—the set of his jaw, the way he kept glancing at the ocean like it might give him an escape route, the way his fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stilled them. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t trying to win. He was just… telling you the truth.

“Still didn’t need to act like that,” you said, quieter now.

“Neither did he.”

Another pause—heavier this time, stretched thin between you like a wire ready to snap.

Then Lando tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he looked at you.

“You’re really going to stay mad at me for this?”

The question wasn’t defensive.

It was something else entirely—something that made your breath catch, because suddenly it felt like he wasn’t asking about the bar anymore.

He was asking about him. About you. About whatever the hell had been simmering between you long before tonight.

You opened your mouth again, still riding the leftover adrenaline from stopping him.

“I just think you don’t get to—”

“Shut up.”

You stopped. Blinking. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up.”

“I’m literally in the middle of talking.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, stepping a fraction closer, eyes locked on yours, “I noticed.”

You frowned, heat rising in your chest. “Don’t tell me to—”

He cut you off. Not with words.

He just kissed you.

Quick. Firm. Completely unexpected. It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t planned, and it definitely wasn’t something either of you had agreed to in any universe where you were still pretending to hate each other properly. It hit you like a spark—sharp, bright, over before you could even process it.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Then he pulled back like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just short‑circuited your entire brain.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then, very calmly, he said, “I said shut up.”

Your brain lagged, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the moment, the heat still buzzing on your lips.

“…Norris, what the fuck?”

He didn’t answer right away. His chest rose and fell once, slow, steady, like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t affected at all.

But his eyes told a different story.

A very different one.

Lando didn’t even blink. “What?”

“You just—” you gestured wildly between the two of you, your voice climbing without your permission. “You just kissed me.”

“Yeah.”

“‘Yeah’?” you repeated, staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

He frowned slightly, like you were the one being dramatic. Like you were the unreasonable one here.

“You were overthinking it,” he said, tone maddeningly calm. “Overthinking’s bad for you, baby.”

That made you pause. You hated that it made you pause. You hated the way the word baby slid under your skin like it belonged there.

“…Right,” you said slowly, trying to gather your thoughts. “Doesn’t mean you can just kiss me.”

“Pretty sure I can,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms, trying to rebuild whatever dignity you had left.

“Hm. Don’t think this means anything though.”

“I would never,” Lando said immediately.

Too immediately.

The kind of immediate that wasn’t casual at all. The kind that sounded like he’d rehearsed it. The kind that made something warm twist low in your stomach.

You studied him, searching his face for even a flicker of something he didn’t want you to see.

He held your gaze without flinching, jaw set, eyes steady, like he was daring you to call him out. “…Good,” you said finally, lifting your chin. “Because it doesn’t.”

“Of course not.”

His voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. And the worst part? You weren’t convinced either.

────────────

The villa was suspiciously quiet, the kind of quiet that made every thought in your head sound louder. You sat on the edge of the outdoor couch with your legs pulled in, staring out at the dark water. The waves moved in slow, steady lines, catching bits of moonlight and breaking them apart. It should have been calming.

It wasn’t. You were trying not to think. Which, of course, only made you think more.

About Lando. About the kiss. About the way he’d looked afterward—too calm, too steady, like he hadn’t just scrambled your ability to act normal around him. About how everything had been… different since then. Not worse. Not better. Just different in a way neither of you had dared to name.

And about how today was the last day. The last night of this ridiculous honeymoon.

Behind you, the sliding door opened.

You didn’t turn. “Go away,” you mumbled.

“I live here too,” Lando said, dropping onto the couch beside you. He didn’t look at you. He just stared out at the ocean like he’d been doing it long before he walked outside.

Silence stretched between you, warm and heavy.

Then, after a minute—

“Well.”

“Well,” Lando echoed.

You exhaled slowly, eyes still on the water. “At least tomorrow we can go back to normal.”

He finally glanced at you. “Normal?”

“You know,” you said, still refusing to look at him. “You hating me. Me hating you.”

“Right.”

But he didn’t sound convinced.

And the worst part? Neither did you.

The breeze moved through the villa again, soft and warm, brushing over your skin like it knew something you didn’t want to admit. Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement, not enough to call it anything.

Normal. You said it like you wanted it. But the word didn’t sit right anymore.

The silence fell again, stretching out between you like a thin thread. But this time, Lando was the one who spoke first.

“This trip wasn’t that bad.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Hm.” You looked back at the water, the moonlight breaking across the waves. “At least we survived.”

A beat.

“Now we’ll just go back to avoiding each other like before.”

“Yeah,” Lando said.

Then, after a pause that felt a little too long—

“Yeah,” he repeated, quieter. “That’s the problem.”

You finally turned your head. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the horizon like he didn’t trust himself to look at you. The warm breeze moved through the villa, brushing over your skin, but it didn’t soften the moment. It only made it clearer.

For the first time all night, you couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Or if he meant it.

And the way he sat there—shoulders tense, hands still, breath a little uneven—made something in your chest shift in a way you weren’t ready for.

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat.

“…Lando?”

He didn’t look away from the ocean. But his voice was low, honest in a way that made your heart stutter.

“I don’t want to go back to that.”

You looked at him, confused.

“What?”

Lando kept staring out at the water. And for the first time since you’d known him, he looked nervous. Actually nervous. His shoulders were tight, his jaw working like he was trying to choose the right words and failing.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he said quietly.

“I noticed.”

“I thought it’d be the worst week of my life.”

You smiled faintly. “Again, noticed.”

A small laugh escaped him—soft, almost embarrassed.

Then—

“But somewhere between you nearly killing me with a golf cart…”

“You grabbed my thigh.”

“Not helping.”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter despite yourself. “Continue.”

Lando exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

A beat passed—warm, heavy, stretching between you like a held breath.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.

“It stopped being annoying.”

Your smile faded a little. “…When?”

Lando shrugged, like the answer wasn’t important even though it clearly was. “Dunno.”

Silence settled again. The ocean kept moving, steady and calm, like it didn’t care that something between you had just shifted in a way you couldn’t undo.

Then he finally looked at you. Really looked.

“And now I don’t really want it to end. Us.”

Your breath caught—just a tiny, sharp inhale—but you masked it quickly with a scoff, like you could pretend the moment wasn’t sitting between you, warm and terrifying.

“Somewhere between pushing you into the ocean and kissing you to shut you up…” Lando said, his voice quieter now, steadier in a way that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or that stupid confidence he wore like armor. He was just looking at you—really looking—and it stripped away every layer of distance you’d been pretending still existed.

“I think I fell in love with you.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, your brain simply refused to cooperate. The words sat there in the air, warm and heavy, like a language you almost understood but couldn’t quite translate. You blinked once. Then again. Your heart thudded in your chest, too loud, too fast, like it was trying to catch up to something your mind hadn’t processed yet.

“…That’s actually really embarrassing for you,” you managed, because your mouth was apparently determined to save you from sincerity at all costs.

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t roll his eyes or shove your shoulder or call you dramatic. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said that. Like you’d knocked the air out of him.

“Are you serious?” he asked, voice flat, almost stunned.

“A little.”

“I just told you I love you.”

“I know.”

“And that’s your response?”

You exhaled softly, something nervous and warm and terrifying settling in your chest all at once. You felt it rise up, felt it push against your ribs, felt it spill into your throat before you could stop it. And then your mouth betrayed you—not with sarcasm this time, but with a smile.

A real one. A soft one.

The kind you didn’t give to people you hated.

“Good thing I love you too.”

The words left you before you could second‑guess them, before you could hide them behind a joke, before you could pretend you didn’t mean them. They hung there between you, gentle and impossible to take back.

Lando’s breath caught—just barely, just enough for you to notice. His eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders loosening like he’d been holding something in for days.

Lando didn’t move for a second.

Just stared.

Like he was waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. Like he was bracing for you to laugh or shove him or turn everything into a joke the way you always did when things got too close.

Then, quietly—

“…What?”

You let out a breath, half‑laughing, half in disbelief at yourself, because you couldn’t believe you were actually saying this out loud. “I said I love you, idiot.”

His expression shifted immediately. The shock didn’t disappear, but it softened into something raw, something unguarded, something he clearly wasn’t used to showing anyone. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right.

“You can’t just say that like it’s—”

“What? A prank?” you cut in, shaking your head. “No. Unfortunately for both of us, it’s real.”

Silence again.

The ocean kept moving. The wind didn’t care. The whole world stayed exactly the same while your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest. You looked down at your hands, then back at him, because avoiding his eyes wasn’t helping.

“You were pissing me off the entire trip,” you admitted, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

That got a faint, incredulous laugh out of him—the kind that slipped out before he could stop it. “Cheers.”

“It’s true,” you said quickly, pointing at him like it helped your argument. “You were annoying. Arrogant. You shoved me into the ocean. You called me a violent wife.”

“I was right about that one.”

“Shut up.”

But your voice wasn’t sharp anymore. It wavered slightly, like the truth underneath it was pushing its way through.

“And I really did hate you at the beginning,” you added, quieter now. “Like, properly.”

Lando’s gaze didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

“But?”

You hesitated.

That part was the hardest one. The part that felt like stepping off a ledge and hoping he’d catch you.

“But…” you exhaled, looking away toward the water like it might make this easier. “I think it started changing when you defended me at the bar.”

He went still.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap, the memory hitting you harder now that you were saying it out loud.

“That guy was being an asshole,” you continued, your voice softer, steadier. “And I was handling it, or trying to. And you just… stepped in.”

A small pause.

“And I remember thinking you were so angry,” you said, almost like you were discovering it again. “Like actually angry. Not joking, not teasing. Just… protective.”

You glanced at him again.

“That confused me more than anything you did on this entire trip.”

A faint breath left Lando, like he didn’t know what to do with that. His shoulders dropped a little, the tension easing in a way that made him look younger, more open, more real.

Then he finally spoke.

“I just hated the idea of somebody talking to you like that.”

His voice was quieter than before. Not defensive. Not playful. Just honest in a way that made your chest tighten.

A beat passed.

He gave a small shrug, like he was trying to pretend it didn’t matter as much as it did.

“I don’t know,” he added. “It pissed me off.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It didn’t feel sharp or heavy or awkward. It was just… full. Like something had finally settled into place between you, something neither of you could pretend wasn’t there anymore. The air felt warmer. The night felt closer. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the moment to break.

You swallowed slightly, still looking at him, still trying to understand the way your chest felt too tight and too light at the same time. “…Thank you,” you said quietly.

Lando gave you a small, almost confused glance, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “For what?”

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something else. “For… all of it, I guess.”

That earned you a look from him you weren’t used to—soft, steady, not trying to twist into a joke. He didn’t hide behind anything this time. He just looked at you like he was letting himself be seen.

Then he shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

You blinked, watching as he pulled out a small silver chain. A turtle necklace. The same one you’d stared at in the shop. The same one you’d pretended you didn’t want.

Your breath caught. “…You bought it?” you asked, taking it carefully from his hand.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You said it was cute.”

“But it was so expensive!”

“And?” he said simply, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Do I look like I care?”

Your fingers closed gently around the necklace, holding it like it might slip away if you weren’t careful. The charm felt warm against your skin, like it had been waiting in his pocket for this exact moment.

“…You didn’t have to,” you said again, quieter now, the words almost slipping out on their own.

“I know.”

A beat passed.

“But I wanted to.”

That was it. No joke. No smirk. No dramatic line to cover the truth. Just him. Just honesty. Just the kind of softness you never expected from him and didn’t know how to handle.

You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to—long enough to feel something shift in your chest, long enough to feel your breath catch again.

Then you moved before your brain could talk you out of it.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss was softer this time. Not rushed. Not defensive. Not a reaction to anything. Just real. Just warm. Just the two of you finally letting something happen that had been building all week. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle in a way that made your heart stutter, and for a moment the whole villa felt still.

When you pulled back, you were both slightly breathless, and for once neither of you pretended it meant nothing. You stayed close, your forehead almost touching his, your breath mixing with his in the warm night air.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words brushing against his lips.

Lando let out a quiet breath of a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. Then, after a beat—one that felt like it stretched forever—he added, “I love you.”

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stared at him, like you were making sure you hadn’t imagined it, like you needed to see the truth in his eyes before you let yourself believe it.

Then your mouth softened into a small smile, warm and helpless. “…You’re so annoying,” you murmured.

He frowned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

You exhaled, still smiling, still feeling that strange, steady warmth spreading through your chest. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—completely sure this time: “I love you too.”

And this time, neither of you joked your way out of it. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you pretended it didn’t matter. It mattered. And you both knew it.

© verstarris 2026

babsie radio ! had so many problems while editing this 🫩 I hit the damn 1000-block limit way too soon!!! I literally wanted to write one more last scene where they come back and P and Max are so confused because they don’t hate each other anymore 😩 I’m so annoyed! I might write a short oneshot of that if you guys want. I hope you enjoy this! This story is so dear to me <3 first fic of summer 2026! 💗