call me, beep me!

Your eyes blink slowly, sleep still lingering in the edges of your body. His room is dark—messy, too, though not as badly as you’ve known it to be. You vaguely spot the outline of his helmets, of weights that have strayed too far from his training room, of the chair the two of you knocked into earlier.

You close your eyes. Exhale. Through the blinds, you can see the glow of street lights and the quiet night awaiting outside. 

He breathes softly behind you. A steady, quiet sigh capable of lulling you back to sleep just as easily. And it’d be so easy, pretending this away. Pretending you never woke up. That you never saw the clock on his nightstand reading 6:01 AM in bright numbers. That the boy with his arm curled around you is something else than what he is.

The fact that his room is starting to feel familiar is a realization that trickles in slowly at the back of your mind. Not a hotel, like you used to. No—as of late, his apartment seems to have become a fixed point in your nights. 

You know the steps to this dance far too well already.

Lando Norris doesn’t do mornings. Then again, neither do you.

(The first time was back in your hotel room in Barcelona. Ages ago, really—before he started seeing that second-to-last girlfriend of his. You had barely stepped into the shower, the feeling of his lips still lingering on your skin, when you heard the door closing behind him).

Falling back into old habits is a slippery slope. One enough friends have warned you about. It’s routine by now—watching him date for a few months, break-up, invite you out, and end up in his bedroom all over again. You’re rebound, you know that. Except after Lando’s latest very public, though quietly messy breakup, he wasn’t texting you the following morning. Wasn’t liking year-old posts of yours on Instagram. Wasn’t sending you innocent messages that eventually became a casual invite out devolving into anything but. You assumed rumors were true— “slag summer” or whatever that means. You’d seen enough videos of him partying with people whose faces didn’t ring a bell, leaving with girls you forbid yourself from looking up. 

It was three of your friends that made the decision for you. Made you a Raya account, told you that you could do better than some fuck boy with a love  for expensive cars. And you did go on dates—just a few, most for the sake of your friends, though some for yours. It’s not like you and Lando were ever serious, much less exclusive. Just sex and a good time. A mutual benefit to getting rid of pent up frustration.

You went on a date with a tennis player. An actor from some upcoming series on Hulu. A handful of influencers. The farthest you got was three dates with a handsome football player. It only took one casual picture with him posted on your story before someone else ended up finding you on Raya.

lando: i think i have an evn better pic of you on my travel cam from that same day lando: want me 2 send it to u? lando: might not b approved under rayas guidelines tho ;)

He’s a bad habit you can’t seem to shake off. A revolving door that sends you right back to where you started. 

You exhale. Shift on the bed to try and locate your clothes, all strewn across the floor of his bedroom. His shirt is nice on you, though. And if you’ll allow yourself something, maybe you’ll decide to keep it—just because it’s cute and expensive.

Once you spot your top and your shoes, you move to get up. Lando’s grip around your waist tightens, a mumbled protest hummed against your back.

Your hand curls around his, gently trying to lift each finger off. In response, he buries his face deeper into your neck. 

“Trying to get away already?” Lando asks, voice hoarse and sleep-worn.

“It’s late,” you say quietly, not wanting to rouse him any more than you have. You wanted to avoid waking him up all together—make it a quick, swift exit. “I should go.”

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His nose tickles your neck, lips ghosting against your skin.

“Lando—”

“Stay,” he hums, voice dragging against his throat. His chest rises and falls evenly behind you, like he hasn’t quite managed to wake up just yet. “It’s dark out. I’ll drive you in the morning.”

Your fingers mindlessly tangle through his curls, pulling a content sigh from him. “You don’t mean that.”

Lando mutters something you don’t quite catch. Before you can ask, though, you feel his lips press against your neck in a quiet, bargaining trail. You shiver when his teeth catch on your collarbone. “You can wait a few hours if you wanna leave so badly,” he mumbles, words punctuated by kisses on the slope of your neck—like he’s making it his mission to kiss away the tension caught in your shoulders. “S’it so bad to be seen with me?”

You huff, though there’s no real bite to it. You vaguely register Lando pulling the covers over the two of you. “You’re being unfair,” you murmur back, though your body has already made up its mind, relaxing in his hold.

“Maybe,” Lando says, and you can feel that stupid smile pressed against your skin. Like he knows he’s won. “You love it, though.”

“I’m not calling an Uber in broad daylight,” you say resolutely. His breaths have already evened out.

“Said m’gonna drive you home. Promise,” he yawns.

You turn around, meeting his gaze now. His blue-green eyes are droopy, blinking slowly as he tries to keep himself awake. Your lipstick is still smudged on the base of his throat, curls muzzed with sleep and your own work from early in the night.

“What?” he asks, his fingers trailing mindless patterns on your back.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” you say, brushing away his curls with your thumb. He preens under it, leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it. You think you like this Lando—the one that’s not quite awake yet. “You driving me home.”

“Always has been,” he sighs contentedly. “You just like t’leave before there’s a chance.”

The impulse is to argue. But his eyes are already closing, and sleep is starting to creep up on you too. And he’s not wrong—not really. Every night you’ve spent together—whether at a hotel or here in Monaco—you’ve left long before the sun comes up. A force of habit, maybe.

“Stay,” Lando mumbles, eyes closed and peaceful.

“Okay,” you respond—or maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s just a half-formed, fleeting thought that passes by before you fall asleep.

The next time Lando opens his eyes, sunlight filters through his blinds. He squints, an annoyed half-gran scratching against his throat. He cuts himself off as soon as he notices the warm body next to him.

Your chest rises and falls evenly, hair strewn around your head like a halo. He rubs the back of his palm over his eyes, careful not to disturb you. His apartment already feels warmer—usually, the first thing he would do as soon as he wakes up is open his window before his room starts to feel like a dutch oven. He can’t make himself detach from your side. 

Lando shifts, settling back into you when he feels you stir. He pauses. Closes his eyes for good measure.

A beat passes. Two.

“I know you’re awake, Lando.”

Lando clicks his tongue, pouting as you rise from his pillow, his hand dropping from around you. He should’ve been quieter—let this golden morning stretch like melted sugar.

“There’s no hurry,” Lando hears himself saying before he can help it. He watches as you stretch your arms over your head, his shirt riding up slightly. Lando straightens, trying to go for casual. “Unless you’re supposed to be meeting someone.”

Oh, yeah, real smooth. Really good job there.

You look at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Meet someone?”

Lando’s words get stuck in his throat. This is what you look like when you’re waking up. It hits him unexpectedly how domestic this feels—how easy it would be to become used to this.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know.” Lando sits up against the headrest, one hand struggling to fix the mess that is his hair. You’re only partly to blame—his mistake was ever letting you know that he likes it when you tug at his curls. 

He scrunches his nose, annoyance filtering in. “That rugby player from the other day might be waiting to hear back from you.”

You look unimpressed, though he doesn’t miss the faint blush by the tips of your ears. “He’s a football player.”

“Ah,” he says, and his face does nothing to hide the flare of irritation he feels. Lando can’t help it—not when that picture of yours still sits fresh in his mind. 

His chin propped over your shoulder, hands around your waist. Casual. Maybe too casual.

“You’re being petty,” you say, scanning his face carefully. And his stare pointedly lands on the curve of your neck, where a trail of bruised hickeys is already blooming.

Lando meets your gaze. “I’m not petty, I’m jealous.” He shrugs, catching the brief surprise that crosses your pretty eyes. He exhales, letting his body loosen. “Kinda don’t have a right to be, though.”

“Yeah,” you say, and it makes him stiffen, the way it lands when you say it. “You don’t.” 

Lando tries to go for nonchalant when he asks, “How many dates has he taken you on?”

You hesitate. Briefly. “Three.”

“Oh, must be getting serious.”

You look away, jaw ticking—and Lando knows then that he’s accidentally stepped into a sore spot. He fleetingly wonders whether the guy you’re seeing doesn’t wanna get serious with you. The thought makes something bitter churn in his gut. Though it’d be hypocritical of him to say it infuriates him even a little.

But then he pictures the guy’s pearly-white smile. His dark brown eyes and fuckin’ perfect hair like he’s never had bedhead a single day of his life.

So, yeah, maybe he’s checked your Instagram. 

“It was gonna be four,” you say, but your voice catches—like the words slipped out before you could stop them. Four dates. Your eyes find Lando’s, and he hates that his heart skips a beat. Something about the intensity of the way you’re looking at him—somehow both entirely different from last night and all too similar. Like you wanna pull him closer. Like you resent him for it. “Before you texted.”

It lands close to his ego, knowing that you chose him over the lad from Real Madrid. You don’t look too pleased about it, though.

“Interrupted date night then, did I?” Lando asks. He watches as you turn away with a huff, annoyed. And it is annoying—that he still finds you hot when you’re mad at him. “Sorry. Sounded like a dickhead.”

“You are a dick, Lando.” 

“I don’t mean to,” he says, easily. Leans closer to you and props his chin on the curve of your shoulder and neck. Maybe to use up any space your date may have taken. His mind wanders, and the thought trickles into his mind—has he kissed you? Have you hooked up? Maybe he’s not that great at sex if you’d rather have Lando over him. He feels tempted to kiss your neck again, find that spot that makes you whine, erase any trace of anyone other than him. 

Just to test the idea, Lando’s lips press against the slope of your neck, teeth gently nipping at the tender skin. His voice is a deep hum buried at the back of his throat. “Forgive me?”

He feels you relax under him for a second—just a second. Then, you’re pulling away from him like he’s stung you. “You’re doing it again,” you say, unreadable. You mutter something under your breath, moving to stand up. “I should go.”

His chest rattles. His hand latches onto your wrist before he can help it. And Lando’s supposed to be suave and smooth. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is a strangled, “Don’t.”

Your brows twitch. “Lando…”

“No, look, I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it—maybe more than you know. “I am.”

He looks at you like he’s dreading watching you walk out his apartment. Maybe because you stayed past the night—and instead of feeling like a new door’s opening, it all feels like the end of the line is closer than he expected. Maybe this gold-dipped morning was just a way for the universe to soften the blow.

You look conflicted, searching his gaze like you’ve lost something in it.

“Did you just text me because I was going out with someone?” you ask, voice like forged steel. Lando blinks, brows pinched together. “Or because you just broke up with your girlfriend?” 

“It’s not like that,” he’s quick to say. It’s not, he swears, though he’s not dull as to not know how it looks. He releases your wrist. “I mean, I was jealous. Am. Whatever—but that isn’t, this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what, Lando?” you ask, and it’s impossible to miss how exasperated you sound. “Isn’t serious? I know that. But there’s someone out there I might actually get serious with, and I need to know what this is meant to be.”

Whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat. His mind loops your words like a record scratch. “You—You wanna go official with him?”

You look away, like his question’s caught you off guard. “I-I mean—I don’t know, not yet, I don’t…” You shut your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts. “This can’t carry on forever, Lan. Not like this.”

Maybe it’s the way you say his name. The first time you said it wasn’t actually in this bedroom, like a breathy whine while he was eating you out—though you have used it several times since. The first time you called him that—Lan—was actually at Max’s birthday last year. Nothing happened between the two of you then. You didn’t take his hand and had him drive to your place like you’d done more than once before. Instead, you’d been sipping on piña coladas and margaritas all night, and by the time he found you again, you were sitting by the stairs of the yacht, staring at the hardwood floors like they were the ones to blame. He ended up sticking by you the rest of the night, your head leaning against his shoulder while you toyed with the rings in his fingers. 

“Y’know,” you’d mumbled, toying with a silver band. “You can b’sweet when you want to, Lan. S’a good look on you.”

And he’d just sat there, thankful you were too tipsy to notice the blush climbing up his cheeks.

So, yeah—maybe it’s the fact that you used that stupid nickname that makes his heart flutter whenever you say it. Maybe it’s the fact that he knows this might be his last chance—that if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will.

“I don’t know how else to talk to you.” 

As soon as he says it, he feels pathetic. His cheeks are hot, and the look you’re giving him doesn’t make it any better.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he complains, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ve tried inviting you out like fifteen times already, and you always—always shoot me down.”

Your face twists. “What? I don’t shoot you down.”

“Then what was that last week, when I invited you to hang out with a few friends in Nice?”

“That was different.”

“I sent you paddock passes in May.”

“Your team sent them.”

“I sent them.”

A light sparks in your eyes. “You had a girlfriend in June.”

“I did,” Lando concedes, sitting straighter. “And do you know how fucked it is to have to be catching myself before I called her by your name?”

He watches his words land. Your expression sours. “That’s not on me.”

Lando shakes his head. “No, it’s on me.” His hands tangle through his hair. “Because even when I was with her, you would still find your way into my head.” His jaw tightens, like he’s been dreading saying it out loud. “I didn’t break up with her and then go find you.” Lando feels his body brace, akin to when he feels the rear tire lock and knows the crash is incoming. “I kept… I kept looking for you while I was with her.”

You look at him with true, raw surprise. Feels fair, given that Lando feels like he’s exposed himself. Left his skin tender and vulnerable. No lies, no smiles to hide behind anymore.

“Look, I’m not… I’m not asking for an answer,” he hesitates, struggling to find the words. “I’m just asking you not to disappear on me.”

You study him slowly. “I can’t keep being an almost, Lando.”

It feels like the door opens just a creak. He nods in earnest. “Don’t be.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“But we can try, right?” Lando says. “It’s a start.”

And this time, when he kisses your temple, it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to cross out someone else’s touch, or rewrite his own mistakes. There’s no greed there, no lust. Just a start. A first line being penned of a long, long story.

“Let me drive you home,” Lando murmurs into your temple, voice still rougher with sleep. This time, he feels you lean back into him.

“Okay,” you say. When you meet his watercolor eyes, he relishes the small, near imperceptible smile tugging at your lips. Gold-dipped. Sunlight in a bottle.

He nods once. “Okay.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE …… 📸 Mclaren’s Lando Norris spotted this morning getting cozy with a mystery woman in Monte Carlo. Source alleges Lando was “dropping her off” before the picture was taken, leading to speculation on the nature of their relationship.

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user1 slag summer!!!!!!!

user2 yeahhh the chances of lando getting into a serious relationship r probably the same chances of williams getting a podium 👎👎 sorry pal

user3 admin might wanna check their sources cause you do know this is LANDO we’re talking abt right 😭

lando hey so can you piss off pls

lando ur gonna fuck this up for me delete

these comments have been deleted!

You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.

This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.

It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.

“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.

Max looked at the ring, then at you.

“I didn’t forget.”

Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.

“Why not?”

Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.

“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.

“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”

“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”

You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”

“It never seemed to bother you before.”

“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”

“I’m not taking it personally.”

“You are.”

“Well you never said anything.”

“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.

“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”

His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s very close.”

“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”

“It represents it.”

“To other people maybe.”

“To me.”

His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.

The fact was that he loved you.

The fact was that he came home to you.

The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.

He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.

“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”

Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.

“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”

“It should help. I love you.”

“I know.” you repeated

“Then trust that.”

You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.

It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.

Still, it hurt.

Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.

It had meant something then.

You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.

“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.

Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve hurt you.”

You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”

He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.

Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.

He simply did it without looking like one.

Other people noticed.

His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.

Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.

He didn’t like jewellery.

The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.

It did not mean anything.

You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.

The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.

You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.

Her smile changed.

She stepped closer.

You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.

Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.

“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.

The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”

Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.

In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re annoyed.”

“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”

“She knew I was married.”

“After you told her.”

Max frowned.

“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”

“And then I told her you were my wife.”

You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.

The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.

The following morning you removed your wedding ring.

You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.

For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.

He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.

“Who sent these?”

“The foundation.”

“For what?”

“The charity dinner next week.”

He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.

His entire body went still.

You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.

“Where’s your ring?”

The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.

“In my jewellery box.”

“Why?”

“It was uncomfortable.”

He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.

“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”

His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”

“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”

“No you aren’t.”

“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”

“Because you like wearing yours.”

“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”

“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”

You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”

Max stared at you in silence.

Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.

“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.

You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”

“It is personal.”

“Interesting.”

“Put it back on.”

You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”

“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”

“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”

Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.

“You’re my wife.”

“And you’re my husband.”

“I know.”

“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.

“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.

Your eyebrows rose. “No?”

Max closed his eyes briefly.

He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.

You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.

“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The following days became a quiet war.

Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.

At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.

“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”

The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”

You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.

Max did not find any of it amusing.

Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.

It made him restless.

It also made him clingy.

His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.

You knew precisely what he was doing.

He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.

The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.

Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.

The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.

A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.

The speculation began almost immediately.

Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.

Max’s face hardened instantly.

“My marriage is fine,” he answered.

The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.

“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”

When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.

“They’re saying we separated.”

“I saw.”

“We could’ve released something.”

“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”

Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”

“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”

“They don’t know that.”

You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”

The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.

“I did tell them.”

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“I don’t care about them.”

“Then who?”

Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.

“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”

There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.

“You know I’m not.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”

“I know what I said.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”

“But you hate other people not knowing.”

Max didn’t answer.

“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”

“Obviously.”

The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.

“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”

“It’s not the same.”

Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”

“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”

Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.

“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”

“I never said you were shallow.”

“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”

Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.

“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”

He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.

“I need some air,” you murmured.

“It’s late.”

“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’d like to go alone.”

Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.

You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.

The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.

You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.

“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”

The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.

“I’m married.”

His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.

“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”

“There isn’t.”

The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”

“We both are.”

“Does he know you’re down here alone?”

You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.

“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”

Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.

The man rose. “We were only talking.”

“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.

“Max,” you warned.

His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.

“She told you she was married.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Then leaving should be easy.”

The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.

“What were you thinking?”

Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”

“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”

“I told him I was married.”

“He didn’t care.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you angry about?”

“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”

His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.

For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.

“We’re not doing this here,” he said.

You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.

So you walked past him towards the lifts.

Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.

The lift ride was silent.

The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.

“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.

Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”

“You are.”

“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”

“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”

“I know.”

“You dismissed it.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we still having this argument?”

Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.

“Because I was wrong.”

The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.

“You could have said that days ago.”

“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”

“And now?”

Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”

You waited.

“But I hate that they can’t see it.”

There it was, not quite an apology, but close.

You leaned back against the table. “Why?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“Because you’re mine.”

You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.

“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”

“It isn’t.”

“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”

You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You made me feel ridiculous.”

“I’m really sorry.”

He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”

“And?”

“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”

“A little.”

He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.

“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”

You gave him a flat look.

“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”

“Then we can find one that isn’t.”

He looked at you. “What?”

“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”

Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”

“A cereal box?”

“Perhaps not that.”

He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.

“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”

“That sounds fair.”

“But you have to put yours back on.”

You lifted an eyebrow.

Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”

“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”

He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.

“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”

“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”

“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”

You smiled. “Growth.”

His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.

When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.

“Will you wear it tomorrow?”

“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.

“It’s here.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I put it in the hotel safe.”

“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought it with us?”

His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”

The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.

“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”

“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”

“Will you wear yours?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”

Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”

You pretended to consider it.

“Then yes.”

The relief on his face was almost comical.

Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.

He held out his hand.

You took his ring first.

For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.

He picked up yours next.

“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.

“I know.”

“And you don’t need mine.”

“No.”

“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”

You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”

“None of them were innocent.” He growled.

“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.

His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.

The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.

Sometimes they simply reminded you of it.

“like i’ve hurt you” STOP i think this was the exact moment i locked in ohhhhh my god the way you write max? unmatched

“max did not find it amusing” i bet!!!!! I BET!!!!!! ohhh how the tables have turned

“then leaving should be easy” HELLOOOOOOO this hit. like it made me feels Things ohh this is going in my personal wall of fame mhm