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Please write part 2 to lando dating oscar's sister
His sister, my lover - LN4
Part two of - My secret, his sister
The hotel suite was so quiet that even the air conditioning suddenly sounded deafening.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Oscar remained standing in the doorway, hotel keycard still pinched between two fingers. His expression hadn't changed. Which, somehow, was infinitely more terrifying than if he'd started yelling.
Lando's hands disappeared from your waist so quickly they might have caught fire.
"Oh," Lando managed weakly.
Oscar stared. "...Oh?"
"I can explain."
Oscar tilted his head. "I'd love to hear this."
You rubbed a hand over your face. "This is going well."
Oscar looked at you.
"You."
"Hi."
"You invited him into my hotel room?"
"It wasn't—"
"My hotel room."
"It sounds worse than it is."
Lando blinked. "I don't actually think it does."
Oscar slowly set his backpack on the floor. Very carefully. Almost...too carefully.
Lando swallowed."So..." he ventured. "You gonna hit me?"
"No."
"...Really?"
"No."
Lando frowned. "That somehow feels worse."
"It should."
Another long silence. Oscar looked directly at him. "I leave for exactly one engineering meeting..."
"It was longer than that," you muttered.
"...and I come back to find my teammate making out with my sister."
"I wouldn't phrase it exactly like—"
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
Lando immediately stopped talking.
Good decision.
Oscar walked farther into the room, placing his keys onto the kitchen counter with infuriating calm. The little metallic clink echoed through the suite.
You knew that calm. Growing up, it had always been the warning sign. Your brother wasn't someone who exploded. He simmered. Which was infinitely more dangerous.
Oscar opened the mini fridge.Pulled out a bottle of water.Unscrewed the cap. Took one sip.
Lando looked ready to pass out.
Finally Oscar spoke. "How long?"
You and Lando looked at each other. Neither answered.
Oscar sighed.
"That's never a good sign."
"Lando..."
"No."
You frowned.
"What?"
"If we're doing this..." he said quietly, "I'm not letting you take all the blame."
Oscar folded his arms.
"I'm listening."
Lando inhaled.
"It's been..."
He looked at you.
"...Six months."
The room became even quieter.
Oscar blinked once.
"...Six."
Another blink.
"Months."
"...Yeah."
Oscar laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh.
"Oh, that's brilliant."
He pointed between the two of you.
"So while I've been trusting my teammate..."
Then toward you.
"...and my sister..."
Back to Lando.
"You've both been lying to me."
"It wasn't like that."
Oscar looked at you.
"It is exactly like that."
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Unfortunately... He had a point.
Lando stepped forward.
"Oscar."
"No."
"I care about her."
"I said no."
"I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"I know."
That answer surprised everyone. Oscar looked genuinely tired now. Not angry.
Just... Disappointed.
"I know you weren't."
His voice had lost its edge. "That's what makes this annoying."
He sat down on the couch, elbows on his knees. "You two are idiots."
Nobody argued.
"You," he pointed at you, "are supposed to have better judgment."
"I do."
"You absolutely do not."
Then he looked at Lando.
"And you."
Lando nodded solemnly.
"Yeah."
"I considered you one of my closest friends."
Lando's smile disappeared.
"I still hope you do."
Oscar didn't answer. The silence stretched. Then...
A phone buzzed. Everyone jumped.
Oscar frowned at the coffee table. His own phone lit up with a message. He picked it up. Read it. His expression changed. Completely. Not anger. Not disappointment. Something closer to... Confusion.
"...What?"
You exchanged a glance with Lando.
Oscar read the message again. Then another one appeared. Then another. His face slowly drained of color.
"What is it?" you asked.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned the phone around.
It was a screenshot. A photograph.
Your stomach dropped.
The picture had clearly been taken through the hospitality windows earlier that evening.
It showed you. And Lando. Standing far too close together. Not kissing. But close enough. Close enough that anyone looking would start asking questions. Below it was another screenshot. Social media. Someone had posted it only fifteen minutes earlier.
Spotted... is Lando Norris dating Oscar Piastri's sister?
The comments were multiplying by the second. Fans comparing old race weekend photos. People digging through months of interviews. Someone had made an entire timeline. Another account had already posted a compilation of every time Lando had looked in your direction during a race weekend. There were hundreds of thousands of views. Already.
Lando stared.
"...We're doomed."
Oscar looked between the pair of you.
"You told people?"
"No!" you both answered instantly.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Then who took the photo?"
Nobody had an answer.
Lando reached for his own phone. It vibrated nonstop. Messages flooded the screen.
George.
Carlos.
Max F.
Even Zak.
Every notification seemed worse than the last.
George: Mate. Please tell me Twitter is lying.
Max F. Interesting timing.
Then another message appeared from insta. From an unknown account. No name. No profile picture. Just one sentence.
If Oscar doesn't find out everything tonight... I will make sure he does.
Lando felt every muscle in his body tense.
"...What."
You leaned over to read it. Your smile vanished.
Oscar looked up immediately.
"What is it?"
Lando hesitated.
"Nothing."
Oscar stood.
"Lando."
He handed him the phone. Oscar read the message once. Then twice. His expression sharpened instantly. This wasn't gossip anymore. This was different. Someone wasn't just exposing your relationship. Someone was threatening it. Another message arrived.
This time...
With a second photograph. One neither of you had ever seen. It had been taken months ago. Monaco.Outside a small café.The first time Lando had reached across the table and held your hand.Someone had been watching.For months.
Oscar slowly lowered the phone.
The room suddenly felt much colder.
"...We've got a bigger problem."
Lando frowned.
"You know who this is?"
Oscar looked toward the hotel window.
"No."
A long pause.
"But I think..."
His jaw tightened.
"...I know who they're trying to help."
Before anyone could ask what he meant. Another knock echoed through the suite. Three slow knocks. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Then came a familiar voice from outside the door.
"Oscar?"
It was one of the McLaren team coordinators.
"We need you downstairs."
A pause.
"The Team Principal wants to see you."
Oscar frowned.
"Now?"
"Immediately."
The three of you looked at one another.
Because somehow... Every instinct said this wasn't about tomorrow's race anymore. It was about the photographs.
can you do 3 secret hookups and 10 secret dating w antonelli pls? Try xx hears a heart ❤️
Their secret
The first time Kimi noticed you, it was because you didn’t look impressed.
Everyone else in the paddock usually stared. Some looked at him like he was the future of motorsport. Others treated him like he was fragile, young, someone still learning how to exist in a world that moved faster than anyone could keep up with.
You, however? You barely glanced at him.
“Excuse me,” you said, balancing three coffees in your hand while squeezing past a group of engineers near the Mercedes hospitality unit. “You’re blocking the entrance.”
Kimi blinked. “Oh— sorry.”
You walked right by him. No smile. No awkward fangirl moment. No dramatic introduction. Nothing. And for some reason, that bothered him.
He saw you again an hour later. This time inside the garage. Which immediately confused him.
You stood beside one of the engineers, tablet in hand, dressed in dark Mercedes gear, your headset hanging loosely around your neck. You looked completely at home.
Kimi frowned. Who was she?
“You look confused,” George said casually beside him.
“I don’t know who she is.”
George glanced over. “Oh.”
That stupid knowing smile appeared. “That,” he said, “is someone you absolutely shouldn’t flirt with.”
Kimi looked back. “Why?”
George almost laughed. “Because she’s Toto's daughter.”
Kimi’s stomach dropped. “Wait.” He turned. “You mean—?”
“Yep.”
The team principal Toto. Your father. Mercedes royalty. Untouchable.
“Oh.”
George clapped his shoulder. “Good luck.”
You officially met later that weekend.
Kimi had wandered into hospitality looking for somewhere quiet after media duties, mentally exhausted.
And there you were, alone. Typing aggressively into a laptop, you looked annoyed. Actually furious.
“Bad day?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You looked up. Recognition flashed briefly.
“Oh,” you said. “Garage entrance guy.”
He looked offended. “That’s what I’m known as?”
“You were blocking the door.”
He sat across from you. “You still haven’t apologized for being rude.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You still haven’t apologized for standing in the way.”
For a second. Silence.
Then unexpectedly. Kimi laughed. And to his surprise, you did too.
After that, he kept finding excuses to talk to you. At first, it was stupid little things. Coffee, questions about schedules, pretending he didn’t understand something happening in hospitality.
He definitely understood, he just wanted an excuse.
You figured that out quickly.
“You know where the driver room is,” you said one afternoon.
“I forgot.”
“You’ve been here three weekends.”
“Still confusing.”
“You’re lying.”
He grinned.
“Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes.
But you stayed, that was the thing, you always stayed.
The paddock had a strange rhythm. Early mornings. Late nights.
Chaos. Adrenaline. Everyone exhausted. Everyone too busy.
And somehow in between all of that, you and Kimi started slipping into your own little world.
Quick conversations in hallways with coffee breaks nobody noticed. Private jokes during engineering meetings.
Texts at ridiculous hours.
Kimi: You awake?
You: Unfortunately.
Kimi: Come outside.
And somehow, you always did, sometimes it was just sitting quietly outside the motorhome after midnight. When nobody was around t he paddock silent for once and the glow of floodlights reflecting against silver trucks.
“You ever get tired of this?” you asked once.
“Racing?”
“No. Everyone expecting things from you.”
Kimi leaned back.
“Sometimes.”
He glanced at you.
“You?”
You laughed quietly.
“My entire life.”
Being the boss’s daughter came with expectations too. People assumed things. Watched you. Judged you.
You learned early how to keep emotions hidden, how to look composed. Professional and untouchable.
But around Kimi, you didn’t feel like that. Around him, things felt… easier.
The first almost-moment happened in Monaco. Of course it did, everything about Monaco felt dangerous.
Late evening and the team dinner finished. You were both walking back toward the hotel. Quiet streets. Ocean air. Neither of you wanting the night to end.
“You know,” Kimi said quietly, “George thinks I’m scared of your dad.”
You laughed.
“You should be.”
“That bad?”
“Very.”
He looked at you.
“Worth the risk.”
Your heart skipped.
And suddenly - everything changed.
The air, the silence. The way he looked at you, closer than before. Too close.
You both stopped walking and you knew this was dangerous.
Terrible idea an completely stupid one.
Because if anyone found out, the headlines alone would be catastrophic.
Mercedes rookie secretly involved with boss’s daughter.
Your father would lose his mind. The team would explode. Everything would get complicated. But neither of you stepped away.
“You should go inside,” you whispered.
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved.
Then finally, he smiled softly.
“Goodnight.”
And walked away, leaving your heart somewhere on the streets of Monaco.
After that the tension became unbearable.
Lingering touches. Private glances. Stolen moments. You started meeting secretly. Always somewhere quiet. Away from cameras. Away from the team. Late-night hotel rooftops. Empty hospitality rooms. Long drives after race weekends. Nothing official.
Nothing spoken.
But everyone could feel something.
Especially George.
“You two are suspicious,” he said casually one morning.
Both of you froze.
“What?” you asked too quickly.
George smirked. “Relax.”
Then he leaned closer. “Just don’t get caught.”
The first time Kimi kissed you, it wasn’t planned.
Silverstone in the pouring rain outside. Everyone had already left. You were stuck in the garage helping finish reports that you dad asked you to help with, then he appeared beside you at nearly midnight.
“You’re still here.”
“So are you.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
You sighed.
“Me neither.”
For a while, you just sat there. Quiet. Comfortable silence.
Until somehow, you started talking, really talking.
Pressure. Fear. Expectations. Everything nobody else seemed to understand.
And then, you laughed at something stupid he said.
He looked at you. Really looked. Like he suddenly realized something.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you’re my favorite person here.”
Your chest tightened. “Kimi…”
“You make weekends better.”
Dangerous. This felt dangerous. You should stop this. You knew you should really, but instead—
You stepped closer. And somehow, his hand brushed yours. Then your arm, then nothing dramatic, nothing rushed, just quiet.
Careful. Like he was afraid you’d disappear. And when he kissed you. Soft. Warm. Slow. The world suddenly felt very, very small.
After that, everything changed. Secret became really secret. Hidden hotel rooms just to watch movies. Late-night room service. Sneaking around paddocks like criminals. Stolen moments in corners nobody used. Hands brushing under tables. Quick forehead kisses before meetings.
Texts constantly.
Kimi: Miss you already.
You: You saw me ten minutes ago.
Kimi: Still counts.
You hated how much you smiled at those messages.
But dating? Officially? That line terrified both of you. Because liking each other was one thing.
Actually being together? That changed everything.
And your father— Absolutely not. No chance. No universe where that conversation went well.
Then came Monza. The race nobody expected. Chaos. Pressure. Perfect strategy.
And somehow— Against every prediction— Kimi won. The crowd exploded. Mercedes erupted. You almost cried watching him climb from the car.
Because you knew. You knew how hard he worked. How badly he wanted this. How much pressure he carried. And when he looked toward the garage. For one second his eyes found yours. Like he was looking for you.
Only you.
Later that night when celebrations finally calmed.
The paddock quieter for a second you found him outside. Still in partial race gear. Hair messy. Tired smile.
“You did it.”
He laughed softly.
“I did.”
You hugged him instantly, tighter than usual and longer than usual.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered.
When you pulled back.
He looked nervous. Which confused you.
“Kimi?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“This is probably terrible timing.”
“What?”
He exhaled.
“I really like you.”
You laughed softly.
“I know.”
“No—”
He looked genuinely nervous.
“I mean… I really like you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your heartbeat sped up.
“I know this is complicated,” he said quickly. “And secret and probably a horrible idea because of your dad—”
You laughed.
“Definitely horrible.”
He smiled.
“But…”
He looked at you carefully.
“Will you actually be my girlfriend?”
The world stopped. Monza lights glowing. Noise in the distance.
His nervous expression. The way he looked strangely vulnerable despite literally winning a Formula 1 race hours ago.
“You’re asking me after winning Monza?”
“Seemed memorable.”
You laughed so hard you nearly cried. Then finally you stepped closer. Hands against his jacket.
“Yes.”
His face changed instantly. Relief. Happiness. Disbelief.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, idiot.”
He kissed your forehead first, then your cheek.
Then finally, a soft kiss. Private. Hidden. Yours.
“Okay,” he whispered, grinning.
“Now we just have to survive your father.”
You stared at him.
“…We’re doomed.”
And somehow, for the first time, being doomed sounded kind of perfect.
Hi can you do a lando secret hook-up, we shouldnt be doing this type of fic where the reader is oscars sister and then oscar catches them?
My secret, his sister
The paddock had rules.
Some spoken. Some silent.
And then there were the rules nobody ever dared say out loud like the one about not getting involved with your teammate’s family.
Especially when that teammate was Oscar Piastri.
And especially when the family in question was his younger sister.
You.
The whole thing had started accidentally. At least, that’s what Lando Norris kept telling himself. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not after the barbecue at Oscar’s apartment in Monaco six months ago. Not after Oscar had casually introduced you like it was nothing.
"My sister’s visiting for a few weeks."
Lando remembered looking up from his phone expecting... He didn’t know what he expected.
Someone annoying. Someone impossible. Someone he could politely tolerate for ten minutes before escaping.
Instead, there was you. Twenty-one. Sharp eyes. Quick smile. The kind of confidence that wasn’t loud, but dangerous anyway. You hadn’t acted impressed by Formula 1. Hadn’t cared that he was Lando Norris.
Actually, you’d laughed at him. Properly laughed. “You crashed your golf cart into a hedge?” you’d asked.
Lando pointed defensively. “Okay, first of all it was one time.”
Oscar, from the kitchen, had muttered. “It was definitely not one time.”
And somehow, impossibly, that became the start of everything.
At first it was harmless. Texts. Memes. Late-night arguments about movies.
You teasing him relentlessly.
Him pretending not to care when you ignored him for hours.
Then came race weekends.
You started appearing occasionally. Sometimes with Oscar. Sometimes alone.
And Lando hated how much he looked for you. How his mood shifted the second he spotted you in the garage. How your smile somehow made terrible qualifying sessions survivable. He hated even more how wrong it felt.
Because Oscar trusted him. Completely. Teammates. Friends. And Oscar had no idea. Not when Lando started lingering after dinners. Not when he volunteered to “walk you back” to your hotel. Not when your conversations stretched until 2 a.m. on balconies overlooking city lights. Not when his hand brushed yours for the first time. And stayed there.
The first almost-kiss happened in Singapore. Rainy night. Humidity thick enough to breathe.
You’d been sitting in the hotel lounge after Oscar had gone upstairs early.
Lando still in team gear, exhausted after media.
You were laughing at something stupid he said.
Actually laughing.
Head tipped back.
And then suddenly. Silence. The kind that shifts. Changes shape.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Yours flicked up to his.
Too close. Dangerously close.
“We shouldn’t,” you whispered.
“Probably not.”
Neither of you moved.
Then Oscar texted. And the moment shattered. After that, things got worse.
Or better.
Depending on who was suffering. Because now there was tension. Heavy tension. The kind that sat between every conversation. Every accidental touch. Every glance held too long. And neither of you said anything.
Until Silverstone. Rain delayed practice. Oscar disappeared into meeting with his race engineer.
You found Lando alone in hospitality.
“I’m tired of pretending,” you said quietly.
He blinked. “What?”
You crossed your arms. “This weird thing where we act like we don’t want to—”
You stopped.
He looked at you carefully. “Want to what?”
“You know exactly what.”
God.
The way you looked at him nearly ended him.
“You’re Oscar’s sister,” he said.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“That is the question.”
Your expression softened. “Lando.”
Dangerous. The way you said his name. Soft. Quiet. Like it meant something.
“I like you,” you admitted.
And suddenly the room felt too small. Too warm. Too impossible.
Because he liked you too. Far too much. More than he should. Enough that he knew this would become a disaster.
Yet somehow. He stepped closer anyway. “You make this incredibly difficult,” he murmured.
You smiled. “You’re not exactly helping.”
And finally, finally he kissed you. Quick. Careful. Like he was testing whether this was real.
Then again. Longer. Like he’d been wanting to for months. Which he had.
The secret started after that. Private dinners. Hidden hotel hallways. Late-night messages nobody could ever see.
Oscar completely oblivious.
Or so you thought.
And somehow that made everything more thrilling. More dangerous.
The secrecy wrapped around the two of you until it became its own language. Little looks across paddocks. Hands brushing when nobody watched. Lando stealing moments whenever he could.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered one evening in Monaco.
He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You like impossible.”
“I like trouble.”
“Same thing.” He grinned.
You hated how much that grin worked on you.
Tonight was supposed to be simple.
Oscar had gone out with friends, would be gone for hours.
He shouldn’t have come over. Definitely shouldn’t have answered the door when Lando texted. Miss you. Open the door beautiful.
And absolutely shouldn’t have let him pull you into oscar's hotel suite.
Yet here you were. Music low. City lights glowing outside. The air thick with something dangerous.
“You know,” he said quietly, stepping closer, “one day he’s absolutely going to kill me.”
You laughed softly. “He’d have to catch us first.”
The look he gave you made your stomach flip. “Oh, confident now?”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Says the Piastri.”
You shoved his shoulder.
He caught your wrist. Gentle. Slow. And suddenly— Everything shifted.
Again. The teasing faded. The room quieter now. Smaller. His thumb brushed your hand.
“You ever think,” he said softly, “maybe this is a terrible idea?”
“All the time.”
“And?”
You stepped closer. “So why are you still standing over there?”
His breath caught. God.
You really had no idea what you did to him. Or maybe you did?
Because your smile turned just slightly smug.
And then he crossed the room.
Hands carefully settling at your waist.
Like he was still asking permission.
Always asking.
You tilted your head up.
“Kiss me,” you murmured.
He did. Slow at first. Then not. Weeks of restraint melting into something messier. Something reckless.
You laughed quietly when he nearly walked you backward into the couch.
“That smooth, Norris?”
“Shut up.”
Another kiss. Warmer. Closer. His forehead rested against yours.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he admitted.
“Try being me.”
The tension curled tighter. His hand brushing your side.
Your fingers catching lightly in the fabric of his shirt.
The world narrowing to closeness and warmth and the dangerous thrill of knowing you absolutely should not be doing this. A laugh escaped you as he leaned in again.
“Still think this is a terrible idea?” you whispered.
“Yes.”
Another kiss.
“But I’m ignoring that.”
Your hand moved to the collar of his shirt.
His breath caught.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Why?”
“You make bad decisions seem really appealing.”
And just as the room shifted into something heavier, a voice from the doorway said flatly:
“…What exactly am I looking at?”
Silence.
Pure silence.
You froze.
Lando froze.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly.
You both turned.
Oscar stood there.
Still holding his hotel keycard.
Completely expressionless.
Which was somehow worse.
Far worse.
His eyes moved from you
To Lando
To the very obvious situation unfolding in front of him. Then back again.
“…Lando,” Oscar said slowly.
Lando looked like a man witnessing his own funeral.
Maybe it was the first time he saw Lando shirtless in the McLaren gym, sweat glistening over skin stretched across lean muscle, the kind of image that stayed lodged somewhere inconvenient in Oscar’s brain for far longer than it should have.
Or maybe it was the first race weekend they became teammates, when Lando had leaned over with that crooked grin and casually bumped their shoulders together like they’d known each other forever.
“Don’t look so terrified,” he’d joked. “I only bite sometimes.”
Oscar had rolled his eyes then, because that was easier than admitting his pulse had skipped.
Or maybe if Oscar was being brutally honest it had started long before any of that.
Back when Lando Norris had simply been Lando Norris. The driver Oscar watched from afar, talented and frustratingly charismatic, all effortless confidence and stupidly bright smiles. Someone impossible to ignore.
An idol. And somehow, impossibly, now his teammate. Which was exactly the problem.
Because teammates weren’t supposed to look too long. Teammates weren’t supposed to notice things.
Like how Lando absentmindedly tugged his hoodie sleeves over his hands when he was tired. Or how he got oddly quiet after bad qualifying sessions, hiding disappointment behind sarcastic jokes. Or the way he’d always find Oscar in crowded paddocks without even trying.
“Oi,” Lando would say, nudging his shoulder. “You abandoning me?”
And Oscar, despite himself, always stayed.
That was the dangerous part.
Not the attraction though that certainly existed, inconvenient and persistent.
It was the closeness.
The late-night flights where Lando would fall asleep beside him, head tipped against Oscar’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The endless teasing. The stupid private jokes.
The way Lando looked for him first after races, win or lose. Oscar told himself he could manage it. He had always been good at compartmentalizing.
Until one rainy evening after media duties dragged on too long.
The hotel lobby was nearly empty when Oscar finally wandered in, exhausted and irritable.
Lando was sprawled across one of the couches, hoodie half-zipped, scrolling on his phone.
“There you are,” he said immediately, looking up. “Thought you died.”
Oscar snorted. “Tempting.”
“You look miserable.”
“I’m tired.”
For some reason, that made Lando soften. “Come on,” he said quietly, standing. “You’ve not eaten, have you?”
Oscar hated that Lando knew him well enough to ask. Hated even more that he cared enough to notice.
They ended up in Lando’s room, takeaway containers spread across the bed while some terrible reality show played in the background.
At some point, Oscar stopped pretending to pay attention.
Because Lando was laughing.
Actually laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkling, completely unaware Oscar had gone silent just to watch him.
“You’re staring,” Lando said suddenly.
Oscar froze. "Damn it. He thought"
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Their eyes met. Something shifted. Subtle. Dangerous.
Lando’s expression changed, softened around the edges.
“You okay?” he asked, quieter now. And that was the problem, really.
Because Oscar didn’t trust himself around kindness. Didn’t trust himself around Lando. Not when he wanted things he absolutely shouldn’t.
“I…” Oscar looked away. “Yeah.”
Lando didn’t buy it. He moved closer anyway, shoulder brushing Oscar’s.
“You know,” he said carefully, “you can talk to me.”
The room suddenly felt far too small. Oscar swallowed.
Because the truth sat heavy in his chest.
That somewhere between idolization and friendship and long-haul flights and shared victories he had fallen disastrously, hopelessly in love with his teammate.
And judging by the way Lando hadn’t moved away maybe he wasn’t the only one.
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