summery: Abu Dhabi. He did it. He finally fulfilled his childhood dream and his family was right by his side to make the best night of his life even more special.
pairing: Husband!Dad!Lando Norris (WDC) x Wife!Mom!Reader
wc: 4.4 k | 🏎️ MASTER-LIST 🧡 | posted on: 14th December 2025
notes & thoughts: omg it’s been so long guys!! So long since I last posted, like 3 months? I can’t believe it but I was so busy with uni and adjusting into a different country away from family for the first time is not easy and I didn’t take well at start. Now that winter holidays are here and I’m back home, I’m back into writing girlies! I was so excited for Sunday, so anxious and heart pounding hard against my chest like it’ll explode— had my fingers crossed even before the formation lap till radio message telling Lando he was world champion— I didn’t let go till then. My fingers were hurting and numb, tears were falling down my eyes but I didn’t care my parents were watching. I WAS THE HAPPIEST GIRL WATCHING HER MAN WIN🥹
Anyways I hope you enjoy this one-shot! THIS IS MY FIRST LANDO FIC ON THIS ACCOUNT, I love it sm and I hope u do too. If you don’t know yet I love domestic life with f1 drivers and especially girl-dad type. Lando and Charles give me that girl-dad vibes and I’m here for it. Request are OPEN for LN4/1 and CL16. Taglist is OPEN. DMs are always open. 💌 rights reserved to me so don't steal my work. LET ME KNOW YOUR FAVORITE MOMENT(S) in the comments!
The paddock glowed under artificial lights, a world built on anticipation and controlled chaos. Engines hummed in the distance, a constant reminder that time was ticking forward whether anyone was ready or not.
YN stood just outside the driver’s room, fingers curling around the orange clutch in her hand, grounding herself in the texture of the leather. She inhaled slowly, letting the familiar scent of the paddock fill her lungs — fuel, rubber, metal, adrenaline. It had been years since she’d stopped being overwhelmed by it, yet nights like this made everything feel new again.
This wasn’t just another race.
This was the race.
Her dress moved softly with her as she shifted her weight. The pale cream fabric flowed elegantly over her frame, the burnt-orange floral prints blooming boldly against it, as if the dress itself had been made for a McLaren night like this. The slit allowed her to move freely, the heels — papaya-orange stilettos — clicking quietly against the concrete.
Jewelry glinted delicately at her ears and throat. The necklace resting at her collarbone wasn’t just an accessory — it was history. A birthday gift from Lando, back when they were only dating, when everything felt fragile and hopeful and terrifying all at once. She hadn’t taken it off tonight. She didn’t think she ever could.
And of course, Lando’s LN4 jacket — one from his personal collection — hung comfortably on her shoulders, slightly oversized, the sleeves brushing her wrists. The black fabric was accented with papaya details, subtle branding stitched with intention rather than flash. It smelled like him — clean laundry mixed with engine oil and something unmistakably Lando.
Beside her, Lydia was vibrating with excitement.
At just three years old, she had already learned the rhythm of race days — the long waits, the sudden bursts of energy, the importance of cheering loudly and believing fiercely. Her curly hair cascaded down her back in soft spirals, brushing her waist, refusing to stay neat no matter how much effort YN put into styling it. Those curls were unmistakably her mother’s, wild and beautiful, while her bright green eyes — Lando’s eyes — sparkled with wonder.
She wore a plaid cutout t-shirt beneath cream-colored denim overalls, the straps and pocket stitched in vibrant McLaren orange. But what made the outfit extraordinary were the details.
Painted lovingly across the fabric were moments frozen in time — Silverstone 2025, his landmark victory. Miami 2024, the first win that had changed everything. Abu Dhabi. Austria. Tiny pit crew members mid-tire change. F1 cars streaking across painted tracks. It wasn’t just clothing.
It was a story.
“Mommy,” Lydia whispered, tugging gently at YN’s hand. “Daddy nervous?”
YN smiled softly. “A little.”
She squeezed her daughter’s fingers. “But that’s okay.”
YN pushed the door open.
Inside, Lando stood near his locker, already fully suited up — papaya and black hugging his frame like a second skin. The race suit zipped high, gloves resting nearby, helmet waiting on the bench like a promise.
The transformation was always startling.
The man who laughed easily at home, who danced around the kitchen with Lydia balanced on his hip — gone.
In his place stood the driver.
Focused. Silent. Shoulders squared beneath the weight of an entire season.
The tension showed in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands rested on the bench just a second too long, grounding himself.
YN stepped inside without a word and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing herself into the familiar strength of his back. She rested her cheek between his shoulder blades, the LN4 jacket folding around him like an extension of his own presence; inhaling him — the scent that was uniquely Lando, comfort and adrenaline intertwined.
Instantly, he exhaled.
His shoulders dropped. His breathing steadied.
He reached back automatically, fingers threading with hers, lifting her hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed to her knuckles was soft, reverent.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she murmured.
A breathless chuckle left him. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
He turned slightly, forehead resting against hers, eyes searching her face like he was anchoring himself to reality through her.
“What if it doesn’t go my way?” he whispered. “What if tonight just… isn’t it?”
YN cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “It is it.”
His lips curved faintly. “You sound sure.”
“I am,” she said without hesitation.
She leaned closer, voice steady but thick with emotion. “I’ve watched you fight for this for years. I believed in you when you doubted yourself. Lydia believes in you. Your parents do. Your siblings. Your friends. Every version of you that came before this moment is counting on you.”
His throat tightened.
“Your younger self is watching tonight,” she continued softly. “It was his dream, you’re living in it. Go make him proud.”
His eyes filled.
YN wiped at the tears threatening to spill, blinking hers away. “Save them,” she whispered. “Save them for when you win.”
He pulled her into a slow, tender kiss — one filled with gratitude, love, and everything they’d survived together.
“Ew.”
They broke apart instantly.
Lydia stood in the doorway, dragging Oliver behind her.
Oliver froze. “—I told you this was a bad idea.”
Lydia pointed. “It was your idea.”
Oliver sighed dramatically. “I’m being framed by a three-year-old.”
Lando laughed, tension dissolving. “Get in here.”
The moment Oliver loosened his grip, Lydia sprinted straight into Lando’s arms.
“Daddy!”
He lifted her effortlessly, hugging her tight. “There’s my strategist.”
She squirmed excitedly, reaching into the chest pocket of her overalls. The paddock passes dangling there tangled instantly.
“Oh— careful,” Lando chuckled, helping her untangle them.
She pulled out a bracelet — handmade, sparkling, entirely papaya. Tiny orange slices, a miniature McLaren car, shimmering stones spelling out:
MY DAD IS WORLD CHAMP
“I made it for good luck,” she said proudly.
Lando’s chest clenched.
“You’ll wear it?” she asked.
“Can you put it on me?” he replied.
She did, carefully.
“I promise,” he said softly, kissing her curls, “I’ll never take it off.”
YN stepped closer, wrapping an arm around both of them.
“My real lucky charms,” Lando murmured.
Soon, it was time.
The grid pulsed with life — not loud yet, not chaotic, but vibrating with a restrained intensity that sat just beneath the surface. Engines hummed like beasts waiting to be unleashed. The floodlights bathed the circuit in a sharp, almost unreal glow, turning the asphalt into something sacred.
This was where dreams were decided.
Lydia stood as close to the car as she was allowed, tiny fingers gripping the hem of YN’s dress for balance as she craned her neck upward. To her, the McLaren wasn’t carbon fiber and engineering — it was Daddy’s car. The place where he became something larger than life.
Lando climbed into the cockpit with practiced movements, muscle memory guiding him even while his mind carried the weight of an entire career. YN watched closely — the way his shoulders rolled once before settling, the way he adjusted the belts, the familiar ritual that always came before the storm.
“Daddy,” Lydia said seriously, folding her hands behind her back like she was in a briefing, “remember to brake late in Turn Five. And don’t forget DRS.”
A few mechanics nearby laughed softly.
One of them crouched slightly, smiling at her. “That’s solid advice. You might be the youngest strategist we’ve ever had.”
Lando’s laugh echoed warmly through the helmet, visor still raised. “I’ll listen to her,” he replied. “She’s usually right.”
YN felt her throat tighten at the sound of his voice — calm on the surface, but she knew him well enough to hear the nerves threaded underneath.
She squeezed Lydia’s hand gently, grounding both of them.
As Lando lowered himself fully into the cockpit, his hands sliding onto the wheel, Lydia leaned closer, her voice dropping instinctively — like she understood this was a sacred moment.
“I love you,” she said earnestly. “Win or lose.”
Lando paused.
Just for a second.
It was almost imperceptible, but YN saw it — the way his shoulders squared, the way he nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“I love you more,” he replied softly.
The visor came down.
The engine roared to life.
And just like that, she had to let him go.
As YN guided Lydia away from the car, she felt the shift — that moment when the personal gave way to the professional, when the man she loved became the driver the world watched.
“Mommy, wait!” Lydia tugged suddenly, slipping free with surprising speed.
Before YN could stop her, Lydia was already trotting toward another papaya-clad figure climbing into his own car.
“Uncle Oscar!”
Oscar Piastri turned just in time, a grin spreading across his face as he crouched to catch her in a quick hug.
“Well, hello there,” he laughed.
“Good luck,” Lydia said solemnly, patting his chest like a blessing. “But Daddy gonna win.”
Oscar chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll try not to make it easy for him.”
YN scooped Lydia back up before she could wander further, pressing a kiss into her curls. “You can cheer from here now, okay?”
Lydia nodded enthusiastically, eyes already darting back to the grid as the lights overhead began to glow.
One by one.
Five red lights.
YN’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
Lights out.
The race exploded into motion.
Engines screamed. Cars launched forward in a blur of speed and aggression. The opening laps were chaos — overtakes, defensive lines, heart-stopping near misses.
YN barely blinked.
Her entire focus was locked onto the screen, her body leaning unconsciously with every turn Lando took, like she could guide him through sheer will alone.
He pushed hard.
Smart.
Controlled.
Then — heartbreak.
He lost the lead.
YN’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her dress.
“Oh,” she whispered, more prayer than sound.
Lydia frowned. “Daddy still okay.”
“Yes,” YN said quickly. “He’s still okay.”
And then he fought back.
Lap by lap, corner by corner, Lando clawed his way through the field. The determination in his driving was unmistakable — not reckless, not desperate, but relentless.
Lydia narrated everything in a soft, constant stream, like she was commentating for herself.
“Daddy fast.”
“That car too close.”
“Daddy smart.”
“Daddy wait… now go!”
YN swallowed hard, blinking back tears she hadn’t realized were forming.
Lap 23.
The moment came without warning.
A flash of movement on the screen.
Lando and Yuki Tsunoda tangled just enough for the entire garage to freeze.
Every sound disappeared.
YN’s heart stopped.
Lydia went completely silent.
YN’s mother-in-law, Cisca pulled Lydia instinctively into her arms, holding her tight as if shielding her from the fear radiating through the room. Lydia’s small fingers found her VIP paddock passes, twisting them nervously — the plastic clicking softly against each other.
YN realized, distantly, that she was doing the same thing — fingers fidgeting with the necklace at her throat.
The one Lando had given her on her birthday, years ago, when they were just dating and the future felt fragile and uncertain.
Minutes stretched into eternity.
The screen flickered.
Then —
“He’s still running.”
A collective breath was released.
YN sagged slightly, pressing her lips to Lydia’s curls. “He’s okay, baby.”
“Daddy strong,” Lydia whispered, more reassurance than observation.
The rest of the race was torture.
Every lap felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.
The numbers on the screen mattered now more than ever.
P3.
Maintained.
YN barely dared to breathe.
Each time Lando defended his position, her heart leapt into her throat. Each corner felt like it could steal everything away.
Then — finally — the math aligned.
The points.
The standings.
The impossible became inevitable.
The radio crackled:
“That’s it, mate. You’re world champion. World champion.”
For a split second, no one reacted — as if the words needed time to be understood.
Then the garage erupted.
YN covered her mouth as tears poured freely, laughter breaking through her sobs. Around her, people hugged, cheered, cried openly. Grown men dropped to their knees. Others clutched each other like they’d survived a storm.
A voice cut through the chaos.
“This is Zak from McLaren — is this the world champion hotline?”
Zak Brown’s voice shook with pride.
Lando’s response came back raw, cracked, overwhelmed.
“Yeah— OH THANK YOU GUYS— OH MY GOD— YOU’VE MADE A KID’S DREAM COME TRUE— I LOVE YOU GUYS—”
YN clutched Lydia to her chest.
“I LOVE YOU MUM. I LOVE YOU DAD. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, YN. You were right, baby — you always knew. I love you and Lydia so much. Thank you for believing in me. This one’s for you, love.”
Lydia gasped. “Daddy say my name!”
YN laughed through tears, kissing her temple. “Yes, sweetheart. He did.”
The garage was crying now — unashamed, unrestrained joy filling every corner.
Out on track, Lando waved from the cockpit, tears visible even through the helmet.
The boy who had once dreamed in silence had finally been heard by the world.
And as the car rolled toward parc fermé, YN knew with bone-deep certainty:
This wasn’t just his victory.
It was the reward for every sleepless night, every sacrifice, every moment of faith.
It was theirs.
The moment the car rolled into parc fermé, the world fractured into sound and color.
Lando didn’t stop immediately.
Instead, he turned the wheel sharply — once, twice — and the rear tires screamed in protest as the McLaren spun into tight, perfect circles. Smoke bloomed into the air, thick and white, curling upward like a signal flare to the night sky.
Donuts.
For years, he’d watched others do this — victory etched into rubber and asphalt — wondering if his moment would ever come.
Now the fireworks exploded overhead, bursts of gold and papaya tearing through the darkness, and the crowd roared his name like it was a chant, a promise fulfilled.
“LANDO! LANDO! LANDO!”
YN’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
Lydia squealed, bouncing so hard YN had to tighten her grip. “Daddy spinning! Daddy spinning!”
“Yes, baby,” YN laughed through tears. “That’s Daddy celebrating.”
Lydia tugged at her hand urgently, already leaning forward with her whole body. “I go hug Daddy now?”
YN dropped immediately to her knees, turning Lydia gently but firmly toward her. “Not yet. It’s still not safe, sweetheart.”
Lydia pouted, curls falling into her eyes, but nodded — trusting, always trusting.
They stood together as the car finally slowed, smoke drifting away as Lando parked beneath the massive WORLD CHAMPION banner. He cut the engine.
Silence — just for a heartbeat.
Then the world erupted again.
Lando climbed out slowly.
He stood on top of the car for a moment, helmet still on, chest rising and falling as if he needed to remember how to breathe. His gloved hands rested on his hips. His head tipped back slightly.
Inside the helmet, tears streamed freely.
He stayed there — letting it sink in — letting the boy who once dreamed quietly in his bedroom finally catch up to the man standing victorious under fireworks.
Then he punched the air.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The crowd answered every movement.
He climbed down, hands shaking as he removed his helmet, curls damp with sweat springing free as he raked a hand through them. His eyes were red, glassy, unashamed.
Max Verstappen was the first to reach him, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“You earned it,” Max said simply.
Oscar Piastri followed, hugging him hard. “Proud of you, mate.”
Lando nodded, unable to speak yet, too busy pulling off his gloves, his fireproof layers — hands moving on autopilot while his heart lagged behind reality.
He bent down to undo the shoe thermal protectors.
And then—
Impact.
A small body collided straight into his legs.
“DADDY!”
He laughed, instinctively catching Lydia before she tipped them both over, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
The moment shattered him.
He pressed his face into her curls, shoulders shaking as silent sobs ripped through him — joy so big it had nowhere else to go.
Lydia sensed it instantly.
She pulled back, cupping his cheeks with both hands, tiny thumbs wiping away his tears with careful concentration.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “don’t cry.”
He laughed weakly. “I know, baby.”
“I don’t like when you cry,” she added. “Mommy says we don’t cry on happy days.”
That made him smile — wide, glowing, impossibly proud.
“You’re right,” he whispered, kissing her hands. “Your mommy is very wise.”
From a few steps away, YN had both hands over her mouth, tears streaming freely. Beside her, his mum, Cisca Norris, cried openly, chest heaving at the sight of her son holding his daughter like she was the entire universe.
“Daddy,” Lydia announced proudly, lifting her chin. “You are world champion.”
He nodded, voice thick. “I am.”
Then he glanced at the bracelet on his wrist — papaya beads, tiny McLaren charm glinting under the lights.
“But only because of your lucky bracelet,” he said conspiratorially.
Her grin was instant. Victorious.
Then he turned.
And saw YN.
Everything else faded again.
He walked toward her slowly, carefully — like he needed to feel every step to make sure this wasn’t a dream he might wake from. Lydia remained in his arms, one small hand wrapped around his neck.
When he reached YN, she didn’t hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around both of them, pulling her family into a tight embrace. Lando leaned into her instantly, forehead resting against hers, breathing her in like oxygen.
Then he kissed her.
Not the quick peck of celebration. Not the polite, public display.
This kiss was deep. Anchoring. Considered.
His free arm wrapped firmly around her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to hold himself upright through her. The kiss tasted like salt and champagne-to-be and relief.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips.
“I love you,” she replied, voice breaking.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes shining impossibly bright. “Thank you. For everything. For every sacrifice you’ve made. For holding us together. For loving me when this dream took so much from us.”
She shook her head gently, smiling through tears. “You never took anything from us. We chose this. We chose you.”
His jaw trembled.
“My lucky girls,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Lydia’s temple again.
YN took a breath then.
A steadying one.
There was something she had carried quietly all night — something precious, fragile, and impossibly hopeful. She had waited for the right moment, and suddenly she knew.
This was it.
“You know,” she said softly, fingers brushing against his, “someone else is very proud of you too.”
Lando frowned slightly, confusion knitting his brows. “Who?”
She guided his hand gently to her stomach.
“This little cherry,” she whispered. “They’re very happy for their daddy.”
Time stopped.
His breath stuttered.
“You—” His voice cracked completely. “Are you—?”
She nodded, tears spilling freely. “Yes.”
The sound that left him was broken and beautiful — joy crashing through him all at once.
He lifted her carefully, spinning her as laughter and tears mixed freely, kissing her again and again. “I’m the happiest man alive,” he whispered fiercely. “I swear.”
He set her down gently and knelt just enough to press a reverent kiss to her stomach — slow, intentional, full of awe.
Lydia frowned. “Daddy… why you kiss Mommy’s tummy?”
He looked up at her, smiling wider than she’d ever seen. “Because your baby brother or sister is growing in there.”
Her eyes widened. “A baby?”
“Yes.”
She nodded solemnly. “Okay. I teach baby racing.”
YN laughed into Lando’s shoulder as he hugged them both again, overwhelmed beyond words.
After that, everything blurred beautifully.
Lando hugged his mum first — holding her tight as she cried into his shoulder, whispering how proud she was, how much she loved him. His dad joined them, turning it into a family embrace that smelled like familiarity and safety.
His siblings followed — laughter, tears, teasing him through emotion, pride radiating from every one of them.
Then came the interviews.
Cameras found him easily now — the new world champion.
David Coulthard stood beside him, smiling warmly as the crowd roared behind them.
“Lando Norris,” he said. “You are the world champion.”
Lando laughed shakily, wiping at his eyes even as his smile refused to fade. “Oh god. Umm… I haven’t cried in a while. I didn’t think I would cry but— I did.”
He paused, exhaling deeply. “It’s been a long journey. It’s been a long journey.”
He thanked McLaren. His parents. His competitors — Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri — speaking with genuine respect.
When David gestured toward the sidelines, where YN stood with Lydia in her arms, he smiled softly.
“Your wife and daughter are here with you tonight. How does it feel to share this moment with your family?”
Lando didn’t hesitate.
“I wouldn’t be here without her,” he said simply. “She holds everything together. She’s balancing her own career — filming, interviews, recording, tours — raising our daughter, and still finds a way to be here for me. I don’t know how she does it.”
YN felt her chest tighten.
“She never complains,” he continued. “No matter how tired she is. No matter how stressful things get. This trophy belongs to her as much as it does to me. She deserves it more than I do.”
Then he smiled again — softer, brighter.
“And we’ve got another little one on the way.”
The crowd erupted.
YN laughed through tears, Lydia clapping enthusiastically without fully understanding why.
The climb up to the podium felt unreal.
Lando walked slowly, steps deliberate, as if he were afraid the moment might slip through his fingers if he moved too fast. The noise around him was deafening — the roar of the crowd, the echo of his name bouncing off grandstands, the bass of celebratory music vibrating through the structure beneath his feet.
Yet somehow, inside his chest, there was a quiet.
A stillness.
He stood between champions — the best in the world — but tonight, something about him was different. Something settled. The restless hunger that had driven him for years finally had somewhere to rest.
Below the podium, YN stood holding Lydia, her arms wrapped securely around her little body. Lydia’s head rested on her shoulder, curls slightly damp from the heat and excitement, green eyes fixed unwaveringly on her daddy.
“Daddy up high,” she murmured in awe.
YN smiled through the tears threatening to spill again. “Yes, baby. That’s your daddy.”
Lando searched the crowd instinctively.
And found them.
The moment his eyes locked with YN’s, everything else fell away. The flashing cameras blurred. The noise dulled. He saw her smile — proud, tearful, unwavering — and Lydia’s tiny hand waving enthusiastically in his direction.
He lifted his hand, blowing them a kiss.
YN pressed her fingers to her lips and sent it back, Lydia mimicking her perfectly, giggling as she did.
The trophy presentation began.
Metal gleamed under the lights as the third-place trophy was handed to him — solid, cold, real. When it landed in his hands, the weight surprised him. Not because of the metal, but because of what it represented.
Years of doubt.
Years of waiting.
Years of almosts.
He lifted it slowly.
The crowd erupted.
The sound washed over him in waves, vibrating in his bones. His grip tightened as emotion swelled in his chest, tears pooling once again in his eyes.
He tipped his head back slightly, blinking rapidly — but he didn’t fight it this time.
He let himself feel it.
Let himself be it.
Then came the champagne.
The cork popped sharply, spraying liquid gold into the air. It splashed over his shoulders, soaked his hair, streaked down his fireproof suit. He laughed — a genuine, unrestrained laugh — as he shook the bottle and sprayed it outward, toward the sky, toward the crowd, toward the dream that had finally said yes.
The music swelled.
But even then — even with champagne dripping from his lashes — his eyes searched the crowd again.
Found them.
YN had lifted Lydia higher now so she could see better, and Lydia clapped enthusiastically, shouting something that only Lando could understand because it didn’t need words.
That’s my daddy.
He mouthed it clearly this time.
I love you.
YN’s breath hitched as she mouthed it back.
Lando smiled — wide, emotional, completely undone — and mouthed it one last time.
This was for you.
As the confetti rained down and the lights burned bright, he stood tall on the podium — world champion not just in title, but in the life waiting for him below.
And when he finally stepped down, he knew something with absolute certainty:
No trophy in the world would ever feel heavier — or more precious — than the love he was carrying with him off that stage.
Lando raised the trophy again.
Higher.
This time, he punched the air with his free hand — once, twice, over and over again — a release of everything he’d carried for so long. The gesture wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t for the cameras.
He stood still, hands at his sides, eyes forward — but inside, everything was spinning. Memories collided all at once: wet karting tracks, early mornings, cramped vans, the ache of coming so close and falling short.
It was for the boy who had dreamed quietly.
For the man who had refused to give up.
For the family who had believed before the world did.
Below the podium, Lydia rested her head against YN’s shoulder, eyes heavy but shining.
“Daddy win,” she whispered sleepily.
“Yes,” YN whispered back, kissing her temple. “Daddy won.”
Lando took one last look at them before stepping back, clutching the trophy to his chest for a brief moment — grounding himself in its reality.
World Champion.
Husband.
Father.
Soon-to-be father again.
As he descended from the podium, champagne still dripping from his hair, heart still pounding in his chest, he knew with absolute certainty:
This wasn’t just the peak of his career.
It was the moment his dream stood tall — and bowed — in front of the life he had built.
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summary: your sister finds out about your relationship with steve and you beg for her not to tell your dad
cw: kissing, interrupted foreplay, fluff, pet names
a/n: sorry to the person who i just straight up lied to about when i was posting this😭 anyway its here now hope you like it!
w/c: 1.1k
Hopper was doing a late shift, El was falling asleep to the tv in her room, and you had finished work for the day.
The moment you got in and realised your dad was working late you knew exactly how you were going to spend your night.
You made a quick call to Steve telling him to come round before you'd even removed your shoes and set down your bag.
"Dads working late"
"Say no more"
rushing past your sisters room, you checked to make sure she was distracted. to your luck she was seemingly asleep, the tv just a distant murmur.
You change out of your work clothes, into an oversized hoodie (one of Steve's) and some nice underwear (Steve's favourites), ready for him.
Whilst you were waiting you opened a can of coke, made your bed, spraying extra perfume all over your self and the bed sheets.
Before you knew it, Steve was knocking on your bedroom window. You jump up from the edge of your bed and leap to let him in.
You unlock it and open the window, Steve pushing his body in before you could even open the little door properly.
about to ask him why he came to the window instead of the door, he cut you off, kissing your mouth hard and needy.
Stumbling slightly, you kiss back just as hard. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, pure desperation, saying how much you missed each other without words.
His hands hold onto your waist over the hoodie fabric, balancing you as he continued his assault on your lips.
You pull back to catch your breath, and speak to him, Steve just latches onto your throat, kissing, sucking and biting on your delicate skin.
"Steve.." You were breathless, whiny.
He moaned into your neck, right under your ear, vibrations sending a wave of heat right through you.
"Why.. did you- you could have come to the door-"
"Habit I guess" He pulls back to look at you.
hands flying to his face, your fingertips graze his hairline, making him shiver under your touch. As one of his arms fully wraps around your waist the other hand moves to hold your neck.
"Missed you so much"
"Missed you too"
Your lips reconnect in a softer way, the heat still there, getting hotter even, but the desperation has faded into something more familiar.
His arm bunches up the hoodie, bringing it to sit above your hips, your ass fully on display.
"Tell me princess, what's going on under this hoodie?" He groans against your lips, knowing the answer.
"Not much.."
feeling up your back, his hands slip under the thick fabric, half expecting a thin tank top or bra strap. When he gets up to your neck without feeling anything he literally whimpers into your mouth making you smirk.
"Jesus- you tryna kill me?"
You giggle around the kiss, softening it to light pecks across his face as your hands paw at the fabric of his t-shirt.
He understands, pulling back and ripping it off his body. Your hands graze his bare chest, feeling the small patch of hair under your fingertips.
You've been slowly moving this whole time, you only realise when the back of your legs hit the mattress, causing you to wobble.
Without stopping, steve lowers you down on your back. You fall into the mattress, wrapping your legs around Steve's hips stopping him from drifting away from you.
He leans down over your body, bracing his forearms beside your head, fingers playing with your splayed out hair.
"I need you so bad Steve"
"You've got me baby girl"
pulling up your hoodie a bit more, you stop just under your boobs, showing from your upper stomach down.
The sight drives Steve crazy as he leans down into your neck and-
"oh"
You freeze, choking on a gasp, dropping your arms from Steve's neck at the sound of a voice that wasn't from the two of you.
"I- uh"
Steve's cheeks are so red you can feel the heat radiating off them. He steps back slowly, not knowing what to do with his hands.
sitting up at the same time, you avoid eye contact with everyone as you do. Slowly you turn to the door where your sister is standing.
"El I-"
"I knocked but"
"Sorry I- um-
Steve is trying to discreetly put his t-shirt back on behind you, you pulling at the bottom of the hoodie trying to cover up more.
the feeling of your rapid heart rate is making you dizzy, making you fumble your words as you try to come up with some sort of explanation.
"Okay okay first-" You stand up and point to El. "Don't tell dad"
"Okay"
"I swear El this is serious"
She nods quickly, eyes flicking between you and Steve.
"You-" She points at Steve.
His eyes widen, almost scared of the girl.
"Yeah it's just Steve, Dustin's friend you know him"
He waves sheepishly, like this is their first time interacting. taking the opportunity of El distracted by watching Steve, you slip on some shorts.
"Steve"
"Okay so- uh yeah okay Steve is-"
"Boyfriend"
"Yeah exactly and uh- what you saw, don't think about that and definitely don't tell dad about that"
"Don't tell"
"Promise to not tell"
"promise"
"Okay good.. El I'm so sorry”
Steve's stayed silent this whole time, wanting the walls to swallow him up. El looks to him this time and smiles, in which Steve awkwardly smiles back.
"What did you need?"
"Uh- Bunny fell apart, you can fix?" She holds up a pink and white bundle of fabric, the teddy that you made for her when she first moved in over a year ago.
You look to Steve with a guilty look, apologising for the whole situation.
"It's fine you uh-"
"Just.. come with us Steve"
"But-"
"Dads not here it's fine" you nod at him reassuringly.
walking to the doorway, you take the teddy from El and direct her to the living room.
She gets the sewing kit from the kitchen as you settle on your dad's chair. El stays standing watching you intently as you sew up the bunny, Steve watching from the sofa beside you.
"Princess, I didn't know you could se"
"Yeah- not much just like, small things"
You finish the last stitch and tie it off, handing it back to El who beams bright.
"Okay, back to bed you" You stand, herding El back to her room.
Once she gets to the door she doubles back, hugging you good night. When she pulls away she doesn't turn into her room but instead walks to Steve and hugs him too.
He hesitates at first but then cautiously wraps his arms around the girl.
"I'll keep you a secret" She says as she pulls back and walks to her room, not before you grab her forcefully and kiss her head.
back in your respective rooms, you pull Steve into your arms, kissing him softly, hands tight on his biceps.
"'m sorry baby" You whisper against his lips.
"It's fine, she's sweet"
"She won't tell, she owes me anyway"
"Think she approves?"
"Definitely" You kiss him again wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him back down into your bed, ready to pick up where you left off.
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i knowwww ur request are really full rn but if i don’t send this now ill forget. so. as a society i think we need party girl/no shame/horny asf leclerc youngest sister reader x lando. where she’s lowk just traumatizing the hell out of her brothers while lando fights for his life
No Shame, No Regrets
Lando Norris x Leclerc!reader
Synopsis: She's confident, unapologetic, and relentlessly flirty. Zero filter, maximum chaos - meet baby Leclerc.
Moonlight Radio: and yes my requests are practically bursting at the seems but I really enjoyed writing this one - I hope u like it!
The Monaco Grand Prix paddock was buzzing with its usual energy-team personnel rushing between motorhomes, journalists hunting for quotes, and drivers navigating the controlled chaos. Charles Leclerc was mid-conversation with his engineer when he heard it.
That laugh.
His head whipped around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Sure enough, there she was: Y/N Leclerc, his youngest sister, wearing a sundress that was perfectly appropriate yet somehow still made him want to throw a blanket over her, leaning against the McLaren hospitality area like she owned the place.
And she was talking to Lando Norris.
"-honestly think it's the way you handle the curves," Y/N was saying, her voice carrying just enough for Charles to catch it. "Very... smooth. Controlled. I appreciate a man who knows exactly what he's doing with his hands."
Lando's eyes widened slightly, a grin tugging at his lips. "I—are we still talking about driving?"
"Are we?" Y/N tilted her head, her smile absolutely wicked. "I was definitely talking about driving, Lando. What did you think I meant?"
Charles felt his eye twitch. That was his sister. Talking to his friend. About... he didn't even want to know.
"Y/N," he called out, his voice strained.
She turned, her expression brightening. "Charlie! I was just complimenting Lando on his performance. He's been doing so well this season, don't you think? Really... hard work paying off."
The way she said 'hard' should be illegal.
Lando coughed, clearly fighting back laughter. "Hey, mate. Your sister was just—"
"I heard what my sister was doing," Charles interrupted, his jaw tight. He switched to French, directing his words at Y/N. "What are you doing here?"
She responded in English, because of course she did. "Supporting my favorite driver, obviously."
"I'm your brother."
"I said what I said." She turned back to Lando, whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. "Anyway, I should let you get back to... whatever it is you do to prepare. Stretching? I bet you're very flexible."
"Oh my God," Charles muttered.
"I do yoga sometimes," Lando offered, because apparently he had a death wish.
"Do you?" Y/N's eyes lit up. "I'd love to see your downward dog sometime."
"I'm leaving," Charles announced. "Y/N, you're coming with me."
"I'm twenty-three, Charles."
"I don't care if you're forty-three, you're not—" He gestured vaguely at Lando, who was now openly grinning. "This. You're not doing this."
"Doing what? Having a conversation?" Y/N's expression was pure innocence. "Lando doesn't mind. Do you, Lando?"
Lando looked between the two siblings, clearly weighing his options. Self-preservation lost to entertainment value. "I mean, it's a free paddock."
Charles pointed at him. "You. Stop encouraging her."
"I'm not encouraging anything! She's just-“
"Very friendly," Y/N finished. "It's called being personable, Charles. You should try it sometime." She patted her brother's cheek and walked away, calling over her shoulder, "See you around, Norris!"
Lando watched her go, then turned to Charles with barely contained amusement. "Your sister is-“
"Don't," Charles warned. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
"I was going to say 'funny.'"
"That's not what she's trying to be."
"Oh, I know." Lando's grin was absolutely shit-eating. "Mate, you look like you're about to have an aneurysm."
"I might," Charles admitted. "She's going to be here all weekend."
"Is she?" Lando looked far too pleased about that information.
Charles pointed at him again. "Stay away from my sister."
"She approached me!"
"Then run away next time!"
—
The next morning, Lando was reviewing data in the McLaren garage when someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned to find Y/N holding two coffee cups, wearing jeans and a McLaren-orange crop top that he was absolutely certain she'd chosen specifically to torment her brother.
"Morning," she said brightly. "Brought you coffee. Flat white, right? I asked around."
"You asked around about my coffee order?"
"I'm thorough." She handed him the cup, her fingers brushing his deliberately. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine?" It came out as a question. Lando glanced around the garage, noting several mechanics suddenly very interested in their work while clearly eavesdropping. "Did you need something?"
"Just wanted to wish you luck for practice. And tell you that I think you're going to do really well this weekend." She leaned against his workstation. "You've got great... stamina. For the long races, I mean. Very impressive endurance."
One of the mechanics dropped a wrench.
Lando bit his lip, trying not to laugh. "Thanks? That's... yeah, endurance is important in racing."
"In lots of things," Y/N agreed solemnly.
"Y/N!" Charles's voice carried across the garage like the wrath of God. He appeared moments later, looking like he'd aged five years overnight. "Why are you in the McLaren garage?"
"Bringing Lando coffee. Want some? Oh wait, you're Ferrari. Guess you're stuck with their coffee. Shame."
"Can I talk to you?" Charles didn't wait for an answer, taking her elbow. "Privately?"
"We're just talking, Charles."
"You're not just talking, you're-" He seemed to struggle for words. "You're doing that thing you do!"
"What thing?" Y/N's innocence was Oscar-worthy.
"The thing where you-" Charles glanced at Lando, then lowered his voice. "Can you please not flirt with my friends in their workplace?"
"I'm networking."
"That's not networking!"
"Fine, I'm shooting my shot. Is that better?"
Charles looked like he wanted to scream. "He's my friend!"
"So I have good taste. It runs in the family." She patted his chest. "Relax, Charlie. I'm just having fun. Besides, Lando doesn't seem to mind." She looked past Charles to where Lando was definitely listening while pretending not to. "Do you, Lando?"
Lando knew the correct answer. The safe answer. The answer that would preserve his friendship with Charles and prevent any awkwardness.
"I mean, the coffee's good," he said instead.
Charles turned to glare at him. "You're not helping."
"I'm just being honest!"
"Be less honest!" Charles turned back to Y/N. "You. Ferrari motorhome. Now."
"So demanding," Y/N sighed. "Fine. But for the record, I'm an adult and you can't actually tell me what to do." She wiggled her fingers at Lando. "Bye, Lando. Love watching you work."
After they left, one of the mechanics sidled up to Lando. "Mate, Charles is going to murder you."
"Probably," Lando agreed, taking a sip of the coffee. "But did you see his face? Totally worth it."
—
In the Ferrari motorhome, Charles was pacing while Y/N sat on the couch, examining her nails.
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Charles demanded.
"I'm trying to get laid, actually, but sure, let's make it about you."
"Y/N!"
"What?" She looked up at him. "You're acting like I'm doing something crazy. I think Lando's hot. I'm making my interest known. This is normal human behavior."
"Not in the paddock! Not with my friends! Not-" He gestured frantically. "Not like that!"
"Like what?"
"Like you're... you're..." Charles struggled. "You told him you wanted to see his downward dog!"
"I do. I bet he's very bendy."
Charles made a noise like a dying animal. "Please. Please, Y/N. Have mercy on me."
"Charlie." She stood up, her expression softening slightly. "I love you. You're my big brother and you're amazing. But you don't get to police who I'm attracted to or how I express that attraction."
"I'm not trying to police you, I'm trying to save myself from having to hear my baby sister talk about-" He shuddered. "I can't even say it."
"Sex?" Y/N supplied helpfully.
"Stop!"
"Charles, I'm going to say this once: I like Lando. He's funny, he's cute, and he seems into it. I'm going to continue shooting my shot. You can either accept that or spend the whole weekend stressed." She headed for the door, then paused. "Also, for what it's worth? He has really nice hands. Like, really nice. I bet he's great at—"
"GET OUT!"
Y/N's laughter echoed down the hallway.
—
That night, Lando was heading back to his hotel room after dinner when he heard his name. He turned to find Y/N leaning against the wall near his door, wearing a little black dress that made his brain short-circuit slightly.
"Do you just... lurk in hallways?" he asked.
"Only when I'm hunting," she said with a grin. "Good dinner?"
"It was fine. How did you know which room was mine?"
"I have my ways." She pushed off the wall, moving closer. "Want to know a secret?"
"I feel like I shouldn't say yes to that."
"Charles's room is two doors down."
Lando's eyes widened. "Why would you tell me that?"
"Because I think it's funny how nervous it makes you." She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume. "You're not actually scared of my brother, are you?"
"Terrified," Lando admitted. "He's very intense when he wants to be."
"So am I." Her voice dropped lower. "When I want something."
"Y/N..." Lando's voice came out rougher than intended. "What are you doing?"
"Right now? Trying to figure out if you're interested or just being polite because I'm Charles's sister."
"Can't it be both?"
She laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "I like you, Lando. You're funny. You don't take yourself too seriously. And you've got this whole thing-" She gestured vaguely at him. "—that really works for me."
"What thing?"
"The slightly chaotic, definitely charming, probably-trouble-but-in-a-fun-way thing."
"That's a lot of hyphens."
"You're deflecting."
"I'm processing," Lando corrected. "Your brother is two doors down, you're standing here looking like that, and I'm trying to figure out if this is a test."
"It's not a test. It's an invitation."
"To?"
"Whatever you want it to be." She stepped back, giving him space. "But no pressure. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted you to know that I'm genuinely interested. Not just messing around to annoy Charles, though that's a fun bonus."
Lando studied her for a moment. She was beautiful, obviously, but there was something else-a confidence, a directness that he found incredibly attractive. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"And you don't care that Charles might actually kill me?"
"He won't. He'll threaten to, but he won't." She smiled. "Besides, I'm very good at protecting what's mine."
"I'm yours now?"
"Not yet. But I'm patient." She started walking backward down the hall. "Sleep well, Norris. Dream of me."
"You're ridiculous," he called after her.
"You're smiling!"
He was. He really, really was.
—
The team dinner the following night was supposed to be a nice, civilized affair. Key word: supposed.
Lando arrived to find Y/N already seated, strategically positioned between an empty chair (which he suspected was meant for him) and across from Charles and her other brother—Arthur, who looked equally uncomfortable.
"Lando!" Y/N brightened. "Saved you a seat."
Charles's fork clattered against his plate.
"Thanks," Lando said, because what else could he do? He sat down, very aware of Charles's death stare from across the table.
"So," Y/N said conversationally as she reached for her wine, "Lando, I was thinking about what you said earlier about racing lines."
He hadn't said anything about racing lines.
"About how important it is to find the right entry point?" she continued innocently.
Arthur choked on his water.
"And how you have to be patient, wait for the right moment, and then commit fully once you're sure?"
"Y/N," Charles said warningly.
"What? I'm talking about racing." She turned to Lando. "Isn't that what you said?"
Lando was trying so hard not to laugh. "I... might have said something like that."
"I thought so. It's good advice. Applicable to lots of situations." She took a sip of wine. "Like overtaking, for example. You have to be confident, decisive. Really go for the gap."
"Oh my God," Arthur muttered.
"And the way you handle pressure," Y/N continued, her expression perfectly innocent. "Very impressive. You stay so calm even when things get intense. That's a valuable skill."
Charles was gripping his fork like a weapon.
"Some people fall apart under pressure," she mused. "But you? You seem like you'd be very... composed. Very focused. Even in high-stress situations."
"Y/N, I swear to God-" Charles started.
"What? I'm complimenting his driving!" She looked around the table. "Why is everyone being weird?"
"You know exactly why," Arthur said.
"Do I?" She turned back to Lando, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Lando, do you feel uncomfortable?"
He should say yes. He should absolutely say yes.
"I feel like I'm in danger," he said instead, "but not uncomfortable."
Y/N's smile was radiant. "See? He's fine."
"I'm not fine," Charles interjected. "None of this is fine."
"Charlie, you need to relax. You're going to give yourself an ulcer." Y/N reached for the bread basket. "Besides, I'm just making conversation. If your mind is going somewhere inappropriate, that's on you."
"My mind isn't-you're deliberately-" Charles looked at Arthur for support.
Arthur held up his hands. "I'm staying out of this."
"Coward," Charles muttered.
The dinner continued in much the same fashion, with Y/N making increasingly suggestive comments disguised as innocent observations, Charles slowly dying inside, Arthur pretending to be invisible, and Lando caught between amusement and genuine fear for his life.
By the time dessert arrived, Charles looked like he'd aged another five years.
"You know what I appreciate about you, Lando?" Y/N said, scraping the last of her tiramisu from the plate.
"I'm almost afraid to ask," Lando admitted.
"You've got a great sense of humor. You don't take things too seriously. Life's too short to be uptight all the time." She glanced meaningfully at Charles. "Some people could learn from that."
"Some people don't have to watch their baby sister openly flirt with their friends," Charles shot back.
"I'm not a baby, I'm twenty-three."
"You're still my baby sister!"
"That's a you problem, not a me problem."
Arthur stood up abruptly. "I'm going to the bathroom. For a long time. Maybe forever."
After he left, Y/N leaned closer to Lando. "Want to get out of here? There's a club nearby. Much better atmosphere than... this." She gestured at Charles's miserable face.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Lando said, even as he was already mentally saying yes.
"It's a great idea. Charles can come too if he wants to chaperone."
"I'm not chaperoning anything," Charles said firmly. "I'm going back to the hotel to drink and forget this dinner happened."
"Your loss." Y/N stood, smoothing down her dress. "Lando?"
He looked at Charles, who was shaking his head frantically. Then he looked at Y/N, who was smiling like she'd already won.
"One drink," Lando said, standing up.
Charles dropped his head into his hands. "I need new friends."
—
The club was packed, the music loud enough to feel in your chest. Y/N had dragged Lando straight to the VIP section, where several other drivers and their friends were already celebrating the weekend.
"Want a drink?" she asked, leaning close to be heard over the music.
"I'll get them," Lando offered.
"Such a gentleman." She touched his arm. "Vodka soda, please."
When he returned with their drinks, she'd claimed a small section of the couch. He sat next to her, very aware of how close they were.
"So," she said, taking a sip of her drink, "are we going to keep dancing around this, or are you going to admit you're interested?"
"Pretty sure of yourself."
"I am. But I'm also right." She angled toward him. "You've been flirting back all weekend."
"I've been trying not to die."
"You can do both." She set her drink down. "Dance with me."
"That's not a question."
"No, it's not."
On the dance floor, with the music pounding and the lights flashing, things felt different. Less performative. More real.
"Can I ask you something?" Lando said, his hands on her waist.
"Anything."
"Is this really just to mess with Charles, or...?"
Y/N's expression softened. "You think I'd put this much effort in just to annoy my brother? I mean, it's a fantastic bonus, don't get me wrong. But no." She looped her arms around his neck. "I think you're genuinely great. You're funny, you're talented, you don't take yourself too seriously. And you're hot, which doesn't hurt."
"Very romantic."
"I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to be honest." She bit her lip. "I like you, Lando. For real. Not as a joke, not as a game. I like you."
Something in Lando's chest loosened. "I like you too. Even though you're absolutely insane."
"Especially because I'm insane," she corrected.
"That too." He pulled her closer. "Your brother really is going to kill me."
"Probably. But what a way to go."
"You're terrible."
"You like it."
"I really do."
She kissed him then, and it was nothing like the careful, tentative first kisses he'd had before. This was confident, sure, a little bit reckless-exactly like her.
When they broke apart, she was grinning. "So, was it worth the risk?"
"Ask me after I survive the week."
"Y/N MARIE LECLERC!"
They both turned to find Charles and Arthur standing at the edge of the dance floor, looking like avenging angels.
"Oh shit," Lando muttered.
"Relax." Y/N didn't even look concerned. "Charlie! Arthur! Want to dance?"
"We want to talk," Charles said, his voice tight. "Now."
They moved to a quieter corner, though 'quiet' was relative. Charles looked like he was vibrating with the effort of staying calm.
"Are you serious right now?" he demanded, looking between them.
"Very," Y/N said simply.
"You—" Charles pointed at Lando. "You kissed my sister."
"Technically, she kissed me."
"NOT HELPING!"
"Charles." Y/N stepped forward. "I'm an adult. Lando's an adult. We like each other. You don't get a vote."
"He's my friend!"
"And I'm your sister. So either you accept this, or you spend the next however-long being miserable while we date anyway." She crossed her arms. "Your choice."
Charles looked at Arthur, who shrugged. "She's got a point."
"You're supposed to be on my side!"
"I am on your side. I'm also a realist." Arthur clapped Charles on the shoulder. "She's going to do what she wants. She always does."
Charles turned back to them, his expression pained. "I can't believe this is happening."
"Believe it," Y/N said cheerfully. "Oh, and Charlie? You might want to invest in noise-canceling headphones. Hotel walls are thin."
"Y/N!" Charles looked genuinely horrified.
"I'm kidding! Mostly." She grabbed Lando's hand. "Come on, let's get another drink."
As they walked away, Lando heard Arthur say, "At least she's happy?"
And Charles's response: "I hate everything."
Lando looked down at Y/N, who was grinning like she'd won the lottery. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Yeah," she agreed happily. "But you're going to have fun dying."
── ✴︎ HOW TO BE A GREAT ROMANTIC. && where harry uses james potter's guide of how you get the girl.
❪ ✴︎. ❫ ❝ this ideia had been in my notes for so long, and I finally had the courage to post it. harry potter is so loverboy coded. James Potter being a chaotic romantic but manages to get the girl. a bit ooc harry potter (?) canon inconsistencies, quidditch injuries, a bit angsty(?) english is not my first language, so there may be spelling errors. corrections are welcome 𖹭
HARRY JAMES POTTER WAS HEAD OVER HEELS FOR HIS DREAM GIRL...
And, naturally, he had no idea how to talk to her without being a complete disaster - much less work up the courage to ask you out.
So he did what he thought was the brightest idea at the time: he went to his father, James Potter, and his greatest proof that he could indeed get the girl of his dreams to ask for advice.
It was around summer break, when he was back home and every friend of his, especially Hermione and Ron, were tired of his antics towards you.
While helping his dad clean, Harry stumbled across an old letter James had written to Lily back in their Hogwarts days.
“Ha! I remember this one,” James said, grinning. “There I was, writing poetry that could rival Shakespeare himself. And the only thing your mother did was hex me.”
That was when Harry noticed an opportunity. He tried to act disinterested as he picked up another gift, deliberately avoiding his father’s gaze.
“How did you get Mum to agree to go out with you, Dad?”
The question made James grin as he ran a hand through his untidy hair.
“That’s it, Harry. It’s in our blood, as you can see. The Potter charm.”
He slipped an arm around Harry’s shoulders, gesturing animatedly with his free hand.
“Something that not even a brilliant witch like your mother could resist.”
“The charm might not work on her, then,” Harry muttered, fiddling with the small stuffed lion he’d found tucked away.
James’s expression turned even more playful as he asked
“Is there a girl?”
“No! I mean—” Harry tried his best to look uninterested, though he was fairly certain he’d gone red as a tomato by now. He hid behind the stuffed lion for a second before peeking shyly at his father.
“There is this girl, and I can’t even get within three metres of her without turning into a complete mess.”
The honesty in his voice seemed to send his father into a fit of laughter, and Harry could only grumble, doing his best not to look even more mortified.
“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” James said.
Harry shot him a thoroughly unimpressed look.
“I tripped over absolutely nothing just because I heard her laugh. Even Errol has better coordination than that.”
James wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand before giving Harry’s shoulders a comforting squeeze, clearly sensing his tension.
“Harry, trying to talk to the girl you like can be worse than sitting through History of Magic on no sleep at all.”
“Easy for you to say,” Harry muttered. “You got the girl.”
The comment brought a smile to his father’s face.
“I did,” James said, “but that doesn’t mean it was easy. Your mother took a long time to believe that a bloke like me actually wanted to go out with her. " He winced playfully at the memory. "Despite the fact that I’m fairly certain I shouted it from every corner of Hogwarts.”
“But I’m sure you can ask her out,” James said, giving his son’s shoulders a playful shove. “After all, you’ve got the Potter charm—and something even better.”
He rummaged through a few things before producing an old book that looked as though it might fall apart at any moment, and handed it to Harry.
How to Get The Girl, by James Potter.
“That,” James said, “is all the romantic knowledge a lad like you will ever need to win her over.”
He placed the book into Harry’s hands before turning toward Harry’s mother, who seemed to have been listening for quite some time, judging by the smile she was wearing.
“After all,” James added lightly, “We Potters always have the luck, and the charm, to get the girl.”
“Isn’t that right, Lilypad?” James asked teasingly, winking at Harry before pressing a kiss to his wife’s cheek.
Lily rolled her eyes fondly.
“Don’t let that inflate your ego any further, Potter.”
She smiled lovingly at James, then reached up to try and tame her son’s unruly hair.
“Just be yourself,” she said gently. “I’m sure any girl would be very lucky to have you, sweetheart. And don’t overdo it like your father. I don’t want to receive a letter from Professor McGonagall because you’ve enchanted paper birds to perform a serenade.”
She shot James an accusatory look, but he only laughed before pulling her toward the stack of letters they had once exchanged.
Watching his parents with a warm feeling in his chest, Harry thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do this.
Get the girl of his dreams.
James Potter's guide of how you get the girl
STEP 1: Give her flowers.
The first step seemed easy enough. After all, what girl didn’t like flowers?
Harry spent a long time carefully choosing a bundle of wildflowers, arranging them with more care than he would ever admit to anyone.
Hermione tried to say something about the flowers, something important, judging by her tone, but he was far too nervous to listen. He didn’t leave a note, but he did manage to have the flowers delivered precisely at breakfast, so he could see your reaction without making a complete fool of himself with some obvious loverboy display.
At first, everything seemed to be going well. He watched you from a safe distance, doing his best not to look like a complete stranger, when the bouquet finally landed in front of you.
Harry felt his heart stop when you smiled at the flowers, lifted them gently to your face and then… started sneezing.
He watched in guilty silence as your friends hurried to hand you a handkerchief, the sneezing fit growing more relentless by the second before they escorted you toward the hospital wing in search of a potion.
He felt even worse when he didn’t see you for the rest of the day, the effects of the allergy keeping you from attending classes altogether.
How was he supposed to know you were allergic to flowers? That certainly hadn’t been part of his plan.
Harry knew that, now more than ever, he would have to do something even more impressive in the next step if he had any hope of winning you over.
STEP 2: Send her notes. Every day.
Maybe writing would be easier than talking.
At least, Harry hoped this step would be less disastrous than the last.
He expected the words to pour out naturally, that he’d be able to write the perfect note for you.
But every word he wrote never quite felt right.
You look very beautiful today, he wrote in the first one.
But it wasn’t enough. You were more than beautiful. And every single day, you made his heart race, to the point Madame Pomfrey once examined him, convinced something was medically wrong.
Your laugh is the best part of my day, he wrote in another, losing count of how many notes he’d written, crumpled, and tossed into the growing pile at the foot of his bed.
Too intimate. He physically shrank in embarrassment just reading it back.
He wrote so many notes that he ran out of ink, had to grab another parchment, and endured endless teasing from the boys when they saw the mess he’d made.
After a long time, and with a little help from Hermione, he finally settled on something simple.
I like it when you smile.
Straightforward. Honest. And something he was absolutely certain he’d never be able to say to your face.
The next morning, he discreetly slipped the note into your bag.
He tried not to look too obvious when you found it at the beginning of Transfiguration, smiling in a way he could only compare to summer night stars.
That smile gave him just enough courage to write another note — something closer to what his father might’ve written.
Of course, that was before Professor Snape ripped it from his hands.
“It has been a long time since I’ve read something so repulsive,” Snape drawled, drawing everyone’s attention.
“You’ve certainly inherited your father’s flair for romance, Potter. Ten points from Gryffindor. Detention.”
STEP 3: Be a gentleman.
Harry hadn’t expected the first two steps to go so wrong.
Still, he was grateful when Ron dragged him to the library alongside an extremely stressed Hermione, already panicking over exams.
He tried not to get involved in their argument about how early it was to start studying. Until he saw you.
You were focused, arms full of books, heading toward the spot near the window where Harry always saw you studying. A place he’d spent far too much time quietly admiring.
Muttering a quick excuse to his arguing friends, Harry hurried after you, and by some twist of fate, managed to catch a book just before it fell from your hands.
He smiled shyly, adjusting his glasses as they threatened to slide down his nose.
“I—I can help with that,” he murmured, taking the stack from you.
Everything seemed to be going well.
He was following the guide, and everyone knew the third time was the charm.
That was, of course, until the loverboy effect kicked in.
Too distracted trying to impress you, especially when it seemed like you were just as interested, Harry forgot to watch where he was going.
One moment, he was trying to make conversation.
The next, he was on the floor after walking straight into a bookshelf.
He winced as Madame Pince’s scolding echoed through the library, but it quickly faded into background noise when he heard you laugh while helping him up.
“Sorry. Are you okay, Harry?”
Maybe it was the impact, but all he could think about was how angelic you looked, sunlight from the window forming a soft halo around you.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, dying of embarrassment as he gathered the fallen books with your help.
After the disaster, conversation flowed more easily.
So wrapped up in your own little bubble, neither of you noticed the knowing smiles on Ron and Hermione’s faces.
Maybe it hadn’t gone so badly after all.
STEP 4: Give her something to show that you care.
Harry had to admit, despite all the major failures, he’d made some progress.
He knew you loved ice-cream cones. That you still kept a stuffed fox from childhood in your dorm. That Charms was your favourite subject. And that one of your happiest memories involved cinnamon rolls dusted with something that reminded you of fairy powder.
So, finally ready to confess what he’d been feeling for weeks, Harry decided to recreate that memory.
He spent days researching bakeries that could get it just right.
The result sat in a simple white box with a small ribbon, carefully placed on the table beside his bed.
He spent even longer writing the letter.
A letter that explained how deeply he was in love.
How you lit up his days just by smiling.
How, even if he couldn’t remember exactly when he fell for you, he recognized the feeling, the same one he saw every day in his parents.
Love.
Harry planned everything carefully. Every detail. Every word. Every moment.
With a note marking a meeting beneath the courtyard gazebo, and dressed in the nicest clothes he could find, he waited for you after classes, heart pounding far too fast for someone convinced he’d done everything right.
He rehearsed his speech over and over while waiting, and nearly forgot how to breathe when he saw you approaching, confusion written adorably across your face.
You were beautiful. As always.
For a moment, his world stopped.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, forced the thought of running away deep down, and smiled shyly as he handed you the box, cinnamon rolls and a bouquet of origami flowers he’d stayed up all night making.
“Harry?”
Your voice snapped him back to the moment.
His mouth went dry, and instead of speaking, he simply held the gifts out.
You accepted them with a smile.
“You remembered.”
“I—” His eyes shone with anticipation, hope blooming in his chest.
He cleared his throat, adjusted his collar, and took a deep breath.
Now or never.
“You like spring, even though you’re allergic to pollen. You collect pens because they have to match your mood. You have a stuffed fox from when you were a kid that you can’t let go of, which is adorable. You love Muggle romance films and wish you could live one someday.”
He smiled, watching the sunset reflect against you as he fidgeted with the seal on the letter.
“And those are just some of the things I remember about you. Because it’s impossible not to remember. I think even if I were Obliviated, I’d still remember everything about you. Because… well. I’m in love with you.”
His breath came out shaky.
“I didn’t know how to say it before, so I followed the guide. The flowers, the notes, being around you, everything went wrong. But I’m tired of not telling you how I feel.”
When he finished, his chest felt lighter.
He lifted his gaze, offering you the letter, what felt like his heart, and waited.
But you didn’t speak.
The silence stretched, and he almost wished other students were around just to break it.
His heart sank.
A cold realization washed over him.
He’d been wrong all along.
You didn’t feel the same.
He let out a shaky laugh, tears burning at his eyes.
“I guess I was mistaken,” he murmured before turning away, not wanting to hear your rejection.
Harry would never get the girl.
STEP 5: Get the girl.
It would be an understatement to say Harry was heartbroken in the days that followed.
He was certain he’d ruined everything, again.
The guide sat forgotten at the bottom of his bag, as if even it were disappointed in him.
He ignored everyone. Hermione’s attempts to rationalize it. Ron’s jokes meant to lighten the mood.
And especially you.
But he couldn’t avoid things forever.
So there he was, on the pitch during one of the most important matches of the year.
Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff.
“And Potter loses sight of the Snitch once again!” Lee Jordan’s voice rang out.
“Looks like he’s too distracted to seize the golden opportunity! Hufflepuff takes the lead — Gryffindor can only win if Potter catches the Snitch!”
Harry barely registered the commentary as he spotted the Snitch near the edge of the pitch and dove.
That was when he saw you.
In the stands. Wearing Gryffindor colours. Smiling at him.
His heart skipped.
Just for a split second.
Long enough for him to miss the Bludger hurtling toward him.
The impact sent a collective gasp through the stands.
Pain exploded through his side as he was thrown from his course.
He barely managed to steady himself on his broom, teeth clenched, breathing ragged.
But then he focused.
On the Snitch.
With renewed determination, Harry dove again, arm outstretched, battling Hufflepuff’s Seeker.
They raced toward the ground.
The crowd held its breath.
The other Seeker hesitated, just for a second.
And that was all Harry needed.
Silence followed.
Then the stands erupted.
“HARRY POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”
His teammates swarmed him in celebration, but he was quickly escorted to the hospital wing as the adrenaline faded and the pain set in.
Cracked ribs.
Worth it.
He laughed with the team, clutching the Snitch, until he saw you approaching, looking furious.
Before he could react, you threw your arms around him.
“Harry James Potter, you are an idiot.”
If he weren’t already in the hospital wing, he was certain he’d be there from how tightly you hugged him.
Everyone discreetly stepped away.
And before he could say a word, you grabbed his collar and kissed him.
It was soft. Brief.
Enough to make his head spin and the ache in his chest turn warm.
Still dazed, he whispered, “But… I thought you rejected me.”
“You didn’t exactly give me time to say anything,” you replied. “I was surprised, and then you just ran.”
He searched your eyes.
“So… does that mean—?”
You smiled and rolled your eyes.
“What I was trying to say before you fled is that I’m in love with you too. And with all the steps that went wrong.”
Harry ducked his head, blushing as he noticed you holding the guide.
“Not my finest moment,” he admitted, pulling you closer and earning a surprised laugh before tossing the book aside and kissing you again.
Love didn’t always work like James Potter’s guide on how to get the girl.
But every awkward attempt, every mistake, every failed plan had been worth it.
Because in the end, Harry Potter got the girl of his dreams.
summery: Abu Dhabi. He did it. He finally fulfilled his childhood dream and his family was right by his side to make the best night of his life even more special.
pairing: Husband!Dad!Lando Norris (WDC) x Wife!Mom!Reader
wc: 4.4 k | 🏎️ MASTER-LIST 🧡 | posted on: 14th December 2025
notes & thoughts: omg it’s been so long guys!! So long since I last posted, like 3 months? I can’t believe it but I was so busy with uni and adjusting into a different country away from family for the first time is not easy and I didn’t take well at start. Now that winter holidays are here and I’m back home, I’m back into writing girlies! I was so excited for Sunday, so anxious and heart pounding hard against my chest like it’ll explode— had my fingers crossed even before the formation lap till radio message telling Lando he was world champion— I didn’t let go till then. My fingers were hurting and numb, tears were falling down my eyes but I didn’t care my parents were watching. I WAS THE HAPPIEST GIRL WATCHING HER MAN WIN🥹
Anyways I hope you enjoy this one-shot! THIS IS MY FIRST LANDO FIC ON THIS ACCOUNT, I love it sm and I hope u do too. If you don’t know yet I love domestic life with f1 drivers and especially girl-dad type. Lando and Charles give me that girl-dad vibes and I’m here for it. Request are OPEN for LN4/1 and CL16. Taglist is OPEN. DMs are always open. 💌 rights reserved to me so don't steal my work. LET ME KNOW YOUR FAVORITE MOMENT(S) in the comments!
The paddock glowed under artificial lights, a world built on anticipation and controlled chaos. Engines hummed in the distance, a constant reminder that time was ticking forward whether anyone was ready or not.
YN stood just outside the driver’s room, fingers curling around the orange clutch in her hand, grounding herself in the texture of the leather. She inhaled slowly, letting the familiar scent of the paddock fill her lungs — fuel, rubber, metal, adrenaline. It had been years since she’d stopped being overwhelmed by it, yet nights like this made everything feel new again.
This wasn’t just another race.
This was the race.
Her dress moved softly with her as she shifted her weight. The pale cream fabric flowed elegantly over her frame, the burnt-orange floral prints blooming boldly against it, as if the dress itself had been made for a McLaren night like this. The slit allowed her to move freely, the heels — papaya-orange stilettos — clicking quietly against the concrete.
Jewelry glinted delicately at her ears and throat. The necklace resting at her collarbone wasn’t just an accessory — it was history. A birthday gift from Lando, back when they were only dating, when everything felt fragile and hopeful and terrifying all at once. She hadn’t taken it off tonight. She didn’t think she ever could.
And of course, Lando’s LN4 jacket — one from his personal collection — hung comfortably on her shoulders, slightly oversized, the sleeves brushing her wrists. The black fabric was accented with papaya details, subtle branding stitched with intention rather than flash. It smelled like him — clean laundry mixed with engine oil and something unmistakably Lando.
Beside her, Lydia was vibrating with excitement.
At just three years old, she had already learned the rhythm of race days — the long waits, the sudden bursts of energy, the importance of cheering loudly and believing fiercely. Her curly hair cascaded down her back in soft spirals, brushing her waist, refusing to stay neat no matter how much effort YN put into styling it. Those curls were unmistakably her mother’s, wild and beautiful, while her bright green eyes — Lando’s eyes — sparkled with wonder.
She wore a plaid cutout t-shirt beneath cream-colored denim overalls, the straps and pocket stitched in vibrant McLaren orange. But what made the outfit extraordinary were the details.
Painted lovingly across the fabric were moments frozen in time — Silverstone 2025, his landmark victory. Miami 2024, the first win that had changed everything. Abu Dhabi. Austria. Tiny pit crew members mid-tire change. F1 cars streaking across painted tracks. It wasn’t just clothing.
It was a story.
“Mommy,” Lydia whispered, tugging gently at YN’s hand. “Daddy nervous?”
YN smiled softly. “A little.”
She squeezed her daughter’s fingers. “But that’s okay.”
YN pushed the door open.
Inside, Lando stood near his locker, already fully suited up — papaya and black hugging his frame like a second skin. The race suit zipped high, gloves resting nearby, helmet waiting on the bench like a promise.
The transformation was always startling.
The man who laughed easily at home, who danced around the kitchen with Lydia balanced on his hip — gone.
In his place stood the driver.
Focused. Silent. Shoulders squared beneath the weight of an entire season.
The tension showed in the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands rested on the bench just a second too long, grounding himself.
YN stepped inside without a word and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing herself into the familiar strength of his back. She rested her cheek between his shoulder blades, the LN4 jacket folding around him like an extension of his own presence; inhaling him — the scent that was uniquely Lando, comfort and adrenaline intertwined.
Instantly, he exhaled.
His shoulders dropped. His breathing steadied.
He reached back automatically, fingers threading with hers, lifting her hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed to her knuckles was soft, reverent.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she murmured.
A breathless chuckle left him. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
He turned slightly, forehead resting against hers, eyes searching her face like he was anchoring himself to reality through her.
“What if it doesn’t go my way?” he whispered. “What if tonight just… isn’t it?”
YN cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “It is it.”
His lips curved faintly. “You sound sure.”
“I am,” she said without hesitation.
She leaned closer, voice steady but thick with emotion. “I’ve watched you fight for this for years. I believed in you when you doubted yourself. Lydia believes in you. Your parents do. Your siblings. Your friends. Every version of you that came before this moment is counting on you.”
His throat tightened.
“Your younger self is watching tonight,” she continued softly. “It was his dream, you’re living in it. Go make him proud.”
His eyes filled.
YN wiped at the tears threatening to spill, blinking hers away. “Save them,” she whispered. “Save them for when you win.”
He pulled her into a slow, tender kiss — one filled with gratitude, love, and everything they’d survived together.
“Ew.”
They broke apart instantly.
Lydia stood in the doorway, dragging Oliver behind her.
Oliver froze. “—I told you this was a bad idea.”
Lydia pointed. “It was your idea.”
Oliver sighed dramatically. “I’m being framed by a three-year-old.”
Lando laughed, tension dissolving. “Get in here.”
The moment Oliver loosened his grip, Lydia sprinted straight into Lando’s arms.
“Daddy!”
He lifted her effortlessly, hugging her tight. “There’s my strategist.”
She squirmed excitedly, reaching into the chest pocket of her overalls. The paddock passes dangling there tangled instantly.
“Oh— careful,” Lando chuckled, helping her untangle them.
She pulled out a bracelet — handmade, sparkling, entirely papaya. Tiny orange slices, a miniature McLaren car, shimmering stones spelling out:
MY DAD IS WORLD CHAMP
“I made it for good luck,” she said proudly.
Lando’s chest clenched.
“You’ll wear it?” she asked.
“Can you put it on me?” he replied.
She did, carefully.
“I promise,” he said softly, kissing her curls, “I’ll never take it off.”
YN stepped closer, wrapping an arm around both of them.
“My real lucky charms,” Lando murmured.
Soon, it was time.
The grid pulsed with life — not loud yet, not chaotic, but vibrating with a restrained intensity that sat just beneath the surface. Engines hummed like beasts waiting to be unleashed. The floodlights bathed the circuit in a sharp, almost unreal glow, turning the asphalt into something sacred.
This was where dreams were decided.
Lydia stood as close to the car as she was allowed, tiny fingers gripping the hem of YN’s dress for balance as she craned her neck upward. To her, the McLaren wasn’t carbon fiber and engineering — it was Daddy’s car. The place where he became something larger than life.
Lando climbed into the cockpit with practiced movements, muscle memory guiding him even while his mind carried the weight of an entire career. YN watched closely — the way his shoulders rolled once before settling, the way he adjusted the belts, the familiar ritual that always came before the storm.
“Daddy,” Lydia said seriously, folding her hands behind her back like she was in a briefing, “remember to brake late in Turn Five. And don’t forget DRS.”
A few mechanics nearby laughed softly.
One of them crouched slightly, smiling at her. “That’s solid advice. You might be the youngest strategist we’ve ever had.”
Lando’s laugh echoed warmly through the helmet, visor still raised. “I’ll listen to her,” he replied. “She’s usually right.”
YN felt her throat tighten at the sound of his voice — calm on the surface, but she knew him well enough to hear the nerves threaded underneath.
She squeezed Lydia’s hand gently, grounding both of them.
As Lando lowered himself fully into the cockpit, his hands sliding onto the wheel, Lydia leaned closer, her voice dropping instinctively — like she understood this was a sacred moment.
“I love you,” she said earnestly. “Win or lose.”
Lando paused.
Just for a second.
It was almost imperceptible, but YN saw it — the way his shoulders squared, the way he nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“I love you more,” he replied softly.
The visor came down.
The engine roared to life.
And just like that, she had to let him go.
As YN guided Lydia away from the car, she felt the shift — that moment when the personal gave way to the professional, when the man she loved became the driver the world watched.
“Mommy, wait!” Lydia tugged suddenly, slipping free with surprising speed.
Before YN could stop her, Lydia was already trotting toward another papaya-clad figure climbing into his own car.
“Uncle Oscar!”
Oscar Piastri turned just in time, a grin spreading across his face as he crouched to catch her in a quick hug.
“Well, hello there,” he laughed.
“Good luck,” Lydia said solemnly, patting his chest like a blessing. “But Daddy gonna win.”
Oscar chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll try not to make it easy for him.”
YN scooped Lydia back up before she could wander further, pressing a kiss into her curls. “You can cheer from here now, okay?”
Lydia nodded enthusiastically, eyes already darting back to the grid as the lights overhead began to glow.
One by one.
Five red lights.
YN’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
Lights out.
The race exploded into motion.
Engines screamed. Cars launched forward in a blur of speed and aggression. The opening laps were chaos — overtakes, defensive lines, heart-stopping near misses.
YN barely blinked.
Her entire focus was locked onto the screen, her body leaning unconsciously with every turn Lando took, like she could guide him through sheer will alone.
He pushed hard.
Smart.
Controlled.
Then — heartbreak.
He lost the lead.
YN’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her dress.
“Oh,” she whispered, more prayer than sound.
Lydia frowned. “Daddy still okay.”
“Yes,” YN said quickly. “He’s still okay.”
And then he fought back.
Lap by lap, corner by corner, Lando clawed his way through the field. The determination in his driving was unmistakable — not reckless, not desperate, but relentless.
Lydia narrated everything in a soft, constant stream, like she was commentating for herself.
“Daddy fast.”
“That car too close.”
“Daddy smart.”
“Daddy wait… now go!”
YN swallowed hard, blinking back tears she hadn’t realized were forming.
Lap 23.
The moment came without warning.
A flash of movement on the screen.
Lando and Yuki Tsunoda tangled just enough for the entire garage to freeze.
Every sound disappeared.
YN’s heart stopped.
Lydia went completely silent.
YN’s mother-in-law, Cisca pulled Lydia instinctively into her arms, holding her tight as if shielding her from the fear radiating through the room. Lydia’s small fingers found her VIP paddock passes, twisting them nervously — the plastic clicking softly against each other.
YN realized, distantly, that she was doing the same thing — fingers fidgeting with the necklace at her throat.
The one Lando had given her on her birthday, years ago, when they were just dating and the future felt fragile and uncertain.
Minutes stretched into eternity.
The screen flickered.
Then —
“He’s still running.”
A collective breath was released.
YN sagged slightly, pressing her lips to Lydia’s curls. “He’s okay, baby.”
“Daddy strong,” Lydia whispered, more reassurance than observation.
The rest of the race was torture.
Every lap felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.
The numbers on the screen mattered now more than ever.
P3.
Maintained.
YN barely dared to breathe.
Each time Lando defended his position, her heart leapt into her throat. Each corner felt like it could steal everything away.
Then — finally — the math aligned.
The points.
The standings.
The impossible became inevitable.
The radio crackled:
“That’s it, mate. You’re world champion. World champion.”
For a split second, no one reacted — as if the words needed time to be understood.
Then the garage erupted.
YN covered her mouth as tears poured freely, laughter breaking through her sobs. Around her, people hugged, cheered, cried openly. Grown men dropped to their knees. Others clutched each other like they’d survived a storm.
A voice cut through the chaos.
“This is Zak from McLaren — is this the world champion hotline?”
Zak Brown’s voice shook with pride.
Lando’s response came back raw, cracked, overwhelmed.
“Yeah— OH THANK YOU GUYS— OH MY GOD— YOU’VE MADE A KID’S DREAM COME TRUE— I LOVE YOU GUYS—”
YN clutched Lydia to her chest.
“I LOVE YOU MUM. I LOVE YOU DAD. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, YN. You were right, baby — you always knew. I love you and Lydia so much. Thank you for believing in me. This one’s for you, love.”
Lydia gasped. “Daddy say my name!”
YN laughed through tears, kissing her temple. “Yes, sweetheart. He did.”
The garage was crying now — unashamed, unrestrained joy filling every corner.
Out on track, Lando waved from the cockpit, tears visible even through the helmet.
The boy who had once dreamed in silence had finally been heard by the world.
And as the car rolled toward parc fermé, YN knew with bone-deep certainty:
This wasn’t just his victory.
It was the reward for every sleepless night, every sacrifice, every moment of faith.
It was theirs.
The moment the car rolled into parc fermé, the world fractured into sound and color.
Lando didn’t stop immediately.
Instead, he turned the wheel sharply — once, twice — and the rear tires screamed in protest as the McLaren spun into tight, perfect circles. Smoke bloomed into the air, thick and white, curling upward like a signal flare to the night sky.
Donuts.
For years, he’d watched others do this — victory etched into rubber and asphalt — wondering if his moment would ever come.
Now the fireworks exploded overhead, bursts of gold and papaya tearing through the darkness, and the crowd roared his name like it was a chant, a promise fulfilled.
“LANDO! LANDO! LANDO!”
YN’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
Lydia squealed, bouncing so hard YN had to tighten her grip. “Daddy spinning! Daddy spinning!”
“Yes, baby,” YN laughed through tears. “That’s Daddy celebrating.”
Lydia tugged at her hand urgently, already leaning forward with her whole body. “I go hug Daddy now?”
YN dropped immediately to her knees, turning Lydia gently but firmly toward her. “Not yet. It’s still not safe, sweetheart.”
Lydia pouted, curls falling into her eyes, but nodded — trusting, always trusting.
They stood together as the car finally slowed, smoke drifting away as Lando parked beneath the massive WORLD CHAMPION banner. He cut the engine.
Silence — just for a heartbeat.
Then the world erupted again.
Lando climbed out slowly.
He stood on top of the car for a moment, helmet still on, chest rising and falling as if he needed to remember how to breathe. His gloved hands rested on his hips. His head tipped back slightly.
Inside the helmet, tears streamed freely.
He stayed there — letting it sink in — letting the boy who once dreamed quietly in his bedroom finally catch up to the man standing victorious under fireworks.
Then he punched the air.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The crowd answered every movement.
He climbed down, hands shaking as he removed his helmet, curls damp with sweat springing free as he raked a hand through them. His eyes were red, glassy, unashamed.
Max Verstappen was the first to reach him, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“You earned it,” Max said simply.
Oscar Piastri followed, hugging him hard. “Proud of you, mate.”
Lando nodded, unable to speak yet, too busy pulling off his gloves, his fireproof layers — hands moving on autopilot while his heart lagged behind reality.
He bent down to undo the shoe thermal protectors.
And then—
Impact.
A small body collided straight into his legs.
“DADDY!”
He laughed, instinctively catching Lydia before she tipped them both over, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
The moment shattered him.
He pressed his face into her curls, shoulders shaking as silent sobs ripped through him — joy so big it had nowhere else to go.
Lydia sensed it instantly.
She pulled back, cupping his cheeks with both hands, tiny thumbs wiping away his tears with careful concentration.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “don’t cry.”
He laughed weakly. “I know, baby.”
“I don’t like when you cry,” she added. “Mommy says we don’t cry on happy days.”
That made him smile — wide, glowing, impossibly proud.
“You’re right,” he whispered, kissing her hands. “Your mommy is very wise.”
From a few steps away, YN had both hands over her mouth, tears streaming freely. Beside her, his mum, Cisca Norris, cried openly, chest heaving at the sight of her son holding his daughter like she was the entire universe.
“Daddy,” Lydia announced proudly, lifting her chin. “You are world champion.”
He nodded, voice thick. “I am.”
Then he glanced at the bracelet on his wrist — papaya beads, tiny McLaren charm glinting under the lights.
“But only because of your lucky bracelet,” he said conspiratorially.
Her grin was instant. Victorious.
Then he turned.
And saw YN.
Everything else faded again.
He walked toward her slowly, carefully — like he needed to feel every step to make sure this wasn’t a dream he might wake from. Lydia remained in his arms, one small hand wrapped around his neck.
When he reached YN, she didn’t hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around both of them, pulling her family into a tight embrace. Lando leaned into her instantly, forehead resting against hers, breathing her in like oxygen.
Then he kissed her.
Not the quick peck of celebration. Not the polite, public display.
This kiss was deep. Anchoring. Considered.
His free arm wrapped firmly around her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to hold himself upright through her. The kiss tasted like salt and champagne-to-be and relief.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips.
“I love you,” she replied, voice breaking.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes shining impossibly bright. “Thank you. For everything. For every sacrifice you’ve made. For holding us together. For loving me when this dream took so much from us.”
She shook her head gently, smiling through tears. “You never took anything from us. We chose this. We chose you.”
His jaw trembled.
“My lucky girls,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Lydia’s temple again.
YN took a breath then.
A steadying one.
There was something she had carried quietly all night — something precious, fragile, and impossibly hopeful. She had waited for the right moment, and suddenly she knew.
This was it.
“You know,” she said softly, fingers brushing against his, “someone else is very proud of you too.”
Lando frowned slightly, confusion knitting his brows. “Who?”
She guided his hand gently to her stomach.
“This little cherry,” she whispered. “They’re very happy for their daddy.”
Time stopped.
His breath stuttered.
“You—” His voice cracked completely. “Are you—?”
She nodded, tears spilling freely. “Yes.”
The sound that left him was broken and beautiful — joy crashing through him all at once.
He lifted her carefully, spinning her as laughter and tears mixed freely, kissing her again and again. “I’m the happiest man alive,” he whispered fiercely. “I swear.”
He set her down gently and knelt just enough to press a reverent kiss to her stomach — slow, intentional, full of awe.
Lydia frowned. “Daddy… why you kiss Mommy’s tummy?”
He looked up at her, smiling wider than she’d ever seen. “Because your baby brother or sister is growing in there.”
Her eyes widened. “A baby?”
“Yes.”
She nodded solemnly. “Okay. I teach baby racing.”
YN laughed into Lando’s shoulder as he hugged them both again, overwhelmed beyond words.
After that, everything blurred beautifully.
Lando hugged his mum first — holding her tight as she cried into his shoulder, whispering how proud she was, how much she loved him. His dad joined them, turning it into a family embrace that smelled like familiarity and safety.
His siblings followed — laughter, tears, teasing him through emotion, pride radiating from every one of them.
Then came the interviews.
Cameras found him easily now — the new world champion.
David Coulthard stood beside him, smiling warmly as the crowd roared behind them.
“Lando Norris,” he said. “You are the world champion.”
Lando laughed shakily, wiping at his eyes even as his smile refused to fade. “Oh god. Umm… I haven’t cried in a while. I didn’t think I would cry but— I did.”
He paused, exhaling deeply. “It’s been a long journey. It’s been a long journey.”
He thanked McLaren. His parents. His competitors — Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri — speaking with genuine respect.
When David gestured toward the sidelines, where YN stood with Lydia in her arms, he smiled softly.
“Your wife and daughter are here with you tonight. How does it feel to share this moment with your family?”
Lando didn’t hesitate.
“I wouldn’t be here without her,” he said simply. “She holds everything together. She’s balancing her own career — filming, interviews, recording, tours — raising our daughter, and still finds a way to be here for me. I don’t know how she does it.”
YN felt her chest tighten.
“She never complains,” he continued. “No matter how tired she is. No matter how stressful things get. This trophy belongs to her as much as it does to me. She deserves it more than I do.”
Then he smiled again — softer, brighter.
“And we’ve got another little one on the way.”
The crowd erupted.
YN laughed through tears, Lydia clapping enthusiastically without fully understanding why.
The climb up to the podium felt unreal.
Lando walked slowly, steps deliberate, as if he were afraid the moment might slip through his fingers if he moved too fast. The noise around him was deafening — the roar of the crowd, the echo of his name bouncing off grandstands, the bass of celebratory music vibrating through the structure beneath his feet.
Yet somehow, inside his chest, there was a quiet.
A stillness.
He stood between champions — the best in the world — but tonight, something about him was different. Something settled. The restless hunger that had driven him for years finally had somewhere to rest.
Below the podium, YN stood holding Lydia, her arms wrapped securely around her little body. Lydia’s head rested on her shoulder, curls slightly damp from the heat and excitement, green eyes fixed unwaveringly on her daddy.
“Daddy up high,” she murmured in awe.
YN smiled through the tears threatening to spill again. “Yes, baby. That’s your daddy.”
Lando searched the crowd instinctively.
And found them.
The moment his eyes locked with YN’s, everything else fell away. The flashing cameras blurred. The noise dulled. He saw her smile — proud, tearful, unwavering — and Lydia’s tiny hand waving enthusiastically in his direction.
He lifted his hand, blowing them a kiss.
YN pressed her fingers to her lips and sent it back, Lydia mimicking her perfectly, giggling as she did.
The trophy presentation began.
Metal gleamed under the lights as the third-place trophy was handed to him — solid, cold, real. When it landed in his hands, the weight surprised him. Not because of the metal, but because of what it represented.
Years of doubt.
Years of waiting.
Years of almosts.
He lifted it slowly.
The crowd erupted.
The sound washed over him in waves, vibrating in his bones. His grip tightened as emotion swelled in his chest, tears pooling once again in his eyes.
He tipped his head back slightly, blinking rapidly — but he didn’t fight it this time.
He let himself feel it.
Let himself be it.
Then came the champagne.
The cork popped sharply, spraying liquid gold into the air. It splashed over his shoulders, soaked his hair, streaked down his fireproof suit. He laughed — a genuine, unrestrained laugh — as he shook the bottle and sprayed it outward, toward the sky, toward the crowd, toward the dream that had finally said yes.
The music swelled.
But even then — even with champagne dripping from his lashes — his eyes searched the crowd again.
Found them.
YN had lifted Lydia higher now so she could see better, and Lydia clapped enthusiastically, shouting something that only Lando could understand because it didn’t need words.
That’s my daddy.
He mouthed it clearly this time.
I love you.
YN’s breath hitched as she mouthed it back.
Lando smiled — wide, emotional, completely undone — and mouthed it one last time.
This was for you.
As the confetti rained down and the lights burned bright, he stood tall on the podium — world champion not just in title, but in the life waiting for him below.
And when he finally stepped down, he knew something with absolute certainty:
No trophy in the world would ever feel heavier — or more precious — than the love he was carrying with him off that stage.
Lando raised the trophy again.
Higher.
This time, he punched the air with his free hand — once, twice, over and over again — a release of everything he’d carried for so long. The gesture wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t for the cameras.
He stood still, hands at his sides, eyes forward — but inside, everything was spinning. Memories collided all at once: wet karting tracks, early mornings, cramped vans, the ache of coming so close and falling short.
It was for the boy who had dreamed quietly.
For the man who had refused to give up.
For the family who had believed before the world did.
Below the podium, Lydia rested her head against YN’s shoulder, eyes heavy but shining.
“Daddy win,” she whispered sleepily.
“Yes,” YN whispered back, kissing her temple. “Daddy won.”
Lando took one last look at them before stepping back, clutching the trophy to his chest for a brief moment — grounding himself in its reality.
World Champion.
Husband.
Father.
Soon-to-be father again.
As he descended from the podium, champagne still dripping from his hair, heart still pounding in his chest, he knew with absolute certainty:
This wasn’t just the peak of his career.
It was the moment his dream stood tall — and bowed — in front of the life he had built.
I just finished your Lando fic and OH MY GOODNESS. Did I melt from cuteness ? Yes. I loved it! It was incredible.
AWWWWWWW THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! You made my day by your sweet words🥹🧡 I love girl-dad Lando sm, it just melts my heart. thx for reading and send in all the requests if you have!
𝝑𓏲 lando norris ⸝⸝⠀ she!reader , strangers to lovers , age gap (22/25) , biker!lando , mentions of cheating , underage drinking , and a lot more , timeline are summer of '24 then to mid jan '25 and then late jan '26 , fluff , angst , 14.8k words . ◜ᯅ◝ ──── 𝓬𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒖𝒎! ✶ requests are open!
╰– in which, a brooding lando norris meets a corporate girlie on his solo trip to greece and fate leads their romance
───── playing barbaad by the rish, jubin nautiyal
Lando Norris was four when he was diagnosed with hyperthymesia. It meant that he'd remember everything. from flashes of when he was in his mother's womb to every paragraph he read, his every damn lap time.
It wasn’t the kind of memory that helped him sleep peacefully. It was the kind that kept him awake. Because when you remember everything, you also remember everything that hurts. Like that Hungary 2024 moment, that championship which slipped away from his hand. Every argument that ended too soon. Every podium that slipped away. Every time someone told him he was too young, too privileged.
So what does a rich, privileged guy do at 25? Book a trip to Greece and sit alone at the beach with a bottle of Merlot in his hand and brood like he was in some sort of tragic film.
She was supposed to be asleep in some five-star hotel, but insomnia and jet lag had other plans.
"Do you always brood by yourself at midnight?” she teased softly, her voice cutting through the sound of waves.
He looked behind, blinking and she swore the moonlight hit his eyes just right.
“I’m not brooding,” he chuckled, but his tone had that low tired edge that meant yeah, maybe I am. She smiled and sat beside him anyway. “Good. ’Cause that would make two of us.”
She didn't say anything, just sat next to him in silence. Lando wordlessly passed her his bottle. And that's when he noticed her attire. All formals and blazer — god when was the last time he dressed up in formals — heels next to her. "You're staring," she passed the bottle back without even looking at him.
"I'm sorry it's just — " he shook his head, "I've never seen anyone wearing a blazer at a beach." That earned him an amused chuckle. "Actually I'm here for a board meeting. But jet lag and insomnia you know," she finally looked at him.
Lando felt as if his breath had been knocked out of his lungs. God was she beautiful. It was not the instagram type of beauty — while sure yes those models are insanely gorgeous — but she had that beauty which pierced through you. She smiled as she introduced her name — the exact tone of her voice, the curve of her lips, the way her hairs fell around her face. God, all of it was going to etched in his memory.
"I—I'm Lando," he stuttered, god she looked so insanely beautiful.
"Do you usually brood at beaches?" she asked.
"Ofcourse no," he chuckled, "It's just my first solo trip and the emotions just got overwhelming."
Before anyone of them could say anything a loud motorcycle passed near them. Shooting up the sand in the air, going in the absurdly shallow parts of the water before blowing sand and leaving the beach again.
She and Lando looked at each other — sharing the same mischievous look.
Next the he was her sceaming in his ear, "Oh my fucking god Lando slow down!" Lando couldn't help the laugh that left his lips as he sped up the motorcycle they rented ( she insisted on paying half of her share ). He lowered the bike, trying to mimic motogp riders but ofcourse not going as low as they do — he was on the street of Greece not a race track. And also not to scare her even more as she clung to him for dear life.
"So what do you think of my driving?" he asked as the two finally stopped, seated at a street food stall. "I think that you should be banned from using all sorts of vehicles!" she scoffed, hands moving to smooth her hair. "Baby, I'm a formula one driver so I think I can handle my speed well." He smirked but that soon dropped as he saw her questing face. "Oh my god," he muttered under his breath. "You really don't know me!"
"Am I supposed to?" she tilted her head. "I mean you're not supposed to but — " he cuts himself off. "How long are you here for?" he asks, passing a plate of food to her. "4 more days." Lando let out a fake gasp, "We don't have enough time so quickly tell me everything about yourself."
"I’m 22 and I live in Notting Hill currently."
"I'm 25, a formula one driver, basically racing stuff. I'm from Bristol."
"I'm a company secretary and I work as an independent director across 2 boards."
"Holy shit that's crazy!" "Ah not really, all three of them are through daddy connections, and as a diversity hire."
"Oh my god shut up, connections or not you still have a seat that does mean at least someone sees your capability to let you be there at 22!"
She laughed that easy, melodic kind that made Lando’s chest feel weirdly light. “You’re oddly optimistic for someone who drinks alone at beaches,” she teased.
“Occupational hazard,” he said with a grin. "Besides, if I don’t believe in myself, who would?" She rolled her eyes, trying to hide a smile. “Smooth. Is that what you tell all the girls you meet on beaches?” “Only the ones in blazers,” he shot back, and she burst out laughing, shaking her head.
"Alright your turn!” he said, lifting up the mood. "I almost went to jail once." Lando gave her a bewildered look because how else do you react to that! "Sneaked into the club with a fake id," she explained, an embarrassed smile on her face.
"How old were you?"
"17.”
"Couldn't you have waited a year?" he taunted but his tone was give away of his joke. "Okay but in my defense I'm a dec born so I was practically 18," she rolled her eyes. "That makes it worse!"
"Alright, Your turn. One random fact about you.”
“I can name every single lap I’ve ever driven.” She blinked. "Hyperthymesia." Sometimes it felt weird that his entire life problems was summed up in just one word.
The plan — or what passed for one — was simple. Pick her up. Make an itinerary. Pretend like they weren’t two strangers who’d just met at a beach at midnight.
Lando pulled up in front of her hotel in a rented car, hair messy, sunglasses pushed up into it, grin way too bright for someone who’d stayed up half the night. She climbed in, blazer traded for a linen shirt and shorts, tote bag thrown in the backseat ( “You know what? You should pack a few pairs of clothes” he told her ).
“So,” she said, flipping open the map app on her phone, “we’re supposed to plan out the next four days. Be productive, make an itinerary—” Lando snorted. “An itinerary? You sound like my assistant.”
“One fuck you, two I am a company secretary,” she said smiled sarcastically, crossing her arms. He turned his head, giving her a playful once-over. “Then consider me your project. Let’s start with a list of things I don’t want to do.”
“Which is?”
“Anything that involves structure, rules, or early mornings.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”
They ended up driving to his guest house — a quiet, sun-washed place facing the Aegean Sea. The kind of house that smelled like salt, lemons, and freedom. She dropped her tote bag by the door, wandering toward the balcony where the ocean stretched endlessly before them.
“You live here?” she asked, voice almost awed.
“For now,” he said, joining her. “It’s rented. I wanted quiet.” “Quiet,” she repeated with a teasing grin. “You?” “Hey, I’m capable of silence,” he held up a hand. “Just not when I’m winning.” That made her laugh again — and god, he could get addicted to that sound.
“C’mon,” she said suddenly, her eyes flicking toward the waves. “Let’s go down there.”
He blinked. “To the beach? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, like, swim?” Before he could say she was already walking towards the beach. “Come on, there's no one here!” she exclaimed, removing her shorts.
Five minutes later, he was wading knee-deep into the ocean, the sun melting gold across his skin, shirt abandoned on the shore. She squealed when he splashed her, retaliating immediately with a wave that hit him square in the face.
“Unfair!” he yelled, laughing so hard his stomach hurt.
“Cry about it!” she shouted back, water dripping down her hair, her grin wicked.
They played like kids chasing, splashing, trying to one-up each other until they were both breathless. Lando ducked under the water with her, hands gently catching her waist.She smiled as he twisted her lightly guiding her in a half-turn underwater in slow, playful circular motion that sent a trail of bubbles spiraling between them. Their laughter echoing over the waves.
The two entered his guesthouse carrying sandy feet and wet bodies. The world felt like it was drenched in gold; late-afternoon sunlight poured through the white curtains, the air heavy with salt and warmth.
“Okay,” she said, breathless and still smiling, body all clean after shower and a change of clothes “I’m starving. You made me run, swim, and nearly drown. You owe me food, Norris.” Lando laughed, dragging a towel through his curls. “You dragged me in the water! You started the war!”
“Yeah, but I won it.” He gasped dramatically. “You did not—” “I did!.” She pointed at him, smug. “You literally surrendered when I dunked you.” “That was strategy,” he said, heading to the kitchen area, still grinning. “I was conserving energy.”
“For what? More losing?”
“For making lunch,” he shot back, pulling open the fridge.She padded in behind him, barefoot, wet hairs leaving their footprints on her shirt.
“So what’s the plan, chef?” He looked at the contents of the fridge — bread, tomatoes, some feta, a couple of bell peppers, leftover olives, and an unopened bottle of white wine. “Mediterranean masterpiece,” he declared, “or whatever we can throw together before you faint.”
“Perfect,” she said, hopping onto the counter and swinging her legs. “I’ll supervise.” Lando gave her a mock glare. “Supervise? That’s not helping.” “I’m management,” she said sweetly. “Delegation is a skill.” He tossed her a tomato. “Then start delegating.” She caught it, barely.“Fine, fine. I’ll chop.”
They worked side by side, the kind of teamwork that came naturally, like they’d done it a hundred times before. She diced vegetables and he kept sneaking pieces of feta into his mouth until she swatted his hand away.
The music playing from the little speaker — some old indie playlist she’d put on — mixed with the sound of sizzling olive oil and their easy chatter. He poured them both a glass of wine, and for a moment, everything just fit. The laughter, the warmth, the sunlight filtering through the window.
“Okay, moment of truth,” she said when they finally sat down at the little wooden table on the balcony, plates full of makeshift Greek bruschetta and grilled veggies. They both took a bite, and Lando raised his brows in mock surprise. “Okay wait, this is actually good.”
“See?” she said proudly. “It’s because I supervised.”
“Or because I cooked,” he countered, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes, sipping her wine. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
That made her laugh. For a second, he just watched her, the way the wind played with her hair, the way the sunlight hit her skin, and something deep inside him clicked. He didn’t know if it was the sea salt or the wine or just her, but for the first time in a long while, the noise in his head quieted. The endless reel of memories, every loss, every word, every crash all just suddenly dimmed.
All he could think about was now. Her, sitting across from him, smiling like she’d brought summer with her. And as she leaned her chin on her hand and asked softly, “So what’s on the itinerary for tomorrow?” he couldn’t stop smiling.
“Whatever keeps you here,” he said under his breath. “Are you flirting with me Norris?” she asked, a cheeky smile tugging at her lips. “What if I am?”
She woke up to the sound of a bike purring loudly. She ended up staying over at this guest house, “Told you it would be worth it packing extra clothes,” he said before they settled onto their beds.
“Lando! You've got to be fucking kidding me!” she exclaimed as she saw him messing around with the bike. “Nope. Day two itinerary — we’re riding along the coast,” he looked at her with a smirk.
“You do realize, that I almost died the last time you drove something with wheels?” Lando grinned. “That was a motorcycle. This—” he patted the bike lovingly “—is a vibe.”
Lando was eager to finish breakfast, urging her to get ready quicker. “You do realize that bike is not going anywhere?” she scoffed, lathering sunscreen over his face. “God forbid a guy is impatient,” he rolled his eyes, letting her soft hands work on his face. “Look at you, such a princess attitude,” she mumbled, squeezing his cheeks.
When she was finally done Lando bolted out like a kid on Christmas. “My baby,” he mumbled leaning down to kiss the fuel tank of the bike. She gave him a look, but she was already climbing on behind him, her hands hesitating before resting lightly on his waist.
“Hold on tight,” he said, voice teasing.
“I’m not—” she started, but the bike jerked forward and she immediately squealed, wrapping her arms tightly around him.
He laughed — that bright, boyish sound that made her heart stutter in her chest. “See? Told you.” “Lando!” she shrieked, half laughing, half panicking. “You’re insane!”
“Correction — I’m talented.” “Debatable!” she yelled over the wind, but she was smiling, the kind of grin that didn’t fade even when the wind whipped through her hair.
They rode for kilometers along the beachside roads, the ocean glittering on one side, the scent of salt and wildflowers filling the air. The sun sat high and golden, painting the water in it's colors. Every time he slowed down, she leaned forward, chin brushing his shoulder as she asked, “Where to now?” and every time, he’d just shrug. “Anywhere.”
And somehow, anywhere was perfect.
Later, when they stopped by a cliff overlooking the sea, she stood near the edge, hair wild from the wind, the waves crashing below. Lando leaned on the bike, watching her every movement, every flicker of her smile imprinting itself into his mind like it always would.
He’d remember this moment. He always would.
It felt like time came to a stand still. Lando has raced around different parts of the world but never had he seen the world so beautifully. Every morning felt new, every evening felt so beautiful all because she was here. The world felt dreamlike and for once he actually wanted to believe in it because she's here.
God, he was so used to the chaos of his life. Flights at ungodly hours, racing in skyrocketed temperatures to freezing temperatures all within a week, calling it a day at midday times. But ever since her hand came into his it felt like the restless waves found their shore.
Even his wanderings with her — like now — feel peaceful, like calm within chaos. Every moment with her felt like weaving new memories in every passing second
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” She glanced back at him, soft smile tugging at her lips. “Come here,” he opened his arms for a hug. She walked into it with a smile, wrapping her arms around his torso. Lando pressed his lips against her hairs, holding her close against him.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of saltwater and something sweet and he swore he'd remember every detail of it for the rest of his life.
When she pulled away, he was too close. And suddenly, everything just stilled. Her fingers brushed his bare waist, his thumb lingered by her jaw — soft, unsure but electric. The world didn’t tilt dramatically. There wasn’t music or tension or a dramatic pause. Just a quiet breath, a shared look, and then she leaned in. Or maybe he did.
Either way, their lips met halfway in a slow, gentle, the kind of kiss that felt like sunshine instead of fire. Warm, weightless as if the sea had decided to hold them still for a moment. When they pulled away, both smiling like idiots, she whispered, “Was that on the itinerary?” “It is now,” Lando grinned, voice low and playful.
The sunlight was already spilling through the balcony curtains by the time she stirred awake, the sheets tangled around her legs, the air smelling faintly of salt and sunscreen and him. The sound of waves outside was steady — too calm for the storm that happened last night.
Her hair was a mess, his arm was draped lazily over her bare waist, his breathing soft against her neck. And even though her mind was trying to piece everything together, her heart was already screaming, don’t you dare regret this.
She grabbed her phone, eyes immediately squinting at the sudden flash of brightness. “Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough, sleepy, and too damn fond. “Afternoon, technically,” she teased, waving her phone. He groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “You’re joking.”
“It’s almost noon, Lando.”
He lifted his head, blinking blearily at her, hair sticking up everywhere. “...Brunch?” She smiled, “Brunch.”
They ended up at this tiny coastal café that had mismatched chairs and a sea breeze that carried laughter from the nearby boardwalk. Her oversized shirt barely covered the fact that she’d thrown it on in a hurry. He ordered enough food to feed five people (“I’m a growing man,” he’d argued, and she’d almost choked on her mimosa laughing), while she stirred her coffee, stealing bites off his plate when he wasn’t looking.
“So tell me more about yourself,” he said, leaning forward, fingers shiny with oil from the souvlaki he was holding. His curls were messy, his voice teasing. She blinked at him, deadpan. “Buddy, you had sex with me last night. What more do you want to know?”
He choked on his food immediately, coughing as she smirked into her glass of wine. “That’s not— that’s not what I meant!” he said between laughs.
“Oh really?” she drawled, crossing her legs and leaning back. “Because that sounded like a very post-hookup small talk thing to say.” Lando groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”
“Admit it, you love it.”
He shot her a look that was way too soft for someone trying to act annoyed. “Unfortunately, yeah.” “See! I win,” she grinned.
“Okay, fine, Miss Mysterious. Let’s try something basic.” He set his food down, leaning his elbows on the table. “Favorite childhood movie?” Without hesitation, she said, “Barbie: A fashion fairytale.”
“Ofcourse it is,” he laughed immediately.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just seem like the kind of person who’d talk to plants.”
Her mouth fell open. “I literally used to talk to my dad's houseplants, thank you very much.”
He almost spit out his drink. “You speak to plants?”
“Yeah!” she said defensively.
“Plants can’t talk.”
“Fuck you, yeah they can!”
“No, they can’t!” he was laughing now, leaning so far back in his chair it squeaked.
“They can feel energy!” she insisted, smacking his arm across the table. “My basil plant used to lean toward me when I came home!”
“That’s literally called sunlight, darling.”
“Shut up, you wouldn’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it,” he teased, smirking. “You’re one of those ‘if I scream at my plants, they’ll grow faster’ people.” “I am, proudly that too” she said with a shrug. “And it works.”
He was still grinning. “I can’t believe I slept with a plant whisperer.”
“I'm convinced you've never even watched that movie and you're just being a hater.”
“Excuse me?!” His hand hovered his chest, scandalized by the accusation. “I have 2 younger sisters. Do you know how many I had to watch those barbie movies? It was hell for me to put on cars.”
“Good, I support your sisters. Cars is a horrible movie.”
“It’s a cinematic masterpiece!” he retorted “Lightning McQueen is a cultural icon.”
“Didn’t he crash?”
“Yeah. Big one.” Lando paused, smirk creeping back. “
“Oh, I see the connection now.”
He burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. “Wow, okay. Okay. You’re bold for that.”
“I’m just saying, art imitates life.”
On their way back Lando talked more about how it was growing up with hyperthymesia. “No but the worst part is the sound, actually. The crack when the suspension breaks? it’s not a clean sound, it’s like bones snapping underwater. and your whole chest just slams into the harness, knocks your breath right out—like someone punched your lungs.”
“God, you're traumatized,” she mumbled with horror plastered over her face. “Wrong,” he smiled sweetly, “I just have hyperthymesia.”
The air smells like salt and sunscreen, the late afternoon sun is hitting golden. “You don't know how to ride a bike do you?” he said out of the blue. Now, she’s sitting on the bike all stiff, fingers trembling on the handlebar like she’s holding onto dear life.
He’s right behind her, sleeves rolled up, leaning close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her shoulder as he’s like, “okay, okay, this one’s the clutch, yeah? and this—” he grabbed her hand gently “—is the throttle. you twist this, you move. easy.”
She nods but it’s so obvious she’s not listening, she’s too focused on how close he is, on how he smells like sea breeze and sweat and sunscreen. He notices ofcourse, that teasing grin creeping up. “You're not even paying attention.” “I am!” “Oh yeah? what’s this then?” he taps a random button and she’s like “uhhh... horn?” and he’s like “that’s the starter, idiot,” before she presses it and the bike roars to life and she screams.
She actually gets it going somehow, wobbling down the empty road, and he’s jogging next to her, one hand hovering like he’s ready to catch her if she falls. “You're doing it!” he yells, half laughing. She looks at him, smiling all wide and nervous and proud, and yells back, “Oh my god!”
Lando hops on behind her again, hands loosely on her waist, helping her balance while the engine hums beneath them. It's clumsy, it’s chaotic, it’s them. She turns her head slightly to look at him and he’s already smiling, sun catching in his hair. And when she finally rides straight for a few meters, she looks back and sees him smiling at her — proud dimples out on display. And she can’t help but grin so wide, yelling, “I DID IT!” while he just shakes his head, “you’re insane.”
Though the moment doesn't really last too long before she wobbles and crashes the bike at 25 kph.
They come back to the guest house, sunburned, and sandy. She flops straight onto the couch with a groan, muttering something about how her body feels like it’s been “yeeted into the earth’s crust.” and Lando’s just laughing from the kitchen like, “To be fair, that’s exactly what happened!”
He tosses her a cold bottle of water, but instead of drinking it she just rests it on her cheek fiddling with her spotify playlist. He sits down next to her, their legs tangling naturally, and the air’s that kind of golden-late-afternoon where everything feels too still.
“Let me fill your winding path with love, If you are with me, O my beloved companion. I won't even think about where I must go, if you are with me, O my beloved companion.”
“Oh my god that is such a shit song!” lando groaned. It was 3 in the afternoon and the last thing he was in the mood for was some upbeat love song with ridiculously deep and romantic lyrics. “Shut up you don't understand real music.” she retorted and then— because chaos follows them like a soundtrack — she grabs his phone to put on music.
“Wait, what’s this folder?”
“Don’t—”
“Lando Norris: The Ibiza DJ Set??*”
“PUT THAT DOWN—” he tried to snatch his phone back but it’s too late. She already hit play.
Immediately, heavy bass fills the whole villa — it’s half club mix, half absolute nonsense. And she’s staring at him, jaw dropped, while he’s turning bright red trying not to laugh.
“You made this.”
“It was a phase!”
“You titled it ‘Bangerz but make it existential.’”
“OKAY, IT WAS A LONG WINTER.”
“AND YOU'RE SAYING MY MUSIC TASTE IS SHIT?!”
And instead of roasting him further, she stangs tugging at his wrist. “Come on, DJ boy. You owe me a dance.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You literally do 300km/h for a living, you can vibe for two minutes.”
And so he gives in.
They’re both jumping around, slipping on the floor, singing lyrics way too loud, tissues raining down like snow. She grabs a hairbrush as a mic, yelling lyrics into his face, and he’s holding a random spatula like a DJ deck.
and then the playlist shifts to some old classic — something stupidly romantic but still upbeat, the same song he said was shit. She's breathless, hair stuck to her face, cheeks pink, and he just gently twirls her around.
“A promise is like glass, a thread, a breath. How long can it last before it breaks? In the pale light of dreams, thoughts, how long can we turn our backs on reality.” “How do we tell our wounds they may be filled suddenly. Believe me, wounds of wounds are healed by love, truest balm of all!” The two scream the verse at the top of their lungs.
Sure the lyrics may suggest an otherwise story but hey the beats were upbeat. Atleast enough for Lando to act like he was playing an electric guitar with a spatula when the guitar riff started.
The moment was so light, so stupidly happy, that she ends up laughing into his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around her, mumbling the lyrics against her hair. They end up collapsing onto the couch, still giggling, music thumping faintly in the background. and she says, half-asleep,
“I don’t wanna go back to work.” And he just hums, tracing lazy circles on her arm, “then don’t. stay here a little longer.”
“The journey is ahead of us! Just a little longer, O my beloved companion.” The belts of the singer still hums from the speaker.
It’s the last day. The house feels too quiet. Lando wakes up to sunlight spilling across the sheets, but the other side of the bed is cold. For the first time in four days, there was no voice yelling “Lando, you’re doing it wrong!” across the sand. No splashes, no playlists, no laughter bouncing off the walls of his guest house.
She’d left early that morning, promising she’d be back by dinner. “Don’t make sad eyes at me,” she’d teased, adjusting her blazer while he leaned against the doorframe, messy-haired and half-asleep. “It’s literally one meeting and then I’m all yours again.”
Except the hours crawled by and she didn’t come back.
By evening, the sky had turned soft pink, the air sticky with the scent of salt and sunscreen, and the only thing keeping him company was the half-empty glass of orange juice sweating next to him on the deck. He’d tried distracting himself — took his bike for a spin, tinkering with the playlist they made, trying to cook but giving up halfway through and eating chips instead. But every corner of the guest house reminds him of her.
The couch still has that crumpled blanket she fell asleep under, there’s a half-empty bottle of sunscreen on the counter, and her hair tie— the one she swore she lost— is wrapped around his wrist.
By the time it’s 9:30, he’s on the balcony, legs stretched out on the railing, a soft buzz from the wine he opened earlier keeping him company. The ocean outside is quiet, moonlight glinting across the waves, and he hates how lonely it all feels now that she’s not running around the house, yelling lyrics or stealing his hoodies.
He didn’t even realize how late it was until he heard her footsteps crunching against the sand.
“Hey,” she calls out, breathless, still in her dinner outfit — heels in one hand, hair messy from the wind. “Sorry I’m late. They wanted a final group dinner,I couldn't say no.” He looks over, the corners of his lips twitching into something soft and tired. “You ditched me for corporate bonding?”
She laughs, crossing the room to where he’s sitting. “You’ll survive, superstar.”
He raises the half-empty bottle of Merlot. “Barely.”
So they barefoot sit on the sand, right in front of the guest house. passing the bottle between them. The night air is cool, their knees touching as the waves crash just meters away. Neither of them says much at first; it’s that comfortable silence that hums with everything unspoken.
It's as if everything fell into a long circle.
Then she tilts her head toward him. “You ever think about how weird it is that we even met? Like what if I hadn’t gone for a walk that night?” He smiles faintly, gaze fixed on the water. “Then I’d probably still be sitting there, alone, thinking too much.”
“About what?”
“Everything.” He exhales, the sound soft. “About how I remember every crash, every mistake, every stupid little thing I’ve ever done. But you—” he turns to her now, eyes reflecting the moonlight, “—you made me forget all of it for a while.”
She blinks, the teasing smile fading into something gentler. “That’s kind of unfair, you know. You’ll remember this week forever and I'll be left to tell my grandkids whatever fragments I remember.”
“Grandkids?” Lando chuckled, looking at the girl next to him. “Ofcourse I'll speak about this forever,” she says, before taking a sip from the bottle.
They sit like that until the stars start to fade, finishing the bottle, their shoulders touching. The tide comes closer, almost kissing their toes, and she hums softly — a tune from one of the songs they danced to days ago.
And he can’t help but think — it all started at the beach, and somehow, it ended there too. Full circle. Just like she said.
Lando swears he's here for a stroll & “just to see what the hype is about.”
It had been 5 months 11 days ( or 23 weeks 3 days or 164 calendar days ) since he met that girl in Greece and he swore he wasn’t thinking about her. Not really.
Okay, maybe a little. Maybe a lot.
It started with the playlist — the one she’d made him play on repeat while they danced barefoot around his guest house, throwing tissues into the air like confetti. Then it was the taste of Merlot that didn’t hit the same anymore, or how he’d catch himself looking at beaches and thinking, she’d love that one.
So when his work was done at the factory he told himself he’d “just stroll around.” “Yeah, Mate wait what,” Max Fewtrell looked at his best friend as if he grew 2 heads. “You're travelling fourty five minutes just to have a 'stroll’?” he asked.
“It popped on my instagram! I just want to see what the hype is about and what Notting Hill’s like in person.” Liar.
“Mate you do realize that's a suburb, not a human being.” Lando flipped off his best friend as he got into his Ferrari. Seems like he's the only guy who has the guts to park a La Ferrari outside of the Maclaren factory.
He had no real reason to be there except her. The way she’d said it that night, tucked under his arm with wine-stained lips: “I live in Notting Hill, by the way. It’s quiet, but the coffee shops are divine.”
Now he was walking those same streets — pastel townhouses glowing in the early morning light, flower boxes overflowing, the faint hum of buskers playing something too pretty for how restless he felt.
He tried to play it cool, hands shoved in his pockets, sunglasses on, pretending he wasn’t looking. But he was scanning every passing face, every café window, every woman in a blazer carrying a laptop bag, hoping for a familiar silhouette.
He stopped at a corner café when the smell of espresso hit him, ordered something he didn’t really want, and sat outside like he had all the time in the world. But his eyes kept flicking toward the crowd.
And then a familiar face walked passed him.
Hair tucked behind her ears, eyes glued to her phone, a folder in one hand and an iced latte in the other. The same gold watch. She walked past him as if she didn't recognize him. Perhaps because her eyes glued to her phone.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And even if he's seen her multiple times in his memories like she was the main character of a 4k hd film that only played his head. The street noise still dimmed, people blurred, and it was just her.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, a grin breaking out despite himself. “Of course she’s real.”
She looked when she felt someone holding her wrist from behind. When she finally saw him — really saw him — her steps faltered. A soft, stunned laugh slipped out of her lips. “Lando?” He gave her that lazy like he wasn’t about to combust but eyes giving him away. “Told you I’d visit Notting Hill someday.”
She blinked, then laughed — that same laugh from the beach, the one that made him feel like everything in his head went quiet. “You’re such a liar.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well. I heard the coffee’s good.”
And before he could think twice, she walked over, sunlight spilling across her face, and caging him in a hug like no time had passed at all.
The air buzzed with everything unsaid — the calls they never made, the texts they both drafted and deleted, the memories that had refused to fade.
“So,” she smiled. “You’re here for coffee?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m here for you.”
And God, the way she smiled back — like the universe had just folded in on itself and landed right where it was supposed to — made every sleepless night worth it.
Safe to say that night, their clothes hit her apartment's floor, leaving a trail behind them
It was tricky.
She was in Notting Hill and he was in Monaco but they made it work. It's been months of time zones, voice notes, half-asleep calls where one of them always says, “Go to bed, it’s 3 AM for you.” Months of him flying to London between his training and watching old races with her, teaching her the basics and how f1 worked.
“That's a pretty fucking fucking ugly shade of orange.” She told him once as they snuggled together on her couch after they finished watching the ‘24 Dutch grand prix. “It's papaya!” “Still ugly!”
Somehow, against all odds, they made it work.
And now — now it’s the season opener in Australia.
“By the way my family's gonna be there,” lando said as he looked at his schedule on his phone. “Your what?” she asked, halted in shock, a couple steps behind. “Baby—” a smile threatening to tug at his lip as he turned around to look back at her. He already knew what her next words were gonna be. Matter of fact, even he'd be nervous if she dropped such a bomb on him.
“You can’t just— drop that on me!” she hissed. “I’m not prepared! I— I didn’t even get my nails done!”
He laughed, walking back to her, his hand finding her cheek. “Darling, you’ve told sixty-year-old executives to redo their contracts. They’re just my parents.”
“It’s not the same, Lan,” she muttered, trying not to melt as he pulled her into a hug. He swayed her side to side, whispering nonsense in her ear until she finally sighed and mumbled something about how unfairly charming he was.
The paddock’s buzzing, cameras flashing everywhere, and she’s standing there— perfectly dressed, heels clicking on the asphalt, credentials swinging around her neck but her palms are sweaty. Like disgustingly sweaty. Her stomach’s in knots even though she’s had board meetings with CEOs twice her age, and told men in thousand-dollar suits that their decisions were legally idiotic.
Then came Cisca Norris — radiant, warm, disarmingly kind.
“You must be the girl who made him smile in every photo since Greece,” Cisca said, voice gentle, eyes sparkling. “Oh my god,” she stammered, straightening up. “Mrs. Norris, it’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Please, call me Cisca,” she said with a laugh. “And I’ve heard plenty about you too. Especially the Merlot.”
Lando groaned behind her. “Mum—”
“Don’t mum me,” Cisca teased. “He’s been insufferably happy.”
Her nerves melted after that. Cisca asked about her job, where she was from, how she’d met Lando and she listened genuinely, not like someone being polite. By the time qualifying wrapped, she and Cisca were talking about how they both hated when Lando wet towels on the bed.
The weekend was going perfectly fine, good free practices, pole position in quali &he didn't lose positions on the first lap this time, two restarts and rain. However he did manage to give her a slight heart attack when he slid off the track on lap 45.
Despite every curveball thrown at him today, he still ended up winning the race. And she couldn't be more proud of him for that.
The parc fermé was electric — 3 drivers emerged from the race inspite of everything that happened today and a rookie who placed fourth on his debut.
Lando hugged her as tight as he could, as if telling her he missed in the course of the race, burying his face in her neck. “Ah ew, lan get off me you're soaking.” That earned her a few laughs from people around her. “Sorry what? hug you tighter? Ofcourse baby.” And the laughters doubled.
He knew this was just the season opener, anything could happen in the next few race weekends. But god, everything outcome be it on top or the final step of time sheets — all of it would be worth it as long as she smiled at him.
And once again, he was glad with his hyperthymesia. The image of her recording him on her phone, smiling at him from the parc fermé would forever and ever and ever be drilled into his mind.
The triple header had wrung him out — long flights, endless interviews, champagne that never really tasted like victory when she wasn’t there to tease him for it.
It had been 2 weeks since he last saw her. She was only there for the season opener. The Chinese and Japanese grand prix fell at the end and start of the fiscal year respectively.
2 weeks of calls that ran late, she sent minutes and minutes long voice mails and voice notes stating about how work ran late, how sorry she was for missing his texts, how she saw his race and was incredibly proud of him.
He doesn’t wanna be the clingy boyfriend who demands her time, not when he knows how hard she’s worked for everything she has. But at the same time he can’t shake the thought that maybe, maybe the fire that burned so bright after Greece is dimming.
And yeah, he tries to be logical — it was the end of the fiscal year, and she had two boards and her corporate job.
But ever since they've hard launched their relationship in Australia people started digging her up. Her instagram was private so they started digging up wherever their hands landed. Her LinkedIn screenshots, old photos from highschool and uni, corporate articles with her name tagged — the whole “Lando Norris’s girlfriend is a company director at 22!” thing goes viral. And it’s not even that it’s bad press, but the comments god, the comments sting. stuff like:
“She’s using him for publicity.”
“Another nepo corporate baby.”
“She’s not even that into F1, she just likes the spotlight.”
So when the checkered flag fell at Suzuka and the cameras stopped flashing, he didn’t go to the afterparty. He packed a bag, booked a flight, and told his manager, “Don’t wait up.”
Not to Monaco. Not to the team factory. To London.
Her Notting Hill apartment was quiet when he got there. Too quiet. The concierge recognized him — he didn’t even have to say a word, they just nodded and said, “She left instructions to let you in, Mr. Norris.”
The apartment smelled faintly like bergamot, vanilla, faint hint of coffee — her. God, it couldn't have been messier. A few documents scattered on the counter, a mug in the sink, a cardigan tossed over the couch. Take out containers in the bin, her laptop charger all tangled up on the couch next to her hair straighter. He left his duffel by the door, kicked his shoes off, and just stood there.
God, he missed her.
He made himself move — started cleaning up like muscle memory. Checked her fridge and ended up doing a quick grocery run, came back with pasta, wine, and that chocolate she always pretended not to like but always finished first. He turned on soft music, the kind she used to play when they’d cook together in Greece, and began chopping vegetables, letting the sound of the knife on the board keep him company.
It almost felt like Greece again. The domestic ease of it. The unspoken rhythm of her voice echoing in his head, “Not too much salt, Norris. You’ll ruin it.”
He smiled faintly.
As he turned to grab the olive oil, his eyes landed on the kitchen island. A folder — beige, plain, unassuming — lying open just a crack. He didn’t think much of it at first. She lives alone hence she always had work files lying around confidential reports, contracts, legal drafts. Stuff she’d snap at him for even glancing at.
So he ignored it. For thirty minutes.
Cooked the sauce. Set the table. Lit a candle. Tried not to look at it. But there was a gnawing feeling in him that chewed his self restraint. He stared at it, hands still slick with olive oil, and sighed. “Don’t do it, Lando,” he muttered to himself. But his curiosity got the better of him. He reached for it.
He swore he'd just peek at the empty white part of the documents on the top and keep it aside.
What he didn’t expect was to feel a file in his hand, a hospital’s name plastered over it. He opened, eyes scanning past her name and age.
And then world just stopped. There it was. A hospital’s letterhead. Her name neatly typed.
Age: 22.
Diagnosis: Early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.
He blinked. Once. Twice. His throat tightened like it forgot how to breathe. The paper trembled in his hands, the black ink swimming until it blurred. Everything around him stops. Like the air’s been punched out of the world. the soft music keeps playing, mocking him.
His mind starts racing through every tiny thing— every “sorry, what did you say again?”, every post-it on her mirror, every time she laughed off forgetting her keys. Every “you have to remind me of this later” that he thought was cute.
And suddenly, it’s not cute. It's terrifying.
He remembers how she called Vegas his first win, “Vegas, Miami they're both in the US so it's the same thing,” She rolled her eyes at him teasingly. “It's not? One race happened before I was in championship contention and the other after I officially lost!”
He grips the report so tight it crumples at the edges. His breathing’s shaky. His chest’s so tight it hurts. As if even the thought of her slipping away hurts his entire being
And then he saw the date. The day before she flew to Australia. 4 days before she smiled at him in parc fermé, eyes bright, holding her phone up to record him like nothing was wrong.
When the door finally opens, she’s caught off guard. Her hair’s a little messy, eyes tired. “Hey, I didn’t know you were gonna be here,” she says softly, trying to smile through the exhaustion, shrugging off her blazer. But the second her eyes meet his — that look on his face — she freezes.
“You found out, didn’t you?” Her voice cracks, barely above a whisper.
Lando stands up, his chest heaving, jaw clenched, hands trembling slightly at his sides. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out — just silence.
“Don’t— don’t be quiet, Lando, say something!” she yells suddenly, voice breaking, tears already pooling.
“Then why were you quiet for so long?” His words come out shaky. He steps closer, his voice trembling. “You should’ve told me sooner, I could’ve— I could’ve helped, we could’ve—”
She shakes her head, cutting him off, voice rising. “It’s Alzheimer’s, Lando!” The words come out like a scream — sharp, final, irreversible. “You can go to every fucking doctor on this planet and they’ll all tell you the same thing! There’s no cure! I’m losing my memories.”
Her breath hitches, she presses her hands to her temples like she could hold everything in place. “That night in Greece when we first met,” she sobs, “I was ready to end it all. I was done. And you— you taught me how to live again. You taught me what it meant to be happy again. And now—” her voice shatters, “I’m going to forget that. I’m going to forget you.”
Lando’s face crumples. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head violently. “No, no, don’t— don’t say that.”
“Fuck, no,” she backs away, tears blurring her vision. “You should leave.”
“What?” His voice is small, disbelieving.
“You should leave, Lando. You don’t deserve this. You’ve got your career, your life— you don’t need to deal with me falling apart!”
“Fuck that career!” His voice rises, chest heaving. “Australia, China, Japan — the crowds were screaming for me, but you know what? None of it felt right. None of it meant a damn thing because you weren’t there!”
“Don’t,” she sobs. “Don’t promise shit you don’t mean. It’s not going to work, Lando! Six months from now, you’ll be in another country, I’ll barely remember your name, and you’ll realize this was all—” she chokes, “just a mistake.”
He steps forward, his eyes glistening, tears running unchecked. “Maybe you’re right,” he whispers. “Maybe it’ll be hell. But I don’t care.”
She shakes her head, breaking apart. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“I do.” His voice steadies, quiet but full of fire. “You said the moments we had taught you to live. To be happy. So let me teach you again. And again. And again. Every single day if I have to. You’ll forget things— fine. Then we’ll make new memories. Ten new ones for every one you lose. And I’ll remember for the both of us.”
He takes her face in his hands, foreheads touching, both of them crying, breaths tangled and uneven. “Please, darling,” he whispers, voice cracking on her name. “Please trust me. Let me love you through this. Just— just let me try. I love you and I'm not letting you go forever and ever and ever.”
And that’s it. The dam breaks. She pulls him into a hug, clutching his shirt, sobbing into his chest. He holds her like the world could split apart right there and he’d still keep her safe.
After all the “I'm sorry” and “I love you” were whispered, the room finally quiets down. Only the faint sound of the waves outside and their uneven breathing fills the silence. Her sobs soften into little gasps, her hands still clutching at his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she lets go. He sits down with her on the floor, his back against the bed frame, her body curled into his chest, small and trembling.
Lando doesn’t speak. He doesn’t trust his voice right now. It's wrecked, just like everything inside him. His thumb brushes the tears from her cheek, but they keep coming. He just keeps doing it anyway, gentle, over and over, like it’s the only thing he can do.
After a while, her breathing evens out, her body goes limp — she’s fallen asleep. He stares at her for a long, long time, like he’s trying to take a photograph with his eyes. Memorize every freckle, every curve of her lashes, every soft line that makes her her.
And then it hits him — that night in Greece. The first night he saw her.
The way she stood at the edge of the sea, hair messy from the wind, eyes glinting under the moonlight. She looked so heartbreakingly alive and lonely all at once. He remembered how he joked about her almost spilling her drink, how she’d rolled her eyes and told him, “You’re really not as charming as you think, you know?”
He smiles at the memory — a quiet, broken little smile — because that was the moment. The moment everything changed.
Then Australia flashes before him. The season opener. The chaos, the fans, the noise but all he could focus on was her in the paddock, nervous but trying to hide it, tucking her hair behind her ear as his mum hugged her and said, “It’s so lovely to finally meet you.”
His throat tightens as he presses a kiss to her temple.
And then, Notting Hill.
That stupid coffee shop. How she bumped into him. Hugged him tight, kissed him— that same kiss that made his heart skip every single time.
Now, sitting here in the half-dark with her sleeping against him, he realizes he remembers everything. Every tiny thing she might one day forget. The way her nose scrunches when she’s confused, the way she hums absentmindedly when she’s cooking, the way she always, always taps her fingers on her thigh to the beat of whatever song’s in her head.
He presses another kiss to her hair and whispers, “It’s okay, darling. I’ve got you. I’ll remember for both of us.”
And for the first time in hours, his eyes close. His hand stays over her heart — feeling the rhythm, memorizing it. Because if the world decides to take her memories, he’s going to hold onto every single one she ever gave him.
The repercussions that followed weren’t easy.
She had to resign from everywhere — from her job, from the boards. The fact that she could no longer practice the degree she worked endlessly hard to attain hurt in ways she couldn’t even begin to describe. She’d built her entire identity around being capable, independent, the woman who always knew what she was doing. And suddenly, she didn’t.
But then there was him.
Lando, who stood beside her through every letter of resignation. Who kissed the back of her hand as she hit “send” on the last email and whispered, “Now we get to live, yeah?”
And somehow, he was right.
She moved to Monaco with him — the same city she’d once called his, slowly becoming theirs. The apartment they chose had big glass windows that looked over the sea and caught the sunrise just right.
Their mornings began with sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft hum of the sea below, and Lando refusing to let her out of bed until she laughed at least once. He’d wake up before her sometimes, hair messy, eyes still half-closed, and just lie there staring at her like she was something sacred.
Every morning, she’d make coffee (which she always messed up somehow), and he’d drink it anyway, pretending it was the best he’d ever had.
When he left for training, she’d stay back by the balcony, legs tucked under a blanket, sketching the view or reading the same page three times before realizing she’d been daydreaming instead.
They learned to live around her foggy days — the ones where she’d forget what she wanted to say mid-sentence or lose track of time while reading. Lando never made her feel guilty for it. Instead, he’d slide a hand into hers, smile, and say,
“Guess we’ve got another first to make today.” And it felt like she found him as a relief in these pains.
He bought her a Polaroid camera — a disgustingly bright orange color that he called papaya — and they started a memory wall. Each photo had a date and a scribble beneath it. First breakfast in Monaco. Beach day gone wrong (we forgot sunscreen 😭). Paddock pass baby!!!
And every morning, before they left, he’d stop in front of it, kiss her forehead, and point at one. “See that? That’s proof we’re doing okay.”
She couldn't travel with him to different timezones as they’d affect her more. So she went to the European races with him. Her suitcase was smaller than his (which he still found suspicious because she somehow fit her entire skincare routine in there). She’d walk into the paddock beside himher hand in his and everyone could see the way he looked at her. Like she was calm in the chaos.
Between sessions, she’d sit in the McLaren hospitality, legs tucked under her, laptop open, reading or watching the timing screens like she actually understood what was going on.
And after every race — win or lose — she’d be there waiting. Always, with a smile and open arms.
At night, they’d sit on their balcony, Merlot glasses in hand, sea breeze in their hair. And in that tiny moment — barefoot, wine-drunk, surrounded by the soft sound of waves — everything felt right.
Because she may have lost titles, jobs, and pieces of memory but she still had him.
And he? He had her.
And then came races like Monaco — her father who was this big shot investment guy used to be there too. A terrifying man Lando learned — and Silverstone where she hugged him tighter. Didn’t tell him to get off her despite how sweaty he was. Just held him tighter and whispered, “Don't cry silly, you deserve this.”
“Whatever I got is with you, I just want to stay awake all night and see you. I don't want to sleep because what if I lose these moments?” Lando wanted to say that but instead he just held her closer and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
Lando didn't know what future would hold for them but he knew he can take all the darkness from these eyes of her
“My love, we will share all the mornings together,” he kissed her temple, watching his darling sleep soundly next to him.
The Montreal air was still heavy when he got back to Monaco — his bag slung over his shoulder, bruised ego heavier than his body. The crash replayed in his head over and over again: the overtake, the tiny mistake, the crunch of his front wing. No points. No podium. Just a bruised wrist and the taste of failure on his tongue.
But even through all of that, all he wanted was her.
He wanted to come home, collapse into her arms, and let her kiss the frustration off his skin like she always did.
He pushed the door open quietly. The lights were still on, faint music playing from her phone on the counter. She was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes red. He smiled softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, darling. I’m home.”
She looked up at him. And for a moment—nothing. Her gaze flickered across his face like she was searching for something she couldn’t find. “Hi,” she said softly, hesitant.
The kind of “hi” you give to a stranger who might’ve been a friend in another life.
Lando froze. “What—what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I… I don’t—” Her lips trembled. “I don’t remember why I love you.”
And that broke him.
The words hit harder than any crash ever could. His breath stuttered; his chest caved in. “You—” he tried to laugh, because that’s what he did when he was terrified. “You’re joking, right? You’re joking.”
She looked up. Red eyes. Shaky breath. And then repeated “I… I don’t— I don’t remember why I love you.”
The words hit him harder than any crash ever could.
His chest physically hurt. For a second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even move.
“What?” he whispered, voice trembling, stepping closer like maybe she’d laugh and say she was joking, that it was just another one of those bad days. But her expression was terrified — not distant, not cold — just lost.
“I know you,” she said between sobs, “I know your face, I know your name—Lando—but I can’t feel it. I can’t remember why. Why it mattered. Why you matter so much to me.” Her hands were shaking as she gripped the blanket tighter. “And I hate myself for it.”
He dropped to his knees in front of her instantly. “Hey, hey, no. Don’t— don’t say that.” His hands hovered over hers before finally taking them, pressing them against his lips. “You do love me, sweetheart. You told me right here—” he looked at the couch, his voice breaking, “right here, before I left for the race. You said you loved me, and I remember everything about it.”
Tears pooled in his eyes. “You were wearing my hoodie, you had toothpaste on your sleeve ‘cause you’re always messy in the mornings. You kissed me and you said, ‘Win it for me, yeah?’” His voice faltered. “I didn’t. I crashed. And all I could think about, sitting there, was how I couldn’t wait to come home to you.”
She blinked rapidly, tears falling uncontrollably now. “Lando, stop—”
But he couldn’t stop. Because for him, there was no forgetting. His mind was a museum of her and if he could he would show her every thing. Every single moment, every laugh, every touch burned into his brain like film that could never fade. Hyperthymesia was supposed to be a gift, but right now it was hell. Because he remembered everything she couldn’t.
But all he could do now was tell her, try to make her remember everything.
“The first time you told me you loved me,” he whispered, tears running down his cheeks, “it was raining in Greece. We both were drunk on cheap wine, and you said it like it slipped out by accident. I remember the sound of your laugh right after, the way you looked at me — it’s stuck in my head like a song I can’t turn off.”
She sobbed harder, shaking her head. “I want to remember that. I want to remember you.”
He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “Then let me remember for the both of us.” His thumb brushed her tears away, his voice trembling with all the love and devastation in the world. “You don’t have to fight it alone. You loved me once. You’ll love me again. Every single day if I have to make you fall for me again, I will.”
And then she broke. Completely.
Her body collapsed into him, arms wrapping around his neck as if he were the only thing keeping her from drowning.
He held her tight — so tight it hurt — and whispered the same three words she had once said to him, the ones she couldn’t remember now:
“I love you.”
And when she whispered them back, barely audible, shaky, unsure — he smiled through the tears. Because even if her memory couldn’t hold him anymore, her heart still could.
Lando spent the night trying to make her remember the moments they spent together. He even showed her footage of her filming him from parc fermé, photos they took together, that stupidly bright orange ( papaya ) camera, stories of their time in Greece until her sobs finally quieted down and she slept.
Morning light spilled into the kitchen, soft and golden, bouncing off the white marble counters. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and toasted bread. She was humming something out of tune and completely random while he stood by the stove, spatula in hand, pretending like last night hadn’t gutted him.
It almost felt normal. Almost.
She’d woken up early, smiled at him like nothing had happened, kissed his cheek, and said, “Morning, sleepyhead,” as if her tears and confusion from the night before never existed. And for a moment — god, for a fragile, beautiful moment — he let himself believe it was all okay.
“Hey,” he smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “you feeling okay today?”
“Mhm,” she nodded, mouth full of pancake. “Better. I don’t know why, but I feel… lighter, you know? Like a weight’s gone.”
He chuckled, small but soft. “Good. You deserve light days.”
And she smiled at him — that same smile he fell in love with, the one that made his heart feel like it could run out of his chest.
She was laughing now, sitting on the counter, legs swinging, hair messy, wearing his shirt — the one she’d called “ugly” a week ago. Her smile was sunshine, her eyes were bright, and when she leaned forward to steal a piece of toast from his plate, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“This is my breakfast, woman!”
“Correction — our breakfast,” she grinned, crumbs on her lips.
It was perfect. It was domestic. It was theirs.
And then—
As she handed her a mug of coffee, she smiled softly, eyes meeting his, and said it.
“I love you, Axel.”
Silence.
The kind that roars in your ears, louder than any F1 engine ever could.
The mug almost slipped from his hand. His chest hollowed out instantly, breath catching in his throat. Instead he smiled, and she leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple — that soft, tender way she always did when she wanted to thank him without saying the words.
She just walked away. Humming again, like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just ripped open every scar he’d helped her heal.
He sat there, staring at the empty space she’d left, the coffee mug shaking in his grip. Axel.
The name that haunted her for months. The name that made her cry herself to sleep when she thought he wasn’t watching.
The name of the man who cheated on her, who broke her so badly she didn’t want to live.
Lando remembered all of it.
He remembered the tremble in her voice when she told him that story the first time. The way she said she didn’t think she’d ever love again.
And now— now she was smiling in his shirt, in their kitchen, calling him Axel.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.
But all he did was sit there, hands trembling, staring down at his plate.
Because he remembered everything.
And she remembered nothing right.
When she came back out of the bathroom later, her hair damp, smelling like his shampoo, she saw the look on his face — the red eyes, the tight jaw, the silence heavy enough to choke on.
“Lando?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”
He blinked, forcing a smile so weak it hurt. “Nothing, love,” he said, voice barely steady. “Just… tired.”
And when she walked over, cupped his face, and kissed his forehead, he broke — because she was trying to comfort him without knowing why he was breaking.
“Darling,” he whispered, voice trembling as he buried his face in her shoulder, “please— please don’t forget me again.”
She frowned, confused, but just hugged him tighter. Because to her, he was just someone who felt safe — familiar.
To him, she was everything.
Every memory. Every heartbeat. Every reason to exist.
And the worst part?
He’d remember this too. Every second of her saying another man’s name while loving him.
And he’d never be able to forget it.
And when she leaned in to kiss his cheek before leaving, he closed his eyes — trying to trap the feeling, trying to burn it into his memory. Because that’s all he had now.
That was their curse. She’d forget all this but this will be burned in his memory. The exact curve of her lip, the tone of her voice — everything.
It was supposed to be a quiet return home.
After the Dutch Grand Prix, Lando’s head was still ringing — not from the crash, not from the mechanical failure, but from the deafening silence of almost. The race had been his to win. The points were his to gain. But somewhere between turn eleven and the final laps, his car decided to betray him. His teammate — his biggest rival — stood on the top step of the podium while Lando sat in the garage, helmet still on, watching the champagne spray across the screen.
He didn’t even stay for post-race briefings. He just left. Monaco was supposed to be his calm. His home. Her.
But when he got there, the lights were off. The air felt wrong.
“Love?” No answer. He called again, louder this time.
Nothing.
The kitchen was clean. Her mug was still sitting by the sink. The living room blanket — the one she always used for her afternoon naps — was half-folded, like she’d gotten distracted halfway through.
He checked every room. Every single one. Bedroom, balcony, even the laundry room because maybe she was trying to find something and got sidetracked. But nothing. No sound. No laughter. No her.
The panic hit slow, like water filling a sinking car. He checked her contacts, called her phone — switched off. Then the neighbors. The café she liked. The florist down the road. The little bookshop she used to drag him to. Everyone gave the same sympathetic shrug: they hadn’t seen her.
By the time he reached the police station, his voice was trembling, the weight of everything pressing against his chest, his nerves were shot. He was half out of breath, half out of hope. “Sir, please calm down,” one of the officers said gently. “We believe we found her.”
And then — there she was.
Sitting in one of the wooden chairs in the corner of the room. Hair disheveled, eyes red and swollen, still wearing her slippers. She was clutching a crumpled tissue in one hand like it was her lifeline.
Lando froze.
He wanted to run to her, hold her, breathe her in. But when her gaze met his — she flinched.
Not just in surprise.
In fear.
It felt like being gutted alive. “Miss, do you know this man?” the officer asked softly.
She shook her head. Her lips trembled. “He followed me,” she whispered. “He keeps saying he knows me.”
And that broke him.
“Darling—” he took a careful step forward, but the officer held a hand up. “Sir, please step back.”
He nodded numbly, chest burning, forcing himself to sit on the bench across from her. He watched her through the tears blurring his vision — her fingers trembling as she rubbed her eyes, the same hands that once brushed his hair out of his face, that held him when the world got too loud.
The same hands that now looked at him like he was a stranger.
The officer came back after a few minutes. “We’ve contacted her father. He’s on the way.”
And Lando just sat there completely still.
His mind replayed everything — the beach in Greece, the balcony in Monaco, the night she’d whispered “I love you” against his skin. All of it. Every laugh. Every tear. Every damn heartbeat.
When her father finally arrived, she looked up — and instantly crumbled. “Dad,” she sobbed, running into his arms like a little girl again. Her father hugged her tightly, eyes glassy but steady. Her father thanked the officers, explaining her condition, the progress, how the doctors had warned them this could happen. The police nodded, sympathetic, letting the two of them leave together.
He turned to Lando, voice breaking as he said, “I’ll take her home for a few days.”
And Lando just nodded. Because what else could he do? Because she was so near him, right beside him, like a feeling that belongs only to me. Like a piece of his own soul breathing quietly, a piece of himself that he can never have.
Because if saying “I’d die if I could never have you” would hurt his sweet girl then he'd rather swallow those words.
The officer asked them to confirm her condition, and once her father explained — the Alzheimers, showed the medical papers — they let Lando go.
He stood outside the station for a long time, watching through the glass doors as her father led her out, still crying, still clinging to him. She didn’t even glance at Lando once.
He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t her fault, despite her condition his girl didn’t change at all. It's just the season that’s turned a little cold on them.
He knew she couldn’t help it. But it didn’t stop the ache in his chest — the feeling of losing someone who was still right there. He remembered every moment — Greece, Australia, every whispered “I love you” — and now he was the only one who did.
That was the curse of his memory. He would remember her love vividly — while she forgot him completely.
Lando spent his nights lost in the echo of her words. Every passing moment, his lips carried her name,
People told him to get in his head, “Lando you've got a fucking championship at stake! Pull yourself together!” his performance engineer tried putting sense in him.
But it was too late. His museum of a mind had already built a whole world from moments gone by as if shaping him in tears that once shed. God her laughter still echoes in his mind.
He tells himself stories of her—of them—the stars of his memories. How could they ever fall apart in his mind?
The atmosphere in his driver's room is tense. dead silent except for the faint buzz of machinery and the low hum of conversation that dies the moment he walks in. Lando’s still in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw locked. His performance engineer corners him.
“Lando, you’re slipping, mate,” he says, frustrated, shoving the clipboard against his chest. “Your reaction times are down, your focus is off. This isn’t you. You’ve got the championship to lose if you keep going like this.”
Lando’s laugh comes out dry, bitter. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I’m telling you to focus!” the engineer snaps, voice echoing off the concrete. “You can’t keep letting some girl—”
“She's not ‘some girl’,” Lando cuts him off, tone as cold as ice. The engineer blinks, thrown off. “Lando—”
“You don’t get it,” Lando says, shaking his head, voice trembling but steadying itself with fury. “She wasn’t a distraction. She was the reason. Every time I got in that car, she was the one I wanted to make proud. When I crossed the line, it wasn’t the crowd I heard—it was her.”
He swallows, eyes flickering to the empty pit wall, where she used to stand during races. “You think I care about trophies? About the fucking championship? You can melt that gold down for all I care. What’s the point of the world screaming my name when she's forgetting it?”
The engineer’s expression softens, but Lando isn’t done. He’s pacing now, voice raw.
“She gave me love in a way nothing else ever did. I’ve had fans scream my name in every country on this planet, but none of it—none of it—comes close to how it felt when she whispered it like I was her whole world.”
He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving. “Now she looks at me like I’m a stranger. And you want me to pull myself together?” He laughs, hollow. “You're my performance engineer right Jarv? Then tell me how do I fix myself?”
“Because my brain is doing what it does the best. Showing me the time I've spent with her like it’s a fucking movie on repeat. What do I do Jarv? Throw my brain out? Because I want to improve. For myself, for the team but all I can see is how she looked at me with fear — fucking fear — as if I'm some predator who kept her captured. As if I'm not the one she loved.”
There’s silence. The kind that hangs heavy, choking the air.
He sits down on the cold floor, elbows on his knees, staring at his gloves like they’re foreign. “Fuck I'm sorry I said too much,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
His engineer stands there, guilt etched into every line of his face, because what do you even say to that?
And Lando just sits there, head bowed, his mind replaying her laugh like a broken record.
The air in Notting Hill felt different that day. London drizzle, soft and unassuming, clung to the edges of his car as he drove around the cobblestone street
His world championship trophy sat somewhere miles away in his home, next to a photo of her.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t come here again. But his feet didn’t listen. They carried him to the same neighborhood, the same street, the same brass-numbered gate of her father’s house.
“That's the fourth round you've made.” Lando turned around to see her father. “Can't tell if you're stalking me or trying to show off your new car.” Lando smiled at her father. “It's not like that sir,” Lando managed a weak smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.
“Come in. Have some tea. It’s cold out.”
Inside, everything was the same — warm, elegant, yet eerily quiet. Family portraits lined the hallway, frozen memories staring back at him. His chest ached when his eyes fell on one: her graduation photo. Her grin was wide, her hair pulled back in that messy way he used to love.
She used to tell him how it's always been just her and her father. Her mother cheated on her father. Perhaps that's the reason why her father was more hurt when she got cheated on. Because he knew how it felt better than anyone.
Her father led him to the kitchen, pouring him a cup of Earl Grey. “Congratulations,” he said softly, settling opposite him at the table. “You put up a hell of a fight for that title and ofcourse McLaren finally did it. Back to back constructors’ Champions.”
Lando gave a small nod, fingers tightening around the cup. “Yeah. It should’ve felt better.”
Her father hummed knowingly, eyes studying him carefully — the dark circles, the exhaustion, the quiet melancholy in his voice. “You’re looking for her, aren’t you?”
Lando froze. The question hung heavy in the air, cutting through the silence like a blade.
He didn’t answer, just glanced toward the hallway — toward the stairs that used to creak when she’d run down them in the mornings, wrapped in one of his hoodies, hair messy, voice sleepy as she’d mumble, ‘you’re up early, Norris.’
Her father sighed deeply. “She’s not here anymore.”
The words felt like a punch to the gut. Lando’s gaze shot to him instantly, the faint hope in his chest crumbling like sand slipping through his fingers.
“She’s in a facility now,” her father said quietly, voice steady but laced with grief. “It’s a private one. Beautiful place, really. In the countryside — gardens, lakes, fresh air. Her neurologist recommended it after her condition started worsening. Said she’d be better off surrounded by professionals. By people who understand what she’s going through.”
Lando swallowed hard. “Worsening?” His voice cracked on the word.
Her father nodded. “The episodes became more frequent. She’d forget where she was, even forget me sometimes.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “I’d find her outside at odd hours, crying because she couldn’t recognize her own house. She was terrified, Lando. I… I couldn’t keep watching her like that.”
Lando’s chest tightened. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the cup in front of him, but the steam blurred with the sting in his eyes.
“I visit every Sunday,” her father continued. “She’s… happy there, I think. Some days she paints. Some days she just sits by the lake, humming songs she used to love. I tell myself that’s enough.”
Lando smiled faintly, but his jaw trembled. “Does she… remember me?”
“Sometimes, what was that song you two used to dance to.. ?” her father trailed off. “Airplaine thoughts!” lando answered almost immediately. “Yeah that one. There are flashes where she remember everything — you know the time you two spent when someone plays that song nearby.”
“Otherwise she might not remember your name,” her father said softly. “But sometimes she mentions a man with brown curls and pretty eyes. Says he makes her feel safe. I think that’s still you, in there somewhere.”
The room went quiet again, the only sound the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Lando’s throat ached with all the words he couldn’t say — tell her I love her, tell her I never stopped, tell her I’d give up everything just to hear her say my name one more time.
Instead, he nodded, standing up slowly. “Could you… give me the address? Of where she is?”
Her father hesitated again, studying him. The boy who once made his daughter laugh until she cried, now standing there broken, hollowed out by love and memory. Finally, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and slid it across the table.
“She’s in Wiltshire,” he said quietly. “You’ll need clearance to visit. But I’ll make the call.”
Lando took the paper like it was made of glass. His hands shook.
When he stepped back outside, the rain had picked up again — soft, cold, relentless. He stood on the porch for a moment, staring at the address, then up at the gray London sky.
He should’ve felt victorious. He’d made history.
But in that moment, all he wanted was her — the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her hand in his, the way she’d say, “you drive too fast even off track, Norris.”
And god, as he stood there in the rain, clutching that piece of paper to his chest, he realized that the world could give him every title, every trophy, every ounce of glory but without her remembering him, it would all still feel like nothing.
The drive to Wiltshire felt endless. The countryside blurred past him in shades of green and gray, but his mind was miles away — stuck between memories and maybes. His heart pounded in rhythm as he parked outside the facility. A soft white building surrounded by wildflowers and oak trees that looked too peaceful for the ache in his chest.
He sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, breathing like every inhale hurt. When he finally stepped inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic. The receptionist — a middle-aged woman with kind eyes — looked up from her desk.
“Mr. Norris?” she asked softly, as if she already knew who he was.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
She smiled sadly. “She’s been waiting for you, I think.”
His stomach flipped. “What do you mean?”
The woman reached into a drawer and pulled out a neatly folded envelope. His name — written in her handwriting — sprawled across the front. His breath caught. He hadn’t seen her writing in 3 months. “She left this with us a few days ago,” the receptionist said gently.
Lando blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice almost breaking. He took the letter like it was something sacred.
He stood there in the hallway for a long time before opening it. Her familiar loops and uneven cursive stared back at him:
My love,
If you’re reading this, it means you came. You always do. You always find me.
I wanted to say I’m proud of you. For the wins, the losses, the way you keep going even when everything hurts. I watch you on the news sometimes, and I still cry — happy tears, I promise. I always knew you’d make it.
I’m sorry for everything that happened in monaco that night. For leaving. For forgetting. I hope you know I never meant to — if forgetting could be a choice, I’d never choose to forget you.
Even if one day I forget your name, your face, your laugh — I know I’ll still feel you somewhere in my heart. Because that kind of love doesn’t just disappear.
I remember alot less now. But everytime someone plays our song everyting comes flooding in. Because even if my mind's forgetting things, my heart won't.
You taught me to live again, Lando. Don’t stop living now. And please remember that I love you forever and ever and ever.
All my love, always,
By the time he finished reading, tears were dripping onto the page, smudging the ink. His chest felt tight, the kind of ache that didn’t know how to fade.
He followed the nurse through winding corridors, past soft pastel walls and the faint hum of a piano playing somewhere in the distance. When they stopped at her door, he hesitated. His hand hovered over the handle, his heart screaming at him to move.
The nurse gave him a small nod. “She’s on the balcony. She likes the sunlight.”
He stepped inside quietly. The room was warm, filled with the soft scent of bergamot, vanilla, faint hint of coffee — her. And then he saw it — the walls.
Every inch of the corkboard near her bed was covered in newspaper cutouts, photos, printouts of his face smiling back at him from podiums, interviews, magazine covers.. Photos of his wins, his smile on podiums, headlines that scream McLaren’s Golden Boy Does It Again.
"I know you once told me to remeber you after I called you by Axel's you. and I try my best to remeber you but it goes tough sometimes." A note read. He almost lost it right there.
And then he saw her. Sitting outside on the balcony, sunlight brushing over her hair, wearing a soft white cardigan. Her book in her lap as she hummed something faintly — a tune he used to play for her on the piano when they were in that guest house in Greece.
He stepped closer, his shoes silent against the carpet. She turned when she heard the door open. Her eyes widened slightly, but there was no shock, no recognition — just warmth.
“Hi,” she said softly, her voice carrying the same melody it did the very first time they met.
He smiled through the ache, his throat tightening. “Hi,” he whispered back. She tilted her head as she said her name, the same way she did the very first time they met in Greece, like a shy introduction that would soon change both their lives.
“And who are you?” His heart dropped to his stomach. It was a simple question — a kind tone even. But they way she looked at him as if he was just another unrecognizable face.
He sits next to her slowly, keeping a respectful distance. “I’m an athlete. I race cars, actually,” he says, voice catching slightly. Her eyes light up a little. “Cars? That sounds fast.” He chuckles, nodding. “Yeah. Too fast, sometimes.”
They sit in silence for a moment, watching the leaves sway. Then she glances sideways at him. “You said you’re from…?”
“Notting Hill,” he murmurs, trying not to break.
Her lips curve into a tiny smile. “I’ve heard the coffee’s good there.”
His chest caves in. A tear slips down before he can stop it, and he turns away, pretending to wipe his cheek casually. “Yeah,” he breathes out, voice trembling. “Yeah, it is.” He nearly broke right there — because god, it was exactly what he told her when visited Notting Hill for the first time, looking for her.
The nurses had bundled her up in a cream coat and a knitted scarf before letting her go on a walk with him. His breath fogged in the cold air as he held the gate open for her.
The snow crunched beneath their boots as they walked through the garden trail, hands brushing but not quite touching yet. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, and he couldn’t help but smile watching her look around, like every icicle, every frost-tipped branch was a new discovery.
“Do you have plants?” he asked softly, voice cutting through the quiet.
“I have a white carnation plant,” she replied, eyes still forward, voice gentle but proud — like she still had pieces of herself she hadn’t forgotten.
“You know,” he grinned, “you seem like the kind of person who’d talk to plants.”
Her mouth dropped open, the faintest hint of her old attitude flashing through. “Excuse me? I literally used to talk to my dad’s houseplants, thank you very much.”
“You speak to plants?” He raised an eyebrow, teasing.
“Yeah!” she said, all defensive, shoving her hands into her pockets.
“Plants can’t talk, sweetheart.”
“Yeah they can!”
“No, they can’t.”
“Yes, they can!” she smacked his arm with the paperback she’d been carrying. He burst out laughing, and for a second — just a second — it felt like nothing had changed.
“They can feel energy!” she said, trying to sound serious but already smiling because he was laughing too hard. “My basil plant used to lean toward me when I came home!”
“That’s literally called sunlight, darling.”
She gasped, pretending to be offended. “Shut up! You wouldn’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it.” He smirked, walking ahead of her with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “You’re one of those ‘if I scream at my plants, they’ll grow faster’ people.”
“I am, proudly that too,” she shrugged, chin up in mock defiance.
And then, silence. Just their steps in the snow. The sound of the wind between the trees.
“Lando.” Once. Soft as if testing it.
He turned around slowly, afraid to move too fast — afraid that if he did, the moment would vanish like breath in winter air.
She said it again, firmer this time. “Lando.”
And then again, the full thing — Lando Norris.
He stops walking. His body just freezes. It’s like time stutters to a halt. Every muscle in him goes still, his lungs forget how to work, and all he can do is stare at her as she looks at him with trembling lips and tears in her lashes.
“Lando Norris,” she says again, like she’s tasting the name, his name, on her tongue — familiar, sacred.
He barely breathes. “Yeah,” he whispers, voice shaking. And this time, he saw it — the shimmer in her eyes, the tears gathering faster than she could blink away.
“I love you,” she whispered, voice breaking — trembling — as if every forgotten piece of her heart had just found its way home. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His lips parted, but his throat refused to work. “I love you, Lando Norris.”
The sound of her saying his full name again —without him telling her — exactly like the way she used to when teasing him, or cheering him from the pit lane cracked something inside him wide open.
And then she screamed it. Loud, unfiltered, raw — “I love you, Lando Norris!”
He opened his arms without even thinking, and she runs to him, snow crunching under her boots, her book slipping from her hand and landing in the snow as she throws herself into him. The impact nearly knocks him back, but his arms come around her instantly, clutching her tight, tighter, tighter. His face buries into her hair, his body trembling, his breath uneven.
Her fingers curled into his coat, her face buried in his shoulder as she sobbed. He pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in, whispering her name over and over like it was a prayer.
He’s crying too, but he doesn’t care.
Because she remembers. Maybe not everything. But him.
He pulls back just a little, hands cupping her face, thumbs brushing her tears away even as his own fall freely. She’s looking up at him with those same eyes — the same love, the same softness that’s haunted every dream he’s had since she left. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and snowflakes, her lips trembling as she looked at him — really looked at him.
“I remember,” she whispers, voice breaking. “I remember the beach… the sea… the disgusting orange car and camera… your stupid playlists—” lando cuts her off by placing his lips against hers.
It wasn’t desperate or rushed — it was slow, tender, the kind of kiss that carries a thousand memories in one breath. She melted into him, her hands clutching his face like she needed to remember the shape of it — the curve of his jaw, the warmth of his skin.
He laughs, choked and wet and desperate. “Also darling, it’s papaya, not orange.”
And she laughs, actually laughs through her tears, that little sound he thought he’d never hear again and that’s when he kissed her again. "I love you, forever and ever and ever," he murmured kissing her hair and pulling her in a hug.
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Hey I really love your works they're all so lovely and worded perfectly also your writing is so good, my special favourite is Love Like This it's so romantic. Is it possible you could make part 2 of that? If not it's okay, or maybe you can make another Charles Leclerc x reader where she is younger than him but they kinda fit with each other. Thank you so much, 🌺❤️
Hi my lovely anon! I’ll do both the ideas! Making a part two was always in my mind but I was running short on ideas but I’ll surely post something next week! Thx for your support, I truly appreciate it 🫶🏻
PAIRING: charles leclerc x f!reader DESCRIPTION: in which you're in a toxic relationship with charles that is destroying you both, but neither of you wants to leave. based on tate mcrae's siren sounds WARNINGS: both charles and the reader are toxic af, mentions of alcohol, arguing, manipulation, smut, switch but mostly dom!charles, switch!reader, manhandling, hair pulling, unprotected sex A/N: this is probably the nastiest (and not in a dirty way) thing i've written so far and i hate to make charles the bad guy but 😔 pls tell me if i've missed anything in terms of the warnings!
The screech of metal scraping against the plate fills your ears as you push your food around. Possibly one of the worst sounds to ever exist.
The dinner you made sits mostly untouched, the lit candle in the middle dripping wax down its side. The flame wavers, casting eerie shadows that seem to crawl up everything in reach.
The atmosphere has been tense since Charles had walked through the door. You have a funny feeling that the walls of the apartment are leaning closer with every minute of silence, pressing in until it feels like the room itself wants to smother you.
Not a bad idea.
He sits across from you, still in the same clothes he travelled in, his hair pushed back messily. His phone sits on the table beside his plate. The screen hasn’t turned off since you had sat down, his gaze never leaving whatever shit he was scrolling through.
It was like this between you more often than not. You hadn’t seen him all weekend, not being able to attend the race with him because of your demanding job. You did try and come to as many as possible, but it wasn't always viable. He never held it against you.
But now that he was back in your company, he seemed to be more interested in anything else rather than speaking to you.
Even though you’d spent the whole evening making his favourite dish. Even though you’d brought his favourite wine and set the table in a way he used to think was too meticulous, but endearing nevertheless. Even though you’d spent far too long picking out the perfect outfit, one you knew he used to love on you.
The key words being used to. He was so withdrawn that he hadn't even picked up his fork yet.
You break first. You always do.
“Do you ever get tired of ignoring me?”
His eyes lift, irritation already present in them. “I’m not ignoring you.”
“No?” Your fork clatters against the porcelain when you set it down. “You haven’t said more than five words to me since you walked in.”
His mouth twists, defensive. “Because I’m exhausted.”
“You’re always exhausted,” you snap back, though you keep your voice gentle. “That’s your excuse every time. But you’ll happily sit there and scroll through your phone and make no effort with me.”
He pushes his chair back a fraction, pressing the lock button on his phone. “Better?” he rolls his eyes, leaning on his elbows. “You think I want to come home and argue with you over stupid things?”
“It’s not stupid. And I'm not trying to argue. You don’t even try at all anymore, I may as well not be here.”
The words hang in the air, and you can see the way they circle through his mind. His jaw tenses, eyes narrowing but avoiding yours. “That’s unfair of you to say.”
“What’s unfair,” you shoot back, “is being treated like I’m not here. What’s unfair is lying next to you every night and feeling like I’m just there because it’s convenient for you. You only really speak to me when it's like this.”
You gesture between the two of you, a little dramatically.
He lets out a humourless laugh, the sound sharp in your ears. “So now I’m the villain! What, because you don’t get enough attention?”
“No, you don’t get to do that.” Your chest tightens, voice rising. “Don’t make it sound like I’m some needy girlfriend begging for scraps. I am asking for the bare minimum.”
Charles stands abruptly, chair legs scraping across the floor. His movements are too sharp, too quick. “You’re asking for something I don’t have to give.”
The words sting. You get up too, the space between you shrinking. “Then why are you with me?”
“Because I love you,” he says without hesitation, but it doesn’t sound like love. It stopped sounding like love months ago. It sounds like his defence, like a weapon.
Since when was love supposed to make you feel so empty?
“No.” You shake your head, tears prickling at the back of your eyes. “You don’t get to say that like it excuses everything. Love isn’t silence. Love isn’t making me feel like I’m insane for needing you.”
He presses his palms against the table, knuckles whitening. “You just push and push until I break. Do you even hear yourself? You always want more no matter what I give you.”
“What you give me?” Your laugh cracks, echoing off the walls. “Name one thing that we’ve done together besides me flying out to races with you in the past few months.”
You take a sip of your wine. “Oh wait, you can’t! Even at Spa I had your engineers asking me who I was to you, because that’s just how obvious you make it to everyone. You don’t even know how humiliating that was for me.”
The words you uttered must have wounded him as you see something flash in his eyes— not hurt exactly, tainted with something darker. He slams the wine glass in his hand down on the table, and in a flash all you see is red.
The shatter echoes in your ears, crimson bleeding through the table cloth. Covering his hand. Dripping onto the hardwood floors.
A violent reflection of you and your feelings, cascading across the room. The sound of something other than glass cracking wide open between you. The murder scene of your relationship, bleeding out in front of you.
What a sorry sight.
For a second, neither of you dares to move. His chest is heaving, hand still raised as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s done. His face crumples for a breath and you see the fleeting regret flicker, but it’s gone just as quickly.
He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t say a word.
The silence cuts deeper than the broken glass scattered beneath your feet.
Your voice shakes when you speak. “There it is. Break something so you don’t have to look at what’s already broken.”
He drags a hand over his mouth, paces once, then faces you again. “You think I meant to—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Forget it.”
“No, go on.” You fold your arms, your voice bitter. “You didn’t mean it. That’s supposed to make me feel better, right? That you don’t mean it when you scare me?”
His eyes snap to yours. “I scare you?”
“Yes.” You don’t flinch. “I know you won't hurt me. But I can see how much you hate me sometimes, and that scares me.”
His jaw works. He looks away, as if he can’t face the truth. “If I hated you, I’d be long gone.”
Your throat aches, your whole body trembling with the weight of what you want to say.
“Maybe you should,” you whisper. You weren't sure if you were talking about hating you or leaving you, but both options were equally as cruel.
His mouth curves into something smug, and you just want to wipe that expression off his face. “You won’t mean that tomorrow.”
“Stop!” you shout, exasperated. “Stop acting like you know me better than I know myself.”
“I’m not acting.” He takes a step closer, every move calculated. “I know you. And I know you don’t want me to leave.”
Your chest tightens until it hurts. “Stop saying that.”
“Why? Because it’s true?”
You feel the tears fall before you can stop them. Immediately, you feel silly because this display of emotion was more than he’d ever given you, yet you can’t bring yourself to stop.
For a second, his face falters. Maybe it was the sight of you crying that caused this reaction— but then again, this has happened a thousand times before, and it always ends the same.
He speaks again, softer this time. “I know you love me.”
The words feel like a slap, but you know deep down that they shouldn’t. They should feel like safety, but instead they feel like chains. You want to scream, to smash something too, to prove him wrong about everything that he’s saying. But your feet are rooted to the floor, your throat closed around the words.
He exhales slowly, eyes on yours, voice gentling in a way that feels like another twist of the knife. “I love you.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please, stop.”
“It’s the truth.”
“No, it’s a lie you tell me so I don’t walk out that door.”
His gaze drags over your face, steady, unreadable. “And it works, doesn’t it?”
The tears spill hot and fast now. You hate him for being right. You hate yourself for staying. The frustration thrums through you in waves, mixing with the longing for this to work, something you can’t untangle.
You don’t notice the shift at first. Just the slow drips of the spilled wine, the trembling of your hands, and the cold plates of food still on the table like a reminder. You weren’t even hungry anymore.
You’re glaring at him when his gaze flicks to your mouth. You hate that it makes heat coil in your stomach, unwanted.
The fury in your chest twists, bending into something just as dangerous as what you were seeing.
You should have walked away right there and then. You should put your shoes on, grab your bag, slam the door. But your body has never listened to your mind when it comes to him. It betrays you every time.
“Say it again,” you whisper, hating yourself even as you do.
His voice is low but certain. “I love you.”
You swallow hard, eyes burning. “You’re lying.”
“Then stop me.”
Your breath stutters. The room hums with it, the broken glass, the careless words, the two of you caught in a standoff that isn’t really a standoff at all.
And then your patience fractures. Or maybe his does. You don’t remember who moved first, just that in the space of mere seconds you were standing in front of each other, unsure of what happens next.
His hand catches your jaw, tilts your face up, and his mouth crashes down onto yours like it's the only possible outcome of the situation.
Like it's the only thing he's sure of right now.
It was never tender, never careful. It’s desperate, consuming, just another way of arguing but in a much more physical way. The kind of kiss that feels like drowning and breathing all at once.
His teeth catch your lip, the pull harsh against your skin. You groan in response and clutch his shirt with both hands, pulling him close enough to smell the acidity of the wine staining the fabric.
He walks the both of you backwards and presses you into the wall, narrowly avoiding the bits of glass you knew you’d have to clean up at some point. His hands grip your hips hard enough to hurt, grounding you, keeping you wedged between him and the surface behind you.
The kiss is a continuation of the fight, just in another language, one that you were both fluent in. Every nip and gasp is another accusation, every grip another plea. You push, he pulls. Anger burns through every movement, but beneath it all runs the same sharp truth: neither of you is willing to let go.
The taste of wine and copper bursts through your mouth when he bites your lip a little too hard. You answer by clawing your nails down his back, the thin fabric of his shirt no match for the broken restraint. He hisses against your mouth but doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away.
If anything, it drives him even closer, the pain spurring him on.
His grip on your hips is punishing, dragging you against him until you feel the proof of just how much he wants this, how much he needs it no matter what venom he spewed only minutes ago.
You shove him back, breathless, and for a second you think you’ve startled him.
His back collides with the edge of the table, the plates sat atop it rattling. You climb into his space, fisting his shirt and kissing him so hard that your teeth clash. He lets you take it, lets you press him down into the wood, his hands splaying out behind him.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, his forehead pressing to yours.
“You’re mine,” he manages, shakily.
You shiver at the rawness of it, at the way his voice frays over the simplicity of the words.
“Then prove it,” you whisper.
He takes you by the back of your thighs and spins you, your back flush against the wall yet again. It was a constant fight for dominance, neither of you wanting to give up control to the other.
His lips ventured lower down your neck, sucking little bruises into your skin. Another way to mark his territory, no doubt.
His hands yank your shirt up, pulling it over your head with no care, your bra following in the same ruthless movement. He pinches your nipples between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to sting. You moan, arching into it, tugging at his hair until he groans into your throat.
His jeans scrape your thighs when he grinds against you, but the friction isn’t enough. You push him off you again and he stumbles back, eyes blazing.
“You think you've got me wrapped around your little finger, huh?” you taunt.
His jaw sets as he gulps, but he says nothing when you grab his shirt and shove him down into the nearest chair.
Ironically, the one still soaked in red wine.
He obeys, watching you through dark, narrowed eyes. You hear his breath stutter as you straddle him, your hands quickly undoing his belt. You grind down against him, your skirt bunched up around your hips. He groans low in his chest, his head tipping back, exposing the column of his throat to you.
It was your turn to nip at his stubbled jaw, drag your teeth down his neck, and the sound he makes is nearly enough to undo you. His hands grip your thighs, his fingers leaving discoloured prints on your skin, but he doesn’t dare to stop you.
“Please, look at me,” he begs suddenly, voice guttural.
Your eyes snap to his lidded ones, and he thrusts up against you, desperate. You would laugh at his torment if you weren’t busy gasping at the euphoric sensation, and he has the audacity to smirk.
“I want to feel you, please, chérie.”
You pull his cock free, slick with pre-cum and hot against your hand, and sink down onto him in one brutal push with minimal warning. You both cry out, the sound tangling together in the otherwise quiet room. His hands fly to your waist, steadying you as you give yourself a second to adjust.
The stretch burns, but it’s exquisite, and you dig your nails into his shoulders as you start to move, setting a relentless pace. He lets you take over completely, his head falling back as curses spill from his mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby—”
You ride him like you’re trying to break him, but then in one not so smooth movement he shifts, sliding everything off the table with his forearm. You yelp at the sound of crashing ceramics, your back suddenly colliding with the table, the mess on the floor the least of your worries.
Now he’s above you, his eyes so beautiful and blown, and that’s all that you need to focus on.
His deep thrusts make you utter his name over and over again, the table shaking beneath you as you hold onto the edges. You arch into him, your body begging for more.
His pace is merciless, hips slamming into yours hard enough that you knew you’d struggle to walk tomorrow.
Isn’t that what makes it so much more exciting?
You wrap your legs around him, drag him deeper, meeting every thrust with your own. You still refuse to surrender fully, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of pleasuring you so well that you forget the reason for it in the first place.
His mouth finds yours again, frantic, and between kisses he mutters against your lips. “You’re not leaving me, ever.”
It feels like both a threat and a prayer. You’re not sure which one it is.
You take his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging it before letting go. “You don’t get to decide that.”
He snarls, pulls out suddenly, flips you over onto your stomach before you can catch your breath.
He drags you to the edge of the table, bending you over, and you barely manage a protest before he’s slamming back inside you. The force rips a cry from your throat, your hands gripping the wood so hard splinters bite into your skin.
God, you’d hate him if it didn’t feel so fucking good.
He fists a hand in your hair, pulling your head back until your spine arches. His breath is hot against your ear.
“Say it.”
“Say what?” you gasp, tears of pleasure prickling at the corners of your eyes from the stretch, the pace, the sheer ferocity of it.
“That you’re mine.”
You shake your head, stubborn, and he pulls your hair harder, hips pistoning into you until you can’t think, until all you can do is moan.
You want to tell him to go fuck himself, but that's hard when he's actually fucking you into oblivion. “I’m yours,” you choke out finally, your pride finally cracking under the force of him. “Fuck, Charles, I’m yours.”
An animalistic sound escapes his throat as his thrusts grow even harsher, as if he’s trying to etch the truth into your body. His hand slides from your hair to your throat, not choking but holding, grounding, his thumb pressed against your pulse.
You push back against him, trying to take control again, and for a moment you manage to succeed—matching his thrusts with your own, catching him off guard and making him whimper your name into the skin of your shoulder.
But then he shoves you down, presses your chest flat to the table, and takes back everything.
It’s a war disguised as sex, and he’s using every weapon in his disposal. You've done this that many times that he's learned every single one of your weaknesses.
When he finally pulls you upright, one hand locked in your knotted hair whilst the other wraps around your ribs, he whispers broken French into your ear through gritted teeth.
“Je t’aime. Je t’aime, je ne veux pas te perdre.” I love you. I love you, I don't want to lose you.
His accent does something delicious to you despite your limited knowledge of his native language. You feel your orgasm crash down onto you, your body trembling, crying out his name as he continues driving into you.
He follows soon after with a whine, spilling into you, holding you tightly against him.
For a long time, there’s only the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint sound of traffic outside the window, and the interrupting buzz of his phone that now lay on the floor surrounded by the chaos you’d both created.
He doesn’t let you go. His face presses into your hair, the slight dampness of his chest against your back overwhelming in a sensuous way.
You knew, in this moment and every other, that you should listen to your friends when they say that this isn't a healthy relationship. That you deserve better. That you're naive in thinking that he would ever change.
But when his touch silences every red flag it was hard to ever see clearly. And he loves you, doesn't he? Isn't that enough?
Maybe you were crazy for sticking it out, but the problem with dating a Ferrari driver is that the colour red is stitched into every fibre of his being, and you quickly forget that red is supposed to mean stop.
To you, it just represents Charles. A colour you've come to recognise on every part of him you thought you understood.
The red just means that you belong in his world, and if you squint hard enough you can easily convince yourself that they are Ferrari banners, not warning signs you should be running from.
a/n: basically i'm only condoning this behaviour for fic purposes, please don't ever think this is normal or healthy, look after yourselves my friends x
an: omg whats his, ann uses the same trope again! shock horror! i arrived to the airport 4 hours early by accident so i edited this and the other fic with the promise of updating this while i waited. i hope you guys enjoy this piece and forgive me for my lack of posting. also fuck tumblr bc whenever i post, it wont ever add my breaks in writing, cunts.
summary: during the war, she ran from london with her siblings and stumbled into a somerset house full of strays, secrets, and one infuriatingly charming pilot. there were cows at sunrise, candlelit dances, and love letters folded between the cracks of war. he promised her “for you i always will” before the train stole him away. and against all odds, he kept his word.
pt 2 wc: 7.6k
part one
THEY'D NEVER TOLD ANYONE ABOUT THAT NIGHT IN THE STUDY, but they’d made it damned near clear of their affection for each other. The stolen candlelit dance, the quiet confessions, the lingering touches, all tucked away into the folds of memory, private and untouchable, yet vivid enough to warm even the coldest day.
Now, three weeks later, the family was gathered at the station, the morning sun gilding the steam rising from the engines. Lando stood tall in uniform, the sharp lines of his jacket and the polished brass buttons making him look impossibly dashing, every inch the officer he was meant to be. Yet behind the smart exterior, there was that same boyish spark, the same teasing light in his hazel eyes that had first drawn her in.
One by one, he moved down the line. He ruffled Lucy’s hair, kneeling to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Keep out of trouble for Sissy, you hear?” he said softly, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Peter puffed up, trying to look stern. “Don’t let the war take you too far!”
Lando ruffled his hair as well. “I’ll be back before you know it, lad. And if I’m not, remember, you’re capable of more than you think.”
His mother all but dismissed him as he kissed her temple, as though sending him off a second time was too much.
Finally, he turned to her. Her heart stuttered at the sight of him, all uniform and confident poise, yet her mind still remembered the softness behind the eyes, the man she’d danced with in the candlelight.
He lifted a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers lingering. “I… you’ve been remarkable. Clever, brave, infuriating, all of it. Never forget it.”
Her throat tightened. Before she could respond, he added softly, almost as if afraid to let the words linger too long in the open air: “And I love you. Just in case…”
The words struck her like a spark. Without thinking, she reached up, gripping the lapels of his jacket, drawing him down, and pressed her lips to his in a kiss that was all heart and fire and longing.
He froze just a heartbeat, then melted into it, one hand coming to cradle her cheek, the other slipping around her waist. The world around them,, the platform, the steam, the watchful eyes of the family, faded until it was just them, tangled together in that fierce, fragile moment.
When at last they broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes still closed. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured.
She nodded, gripping his uniform still, heart pounding. “You better. Or I’ll come find you.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” he said with a grin, and then straightened, turning to the train with the ease and courage expected of him, but carrying with him the memory of her hands on his chest and the weight of everything unsaid.
They lingered at the edge of the platform, hearts tight, as Lando strode toward the train. Each step he took seemed to echo against the rails, each polished boot striking the cobbles like a metronome counting down the moments they had left together.
When he climbed the carriage steps, he turned just in time for them to catch a glimpse through the window. With a flourish that was all gentlemanly charm and subtle mischief, he tipped his hat to them. The corners of his mouth lifted in that familiar, boyish grin, and she felt her stomach twist with both pride and aching longing.
The whistle blew. Steam hissed around the platform.
Without thinking, Peter grabbed Lucy’s hand and hers, and together they ran, feet pounding against the wooden boards as the train began to inch forward. She leaned forward, outstretching her arm, and Lando, catching the movement, leaned slightly out of the carriage window. He blew a kiss, flicking it like a small, golden promise toward her.
She caught it, fingers brushing against the wind as if it were a treasure, heart soaring. He waved once more, then disappeared into the carriage, the train beginning its slow, mournful departure.
They watched it slide away along the rails, steam curling like a silver ribbon against the morning sky. The sun glinted off the polished metal, glancing across his uniform, and then he was gone, swallowed by distance, by duty, by the world outside their little Somerset haven.
Peter squeezed her hand tightly, voice small. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“I know he will,” she said softly, trying to convince herself as much as him. “He’s braver than anyone I know.”
Lucy’s little hand slipped into hers. “Will he come back?”
She pulled them both close, heart heavy but warm. “Yes. He’ll come back. And until then we have each other. Always.”
For a long moment, they stood there together, three siblings leaning into each other, watching the last wisp of steam curl from the train’s chimney, and letting the quiet of the countryside fill the spaces left by Lando’s absence.
The house was significantly quieter without Lando.
There was no one to sneak a spoonful from her pan while she was cooking, no one to sprawl beside Lucy and read aloud in a dozen silly voices until the little girl was in stitches. No one to duel Peter in the dining room before supper, the clatter of broomsticks ringing through the rafters. And no one to pick at every single one of Ciska’s nerves with a roguish grin and a smart remark.
The room they had shared was quieter still. The empty bed on the other side seemed to hum with memory, its sheets folded neat and untouched. At night she caught herself half-turning, expecting his voice to pipe up with some teasing jibe, or the rustle of him adjusting in bed. Instead, there was only the soft crackle of the candle and the distant hush of the countryside.
Lucy had taken to creeping into her bed when the nights grew too still, curling against her as though trying to fill the silence with warmth. Peter grew more serious, shoulders squaring as if he meant to step into a role too large for him. And she pressed on, though every corner of the farmhouse seemed to hold the shape of Lando’s laughter, the ghost of his presence.
Days stretched, soft and sun-dappled. There were chores to keep her hands busy, washing, chopping, mending and fields to walk through with the children. But every now and then, when the church bells tolled from the village or a train whistle carried on the wind, her heart would tighten, caught between hope and dread.
One evening, after the children had been coaxed into bed and the house fell into its soft creaking hush, she found herself in the kitchen with Ciska. The lamp on the table cast a mellow glow, and the scent of chamomile drifted up from the pot Ciska had brewed.
Ciska sat in her breeches, hair braided back in a tidy rope, boots scuffed from the day. There was something so steady in her presence, like the very beams of the farmhouse itself, worn, strong, unshakable.
“You’ve done well with them,” Ciska said after a long silence, her Dutch lilt gentling the words. She poured them each a cup. “Lucy and Peter. They smile more now. They seem rooted. That is a gift you have given them.”
She felt her cheeks warm, fingers curling around the cup. “They’re everything to me. I only hope I’m enough for them.”
“You are.” Ciska sipped, then leaned back with a sigh. Her eyes flicked toward the stairwell, where the silence of the house stretched. “The quiet does not suit this place. Lando filled it up too well. His father was the same.”
She glanced up. “You’ve never spoken of him.”
A wistful smile tugged at Ciska’s lips. “He was a storm. Loud, wild, charming. He could turn a crowded room to his orbit with nothing but a laugh. Lando has his grin, but his steadiness, that is my doing.” Her eyes softened. “When the fever took him, Lando was fourteen. Too young to shoulder so much, yet he did. He felt he had to be both son and man of the house.”
Her throat ached, hearing the affection wound into every word. “He doesn’t speak of it.”
“No.” Ciska traced the rim of her cup. “He hides it under his bravado, but he misses him still. Perhaps that is why he loves the sky so much. His father used to say he’d never feel truly free with both feet on the ground. Lando took it to heart.”
They sat quietly for a moment, the soft ticking of the clock filling the room. Finally, Ciska looked at her directly, smile tugging crooked at her lips. “You care for him.”
She startled, the cup nearly slipping in her grasp. “I—”
“There is no shame in it,” Ciska said gently, cutting off her stammer. “If anything, I am glad. My boy is stubborn, reckless, too clever for his own good but he has a heart worth keeping. Perhaps you will be the one to remind him that not all battles are fought in the sky.”
Her chest swelled, her gaze fixed on the flickering lamplight. “I only want him safe.”
Ciska’s hand came across the table, firm and warm. “Then we are the same, you and I.”
Her hand lingered a moment longer over the girl’s before drawing back. She blew gently on her tea, then asked, as though it had just come to her, “When the war ends? What will you do?”
The question gave her pause. The steam curled into her face, and she watched it dissolve before murmuring, “I suppose I’d have to go back. To London. Peter and Lucy must finish school, and I should return to the factory if they’d have me.”
Ciska tilted her head, regarding her as though weighing more than the words she’d spoken. “There is a fine girls’ school in Wells. And for Peter, the Catholic boys’ school. Stricter than I’d like, but better than the chaos of the city.”
She blinked, looking up at her. “What are you trying to say?”
Ciska smiled, that contagious warmth catching in her eyes. “Only that London is not the only place a future may be made. Children grow well here, safe, steady, with soil under their nails. And for you…” She trailed off, as though reluctant to press too far, then finished gently, “You have taken root here more quickly than you think.”
Her pulse quickened, an unspoken name hovering between them like a shadow in the lamplight. She shifted in her chair, flustered, though she tried to disguise it with a sip of tea. “I’m hardly Somerset stock.”
Ciska’s laugh was soft but certain. “Stock can be grafted, my dear. Some things thrive better when they are transplanted.”
The words seemed to hang between them, softened only by the crackle of the kitchen fire. She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, uncertain whether to laugh off Ciska’s meaning or change the subject altogether.
But Ciska only watched her, a touch of mischief stealing into her smile. “Do you think I haven’t noticed?”
Her stomach flipped. “Noticed what?” she asked, though the question sounded weak even to her own ears.
Ciska folded her arms, eyebrows raised with the patience of a woman who had raised children, buried a husband, and run a household through war. “The way you look at him. And the way he looks at you. As if the whole world might collapse, which, heaven help us, it just might, but you’d both be laughing in the rubble.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “We’ve hardly—”
“Hardly needed to,” Ciska cut in gently. “Affection doesn’t always wait for grand speeches. Sometimes it’s clear in the quiet things. The way he listens when you speak. The way you smooth the blankets at his bedside. You’d deny it, but I’d wager my last ration coupon that if he walked through this kitchen door right now, you’d both give yourselves away in half a glance.”
She could only stare, half-indignant, half-ashamed at how true the words rang. Ciska softened again, reaching to cover her hand with a mother’s surety once more. “I don’t say it to tease you, love. I only mean, you are not rootless here. Whatever happens with the war, whatever happens with him, you have a place in this house, if you choose it.”
Her throat tightened. The thought of Londonm, of smoke, of noise, of the factory floor, felt suddenly like a dream half-lived, slipping further away with each sunrise in Somerset.
The days began to lengthen, each one a stitch sewn neatly into the fabric of life at the Norris’ home. Morning light crept through the bedroom curtains, spilling over quilts she had learnt to fold with Ciska’s brisk precision. She rose early now, her hands accustomed to the bracing chill of the pump, the scratch of kindling, the rhythm of a household that moved to the beat of necessity rather than sirens.
Peter took to farm work as if it were a game, chasing after hens, tugging at the stubborn handles of the wheelbarrow, shouting, “I’ll be stronger than Lando when he comes home!” Lucy, by contrast, delighted in shadowing Ciska, her little hands busy in the kitchen, her laughter bright as she dusted herself with flour.
And she found herself at the heart of it. Stirring pots over the hob, pinning washing to the line that flapped like sails in the wind, plaiting Lucy’s hair by candlelight. The neighbours waved from their lanes, offering a nod, a jar of preserves, a knowing smile that never turned into a question. Word of the Norris household had stretched further than she realised: if you were under their roof, you were untouchable. No one spoke of factories or missing names from rosters.
Evenings were filled with the sort of quiet she had once only dreamt of. Peter practised his sums at the dining table, Lucy read aloud in her halting voice, and sometimes, when the air was sweet with the smell of woodsmoke, Ciska would hum an old Dutch lullaby as she sewed. The room that had once echoed with Lando’s irreverent jokes grew softer in his absence, but she still caught herself glancing at the empty bed, her thoughts wandering to the clouds, to the cockpit, to him.
Time did not halt, however much she wished it might. The headlines at the village shop still carried grim print, lists of names, sketches of advancing lines. Letters arrived for neighbours, some creased with joy, others stiff with mourning. Each morning she paused at the post, waiting for a script she knew by heart though she had never yet held it.
And so four weeks slipped into five, the house alive with the pulse of work and laughter, yet always with a hollow in its centre. Life grew fuller, richer, but war was never far.
It was a grey Tuesday when the post arrived, damp from the drizzle. Peter burst into the kitchen waving the bundle, shouting, “Letter! There’s a letter!” and nearly knocked over Lucy’s carefully arranged tea cups.
Her breath caught as Ciska calmly plucked through the stack, setting aside bills, a parcel from a cousin, and then, there it was. Her name, scrawled in a hand both hurried and familiar alongside everyone elses, the ink blotched where the pen had snagged.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it, the others gathering round like chicks at her side.
Dearest all,
France is cold, and the mud here is a breed of its own. You’d laugh to see me, covered to the knees like a farmhand, though I daresay the farmhands are better dressed. Oscar keeps his spirits high, you’d think he were on holiday the way he grins. We’ve flown two patrols this week. It feels good to be in the air again, though I’ll not lie, each time I land, I think of you all waiting by the hearth and wonder why I’m not there myself.
Peter, I expect you’re carrying logs taller than you by now. Don’t let Lucy boss you about. Lucy, mind you read aloud every night, and do the voices too. Mother, I pray you’re not overtaxing yourself with all my chores (though knowing you, you are). And to my one and only love, though I’m not sure you’re proud of bearing that title, I’ll admit the food here makes me miss your suppers sorely. Do keep a place warm for me at the table, will you?
Yours, always,Lando
The paper blurred as her eyes stung. She pressed the page to her chest, as though holding it nearer might bring his voice into the room.
Ciska’s smile was quiet but steady. “He sounds himself.”
Peter puffed up proudly. “Of course he does. He’ll be back before long, won’t he?”
She bent and kissed the top of his head, unable to answer.
Things only got darker after that letter.
The days stretched on, the headlines grew more brittle, and the wireless seemed to crackle with little but casualty lists and grim reports from the Channel. Somerset, once an idyll, felt the war pressing closer with each passing week. Rumours of bombers straying further inland kept the village folk uneasy, and sometimes at night, the sky above the fields hummed with a distant drone.
It was a night thick with rain when the knock came. Urgent, heavy, far too late for callers. Peter leapt up first, but Ciska’s hand caught his shoulder, steady and protective. She went to the door herself.
And there he was. The boy she’d seen in photos.
Oscar.
She barely recognised him. His face was gaunt, streaked with dried mud and ash, his uniform torn at the shoulder and stained. One arm was bound with a rough sling. His eyes, though, they carried something she had only ever seen once before, in Lando’s, when the fever had wracked him, the sharp edge of pain tempered by survival.
He staggered into the hall, clutching Ciska’s arm. “Ambushed,” he rasped. “Over the French fields. They came on us like hounds.” He swallowed, throat working hard. “Lando… I don’t know what happened to him. I—I lost him in the smoke. If anyone could have clawed his way out, it’s him. But I—” His voice cracked and faltered.
Her knees nearly gave way beneath her, but she forced herself forward, slipping under his good arm as Ciska took the other. “Come, sit. You need mending.”
She brought him into the parlour, easing him into the chair by the fire. Ciska was already fetching clean water, Peter and Lucy standing pale and silent in the doorway. With hands steadier than she expected, she peeled back the torn fabric of his sleeve, revealing the angry gash beneath, raw and crusted with blood.
“You should be in a hospital,” she murmured, dabbing it clean.
Oscar gave a rough laugh. “And leave you all wondering in the dark? No. I had to come. I had to tell you myself.”
She stitched him carefully by the firelight, biting her own lip each time he hissed in pain, until at last he sagged back, patched and weary. His eyes were already slipping shut, lids heavy with exhaustion.
Ciska’s voice was low, firm. “Bed for him. He’s not to stir till he’s near whole.”
And so she led him upstairs, to the room that had once belonged to Oscar, to the bed that had once been hers. She drew the covers over him, his breath evening out almost at once, the exhaustion claiming him utterly.
But when she turned, the sight of the empty bed across the room nearly undid her. She could not, would not, climb beneath those blankets when she didn’t know where he was.
So she took the settee in front of the fire instead, curling herself against the cushions, the flames painting gold across her cheeks. She stared into the embers until they blurred, her chest aching with the thought that the man upstairs was not the one she longed to be watching over.
And that somewhere, across the Channel, she did not know whether Lando Norris was alive or dead.
The fire had died to grey ash by morning, and the first pale threads of light slipped across the floorboards when Ciska found her there.
“My darling,” she said softly, stooping to touch her shoulder. “You’ll ruin your back if you make that your bed.”
She blinked awake, stiff and aching from the settee, but before she could answer, a sound above them stirred the house, a door creaking open, heavy footsteps on the stairs. Moments later, Oscar appeared, looking far less ghostly in the daylight, though his arm was still bound close to his chest. His hair had been smoothed, his jaw freshly shaven, though every motion carried the careful precision of a man determined to mask his hurt.
“You shouldn’t be up,” she said, half-rising.
He gave a lopsided grin. “And you shouldn’t be sleeping on furniture, so we’re both guilty, aren’t we?”
Ciska tutted. “Sit yourself down before you topple. I’ll fetch your tea.” She swept from the room, leaving the two of them in the softened hush of morning.
Oscar lowered himself into the chair opposite her, drawing in a breath. “I feel like I owe you a proper introduction but Lando’s only talked of you, it feels like I know you like my own sister,” he said after a moment while she stayed silent. “It feels weird. Being back here. I feel I’ve stolen into another life, one I’d left behind and shouldn’t quite touch.” His gaze flicked toward the hearth, then back to her. “But Ciska says you’ve been keeping the place lively.”
“I don’t know about lively,” she said, folding her arms in her lap. “I’ve only done what’s needed.”
“Don’t be modest.” He studied her, his expression more practical, more measured than Lando’s ever was. “He only spoke of you, you know. In the early weeks. Said you had more pluck than a squadron of pilots. That he’d never known anyone quite like you.”
Her breath caught. “He said that?”
Oscar’s grin softened. “He did. And he wasn’t one to hand out praise for free.”
For a moment she had to look away, the sting behind her eyes too sharp. She busied herself instead, plucking at a loose thread in her skirt. “And what about you?” she asked, forcing her voice to steady. “Do you always come back from France looking as if you’ve wrestled a bull?”
That earned her a short laugh. “Feels like it, sometimes. Truth be told, I was luckier than most. You get used to the knocks. Keep going. That’s all there is to it.”
There was no poetry in him, not like Lando, but there was something reassuring about his frankness. A steadiness, as though nothing in the world would make him stray from his duty.
When Ciska returned with a tray, the three of them shared breakfast in the parlour. Oscar managed his bread and jam one-handed, and when she tried to reach for his plate, he gave her a playful scowl.
“Don’t coddle me,” he said. “I’ll not have you thinking I’m another invalid. One in this house is enough.”
She smiled despite herself. It was not Lando’s teasing, not the kind that set her pulse racing, but it was good-humoured, easy, a reminder that even in war, bonds could form and laughter still had a place.
The days stretched in muted rhythms. Chores, market trips, mending in the parlour with Lucy, long afternoons helping Ciska in the kitchen. Oscar’s presence filled the gaps Lando had left, not in the same way, never in the same way, but in the solid sort of comfort that came from someone who had seen the same horrors and yet still carried himself with calm. They often sat together in the evenings once the others had gone to bed, sometimes talking, sometimes simply keeping each other company by the fire.
It was one of those nights when the truth came. The house had gone still, the air sharp with the smell of burning coal. She was curled in the armchair with her legs tucked beneath her, darning a sock in the low glow of the fire. Oscar leaned forward on the sofa opposite, forearms resting on his knees, eyes dark with some unspoken weight.
“I really didn’t want to do this,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, deliberate.
Her head lifted at once. “What is it?”
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “When Lando and I were first reunited in France… well, I’d expected him to talk about flying, about the squadron, about the bloody war.” A faint smile touched his mouth, then faded. “But he didn’t. He talked about you. Every damn night, every chance he got as I’ve already told you. Said you were clever, and stubborn, and that you’d probably save him from himself more times than I could count.”
Her chest tightened, the needle paused in her hand. “Oscar…”
He shifted, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingers lingered there a moment before drawing out a small leather pouch. He set it gently on the table between them.
“He gave me this,” Oscar said. “Told me that if ever too much time passed, if there came silence and no trace of him… I was to give it to you.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. The pouch lay there like it was burning the wood. She shook her head fiercely. “No. No, I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t, because—” Her voice broke, and she pressed a trembling hand against her chest. “Because taking it means accepting that he may be gone. And I can’t. I won’t.”
Oscar’s eyes softened, steady, patient as ever. “It doesn’t mean that. It means he trusted you. Enough to want you to have something of him. Whether he’s a mile away or a world.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she pushed the pouch back towards him. “Then you keep it, Oscar. Please. Because if I hold it, it will feel like goodbye. And I’m not ready for goodbye.”
For a long moment the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Oscar studied her, then gave a single slow nod and slipped the pouch back into his jacket.
“All right,” he said simply. “Not yet.”
She lowered her face into her hands, breathing through the ache in her chest, and he let her sit in silence, offering no further words, only the comfort of his presence, solid as stone, as the war raged on beyond the walls of their borrowed peace.
The fire had burned low to embers, the room steeped in the faint glow of dying light. Their conversation had wandered, from Lando, to Oscar’s stories of boyhood mischief, to the sort of idle nonsense spoken only when the weight of silence becomes too heavy. At some point, without realising, her eyes had fluttered shut mid-listen.
When she woke, it was to the faint grey of dawn leaking through the curtains. A blanket, carefully draped, slid from her shoulders as she stirred. For a moment, she thought Oscar was still there, but the sofa sat empty, his coat gone. The house was unusually still.
She stretched, bones stiff from sleeping upright, and began to rise when voices carried faintly from the corridor. Low. Serious. She froze.
“…came this morning,” she heard Ciska’s voice, tight but steady. “They confirmed what you’d said about his squadron being ambushed, and there was no sign of him in the aftermath.”
Her stomach dropped, every nerve seizing. She pressed herself back against the armchair, heart pounding in her throat.
Another voice, older, unfamiliar, one of the local officials perhaps. “The general’s message was clear. If there is no word within two days, he will be declared missing in action, presumed dead.”
Her breath caught. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the sound that threatened to escape.
Ciska’s reply was quieter, weighted. “Two days…”
Feet shuffled, the scrape of a chair. Then silence, save for the muffled creak of the door closing as the men took their leave.
She sank back into the chair, her chest heaving, tears spilling before she could stop them. Quiet, desperate sobs broke loose, her hand still pressed against her lips as though she could keep her grief from spilling into the waking house.
Two days.
Two days until hope was torn from her by force.
She curled into the blanket Oscar had left, clutching it tight, and wept quietly into the morning light, because she could not bear to be heard, and because even in her sorrow, she was not yet ready to let him go.
After a moment, she brushed herself together and cursed God silently, hopefully her words not reaching Peter or Lucy’s little ears. Because how cruel, after 25 years of a manic loveless life, she gets her lover torn away from her.
The scent of porridge and fried bread clung warmly to the kitchen as she entered, though it might as well have been smoke for how it caught in her throat. She smoothed her skirt, forcing a brightness she did not feel.
Peter and Lucy were already seated, swinging legs and cheerful faces, utterly unaware of the storm that pressed in around her. Ciska moved about the stove with her usual efficiency, though her smile, when it came, was softer than most mornings, as though she already knew.
“Morning, sissy!” Lucy chirped, spoon clattering as she lifted it. “We saved you a seat!”
She nodded faintly and sat, her hands folding on her lap as though she could press herself together with sheer will.
“Are you alright?” Peter asked, peering at her. His voice held that curious mix of childish bluntness and unexpected sensitivity. “You look funny.”
Something in her chest splintered. She had meant to nod, to laugh it off, to say she hadn’t slept well. But instead, at the sound of his little voice, so like Lando’s when he teased, the words lodged in her throat.
Her lips trembled. Her vision blurred. And before she could stop herself, the dam gave way. A sob escaped, loud and raw.
The children froze. Lucy’s spoon clattered back into her bowl. Peter’s eyes went wide with fear. “What—what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, the tears wrung out of her with violent force. “I don’t know,” she choked. “I don’t know if he’s—if he’s ever coming back—”
Lucy scrambled from her chair, wrapping her little arms around her waist with fierce, frightened determination. Peter followed, clutching at her sleeve as though anchoring her to earth.
Ciska was there in an instant, pressing her warm, steady hands onto her shoulders as Oscar watched with a guilty look. As though he were guilty to have been the one to have survived. “Hush now,” she murmured, firm but kind. “You’ve carried too much, my dear. Let it out.”
And so she wept at the breakfast table, her grief mingling with the clink of cutlery, the warmth of porridge gone cold, and the embrace of those who loved him too.
For the first time since he’d left, she admitted aloud what she had feared most: that loving a man at war meant learning how to live with his absence — and how to break apart when that absence grew too long.
The days crept by, each minute stretched thin, taut as a wire ready to snap.
She tried to busy herself, with washing, with mending, with helping Lucy plait her doll’s hair and showing Peter how to whittle the bark from a stick. But her mind wandered always, unbidden, back to the empty space at the table, the bed where his books lay undisturbed, the echo of his laughter that refused to fade from the walls.
At night while Oscar was getting ready in the bathroom, she would sit on the floor, staring at the empty bed opposite. She counted the beams in the ceiling, traced the knots in the wood with her eyes until dawn crept pale and colourless. Each time a branch knocked against the window or the floor creaked, her heart leapt, only to plummet again when the silence pressed back in.
The villagers seemed to know without asking. Their smiles at market were thinner, their conversations cut short when she passed by. Every glance felt weighted with the question no one dared speak: Have you heard?
She hadn’t.
On the first day, she waited by the window after the post had come, certain there’d been a mistake, that the letter was simply delayed. She smoothed her dress, forced a smile each time someone entered the room, lest they see how her hands shook. No letter came.
On the second day, every sound of carriage wheels on the lane set her rushing to the door, breath caught in her chest, only to find it was a neighbour, or a tradesman, or nothing at all. She watched the clock in the hallway mark each passing hour with merciless precision.
By evening, she could not bear the weight of her thoughts. She sat on the front steps long after Lucy and Peter were asleep, the cool stone biting through her skirt, her arms wrapped around her knees. Ciska joined her at one point, silent, and rested a hand over hers. They did not speak. There was nothing left to say.
The sky was bruised with cloud, heavy with the scent of rain. Somewhere in France, she told herself, he was alive. He had to be. Surely the sky would not call him away forever, not yet, not now, not when he had promised her he would return.
And so she sat, and waited, and listened to the echo of a promise she clung to with all her might.
For you, I always will, darling.
Sleep never came to her, not properly. She drifted in half-dreams, heart hammering at every sound, mind tangled with fears. So when, three days later, it struck her like a horse-drawn carriage on the settee, she surrendered wholly, sinking into the deepest slumber she’d had in weeks.
She was sure at some point that Oscar had carried her to Lando’s bed but she wasn’t sure. She slept through the morning, through the afternoon; the house moved around her, children’s laughter, the clatter of pots, the murmur of voices. All of it blurred into nothing.
A hand shook her shoulder when the cicadas sounded.
“Mm,” she murmured, face pressed into the pillow. “Peter, I’ll be there in a second."
The hand shook her again, firmer this time. A voice, warm and unmistakably teasing, cut through the fog.
“Is that what you tell everyone when they try to wake you? Remind me not to rely on you in a raid.”
Her breath caught. Her eyes snapped open. She stared into the dimness of the room, the shape before her blurred and impossible. Her heart lurched so violently it hurt.
“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes tight again. “No, you’re not here. I’m dreaming.”
The voice chuckled, low and familiar, curling around her like a long-forgotten song. “If this is your dream, darling, I’d hate to know what your nightmares look like.”
She sat bolt upright, hair tumbling over her face, and there he was. Lando. Whole. Leaning on the bed frame with that insufferable grin, his uniform rumpled, a cut healing over his brow.
Her hands flew to her mouth. “By Jove!”
“It’s only me,” he said, softer now, almost unsure. “I told you, didn’t I? That I’d come back, that for you, I always will.”
For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Then she flung herself from the bed, stumbling into his arms with such force that he staggered, laughing even as he held her against him, his heartbeat strong and steady under her cheek.
Her fists bunched in the fabric of his jacket, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until he lifted a hand and brushed her face with his thumb, his own eyes glistening. For once, his smile faltered, trembling under the weight of what had been.
“How?” Her voice cracked, breaking into the hollow silence of the room. “How in God’s name are you here? Oscar said—you were—” She couldn’t finish.
He took in a shuddering breath, forehead pressing briefly against hers. “They were clever, the Germans. I’ll give them that. Ambushed us clean out of the sky.” His hand tightened around hers, grounding her as he spoke. “But clever doesn’t mean invincible. Turns out you don’t need to speak German to fly one of their planes.”
She blinked at him, shock turning her mouth dry. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he murmured, a ghost of that crooked grin slipping back onto his face, though it was softened, weary. “Shot down, captured, roughed up a bit, then they thought I was done. Left me near the wreck. But I’d been listening, watching. When their pilot turned his back, I slipped in, got her started.”
Her breath hitched, her grip tightening as though he might vanish if she let go. “You hijacked a German plane?”
“I told you, didn’t I?” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers. “There’s always a way out. I flew her right across the Channel, limped her down in Dover. Damned near tore her wings off in the landing.” His voice cracked, rough now. “But I made it. Back to you.”
She pulled back only far enough to see him clearly, her tears blurring the edges of his face. “You’re mad. Utterly mad.”
“Maybe.” He leaned his brow against hers again, and for the first time she felt him shake — a quiet, shivering tremor. “But I couldn’t be gone. Not when I had you waiting.”
Her breath came in ragged sobs, her fingers trembling against his cheeks. “I thought you were dead, Lan. I thought—”
“I know.” His lips brushed her hairline, her temple, desperate and reverent. “And I’m so damned sorry you had to think that. But I’m here. I’m here.”
They clung to each other in silence after that, tears wetting cloth and skin, every heartbeat a miracle she scarcely dared believe.
She drew back enough to search his face, breath still unsteady. “Do they know?”
Lando gave a soft huff of laughter, though his voice was hoarse. “Aye. I came in this morning, straight from Dover. Walked into the kitchen and near scared your poor sister witless. Lucy cried, Peter nearly knocked me over hugging my middle—bad idea, that.” He winced, pressing a hand to his ribs, though his grin tugged wide. “Mother nearly throttled me for daring to appear without so much as a telegram and Oscar smacked me upside the head.”
She blinked, the thought near inconceivable. “So they’ve all, had breakfast with you? Talked to you? And I’ve been—”
“Sleeping.” He smoothed his palm over her hair, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that sent her heart reeling. “You were dead on your feet apparently. I made them promise not to wake you, no matter how much Peter begged. Thought I’d better come myself when I couldn’t stand it any longer. I lasted longer than I assumed I would.”
Her chest clenched. “Lan…”
He smiled faintly, lips ghosting over her temple before he leaned back against the wall. “You want to know how I got from Dover?”
She nodded quickly, still hardly daring to let go of his hand.
“Well.” He tilted his head, a spark of mischief glinting even through his exhaustion. “After I made that little unorthodox landing, the RAF were rather keen to have a word. They patched me up, shoved a mug of tea in my hand, and told me I was bloody mad.”
She let out a choked laugh, tears still brimming.
“Got bundled on a lorry to London. Whole way, the poor driver looked as though I’d sprout wings if he blinked too long. From London, caught a train west. Longest journey of my life, knowing you didn’t know.” His voice softened, thumb rubbing slow circles against her knuckles. “I counted the stops. Told myself, every station brought me closer.”
She pressed her lips tight, a sob caught in her throat.
“And when I stepped off at Glastonbury,” he finished, voice low, “I thought I’d dreamt it all. Until Peter came tearing into me like a wild thing. Then I knew it was real. I was home.”
Home. The word cracked something open inside her. She pressed her face to his shoulder, clinging as though she might never let him go again.
For a long while, neither of them moved. She sat pressed against him on the edge of his bed, their hands twined, her head resting against his shoulder as though if she let go, he might dissolve into air again. His thumb traced idle patterns over her knuckles, a silent reassurance that he was here, he was real.
At last, he let out a breath and tipped his head toward the door. “We’d best go down before Peter comes charging up to drag us. He’s been near fit to burst since breakfast.”
She sniffed, laughing shakily, and swiped at her cheeks. “You mean I’ve kept them all waiting?”
“Quite. And I’ve been accused of being the dramatic one.” He grinned, leaning close to nudge her temple with his nose. “Come on, darling. Let’s not deny them their spectacle.”
Together they descended the stairs, her arm looped tightly in his, as if to prove to her body what her heart was still catching up to believe.
The moment they entered the kitchen, all eyes flew to them. Lucy squealed and bolted from her chair to wrap herself around her sister’s waist. Peter, mid-mouthful of stew, nearly choked before bursting into laughter and clapping Lando on the back with the fearless affection of a boy who thought him indestructible.
Ciska’s hand flew to her chest, a smile radiant even through her damp lashes. “Well, there you are. Both of you. Whole again.”
From the table, Oscar leaned back in his chair, arms folded with a smirk tugging at his lips. “Always have to take the shine, don’t you, Lando? I’ve been mending quietly, behaving myself, and then you show up with a story no one can top.”
Lando’s laugh rang, boyish and unrepentant. “What can I say? Never been good at slipping in unnoticed.”
The room rippled with laughter, the kind born of relief, of joy stretched taut for too long suddenly let free. She found herself smiling so hard her cheeks ached, one arm about Lucy, the other still holding Lando’s hand as if her very bones knew better than to let him go.
And in that crowded, happy kitchen, with the smell of bread still warm and twilight spilling through the window, she realised: it wasn’t just that he had come back. It was that she had, too.
The war ended not too long after Lando’s brave trip home, and they married in the spring, when Somerset was green and spilling over with blossoms. The church was small, whitewashed and fragrant with lilacs. Lucy scattered petals down the aisle, Peter walked tall at her side, and Ciska wept with the kind of joy that seemed to stitch shut every wound she’d ever borne.
Lando stood waiting in his uniform, though no one had asked it of him. He had insisted, not as an emblem of war, but as a mark of the journey that had brought them here. When she reached him, hand trembling in his, he leaned down and whispered with a crooked smile, “Told you I’d always come back, darling.”
They built a life in Somerset. She never returned to the factory lines in London; instead, the Norris’ land became her world. Mornings found her in the kitchen with Ciska, or in the garden with Lucy, who grew up with the sound of her laughter braided into the hedgerows. Peter attended the fine Catholic school in town, running home with ink-stained fingers and stories he couldn’t tell fast enough.
Lando healed, though he carried the faint silver scar across his chest as if it were a medal pinned by fate itself. He worked the fields, fixed the fences, teased her endlessly, and kissed her under doorframes when no one was looking. In the evenings, he sometimes took her hand and led her into his father’s study, where the gramophone still stood. With candlelight flickering, they danced just as they had on that secret night, his lips brushing her hair as he murmured that the world was finally theirs to keep.
Oscar visited often, bringing with him laughter and news from old squadrons, and though he never said it aloud, she knew he carried Lando’s happiness as proudly as any brother.
Years turned to decades. The house filled with children, then grandchildren, and the study, the heart of it all, became a place of stories, of gramophone crackles, of quiet confessions after supper.
And whenever life pressed too hard, whenever shadows of the war crept back into memory, she would look across a field at her husband, curly-haired still, hazel-green eyes glinting beneath a brim of sunlight, and remember the promise made at the edge of a bed, when the future was uncertain and the night too long.
summery : Beyond the veil of kingdoms and shadows, where forests guard their secrets and starlight keeps its watch, lies a tale whispered only in folklore.
A mortal heart. A winged soul. A love forbidden, yet fated.
When guilt and longing collide with destiny, sacrifice will kindle a fire that even time cannot extinguish. Wings will rise from ruin, hearts will be tested by flame, and a story older than legends will awaken once more.
For in every age, there is one truth the world forgets until it is reborn: Some souls are not merely meant to meet—they are meant to burn as one.
wc: 9.1k | Masterlist 🧚🏻♀️🪄 | posted on: august 19th, 2025.
notes & thoughts: hiya! It's been a long gap since I last posted as I have been busy with preparations and everything, my uni is starting from September 15th. This one shot is actually the backup of a backup😂 I have been working on a really long, like super long but I got tired and bored of writing that one shot for five days straight so I went to the smau, got lazy then jumped onto this🫣 so the other two are half ready. Gonna post em soon!
Whenever I post, I'll try my best to make sure the wait was worth it.
Also! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR LOVE AND SUPPORT FOR 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝚰𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝚰𝐒 💋 900+ notes?! Are u kidding me?!!! Tysm! Mwah mwah mwah❤️
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The River Caelia shimmered like liquid starlight under the canopy of the enchanted forest. Its waters were said to hold the memory of the skies, catching every reflection of the moon and sun since the beginning of time. Fairies whispered that it was older than kingdoms, older even than war, and that it chose its own guardians.
You had grown up knowing that your soul was bound to the river. You were born with silver-tipped wings — rare among your kind, the mark of a protector — and from childhood, you felt the river’s hum inside your chest like a second heartbeat. It sang to you when you were lonely, calmed you when storms rattled the leaves, and warned you when danger approached.
That night, the hum sharpened into a cry.
The wind tugged at your hair as you soared above the trees, following the pulse that beat from the river’s core. The forest bent to your urgency, branches bowing aside as you descended to the moss-covered ground. Ahead, the familiar glimmer of the Caelia caught your eye — but something was wrong. The glow was fractured, as if a piece of the river’s heart had been stolen.
You landed softly on the banks, your wings folding behind you. The waters lapped against the rocks, whispering distress.
And then — a rustle.
Your gaze snapped to the cave beyond the river, its entrance half-hidden behind thick vines and thorns. Shadows moved within. Your voice came steady, commanding.
“Come out.”
Silence answered. Only the sound of water trickling, leaves sighing.
You narrowed your eyes, straightened your shoulders, wings catching the moonlight like blades of glass. “Come out, I say.”
The vines shivered. And slowly, someone stepped into view.
Not a fairy. Not an elf, nor a sprite, nor any creature of the enchanted lands.
A boy.
He was tall for his age, though his limbs carried a stiffness that betrayed unease. Dark curls framed his face, his eyes wide as they darted from your wings to your stern gaze. In his hand, he clutched a smooth, glowing stone — a piece of the river itself, its light flickering as if suffocating.
You felt the river’s pulse stutter in pain.
“Who are you?” you demanded, your voice low, more curious than cruel.
The boy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, accented, and uncertain.
“Charles Leclerc.”
Your gaze flicked to the stone. You nodded toward it, your wings ruffling in warning. “You need to put it back.”
His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a stubborn line. “Why?”
“Because it’s magic. It belongs to the river. To take from it is to wound it.”
For a long moment, he stared at the stone in his palm, watching its glow fade. Then, with hesitant fingers, he released it.
The stone slipped into the current with a soft plop. Instantly, the river brightened, its waters shimmering again as if sighing with relief.
You exhaled too, tension loosening from your shoulders.
“I’m Y/N,” you offered, though your eyes stayed wary. “Where are you from?”
He shifted his weight, glancing at the ground as though ashamed. “The kingdom of Monaco. It’s… not a magical land. I’m human.”
Human. The word explained much — the awkward stance, the curiosity, the trespass. Humans rarely crossed the borders. They lived in cities of stone and smoke, far from the wild breath of forests. You had never spoken to one before.
Still, there was something in his gaze — not malice, but wonder.
“Come,” you said finally, softening. “I’ll take you back.”
You led him along the path to the border, the forest whispering with unease at the stranger in its heart. He followed in silence, his boots crunching on leaves, his eyes often flickering to your wings.
When you reached the boundary — the invisible veil between your land and his — you turned to him. “You mustn’t come back. The river won’t forgive another theft.”
He nodded solemnly. But when you extended your hand, something shifted.
As his fingers closed around yours, heat seared your skin. You gasped, pulling back with a hiss. Smoke curled faintly from your palm.
Charles’s eyes widened in panic. “What’s wrong?”
“Your ring,” you breathed, clutching your hand. The burn still stung. “It’s made of iron. Iron burns fairies.”
He froze. Then, without hesitation, he yanked the ring from his finger. His jaw clenched, and before you could protest, he hurled it into the trees, so far it vanished with a distant clatter.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I didn’t know.”
You studied him in silence, torn between caution and a strange warmth blooming in your chest.
Humans were dangerous, your elders always said. But in that moment, staring into Charles’s wide, earnest eyes, you wondered if they had been wrong.
Charles did not listen.
Despite your warning that night, he returned.
At first you sensed him before you saw him — the quiet disruption in the forest’s rhythm, the river humming a note of recognition. He came in daylight, cautiously, his horse tethered just beyond the veil of the border. You should have turned him away. Instead, curiosity made you wait.
“Back again?” you teased when he emerged, brushing vines from his curls.
He smiled sheepishly. “I thought the river might forgive me if I came empty-handed.”
The corners of your lips twitched. Against your better judgment, you let him stay.
And then it became a pattern. Days, weeks, months blurred together, marked not by seasons but by the sound of Charles’s laughter echoing through the trees. He would come whenever his duties allowed, sometimes carrying books from his kingdom, sometimes food wrapped in cloth, sometimes nothing at all but stories of battles fought, festivals held, and the way the human world smelled of iron and smoke.
You listened with rapt attention, though you could never understand why someone would choose stone castles over the living pulse of trees. He, in turn, marveled at the enchantments you showed him — flowers that sang when touched, fireflies that painted constellations in the air, the way your wings caught sunlight like prisms.
He was clumsy in your world. He tripped over roots, startled birds with heavy footsteps, and more than once nearly toppled into the river itself. But each time, his grin was quick, his eyes brighter than the Caelia’s glow.
And each time, you found yourself smiling too.
One afternoon, you led him deeper into the woods, to a grove where blossoms bloomed only under moonlight.
“They’re called dream-flowers,” you explained, brushing your fingers along one unopened bud. “They bloom for those who believe in magic.”
Charles tilted his head. “Then I wonder if they’ll open for me.”
You raised a brow, teasing. “Do you believe?”
He hesitated. Then his gaze found yours, steady and earnest. “I believe in you.”
The flower unfurled instantly, petals glowing with soft silver light.
You swallowed, pulse racing. “That’s… unusual.”
“Or fate,” he said softly.
Your wings fluttered without permission, betraying the way your heart stuttered. You turned quickly, pretending to study another flower, but his gaze lingered, heavy as a promise.
The years passed in secret.
He grew taller, stronger, his voice deepening into command though it softened always for you. You, in turn, grew into your role as protector of the river, your wings lengthening, your power humming stronger with each season.
But some things never changed — the way he looked at you as if you were the only miracle he had ever witnessed, and the way your heart lifted when his footsteps approached.
On quiet evenings, you would sit together by the Caelia, toes dipping in its glow, speaking of dreams.
“I’ll be a knight, one day,” he told you once, plucking a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. “Serve the king. Protect my people.”
“And you?” he asked, glancing at you.
You smiled faintly. “I’ll protect mine. The river will always need a guardian.”
He leaned back on his hands, sighing. “Different worlds. Always.”
But then he looked at you again, as if daring to believe otherwise.
The night before your sixteenth birthday, he came with something hidden behind his back.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed, his grin boyish.
You gave him a skeptical look but obeyed.
Something cool slipped around your neck — a chain, delicate, with a pendant shaped like a star. When you opened your eyes, he was watching nervously.
“It’s from my kingdom,” he explained quickly. “Not iron. Silver. I made sure. I wanted you to have… something of me.”
You touched the star, your throat tight. “It’s beautiful.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. Then his expression grew serious, more than you’d ever seen.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “you’ll be sixteen. My people call it the age of promise. So… I want to make one.”
Your breath caught. “Charles—”
“I promise to love you forever,” he interrupted, eyes locked on yours, steady and burning. “No matter what happens, no matter the kingdoms, no matter the borders. You’ll have my heart, always.”
The forest fell silent, as if holding its breath.
You felt tears sting, though you blinked them away. Slowly, you reached for his hand. “And I promise to keep it safe.”
The words hung between you, shimmering with the weight of something unbreakable.
Then, before you could think, before you could breathe — he leaned forward and kissed you.
It was soft, hesitant at first, but when your lips curved into a smile against his, it deepened, turned sure. Magic flared between you like the river itself rejoicing.
When you pulled back, your cheeks flushed, your wings quivered, scattering droplets of light into the air.
Charles laughed quietly, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Guess that means it’s true love’s kiss, then.”
Your heart swelled, foolish and full. For once, you dared to believe in forever.
The morning after your sixteenth birthday should have been the brightest of your life.
The air smelled of honeyed blossoms, the River Caelia shimmered in shades of silver and blue, and your wings carried the glow of true love’s kiss. Every beat of your heart still echoed with the warmth of Charles’s lips on yours, the promise whispered beneath the stars: forever.
But he did not come.
Not that day.
Not the next.
Not for weeks.
You waited where you always had, at the banks of the Caelia, your bare feet trailing the water’s edge as if it might bring him back. Each time the leaves rustled, your heart leapt — only to sink again when no one appeared. You began counting time not in seasons, but in disappointments.
The star-shaped pendant he had gifted you never left your neck. Its silver chain was the only weight you welcomed, a reminder of a boy who had sworn you his heart. Yet the longer he stayed away, the heavier it became, like a stone dragging you under.
Rumors reached your kingdom before he ever did.
The King of Monaco, lay on his deathbed, his body withering as greed poisoned his final days. His dying words were said to be of conquest, of forests and rivers he could never tame. He wanted more — more land, more magic, more power.
And when he died, his hunger lived on in his armies.
The first attack came like a nightmare. Soldiers with red banners stormed the border, iron weapons slashing through roots and vines, flames clawing at the sky. The enchanted trees shrieked as their branches burned, and the River Caelia wailed inside you, its pulse erratic and desperate.
You did what you were born to do.
You fought.
With silver wings flashing, you dove from the skies, scattering sparks as your magic met iron. Your voice carried commands, your blade cut clean, and your people rallied behind you. The war had begun, and you — unwilling, unready — became their shield.
The months bled into one another.
Battles blurred into nights of tending wounds and burying friends. Iron scars marred your body, feathers once soft now bent and broken from strikes. But still, you did not falter. Your people named you the Guardian of Caelia. Songs were sung of your defiance, how no army could crush the girl with silver wings.
And yet, when the forest quieted at dusk and the river hummed its sorrow, you wondered.
Where are you, Charles?
He had promised forever. But forever had abandoned you when you needed it most.
It wasn’t until whispers spread through your ranks that his name returned to you.
Charles Leclerc.
Not the boy who had once dropped an iron ring into the trees, but a soldier of Monaco. His sword sharp, his stance unshakable, his loyalty unquestioned. A warrior spoken of with admiration by enemies and with dread by your kin.
You felt the truth like a blade through your ribs.
The boy who had once kissed you beneath the stars had become a man who raised weapons in the name of the king who sought to destroy you.
Your people cursed his name. You tried to do the same. But in the quiet, when no one was watching, you touched the star pendant at your throat and remembered his smile.
Love was stubborn. So was grief.
When the king died, his malice did not. His final decree was crueler than iron and fire:
The wings of the Guardian must be taken.
It was not enough to burn your forest or steal your land. He wanted to desecrate you, to break the symbol of hope your people clung to.
The order spread through the Ferrari ranks like rot. Soldiers muttered it with hunger, with obedience, with resignation.
And when it reached Charles, his hands — hands that had never shaken in battle — began to tremble.
He tried to still them. He gripped his sword until his knuckles turned white, but nothing steadied him. He had faced men twice his size without fear. But this command unraveled him.
Your wings.
They wanted your wings.
His chest tightened until he could not breathe. Every image of you crashed back — your laughter at his clumsiness, the glow of your wings against moonlight, the way you whispered his name like it belonged only to you.
And now his king wanted him to carve those wings away.
He told himself it was duty. He told himself it was loyalty. He told himself that love had no place in war. But lies did not still his shaking hands.
So he did the only thing his heart remembered how to do.
He rode.
Not to fight.
Not to conquer.
To find you.
🧚🏻♀️🪄☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆⋆.˚🦋༘⋆˙✧
The forest was quieter than it had been in years. Not because the war had ended — it raged still beyond the borders — but because for one night, your world shrank to the man standing in front of you.
Charles.
You wanted to hate him. Gods, you wanted to. His armor was painted in Ferrari red, his sword gleamed with iron, his hands were calloused from battles fought against your kind. He had left you. Forgotten you. Broken promises meant to last forever.
And yet, as his gaze found yours — still the same deep, earnest brown, still trembling with unspoken words — your heart betrayed you before your mind could.
You whispered his name like a prayer. “Charles.”
He swallowed hard, as if the sound of it pained him. “Y/N.”
The silence between you was thick, heavy with all the years unsaid. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, you stepped closer. Slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a dream you weren’t sure was real. He did not move away.
“Why now?” you asked, your voice quiet but sharp. “After everything?”
His lips parted, but no answer came. Instead, his shoulders sagged, his eyes closing as though too heavy to hold open. When he spoke at last, his voice cracked. “I never stopped thinking of you.”
A thousand bitter replies burned in your chest — Then where were you? Why did you serve the crown that sought my wings? Why did you leave me waiting at the river until the stars grew tired of my prayers?
But the words never came. Instead, you looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not the soldier but the boy who once tossed an iron ring into the forest just to keep your hand in his.
Your hands trembled as they rose to his face. His skin was rougher now, scarred by war, but when your fingers brushed his cheek, he leaned into your touch like no time had passed at all.
And then his mouth was on yours.
It was desperate, aching, as though he were starving and you were the only thing that could sustain him. You tasted iron and guilt, but also the familiar warmth that had haunted your dreams for years. You kissed him back, and with it, the years between you melted.
Later, you lay together on the moss-covered floor of your chamber, the river’s hum just beyond the window. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his arm curled around your waist, holding you as though afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“You’re different,” you whispered into the quiet.
“So are you,” he murmured back, lips brushing the crown of your head. A pause. Then softer, “Stronger. Braver.”
“And you?”
His silence was heavy. Finally: “Weaker.”
You tilted your head, frowning. “You’ve fought wars. You’ve survived battles. You’re not weak.”
He swallowed. “I am when it comes to you.”
Something inside you cracked open. Against all reason, against all warnings the river whispered, you let yourself believe him. You curled closer, let your wings drape over him like a blanket, their silver light bathing the room.
“I missed you,” you admitted, the words breaking. “So much it hurt to breathe.”
He tightened his hold. “And I missed you. Every day.”
You closed your eyes, the ache in your chest easing for the first time in years. Against his warmth, the war felt distant. The bitterness faded. For a fleeting moment, it was only you and Charles, as it had been at the river when you were children, when forever felt simple.
You fell asleep like that — heart full, body warm, wings resting peacefully.
You did not see the way his eyes remained open long after, dark and haunted. You did not see the way his hands trembled against your skin, or the tears that slipped silently down his face.
Because Charles Leclerc knew what dawn demanded of him.
And his heart was already breaking.
🪄☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆⋆.˚🦋༘⋆˙✧🧚🏻♀️
The first thing you noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful hush of dawn, not the gentle lull of the river beyond the window, but an unnatural stillness, heavy and suffocating.
The second thing you noticed was the smell. Metallic. Sharp. The air was thick with it, clinging to your throat like smoke.
Your body felt heavy as you stirred, dragging yourself from the warmth you thought you still shared with him. The moss-woven sheets were damp, sticking to your skin. You shifted, sluggish, groggy — and then you saw it.
Red.
Everywhere.
Your heart lurched violently against your ribs. For one wild moment, you thought some beast had come in the night, thought you must have been attacked — but you felt no wounds, no pain.
Then you tried to stretch your wings.
Nothing.
Your lungs seized, panic ripping through your chest. You tried again, harder — only to feel the raw, burning emptiness where they should have been.
The world spun. Your hands flew to your back, trembling, desperate — and met torn flesh. Sticky. Wet. Empty.
Gone.
Your wings were gone.
A strangled sob clawed its way out of your throat. “No… no, no, no, no—” You gasped, choking on the sound. Your entire body convulsed as if rejecting the truth, as if denying it could make it untrue.
Your wings — your life, your magic, your everything — gone.
And Charles—
Your eyes snapped to the other side of the bed. Empty. His warmth gone, his scent fading. No sign of a struggle. His horse missing from the clearing.
No marks of battle. No blood but your own.
The realization slammed into you like a blade to the chest.
He had done this.
Charles. The boy you loved by the river, the man who had kissed you like he was drowning, the one who whispered he missed you even in your sleep. His arms that held you had steadied themselves long enough to sever your wings.
A hollow sound tore from your throat. Something between a scream and a whimper. You doubled over, clutching your stomach as if holding yourself together would stop you from splitting apart.
The betrayal cut deeper than the wound.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
They were stained still, the dark red dried beneath his nails, and he could feel it — the phantom weight of the blade, the silent resistance of her body beneath it.
Charles retched violently by the riverbank, his breath hitching in broken gasps. He pressed his hands into the earth, clawing at it, as though he could bury the guilt in the soil.
He had done it.
He had cut the wings from the woman he loved more than life itself.
Her wings… The silver light that once glowed like moonfire in the night — gone. Because of him.
“Gods…” His voice cracked, strangled. He dug his fingers into his hair, tugging hard, his whole body trembling. His hands, steady through every war, every duel, every death — were useless now. Shaking. Cursed.
He had told himself it was duty. He had told himself he had no choice. That the crown demanded her wings. That to protect his people, he had to give her up.
But none of it mattered.
Because when she woke, she would know.
And she would never forgive him.
Your body was weakening already. You could feel it — the light draining from you, your breath coming shorter, your skin paling with each heartbeat. Without your wings, you would not last long.
Perhaps that was mercy.
Still, something inside you clung stubbornly, desperately, to one last fragment of will. If you must die, you would not die here in this bed drenched with betrayal.
You would die where it began.
At the river.
Your trembling legs barely held as you stood. Every step was agony, your blood leaving a trail behind you, your vision blurring. But you moved, dragging yourself through the forest, clinging to trees, stumbling forward.
Because if your wings had been stolen, your love could not be. Not the memory. Not the place where you once believed forever was real.
You would die in the graveyard of your dreams.
The gates of Monaco loomed tall before him, blackened iron spears against a sky that looked bruised, swollen with storm. The kind of sky that seemed to know secrets men could not bear. Charles’s horse trotted beneath him, its hooves dragging against the cobblestones as if it, too, felt the weight of what hung from Charles’s satchel.
Wings. Her wings.
They were heavier than anything he had ever carried, heavier than armor, heavier than swords, heavier than the shield that once protected his kingdom. They weren’t just feathers and bone—they were her soul, her light, her laughter by the enchanted river. And now they lay there limp and severed, darkened with her blood.
As the gates groaned open, the soldiers who once looked at him with admiration now fell silent. Their eyes shifted to the satchel, to the faint shimmer of feathers still glowing even in their death. Whispers spread like wildfire. He had done it. Charles Leclerc had fulfilled the king’s dying wish. He had stolen the wings of the fairy protector.
“Bring them forth,” cried an elder knight, stepping forward, voice echoing against the walls of the courtyard.
Charles’s chest tightened. His hands shook where they gripped the reins. He did not move. For the first time in his life, Charles could not take a step forward in victory.
Because this was not victory. This was ruin.
The old king’s advisors emerged, their faces painted with greed as they saw the prize. “With these wings,” one of them declared, “our land will reign unmatched. The power of the fairy realm will bend to Mocano.”
Applause rose from the court. But Charles stood frozen, his blood running colder with every cheer. He should have felt triumph, the weight of his father’s crown waiting for him. Instead, he felt the river inside him collapse, all its waters flooding into guilt.
His fingers brushed the satchel. The feathers burned him, though they were no iron. They burned because he knew.
He had cut them from her while she slept, while her head rested so trustingly on his chest. She had smiled before falling asleep, murmuring dreams of their youth, of promises made beneath the River Caliea’s glow. He had held her, kissed her hair, sworn silently to protect her.
And then he had betrayed her.
Now, her blood stained his hands, and the taste of it poisoned every breath.
The knights beckoned him closer. He dismounted, legs weak, stomach churning. His crown was waiting inside the hall, a gilded mockery of all he had lost.
But as he stepped forward, the satchel slipped against his thigh. A feather escaped the flap, drifting toward the ground. Charles bent to catch it—and when he did, the sight of it in his palm broke him. It was small, delicate, impossibly soft. Her wing. Her.
The cheers of the court blurred. His vision swam.
And for the first time, Charles Leclerc—the soldier whose hands never trembled, whose sword never faltered—fell to his knees in the dirt.
He could not move. He could not rise to accept a throne that now reeked of her blood.
And in that moment, he realized: there would be no life worth living if she was not in it.
The guards at the gate bowed as he approached. To them, he was not a man with blood on his hands — he was the crowned heir, the one who had finally done what no king or knight had managed in centuries.
“Your Grace,” one of them greeted, his voice steady with awe. “The council awaits you. They say the throne is ready.”
Charles’s lips did not move. His throat burned, as though it knew no words could disguise what he carried. He only nodded once, urging his horse forward.
The city streets filled with whispers as he passed. Children pointed, women curtsied, men lowered their heads in respect. They all looked at him as if he were salvation itself. A savior. A king.
But all Charles could see were his hands.
These hands that had held YN so gently by the river, tracing the tips of her feathers as though they were spun from glass. These hands that had pulled her closer when she confessed her fears, when she whispered she could not imagine a world without him. These same hands… now stained. Shaking. His gloves could not hide it; he felt the tremor to his bones.
The council chambers were lit like fire when he entered, torches flaring, banners hanging tall. Men and women dressed in silks rose to greet him. His father’s steward stepped forward with a crown resting upon a red velvet cushion.
“Charles Leclerc,” the steward declared, voice echoing. “By the right of conquest, by the law of blood, you have brought to this kingdom what no other could. The throne is yours.”
The crown glimmered under the firelight, heavy with jewels. It should have been the culmination of his life, the prize he had been trained for since boyhood. And yet—
Charles’s gaze dropped, unbidden, to the satchel at his hip. He almost staggered when he thought of what lay there. He saw not gold, not power, not glory—only feathers, torn and lifeless, still weeping with her magic.
The hall erupted into cheers. Lords pounded their fists on the table. Courtiers clapped, their voices rising: “Long live the king!”
The sound clawed at his skull. It was not praise he heard—it was accusation. It was YN’s voice, crying without sound. It was the silence of her bed soaked in blood, the emptiness of her eyes when she would have woken and found him gone.
The steward approached, lifting the crown. “Kneel, my lord.”
Charles’s knees should have bent easily. He had been taught to kneel all his life before the crown, the sword, the oath. But now his body betrayed him. His legs locked, his chest heaved, his heart pounded like a drum of war.
He saw her face. Pale and fragile, framed by the night when he last kissed her. He heard her whisper: “Promise me forever.”
And he had promised.
He stumbled back, nearly knocking the steward aside. Gasps filled the hall. His breath came ragged, a wild beast cornered in his own castle.
“What is wrong, Your Grace?” someone cried.
But he could not answer. He could not tell them that the price of his crown was her life. That the throne beneath his feet was slick with the blood of the only woman he had ever loved.
For the first time in his life, Charles realized what it meant to have everything and yet nothing. What was a throne worth, if the seat beside him remained empty? What was a kingdom worth, when he could not share it with her?
The satchel pressed harder into his side, as though mocking him. He wanted to rip it away, to cast the wings into the fire, but his legs carried him blindly out of the chamber instead. Through the halls, past the stunned faces, out into the night air.
The great hall was lit with fire, flames licking at the stone hearths while nobles pressed forward in excitement. The air reeked of wine, sweat, and the metallic tang of greed.
Charles staggered in with the satchel, though every step dragged him deeper into a grave he had dug with his own hands. The elders rushed to see the wings, their wrinkled fingers twitching like vultures eager to pick at a carcass.
“Lay them upon the altar!” cried Lord Verris, his voice booming. “Let the iron test them, let it bind their power to our land.”
At the center of the hall stood a circle of black iron, forged in ancient times—a burning ring kept glowing red in the flames of the hearth. It was said no fairy could withstand its touch; iron consumed them, unraveled their essence. The ritual was clear: wings laid upon the ring would tether their magic to whoever bore the crown.
The hall erupted in cheers.
Charles’s heart stopped. His vision narrowed to the cruel circle pulsing with heat. It was as though the iron itself sneered at him, waiting to devour the last of her.
He froze, clutching the satchel to his chest. His breath came ragged.
This was no ceremony of honor. This was desecration.
Images tore through his mind—her laughter by the river, her slender fingers trailing through the water, her eyes shimmering with trust when she whispered his name. Charles. Always with that softness, that certainty, as though his name was a sanctuary.
And what had he done?
He had stolen her sanctuary, stolen her very ability to exist.
His knees buckled. A roar filled his ears, though he didn’t know if it was from the crowd or from within himself. The satchel burned against his chest as if the wings inside were screaming.
“No,” he rasped, staggering back.
The nobles hushed. All eyes turned to him.
“Sir Leclerc,” Lord Verris barked, his mouth curling. “The wings must be bound! Lay them down.”
Charles shook his head violently. “I will not.”
A murmur rippled across the hall, outrage mixing with confusion.
“They are not yours to desecrate,” Charles choked, his voice trembling. “They are hers. They will always be hers.”
His refusal sent silence crashing across the room. The crackle of the iron fire was the only sound, snapping like the heartbeat of his guilt.
And in that moment, Charles saw it clearly: the iron ring was not just fire and metal. It was a mirror of himself—burning, destructive, unyielding. To lay her wings upon it would be to erase her completely, to finish the murder he had already begun.
Tears blurred his vision. He had never wept in the presence of men, not even when his father died. But now the tears came unbidden, streaming hot down his face.
The elders shouted, demanding he obey. Soldiers stepped forward, hands on their swords.
But Charles clutched the satchel tighter, as if it were her body he held, her fragile frame pressed against him. And he whispered, hoarse, broken:
“I will not burn what I love.”
The words broke something inside him. He realized then that no throne, no crown, no empire was worth the hollow echo of a world without her. His blood was already cursed with betrayal; what point was there in wearing a crown built from it?
He stumbled backward, wings pressed to his chest, and the firelight glared on the iron ring. He could smell the heat, hear the hiss of it calling. But he turned, pushing through the stunned court.
Shouts followed. Soldiers lunged. But Charles ran—ran like a man pursued not by men, but by his own sins.
He burst into the night air, clutching the satchel, and gasped as though he had surfaced from drowning. The storm above finally broke, rain lashing against him in cold sheets, soaking the feathers through the leather. The weight of them grew heavier, and yet he would not let them go.
Because they were all he had left of her.
And with the storm came clarity.
When the gates closed behind him, Charles’s horse reared, sensing his master’s torment. He clutched the reins with trembling hands, his chest burning.
And then—he felt it.
The ring.
It had always sat cold and silent on his finger, a symbol of the kingdom’s dominion over fae. But now, it began to burn. Slow at first, a prickling heat. Then a flame beneath his flesh, searing into his skin.
Charles cried out, clutching his hand. The metal glowed faintly red, smoke rising from it, the scent of charred flesh filling the air. He yanked at it desperately, but it would not come off.
Then—through the fire, through the agony—he heard it.
A whisper.
A name.
Nessaya.
The word slithered through his mind, quiet yet unshakable. Not his own thought, not his own voice. A summons.
Charles froze, his breath catching. The horse snorted uneasily, sensing the unnatural presence. His heart raced. He had never heard the name before, but it rang in his ears with the weight of prophecy.
And he knew. Whatever it meant, it was the key.
He turned his horse, no longer toward the palace but toward the forest—the river, the only place he might find her again. His chest ached with both fear and hope. If he could reach her, if he could ask her… maybe it wasn’t too late.
The forest was darker than he remembered. Every branch clawed at his armor, every root seemed to reach for his horse’s hooves, as though the woods themselves wanted him to fall.
But Charles did not stop. His lungs burned, his body screamed, yet he rode until the trees thinned and the moonlight painted silver across the rushing river.
And there she was.
At first, he thought it a trick of the stormlight—a pale figure crumpled against the bank, her dress torn, her body trembling like a candle flame in the wind. But then he saw the shimmer of her skin, that otherworldly glow dimmed but not gone.
His heart nearly tore itself apart.
“YN—!”
He stumbled from his horse, crashing into the mud, crawling to her side. The satchel slipped from his shoulders and landed with a thud, the cruel weight of her wings pressing against the earth between them.
Her head lifted weakly at his voice. And gods, her eyes. They were hollow, shadows of the fierce brightness he knew, yet still they found him. Still, they saw him.
“You…” Her voice was nothing but air, a trembling whisper. “You came back.”
Charles’s throat closed. His hands shook as he touched her—so gently, as though even his fingertips might shatter what little life she had left.
“I’m sorry.” His words tumbled out, broken, frantic. “I’m so sorry. I should have never—YN, forgive me, please, forgive me—”
Her lips curled into the faintest shadow of a smile. “You… carried my wings.”
Charles froze. He looked at the satchel, its leather darkened by rain, the outline of feathers pressed against it. His stomach twisted.
“They should have burned,” she whispered, eyes fluttering closed, “but you didn’t let them.”
He bowed his head, tears spilling freely. “How could I? They’re not mine to destroy. They’re you. And I—I cannot live in a world without you.”
Her breath rattled, shallow. The river roared beside them as though it carried the weight of her fading strength.
“Charles…” she said his name like a prayer. “There is something… you must know.”
His heart lurched. “Don’t waste your strength—save it—”
“No.” Her fingers, weak but trembling with determination, gripped his wrist. “You must know. My name… it isn’t only YN.”
His brow furrowed, desperate to make sense of her words.
“In my realm,” she whispered, “they call me Nessaya.”
The name struck him like a blade through the chest. He had heard it before—spoken in whispers by knights who had ventured too far into the woods. Nessaya, the fairy of prophecy. Nessaya, the one who would bind the realms, or break them.
Charles’s breath caught. “Nessaya… you—”
Her eyes found his again, and for a moment, the glow within them flared, fragile but unyielding. “Yes. It is me. And if I die… the barrier between our worlds will fall. Darkness will swallow both.”
The storm’s thunder cracked overhead, as if echoing her truth.
Charles stared at her, numb with horror. Not only had he betrayed the woman he loved—he had doomed both realms with his act of greed.
“No…” His hands trembled as he cupped her face, rain dripping down his cheeks with his tears. “No, you will not die. I won’t let you. Do you hear me, Nessaya? Do you hear me?!”
Her lips parted, the faintest breath of laughter escaping. “You say my name… as if it belongs to you.”
“It does,” he said fiercely, voice breaking. “Every part of you belongs with me. Your name, your wings, your light—I swear, I will not let the darkness take them. Not while I draw breath.”
Her tears mingled with the rain. For a moment, she looked at him the way she had in the meadow long ago, when he first touched her hand. With trust. With belief.
And then her body slackened, her strength waning like a dying flame.
“No, no, no—YN!” He pulled her against his chest, rocking her as if holding her could tether her soul. “Stay with me, please—I’ll fix this—I’ll give you back what I took—I’ll give you my life if I must—”
The river roared louder, as though mocking his desperation.
But Charles bent his forehead to hers and whispered, every word a vow carved into his bones:
“If I must walk into fire, if I must bleed myself dry, I will save you. Nessaya. My love. My only.”
The vow shivered through the storm, and for the first time since he cut her wings, the rain seemed to falter. The wind stilled. The night held its breath.
Charles clutched her tighter, feeling the fragile rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest. Weak. So weak.
But still there.
Still alive.
And as long as she breathed, so did his hope.
Charles stumbled through the twisted trees of the fairy realm, YN’s frail body still haunting his arms even after he laid her gently down by the enchanted river. His heart was a battlefield—guilt slicing sharper than any blade, grief pressing down so heavy he could scarcely breathe. Her words replayed like a curse: “This is the price I pay for loving you.”
He staggered, his boots dragging through the damp moss, clutching his head as if he could rip the memory of her blood from his hands. Every corner of the woods whispered her name. Every rustle of leaves sounded like her fading breath.
He wanted to scream, to fall to his knees and let the forest swallow him whole. But then—a sudden tremor beneath the earth. A soft glow.
Through the shadows, a magnificent creature emerged. Its antlers glistened like frozen starlight, its white fur almost silver under the fractured moonlight. Eyes deep and sorrowful as an ancient well locked with his.
The White Stag.
Charles froze. He knew this creature. Long ago, YN had told him how she had once freed a young stag from a hunter’s cruel snare. She spoke of it tenderly, as if saving that life had bound her to something greater.
The stag stepped closer, silent, graceful. Its breath left trails of frost in the night air. Charles’s chest tightened as he whispered, his voice hoarse, “You… you knew her.”
The stag lowered its head, antlers nearly brushing Charles’s shoulder. In that moment, he swore he felt a pulse—not of blood, but of pure magic—pass between them.
Charles’s eyes burned, his tears falling freely. He reached out a trembling hand but stopped short of touching the creature, as if it were too sacred. “Please… please help me. She’s dying, and it’s my fault. I don’t know what to do. I’ll give anything—my crown, my life—if it means saving her.”
The stag lifted its head slowly, eyes like liquid moonlight, and turned toward the deeper forest. Its hooves glowed faintly as they touched the ground, leaving silver prints in the moss. It walked a few steps, then paused, turning its gaze back to him.
A sign. A guide.
Charles’s heart pounded. His voice cracked as he whispered, “You want me to follow…”
The stag gave a slow, deliberate nod—otherworldly, reverent—and continued forward, its glow piercing the darkness.
Charles stumbled after it, lungs burning, legs weak from exhaustion and grief, but he forced himself to keep pace. Every step echoed with his vow: I will not lose her. Not like this.
Through twisting roots and thorned vines, across rivers whispering ancient songs, the stag led him deeper than he had ever ventured. The air grew heavy, charged with magic. The trees bent inward, branches arching like a cathedral, as though the forest itself bowed before the path.
At last, the stag stopped.
Ahead, shrouded in mist, stood a stone archway covered in silver moss. Symbols glowed faintly across its surface, words older than time itself. The air thrummed with power, sharp and alive, raising goosebumps along Charles’s arms.
The stag turned back to him one final time. Its eyes carried a depth that nearly broke him—like it already knew what sacrifice he would have to make. Then, with a slow bow of its majestic head, the stag disappeared into the mist, leaving only the faint shimmer of its hoofprints behind.
Charles dropped to his knees before the archway, breath ragged, hands clutching the dirt. His voice was raw as he whispered into the night, “Iridessa… if you can hear me, if you are real—please. Please, save her. I’ll pay whatever price you ask. My blood, my crown, my life—it doesn’t matter. Just don’t let her die.”
The archway’s symbols flickered, brighter now, responding to his desperate plea. The ground trembled, the mist thickened, and a voice—soft as wind through leaves, but carrying the weight of eternity—slipped into the air:
“Charles Leclerc… you carry her blood upon your hands, yet you beg for her life. Why should I grant you this mercy?”
His chest heaved, his palms pressed hard to the earth as tears blurred his sight. “Because I love her,” he choked out. “Because I was a fool, blinded by a throne I never wanted. Because I cannot—will not—live in a world where she is not. Take me instead. Please. Let her live.”
Silence stretched, the mist swirling as if tasting his sincerity.
Then, the archway cracked open, a path of light spilling through. The voice whispered again, softer, but sharper than any blade:
“Come forward, Charles. Iridessa awaits. But know this—the price of saving her will demand more than blood. It will demand your soul.”
Charles closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath, and stepped into the light.
The forest was heavy with silence as Charles stumbled after the white stag. His legs ached, his body screamed to stop, but the guilt in his chest burned hotter than any exhaustion. The stag’s silvery antlers caught the moonlight, glowing like lanterns, pulling him deeper into the woods where even shadows seemed to hold their breath.
The clearing they arrived at shimmered unnaturally. The air itself seemed alive, rippling with unseen currents, glowing faintly blue. At its center stood a woman—no, a being unlike anything Charles had ever seen. Her hair was spun of pure light, cascading down her shoulders like streams of dawn. Her eyes were galaxies—gold and violet intertwined, timeless and unblinking. The Fairy Godmother Iridessa.
“You brought him,” she said softly, her voice carrying like wind through chimes, directed at the stag. The creature bowed once, then dissolved into mist, leaving Charles on shaking knees.
Charles swallowed hard. His throat was dry. “Please… I don’t have time. She’s dying. YN… she—” His voice cracked, his chest caving in under the weight of his desperation. “I betrayed her. I hurt her. But I cannot lose her. Not like this.”
Iridessa studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “And why should I save her?” she asked, tilting her head. “You have taken from her the one thing that defines her being. Her wings were not ornaments, human—they were her soul, her lifeblood. You cut them away with your own hands. Why should I undo the ruin you brought?”
Her words were knives, but Charles didn’t flinch away. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the earth. His voice was raw. “Because I love her. Because every breath I take without her feels like punishment. Because I would rather die a thousand times than live one more day knowing I destroyed her. If there is a way to save her, take everything from me. My crown, my blood, my life. I beg you.”
The clearing fell silent again. Then, slowly, Iridessa stepped forward. The air grew colder, sharper. “There is a way,” she said, voice like fire wrapped in silk. “But it comes at a price.”
Charles raised his head, hope and terror colliding in his chest. “Name it.”
Iridessa’s gaze was piercing. “The river took her strength, your blade took her wings, and despair took her will. To mend her, I will need something powerful enough to rewrite her very essence. A sacrifice so pure it cannot be undone.”
Her hand lifted, fingers glowing. They pointed at his chest. “A piece of your heart. Your love for her made her fall, and only your love for her can lift her again.”
Charles froze. His heart hammered so violently it almost drowned her words. “My… heart?”
Iridessa nodded slowly. “I will not take your life, but you will never again be whole. A fragment of your heart will become hers, woven into her soul, strengthening her wings. You will carry the ache of incompleteness forever. She will never know the fullness of your sacrifice—unless you tell her. Do you accept this?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “Yes. Take it. Take whatever you need. Just save her.”
For the first time, Iridessa’s expression softened. She lifted her hand, and before Charles could prepare himself, a searing pain ripped through his chest. He gasped, falling forward, clutching at the ground as light burst out of him—threads of crimson and gold pulled from deep within. It felt as if someone had torn away part of his soul, leaving an empty, aching hollow.
Iridessa held the glowing shard of his heart in her hands, and for a moment, Charles thought he might faint from the agony. But the thought of YN—her laughter, her smile, the way she had once trusted him completely—kept him conscious. He gritted his teeth, tears streaming down his face.
“She is far from here,” Iridessa said softly, cradling the fragment. “We must go to her at once.”
She raised her arms, and in an instant the clearing shattered around them. The air folded in on itself, light consumed the world, and when Charles blinked, he was no longer in the forest.
They stood by the River of Caelia, where it all began.
And there she was. YN lay against the mossy bank, her skin pale as porcelain, her lips colorless, her breathing so faint it was barely there. Her once-vibrant hair spread like withered silk around her, and the place where her wings had been was nothing but blood-stained scars.
Charles’s legs nearly gave out. He dropped beside her, his hands trembling as he reached for hers—cold, fragile, too light in his grasp. “YN…” His voice broke. “My love, I’m here. Please, hold on. Please.”
Iridessa stepped forward, kneeling gracefully. “Do not weep, young king. She is not lost yet.” She pressed the shard of Charles’s heart against YN’s chest, right where her own heart beat weakly. Light spread instantly, threading through her veins, racing to her shoulders, her back, her wings.
Charles watched through blurred tears as luminous strands of gold and silver wove themselves where her wings had been. Bone mended, veins reformed, feathers of light unfurled slowly, shimmering brighter and stronger than before. It was as if his love, his sacrifice, had rebuilt her from the inside out.
But YN did not wake. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow.
Charles fell to his knees, clutching her hand to his lips. “Please, YN… come back to me. If you open your eyes, I swear on what remains of my heart, I will never betray you again. I will spend the rest of my days proving my love to you. Just… please.”
Iridessa looked at him, her voice low. “She is mending. The body heals fast, but the soul takes longer. Give her time. She carries your heart now. When she stirs, it will be because she has chosen to return to you.”
Charles bent over her, pressing his forehead to her cold hand, tears dripping onto her skin. The emptiness in his chest throbbed, but for the first time since his betrayal, he felt hope flicker—fragile, but alive.
He would wait. As long as it took, he would wait.
Charles pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening protectively around you as though anchoring you to him, to this moment.
Before he could speak, the Fairy Godmother stepped forward, her presence soft yet commanding, her eyes glowing with ancient knowing.
“No thanks are needed, child,” she said softly, her voice like a lullaby threaded with power. “You two have rewritten fate. Loved across worlds. That is rare. Sacred.”
Her gaze drifted to Charles, and her lips curved into the faintest smile.
“And you—a human who gave his heart without hesitation—you’ve earned your place in our legends.”
A soft glow pulsed from your new wings—his love made magic, alive in every feather of light.
Iridessa lifted her hand, the air shimmering faintly. “Live,” she whispered. “Love deeply. And never forget… some souls are forged to burn as one.”
Your brows furrowed faintly, your voice quiet and trembling with awe. “But… how do you know all this? How do you know about us?”
Charles’s gaze flickered to the Fairy Godmother, curiosity and a touch of wariness in his green eyes.
Iridessa only smiled, a timeless, knowing smile. She nodded slowly, her glow brightening like the dawn.
“Yes,” she said. “I have watched lovers come and go over centuries. Seen fairy queens fall, watched kings betray their brides… but never one like you two. A fairy of the forest, a human with a king’s heart in a soldier’s hands.”
Her expression softened as she turned her gaze on Charles. “I saw how he wept when you vanished from your tree-circle. How he wandered the borders of the forest for years, haunted by guilt… then returned willingly to give what was taken.”
You froze, your lips parting as tears welled in your eyes. Charles’s grip on you tightened, his jaw flexing as he tried to mask the pain in those words—but you could feel it in him, raw and true.
Iridessa’s hand rose, and she touched your luminous wing lightly. At her touch, the golden light flared brighter, filling the chamber.
“Love like this?” she whispered. “It does not fade. It echoes across time. It becomes more than a tale—it becomes the tale.”
Your breath hitched, the question slipping from you like a prayer.
“How… how are we the story?”
Iridessa’s gaze deepened, her voice taking on the rhythm of wind in ancient trees.
“Because long ago,” she began, “our people told of a sorrow and a hope… a tale carried in hushes through generations. A prophecy we called The Caelora Bond.”
The air shimmered as she spoke, her words weaving images into the space around you—light painting pictures as if the story itself wanted to be seen.
She lifted her hand, and the vision of a fairy with broken wings flickered in the glow.
‘When a wing is broken by human hand, the forest will mourn…’
The image shifted—trees bending, shadows weeping, a fairy crying into the soil.
Iridessa’s voice grew softer, resonant.
‘But when the hand that broke it becomes the heart that mends it, a fire shall be kindled where ashes lay.
From sorrow shall rise a bond unbreakable, woven not of magic, but of love.’
The light shifted again—showing a man offering his heart, his chest glowing as it broke apart willingly, and a fairy whose wings shimmered brighter than the dawn.
Iridessa turned her eyes back to you, her voice almost reverent now.
“You are that prophecy. The human who gave his heart, the fairy who forgave. The wings reborn not of spellcraft, not of bargain—but of love itself. That is why your wings glow golden. That is why your bond cannot be severed.”
Her smile softened as she looked at Charles, then back at you.
“They will tell your story, child. Fairies will whisper of The Caelora Bond around firelight, teaching little ones that love is stronger than vengeance. Humans will dream of a man who gave his heart away, and of the fairy who carried it on her wings. And when the two worlds speak of love that transcends all laws, all curses, they will speak… of you.”
The light around her dimmed, leaving only the steady glow of your wings.
“You are no longer only lovers,” Iridessa finished gently. “You are legend.”
synopsis: charles' daughter had taken to karting recently. saturdays had once been about qualifying for charles, but now they were jules' karting days and that meant so much more to him.
WARNINGS: translated french
a/n: requests are open! interact however you please
From the minute, Juliette Pascale Leclerc was born she was her father's mini-me through and through. That should have told you everything you needed to know about your little girl.
Yet, somehow, when she told you she wanted to try karting at five, you still found a way to be shocked.
You always knew there was a big possibility she'd want to kart just like her dad, her uncles, and many of the other driver's kids she grew up with. But, hearing it out of her little accented voice paired with her big green eyes almost sent you into a catatonic state.
When you looked up at the man standing behind her that was looking at you with the same puppy eyes, you knew you were bound to give in.
She quickly added on, "Lily's been karting. And-and Mila too! Please, mama, I wanna kart like them!"
Charles then says, "She's making a very good case, my love."
You quickly glare at him before crouching down to meet Jules at eye-level.
"One one condition", you begin.
"Rein (anything)", she begs.
"You must listen to Papa. No arguing or telling him what to do. Karting is a privilege and you have to earn it every day, okay, baby?", you tell her.
"Oui! I'll be a good listener, mama", she says before hugging you. You feel Charles' arms around the two of you before you see him.
By the next month, Charles has set up everything Jules needs to kart. Her little suit, baby helmet, kiddie kart, mini gloves, tiny racing shoes; the whole nine yards.
It was hard to discern who was more excited for Jules when the two woke up early this morning.
Jules came barreling into your bedroom at six in the morning, immediately jumping up and down in yours and Charles' bed.
"Karting day! Karting day! Mama, papa, wake up!", she yelled in her little voice.
When Charles finally opened his eyes, he grinned at you.
"Morning, mon amour", he greeted you.
"Morning, mon lapin", he said as he reached for Jules and bear hugged her.
"Morning, papa!", she exclaimed.
"Very excited, non?", he asked her.
"So so so so excited!"
The two of you chuckled at Jules' excitement for this special day.
After that, your morning routine began. You did your mini morning routine and went to make breakfast for your small family while Charles got Jules ready.
Once your daughter was ready, she ran into your dining room and sat herself down.
"Eggs and crossaint good for you, baby?", you asked her.
"Oui. Something fast so I can leave", she honestly replied.
"Jules, you should eat your meal slowly. You don't want to get sick from eating too quickly, do you?", you tsked at her.
After you said that, Charles sat himself down next to Jules and asked you, "You're not chiding her again, are you, mon amour?"
"Someone has to keep order around here", you joked as you set the eggs and pastries onto the table.
The three of you shared your meal with laughter and playful conversation.
As Jules picked up the plates, you wrapped your arms around Charles. In a moment of tender vulnerability, you mutter into his chest, "Take care of her out there, Cha. She's our baby. I-I can't cope with her being hurt or..or worse."
He looked into your teary eyes and said, "I'll be right by her side, mon amour. She won't even have a chance to get hurt since I'll be glued to her side like gum. Don't worry about her, love. Enjoy your saturday; get brunch with your friends. Oui?"
You nodded and kissed his chest. You knew you had nothing to worry about, but Jules was your everything and seeing her hurt would bring your world down.
Suddenly, Jules ran up to you two and tugged on Charles' jeans. "Papa! Papa! Let's go!"
"Okay, okay, mon lapin. Let's say bye to maman and get going, yeah?"
Jules hurried to your side and said her goodbyes.
Before you knew it, the two had left to go on their own little adventure.
Charles had made the decision to take Jules to the same karting circuit he'd grown up practicing at. Yet, he wasn't prepared to see his little one donning her gear and smiling up at him in all her childlike wonder. She looked just like he had in his childhood photos with his own father. He tried to hold in his emotions as she started doing laps around the circuit, but a lone tear was certainly shed.
In moments like these, he often wondered what his father would think of how he was doing for himself. Would he be proud? Would he be happy with how Charles had managed for himself?
One thing he knew for sure was that his father would be over the moon with Juliette.
She was the best of the both of you. She had your heart, your laughter. She had his charm, and his tenacity. She was truly the best of both worlds.
To see her lapping other kids at the circuit he'd grown up going to brought only happiness to his heart. He knew his father would be estatic that the Leclerc name would live on in motorsport.
Lost in his thoughts, Charles had failed to notice that Juliette had hopped out of her kart. Only when her tiny body hit his legs in excitement did he realize she'd decided to take a break.
"Papa! Papa! How was I?", she asked. In moments like this one, Charles realized the profound effect he had on Juliette. He was her idol and she never stopped looking for his approval.
"Mon lapin, you are a rockstar! But, do you want to know how to do better next time and take some seconds off your lap time?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Next time, follow the racing line a bit tighter. If you follow it to a tee, you're likely to shave off a few tenths and from there we can figure out how you like to take corners best", he explained to her.
Hearing that, she got her helmet back on and got into her kart.
His mini-me was estatic to race; truly just like her father.
He's never known a love like the one he has for Jules and karting Saturdays just add onto that.
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Hi everyone! I’m currently working on a very long one shot. I started today and I’m currently at 5.6k words and it’s only 30% of the whole idea. Oops! It’s going to be really really really long one 🫣 I was on a break bc I was too lazy to write and went on a vacay to celebrate my bday last week. I’m back now tho and so excited for this one!
