#aghhhhhhh

the mclaren headquarters hums with activity, voices overlapping, cameras flashing, the faint buzz of machinery somewhere in the distance. business as usual. you like it here, more than you thought you would. your laptop and phone are heavy with the weight of a job offer, a future you hadn’t fully considered, not really. it sits in your inbox, waiting. you have until sunday to decide.

it should be a nice day today. it should be fine. it is fine. except it isn’t, because he’s here.

you don’t know why nobody told you. maybe because they didn’t think it mattered, because it shouldn’t matter. and it doesn’t. not really. it’s just— what the everloving fuck? you thought you’d have more time.

but no, there he is, all too familiar, in his team kit, half-zipped hoodie hanging loose around his body, curls unkempt. you can hear his voice even over the ambient chatter of the media crew, see the way he moves, how he carries himself with easy confidence.

his co-driver sees you first, looks at you with a knowing expression, like he’s in on a joke you don’t find funny. your mind moves too fast, filling in the blanks of, oh god, he told oscar fucking piastri about me. about the girl who turned down a formula one driver. kind of.

fuck. great. amazing. splendid, even. that’s just what you are, aren’t you? a story, a joke, something whispered in locker rooms and motorhomes. maybe lando didn’t even mean it in a bad way. maybe he just said it offhand, absentmindedly, because that’s what happened. but still, the thought makes your stomach churn. makes your hands itch to leave.

so you do. you mutter some half-hearted excuse to the nearest person— something about needing to check something, maybe, you don’t know, you just need to go.

it’s not cowardice. not really. it’s just— well, self-preservation. you know the way your pulse picks up when he looks at you, how your breath catches, how the world narrows down to nothing but the space between you. you can’t do that today. not now.

but of course, lando follows.

the hallway is long and white and empty, and it kind of reminds you of hospitals, of clean sheets and beeping monitors and the fluorescent lights of a summer ten years ago, when you broke your arm and he sat by your bedside, legs swinging off the chair, promising he’ll take you to the lake when you’re all better.

(he never did, though. and maybe that should’ve been your first clue.)

he says your name.

you don’t turn around. just cross your arms, stare down the glossy floor. “i think we’ve talked enough, actually, norris. go back to your fans.”

there’s a beat of silence, then: “okay, but i want to stay.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. breathe. in, out, in, out.

when you turn to face him, he’s already watching you. eyebrows drawn together. his expression is unreadable, but his presence isn’t. it’s loud, takes up too much space, even though he’s just standing there, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

your throat feels tight. you don’t know what you were expecting, really. an apology? an explanation? none of it matters anymore. still, the words push past your lips before you can stop them. “did you do this?”

lando’s brow furrows. “do what?”

you exhale sharply, frustration creeping into your voice. “don’t play dumb, lan, it doesn’t suit you. did you pull strings? talk to someone?”

his face shifts, confusion flickering before something almost sheepish takes its place. “i mean… kind of? i orchestrated the whole media day here because i wanted to see you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

your breath catches, your fingers tighten around your phone, your whole body locks up like you’ve been caught off guard. because it’s not fair, the way he says it so easily, so plainly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course he’d do all this just to see you.

so you swallow hard, shove it down, focus on what you really meant to ask in the first place. you shake your head, press your lips together, steady yourself. “no,” you say, voice even. “i meant the job offer.”

his expression drops, realization hitting all at once. “oh.” his head jerks back slightly, eyes scanning your face, searching. “no. i— i didn’t even know you applied.”

and for a second, just a second, you can breathe again. because his eyes widen a little, mouth parting like he’s about to say something else, and you can see it— the genuine surprise, the way his expression shifts into something close to excitement, something proud.

“you applied to mclaren?” he asks, voice almost… hopeful. like the thought of you here— with him— is something good. something worth smiling about.

and for a second, just a second, you think: maybe it is.

maybe you’re not a fraud. maybe you did this on your own, maybe you’re actually good enough, maybe all those nights spent hunched over your laptop weren’t all for naught, maybe—

but no. your mind doesn’t let you have that. not yet.

lando shifts on his feet, glances away for a moment, then back at you. he takes a breath, “can we talk?”

you hesitate. then,  “okay.”

his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to agree, like he was bracing for another rejection. but then he grins, slow and wide, something warm creeping into his features.

you roll your eyes, crossing your arms again. “after you finish on the podium on sunday.”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head, his grin growing impossibly wider. “that a promise?”

you shrug, feigning nonchalance even as your heart is racing, hoping, praying that he doesn’t comment on how red your face has gotten. “just stating facts.”

and— god, he’s smiling so hard now, like you just handed him the goddamn moon, like this— you— are something he wants to hold onto. something worth waiting for. and it’s unbearable, the way he’s looking at you, like you’re something precious, like you’re something he wants.

he lingers for another moment, watching you, and you can see it in his face— he doesn’t want to leave. he’s scared you might disappear if he does. and fuck, part of you wants to tell him to stay, wants to reach out, wants to pull him back in like muscle memory, like instinct. but you don’t. you can’t.

instead, you nod towards the end of the hall. “you should probably go.”

he nods, but doesn’t move. then, finally, “yeah. yeah.”

he takes a step back. then another. still smiling, before he finally turns, walks back into the crowd.​​you exhale, half-expecting the breath to feel like release, like something you’d been holding in all this time— but no. you’d been breathing just fine.

NOW, 2024.

your parents’ house still smells like it did when you were ten— laundry detergent and motor oil, the sharp tang of vinegar from the pickled onions your mum keeps in jars by the kitchen sink. the walls are the same too, yellowed from age and the heat of too many summers, though your dad swears he’ll get around to repainting them. he won’t. it’ll be fine.

home is home. it always has been.

it’s familiar. more than anything, more than woking, more than the mclaren headquarters. this is home. and for the first time in a while, you let yourself sink into it.

you don’t watch the race live. your da is still at the garage, sorting through a backlog of clients before the grand prix weekend floods the town with people who suddenly remember they need their cars fixed. your mum has just locked up the laundromat, and maggie is watching her five-year-old, daisy, try and fit her entire fist into her mouth.

you’ve been on your phone exactly twice today. the first was at noon, when you schedule-sent your job acceptance email to mclaren, because somehow tricking your brain into thinking future you was responsible made it feel less like an impending life-altering decision and more like a minor errand. the second is now, as the silverstone race rerun plays on tv, your inbox confirming the email has, in fact, been sent. future you is now present you’s problem.

hamilton finishes p1. lando takes p3. a podium.

you should be happy. and you are, kind of. proud, even. you ignore it, busy yourself with clearing up the empty bowls of crisps and the half-finished drinks on the table, the chatter of your family filling the space around you. you don’t even hear the knock at the door at first.

but then daisy is waddling over, tugging at your sleeve before you can reach the kitchen. “someone’s at the door.” she announces, with all the confidence of a five-year-old.

you glance at the clock. past eight. weird. but whatever. you set the bowls down, brush your hands against your jeans before walking over, unlocking the door without much thought—

and then you freeze.

lando stands outside, looking like he’s either just finished a race or sprinted from the gate to your front door in record time. his race suit is gone, replaced with something more comfortable, but the helmet marks on his cheeks remain, deep and red and criminally distracting.

before you can even begin to process the sight of him, daisy walks over, gripping the hem of your shirt and staring up at lando with wide eyes. “holy shit,” she says. “it’s the guy from the tv.”

a full-body cringe overtakes you as maggie barrels in, already mid— “daisy, what have we said about swearing—” only to cut herself off when she sees lando standing there. she blinks. “holy shit,” maggie echoes. “it’s the guy from the tv.”

lando, menace that he is, has the audacity to laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. you, on the other hand, are actively considering whether it’s possible to spontaneously combust from secondhand embarrassment alone.

“we’re trying to have daisy unlearn some words,” you mumble, staring at the floor.

“no, no, it’s fine,” lando says, grinning. then he hesitates, glancing between daisy and you, before gesturing vaguely. “is she…? is there a reason why you didn’t…?”

you register what he’s implying exactly two seconds too late, and the sheer embarrassment slams into you like a freight train. “oh my god, no,” you blurt out, voice an octave too high. “jesus. she’s maggie’s.”

maggie, the fucking traitor, giggles before ushering the rest of the family back inside, leaving you alone with lando at the doorway.

and just like that, you’re thirteen again, standing in your parents’ garage while lando tells you he’s going to be a formula one driver someday, and you tell him— with all the confidence of a preteen who thinks she knows everything— yeah, i know.

you don’t know what to say. and he, apparently, doesn’t either, shifting on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets. the silence stretches, almost unbearable, until he clears his throat.

“i think you owe me a conversation,” he says, and you hate the way it makes your heart stutter.

you force yourself to shrug, crossing your arms. “we didn’t schedule it.”

“i can wait.” he smiles, small but certain. “i’m good at that.”

you don’t know what to do with that, with him standing there like this, earnest and real and so painfully him. you lick your lips, then take a step back, gripping the edge of the door. “i'll be back in woking tomorrow.”

his eyes flicker down to your lips, just for a second. then he nods. “okay.” another pause. “okay. i can wait until tomorrow.”

he looks like he means it.

you don’t trust yourself to say anything else, so you nod, once, and then— because you physically cannot take this any longer— you shut the door, maybe a little too quickly, pressing your back against it as if that’ll stop your heart from racing.

it doesn’t.

when you finally look up, still pressed against the door, you’re met with five sets of expectant eyes staring right at you. your mum, your da, beverly, maggie, even daisy, all watching like they’re waiting for you to do something, say something.

“what?” you say, voice a little too defensive, a little too high.

your mum speaks first, leaning against the arm of the couch, eyes narrowed at you like she’s trying to work out how she ended up with a daughter this emotionally repressed. “are you seriously turning that boy away?”

you sputter. “i— i didn’t— turn him away, per se, i just— he said tomorrow. we’re talking tomorrow.” you wave a hand vaguely, like that explains anything. “besides, it’s not—”

“oh my god,” beverly groans. /

               /     “you absolute idiot,” maggie says at the same time /

  /     — to which daisy gleefully echoes with an, “idiot! idiot!”

“oh my god.” you rub your hands over your face. “you guys are so annoying.”

but then— another realization creeps in, and you glance down at yourself, at your family. your dad, wearing the mclaren quarter-zip you’d gotten from the internship. maggie in an oversized orange long sleeve, beverly with a cap, your mum with the logo on her t-shirt. even daisy’s little socks have a bright orange trim.

oh.

oh, god, no.

that’s why he was laughing.

if you were embarrassed then, you’re mortified now. “i can’t.” you say, groaning. “this is so embarrassing.”

“what’s embarrassing,” maggie says, dead serious, her daughter looking up and mirroring her expression, “is that you’re still standing here.”

daisy gasps dramatically, like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever witnessed.

“i’m not—” you start, but maggie is already moving, pushing you toward the door, and beverly is right there with her, yanking it back open before you can resist.

“go,” maggie hisses.

“before it’s too late,” beverly adds, way too theatrically.

you hesitate for half a second, but then you see lando— still lingering by the gate, walking slower than he normally would, like maybe, just maybe, he was hoping you’d do exactly this.

and your heart lurches.

so you do the only thing that makes sense.

you run.

⸻  𐙚  ⸻

you don’t think about it, don’t hesitate, don’t let yourself overanalyze the sheer fucking absurdity of it all: you just move. shoes hitting against the pavement, wind tangling in your hair, breath coming in short, uneven bursts, and you see him, just barely, lingering by a car parked on the curb.

for a moment, your brain doesn’t register it beyond an obstacle, something to swerve around, something that shouldn’t matter.

but then it does.

and oh. huh.

it’s not his usual car. not the one he takes to woking, not the flashy sports car, not the kind of thing lando norris is expected to be seen in. it’s old, a little worse for wear, the once-sleek paint job now dulled by time and familiarity, fitting in all too well with the rest of the street.

and then it clicks.

“you still have this thing?” you ask, breathless, as you come to a stop beside him.

lando startles, blinking at you like he hadn’t expected you to actually chase him down, even though he’d slowed down just enough to let you. his gaze flickers from you to the car, and there’s something almost sheepish in the way he shrugs. “thought the sports car would draw too much attention.”

he’s right. it would. but that’s not the point.

the point is— this car. this exact car.

you remember the first time you saw it, back when your dad spent weeks fixing it up for a client. you were six, a little too nosy, a little too eager to be involved, peering over the open hood like you knew what the fuck you were doing. and then there was lando— smaller, scrawnier, grinning wide as he told you he was going to be a race car driver one day.

it’s been years since then, but the memory is so visceral you almost feel like you could reach out and touch it.

lando, squints at you, his gaze snagging on the oversized hoodie you’re wearing. he frowns. “seriously?”

you blink. “what?”

he gestures at the bright orange mclaren logo on your chest, then at the number 81 printed just below it. “piastri?”

you look down at yourself like you hadn’t been wearing this hoodie all fucking day. “they ran out of yours.”

lando stares at you, mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to find the words to properly convey his offense. “they ran out— i’m literally on the team.”

“right, and piastri isn’t?”

lando groans, dragging a hand down his face, but he’s smiling, the kind of soft, reluctant smile that makes your stomach twist.

and then the moment stretches, lingers, because you’re both just standing there, not quite sure what comes next.

so you get in the car.

you don’t ask where you’re going, don’t even think to, because it doesn’t matter. the whole world could be talking about lewis hamilton right now, about his win, about the way he’s just broken a streak of bad luck with a masterclass drive, and you should care— you know you should care— but right now, it’s just lando.

lando, with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear stick, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, like he wants to touch. lando, glancing at you between streetlights, expression unreadable but eyes unbearably soft.

“congrats on p3.” you say, because it feels like you should.

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “kind of hard to care when everyone’s just talking about lewis.”

you offer a weak smile. “i care.”

his fingers twitch again.

the car slows, then stops, and it takes you a second to realize he’s parked.

“you were right,” he says, suddenly.

you blink. “about what?”

lando turns to face you fully, fingers curling around the steering wheel. “february. i put you on the spot. i shouldn’t have done that.”

“lando—”

“no, i mean it,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “you were right. i didn’t think about how it would feel for you, how it would look. i just— i was selfish. i wanted you there, and i didn’t stop to consider how much pressure that would put on you.”

the way he says it, so genuine, so sincere, makes something crack inside of you. you swallow past the lump in your throat. “it wasn’t just you,” you admit, voice quieter. “i didn’t think i deserved it. still don’t, sometimes.”

lando’s jaw tenses, his grip on the wheel tightening. “you do.”

you open your mouth, but he doesn’t let you argue. “you do,” he repeats, softer this time, like he’s willing you to believe it. “you’re fucking brilliant, kit-kat, and i don’t know why it took me so long to say it, but you are. i meant what i said back then. i see you, i do.”

it’s not like he fixes you, not like the years of doubt just suddenly disappear— but maybe, just maybe, the cracks in your armor get a little bigger, letting the truth seep in.

you don’t think.

you just move.

you lean over the center console, seatbelt digging into your ribs, and press your lips to his.

it’s dizzying. it’s years of something bottled up so tight that the second it spills, it nearly drowns you.

it’s lando, warm and solid, his lips soft, but still so insistent, like he’s trying to make up for lost time, for all the moments that could have been, should have been, all the moments that weren’t.

you’re realizing how uncomfortable the position is, seatbelt straining against your shoulder, but you don’t particularly care— you don’t care about anything except the way his hand slides down, fingers pressing into your waist, holding you there.

he exhales against your mouth, shuddering, and it makes your head spin. you scrape your nails against the base of his neck, threading your fingers into the curls at his nape, and he groans— actually groans, and oh god you’re hoping you can hear more of that later— low and breathy, like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him. it shoots straight through you, heat pooling in your stomach, and you feel drunk on it, on him, on the sheer fucking magnitude of it all.

when you pull back, breath uneven, lando is staring at you like you’ve just upended his entire world. he exhales, then grins. “is it presumptuous of me to ask you to tell your family not to wait up for you tonight?”

your brain short-circuits. so you say the only thing you can think to actually say: “i accepted the job at mclaren.”

lando blinks. then, “why do i find that so hot?”

you don’t realize how much space there still is between you until he moves again, his fingers tracing a slow path down your spine, and then—

click!

the seatbelt snaps loose, and before you can react, his hands are on you again, tugging you properly into his lap, so seamlessly smooth you almost don’t register what just happened.

“did you just unbuckle my seatbelt?” you ask incredulously.

lando hums, utterly unbothered, leaning up to close the distance between you. “mhm.”

“without looking?”

he grins, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, and it’s so unfair, how effortlessly he makes you lose your train of thought. “thank you, driver reflexes.”

you scoff, but it comes out breathless, and before you can come up with something sarcastic, something that might actually wipe that stupid smug expression off his face, he kisses you again.

he pulls back just enough for his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, breathless and wrecked and so fucking lando. “okay, i can't wait to get you out of this hoodie.”

you huff out a laugh, still trying to remember how to breathe. “okay, now that’s presumptuous of you.”

he startles, blinking, and then— “i mean, it’s my teammate’s number,” he says, a little too quickly, like that’s what he meant all along, like he wasn’t just thinking about peeling it off of you. “it’s— i’m just saying, it’s—”

you know.

you know, and you grin against his mouth before kissing him again.

THEN, 2010 … which blurs into NOW, 2025.

the toaster isn’t working.

this, in your opinion, is a grave offense.

it’s been sitting on the kitchen counter for weeks now, abandoned and replaced, but you can’t stop thinking about it. you hate when things break. it doesn’t make sense to you— how something can work perfectly fine one day and then be completely useless the next.

it’s not fair, really, that your parents replaced it already. the new one is shiny and red and stupid. you could fix the old one. you know you could.

so you’ve taken it upon yourself to fix it. of course.

the toaster is in pieces. a dozen little metal parts scattered across the floor of your bedroom, lined up in careful, meticulous order so many little pieces, all clicking and moving together like a puzzle. you love puzzles.

your tongue pokes out the side of your mouth as you grip the tiny screwdriver in one hand, twisting, tugging, wedging the tip under a stubborn screw that refuses to budge. your fingers ache from prying at things that don’t want to be pried at, but you’re close— so close to figuring out what’s wrong, to fixing it. 

you love figuring out how things work.

you’re so focused you don’t even hear your sisters leaving. you don’t notice when the house empties out, don’t register the hurried voices, the sharp slam of the front door. you don’t realize you’re alone.

not until the doorbell rings.

you jump. huh. you weren’t expecting that. you wipe your hands on your shirt, nevermind the grease and dust, carrying the toaster and your toolkit down to the kitchen.

where is everyone?

the house eerily quiet now that you’re aware of it. no footsteps. no murmured voices. no maggie bossing josie around. no beverly humming some stupid song under her breath. a strange, twisting feeling settles in your stomach as you make your way to the door, stretching up on your toes to look through the peephole. and then—

lando is standing on the porch.

you blink at him.

he blinks back.

“hi,” he says.

“hi.” you frown. “what are you doing here?”

“josie called me,” he says, holding up his phone like it explains anything. “she said they’re at the hospital with beverly. asthma attack.”

your stomach twists.

beverly gets bad asthma sometimes. you know that. you’ve seen it before, seen the way her face crumples as she gasps for breath, the way maggie and josie move fast, faster than you’ve ever seen them move, scrambling for inhalers and car keys and coats.

you swallow hard. “oh.”

lando shifts on his feet. “your parents are there too. josie asked me to come over. to, uh.” he scratches at his nose. “keep you company.”

you’re not sure what to do with that. you cross your arms, eyeing him carefully. “do you have anything better to do?”

he shrugs. “not really.” then he grins. “besides, you’re great company.”

you squint at him, trying to gauge if he’s making fun of you. you’re used to people making fun of you. you’re the smartest kid in your class— actually, you’re the smartest kid in the whole school, probably— and sometimes people don’t like that. but lando doesn’t look like he’s teasing.

which is… fine. whatever.

you step aside, jerking your head toward the kitchen. “well, i was busy.”

“yeah?” he kicks off his shoes, follows you inside. “doing what?”

you gesture to the counter, where the toaster sits in pieces. lando stops, tilts his head. “uh. you know you guys have a new one, right?”

“obviously,” you say. “but this one’s not working. so i’m fixing it.”

he hums, wandering closer. “you sure you know how?”

“of course i do.” you scowl at him. “i’ve read like, ten manuals. and i looked it up. and i’ve fixed other stuff before.”

“like what?”

you open your mouth, then pause. “well. nothing yet. but i know i can.”

lando just grins, like he finds that funny. you don’t get what’s so funny about it.

but then he holds the pizza box he brought, setting it on the table. “you wanna eat first?”

you hesitate, glancing back at your toaster. it’s important, obviously. but your stomach is growling, and lando did bring food, and— well. it’s not like you can’t finish later.

so you nod, dragging the toaster pieces toward the kitchen counter while lando opens the box. he slides a slice onto a plate for you, then one for himself.

you eat while you work, half-focused on the toaster, half-focused on the conversation.

lando’s been karting for a while now, long before you even met. he talks about it sometimes, but not as much as you’d like, because you want to know everything. not about the racing, really— you don’t care that much about that— but about the karts. about the mechanics of it, about how they work, about what makes them faster than normal cars.

“aerodynamics,” he answers, when you ask.

you scoff. “yeah, obviously. but what kind?”

he blinks. “the fast kind? what do you know about aerodynamics?”

you huff, setting down your pizza, wiping your hands on a napkin before grabbing two of the toaster’s metal panels. “okay. see these?” lando nods.

“pretend they’re wings,” you say, holding them up at an angle. “if a car is going really fast, air hits the wings, right? but if they’re tilted down like this, the air pushes against them, which pushes the car down. that’s downforce. more downforce means the car stays on the track better, but too much can slow it down.”

he watches, amused. “what about drag?”

you pick up a wire, twirling it between your fingers. “drag is when air pushes against the car in the opposite direction. good aerodynamics means less drag, so the car can go faster.”

lando watches you, eyebrows raised.

you huff. “you should know this already.”

“i definitely should,” he admits, grinning. “but it’s more fun when you explain it.”

your face feels warm. you pretend you don’t hear that.

after dinner, you pick a movie. you let lando choose, because he did bring the food, after all, and he picks something you don’t totally hate. you sit side by side on the couch, chewing absently on the crust of your last pizza slice, eyes half-focused on the screen. at first, you keep your arms crossed over your chest, but after a while, they loosen, and your head tips back against the couch cushions.

the toaster sits in pieces on the counter. beverly is in the hospital. your parents and sisters aren’t home. but none of it feels as heavy as it did earlier.

your eyes slip shut. just for a second.

when your family comes home, the front door creaks open, footsteps shuffling in. your mum pauses, standing in the doorway of the living room, watching.

you and lando are curled up on the couch, the tv still playing, the glow flickering over your faces. your head rests against his shoulder, his cheek tipped slightly against your hair.

she exhales, soft. “oh, how cute.” then reaches for her camera, snaps a picture.

later, it gets printed, tucked into a photo album, slipped between birthday parties and holiday dinners and old school plays.

(you don’t find it until years later, flipping through old pictures on a trip home, fingers pausing on the slightly worn edge of the page.

"oh, that’s a sweet one," your mum says over your shoulder, like it’s just another picture.

you slip the photo out of its plastic sleeve, take it back to your flat, left forgotten as you toss your bag onto the counter, too lost in the flurry of work and groceries.

later, someone else finds it. picks it up from where you left it on the counter.

“we were always like this, weren’t we?” a voice says, and when you look up, he’s already smiling.)

fin.