✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ✈️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ + ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴀɢᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ (17)
ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ
ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴀʀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴᴛ
ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ
ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴘᴀʀɪᴛʏ
Back in Monaco, everything should've gone back to normal.
But it didn’t.
Not for her.
(Y/n) replayed the weekend in her head like her favorite song, moments looping in the quiet of her small dorm room. The hum of the engines. Lando’s laughter muffled behind his helmet. The way his hand brushed her lower back when he thought no one was looking. The note he left.
You made today less lonely.
She read that line until she could whisper it like a prayer.
Things didn’t go back to normal for Lando, either. Not entirely.
He texted her the next morning: Made it through the debrief. Barely. Thinking about churros. Thinking about you.
She laughed. Then typed: In that order?
Equal priority.
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Over the next two weeks, they spent more time together. Carefully. Quietly.
Long walks in Kensington Gardens. Drive-thru runs with tinted windows. Nights on his balcony with a blanket over both their shoulders.
He never rushed her. Never made her feel like a secret. But she knew she was one. Not because he was ashamed. Because he was protecting her.
She admired that.
One night, he brought her to his place again. It had rained, and the smell of petrichor mixed with candle wax lingered inside.
They watched an old aviation documentary. She tried to pay attention. Really, she did.
But he was sitting too close.
And she was wearing his hoodie.
And he kept looking over at her like she was made of glass and gravity all at once.
"You okay?" she asked, gently.
Lando sighed, pressing the pause button. The screen froze on a cockpit view. "No. Not really."
She turned toward him, concerned. "Is it McLaren? The car?"
"No. It’s you."
That stunned her. He looked away immediately, running a hand through his curls.
"You’re seventeen, (Y/n). You’re... brilliant. Funny. So grounded. And it terrifies me that I even think about you the way I do."
She blinked. Her heart stuttered.
"Lando..."
"I shouldn’t want to kiss you. Or want you to stay the night. Or dream about us in Monaco, or the paddock, or here, with our legs tangled under the blankets. I shouldn’t be thinking about those things."
She swallowed. "But you are."
"Every night."
The silence buzzed.
"So," she said, softer now, "why haven’t you?"
He looked at her then. His eyes were unreadable. Tired. Full.
"Because you’re seventeen and a half. Because the world would crucify me if they knew. Because I would crucify myself."
She reached for his hand. He let her take it.
"I know you think I’m just a student. But I’ve lived through things most people never have. My parents aren’t around. I paid for my own flying hours by working part-time and studying until I dropped. I found that app because I needed help, not because I was naive. I knew what I was signing up for."
Lando inhaled sharply. Her words felt like steel wrapped in silk.
"I’m not asking you to break any rules, Lando. I’m asking you not to run from something just because it scares you."
He leaned his head back against the couch. Exhaled.
Then slowly, he pulled her into his arms.
She melted into him like she belonged there.
"Can I hold you?" he whispered.
"Please."
And that’s all they did.
No kisses.
No sheets tangled or breathless gasps.
Just the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear. His fingers threading through her hair. Her fingers resting lightly on his ribs.
Intimacy in its rawest, most honest form.
It was enough.
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A week passed.
She had a grueling simulator exam. He flew out for tire testing in Austria.
But they texted. Called. Sent photos. Inside jokes layered between voice memos and late-night "thinking of you" messages.
He FaceTimed her once from the motorhome.
"Oscar’s being a menace," he whispered.
"Tell him I said hi."
"Already did. He said you’re too good for me."
She smirked. "He’s right."
Lando groaned. "I regret introducing you two."
They saw each other again the day he returned.
She met him at the flat.
The second the door closed, he kissed her forehead. Nothing more. But she felt it through her bones.
He handed her a small paper bag.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
Inside: a toy model of the McLaren car. Tiny, detailed, papaya orange.
"For your desk. Thought maybe one day it could sit beside your captain’s hat."
Her throat tightened. She blinked hard.
"You’re impossible."
He grinned. "You like it."
She set the toy on his desk instead. "Only if you promise to sign the real thing someday."
Lando leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Watching her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing. Just... trying to remember what life was like before you walked into it."
She didn’t know what to say to that. So, she walked over, buried her face in his chest, and let herself stay there.
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That night, they lay under the covers. Still clothed. Still gentle.
But the tension was there.
His hand traced her arm slowly. Up and down. Up and down.
"Tell me about your favorite flight so far," he murmured.
She smiled against his collarbone. "The night flight over Bristol. Everything was dark, except the lights below. The world looked like a sea of stars flipped upside down."
"Sounds beautiful."
"It was. Like... everything made sense for a moment. I wasn’t scared about the future. I wasn’t thinking about tuition or missing meals or anything. I just felt... free."
He nodded slowly. "That’s what driving feels like. On the good days."
She looked up at him. "Maybe that’s why we understand each other."
He cupped her cheek.
"Maybe."
She leaned in slightly. He didn’t move.
Their lips were inches apart.
Then he closed his eyes and turned his head.
She didn’t push.
She just nuzzled closer, resting her head under his jaw.
They fell asleep like that.
Not as sugar baby and sugar daddy.
Not as pilot-in-training and Formula 1 star.
But as two people trying to navigate something real in a world that didn’t make space for it.
To be continued...
✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ✈️
