#chapter 34

He chuckled, low and short. Then his eyes flickered back to the street outside, distant for a breath. It was then that she brought it up, all tentative and careful. “You mentioned your brothers. Um, the other night.”

The words felt like skipping stones — light on the surface, hiding how deep they wanted to go.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, drawing out the word like he was stalling. He stirred his coffee absentmindedly, though it didn’t need it. “I did. I mean, I do.”

“Will I…. ever get to meet them?” she asked, aiming for lightness but hearing her hesitation betray her.

The man across from her shrugged, casual but too quick about it. “Eh, they’re all usually pretty busy.”

It was a bad excuse. She knew it. He knew she knew it.

“They sound pretty important to you,” she said instead, trying again, busying her fingers by folding and unfolding her paper napkin.

You’re important to me too, she didn’t say.

Lando's posture shifted, barely, but enough. There was a slight stiffening of his shoulders, and a tension in his jaw. He still held the coffee, but he wasn’t drinking anymore.

It hit her then—that twitchy, haunted kind of defensiveness he slipped into when something precious was threatened. Like if he admitted it mattered, the world would hear it and take it away.

The wave of vulnerability had apparently passed, and she’d have to wait patiently until the tide rolled in again. That seemed to be a pattern with him, she’d noticed – sometimes he’d unknowingly show her a glimpse of his heart, holding it out with careful, trembling hands like it was something precious to be held. But moments later he’d retreat within himself once again as soon as he was aware of what he’d done. That’s when he’d put the soft parts of himself away where no one could reject or abandon them like he had once been.

Her gaze traced over his silhouette against the soft light that emanated through the murky sky outside, the passing clouds casting flickering shadows over the contours of his face.  

“Don’t leave me.”

“Just… please. Stay.”

“Last night… it shouldn't have happened.”

She breathed deeply and gave him a sad little smile, the kind that didn’t ask for anything back.

“It’s okay,” Y/N said softly. “I didn’t mean to push.”

I just wanted to be part of your world. I wanted to meet the people that matter most to you. I wanted to be part of your world the way you are part of mine.

He said nothing.

She set the napkin down. Even though it was soundless, it still felt loud to her somehow. “I was only curious. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

A beat of silence passed. Then another. She could just feel herself flushing with the awkwardness of it, a hot undercurrent of regret crawling up her spine as her face grew hot unpleasantly. 

Stupid, stupid, you always want too much—

But then he spoke, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I… Just…”

He seemed to struggle to find the words. 

“Give me a little time, yeah?”

She blinked, startled.

He wasn’t looking directly at her anymore — his thumb brushed over the rim of the mug like he needed something to do with his hands — but even she could tell that his words were real, earnest in a way that almost hurt to hear.

Her heart twisted, traitorous and tender all at once.

“Okay,” she whispered, smiling at him through it, even when it hurt. “Take all the time you need.”

I’ll wait as long as it takes.

The awkwardness didn’t quite leave after that, shifting and swirling between them like smoke. But there was something else beneath it too. It was a sincerity – a thread tying them together, thin and invisible, tugging a little tighter with every truth shared.

Outside, the clouds floated between all the shades of grey, like even the sky couldn't decide whether it was going to storm. Y/N watch people stroll past the windows, deep in conversation and huddled together, wearing their sweaters and light coats.

Inside, she watched Liam stir his coffee too many times and thought:

I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

Meanwhile, Lando’s thoughts had already drifted well beyond the cold coffee in front of him. Being reminded of his ‘brothers’ made a pang of guilt go through his chest. Even the image of his parents grave didn’t fail to remind him of a different one — the solid granite headstone that he placed with his own two hands after he buried his friend. 

He needed to be more careful if he wanted to make sure he didn’t make a mistake again. He would die before he let anyone lay a hand on them again. He’d die before he let anyone lay a hand on her. It would be a cold day in hell before he let them take someone else away from him again.

No matter how much he wished he could continue to live in these half-delusions of stolen moments of peace that lived far away from the blood running down the back alleys of Monte Carlo, he knew that he was also the one who would have to put his gloves on and get his hands dirty. 

After all, there was dirty work to be done, and there was no man in all of Monaco who was better at what he did than Lando Norris. 

It was a few days later when the large door to Lando’s office creaked open hesitantly.

When Carlos stepped through the heavy oak doors to the boss’s office, he half-expected to find it empty, like it had been most nights lately. Truth be told, the rest of the Circle still hadn’t quite gotten used to Lando being gone so much now, to him haunting someone else’s walls instead of his own more often than not.

But tonight, the old desk lamp was the only thing lighting the room, throwing warped shadows across the mess inside. Carlos stopped short.

When he looked inside, he froze.

Papers carpeted almost everything in sight – the desk, the floor, even pinned to the walls. The walls were littered with a hodgepodge of photos, CCTV stills, maps, receipts, scraps of connection that barely held together. A timeline snaked across the length of the room, erratic and angry with time stamps circled in red pen several times over. Eleven from where he stood, he could distinguish certain images in the sea of evidence. 

Grainy street cam images of a blurred figure moving past the caféA printed photograph of the type of knife used on DanielCross-references between the Leclercs and Gasly’s crew, the names scrawled with a furious hand. Points of contact. Suspected hideouts.

It looked like the inside of a man’s unraveling mind.

In the center of it all, Lando Norris stood like a statue, pale under the dim light, staring at it with the hollow-eyed intensity of a man who hadn’t slept right in days. Maybe longer.

One hand raked through his messy curls, his other hand drumming against a photo of the front of Brews & Books hard enough that the edge bent under his fingers. Lando didn’t look up when he spoke. His voice was low and scratchy, raw from misuse.

"Y’need something?"

Carlos swallowed thickly. "No, boss. Just… erm, I am just checking in."

For a long moment, the only sound was the relentless tap of Lando’s fingers. Carlos carefully stepped closer, unsure whether approaching was the right thing to do. It was only when came near that he was able to notice that the room wasn’t the only thing unusual. Lando wore an unfamiliar expression on his face, dark circles under his eyes and he seemed to be muttering something under his breath until Carlos came to stand beside him.

“There’s something missing," he said, voice low but shaking with fury. "I keep going over it. In my head, in the street cams, Logan’s pictures, the data—"

He turned around, his hand suddenly slamming down and sweeping across the desk, sending papers, pens, an old coffee mug crashing to the floor. Even the Spaniard flinched back, caught off guard.

"It doesn’t make any fucking sense!" he bellowed, chest heaving. Lando leaned over the desk, his hands gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles went bloodless. For a second, it looked like he might tear the whole thing apart with his bare hands.

Lando ran his hands through his hair yet again, standing up only to begin pacing his office back and forth like some caged animal. He spoke again then, but this time quieter, his voice colder than ice.

"I’ll kill them."

His dark eyes were wild, glittering in the dim light.

 "I’ll hunt ‘em down like dogs," he whispered. "Corner them like the fuckin’ rats they are.”

“Mate, what are you saying? If–”

It was like the Brit didn’t even hear him.

“I’ll break his fingers one by one so he can’t ever hold a weapon again. I’ll cut his tongue out before he can even think of fucking lying to me. I'll– I’ll find something he loves and rip it apart right in front of him so he knows what it feels like."

His voice dropped even lower to something more sinister. He stood, pacing the room, hands running through his hair, eyes wild as he rambled like a madman.

“What they took…” His voice trembled as if he could hardly speak the words, fury rising in his chest. “What they took from us, from me, from– from her…”

He froze, as if suddenly realizing something. His gaze darkened. “How dare they try to fuckin’ touch her? How fucking dare they?”

He turned abruptly, fixing Carlos with a look that made his blood run cold. “They made a mistake. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure they pay for it. I’ll teach them a lesson, alright. I’ll find their weakness because everyone has one. And when I do…”

He clenched his fists, teeth grinding together, his voice now dripping with malevolence. “I’ll find Leclerc. I’ll– I’ll rip him apart if I have to. I’ll leave him on the floor, gutted, so everyone will know. So everyone will see what happens when you try to take what’s mine!”

Carlos, still standing in the doorway, took a deep breath, forcing himself to swallow the knot in his throat. “Lando…” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “We need to talk about this, hermano. You are not thinking straight.”

But Lando didn’t answer him. He was already back at the desk, his eyes locked on the screens, desperately searching for something that would make everything fall into place, a last missing piece.

He wouldn’t rest until he found it.

Lando’s hands shook as he sifted through the files again, muttering to himself. He was practically stumbling now, so consumed by the need to find answers, to pinpoint the one thing that would make all of this make sense. His eyes were wide, dark with frustration, and the bottle of whiskey had already been cracked open, half-gone, and yet he kept reaching for it.

“Alright, no more drinks tonight,” Carlos grimaced, scrunching his nose at the pungent smell of alcohol from Lando’s breath. He took a half glass that Lando seemed to have forgotten about for the time being and poured it into a potted plant nearby instead. “And when is the last time you slept, eh?”

Carlos moved to the other side of the desk as he watched Lando focus intently on pouring himself a new glass. He gently plucked it from his hand and set it down far out of his rech, hoping he was too inebriated by now to go after it. He wasn’t too far off, it seemed, as Lando just went on, lost in his thoughts.

“Fuckin’ gunman was too smart,” Lando muttered, eyes glazed over. He didn’t even notice Carlos moving the glass. “He avoids all the cameras, didn’t leave a trace. Look, see? He uses the hat. I hate hats like that.”

Carlos turned his attention to where Lando was rapidly pointing between a series of photos, snapshots of the gunman leaving the scene of the shooting that killed that old lady. 

Lando continued, undeterred by the lack of audible response. “S’not… messy, y’know? He’s not– not arrogant like Gasly or Leclerc. They would’ve been more sloppy. They don’t give a shit No, this guy’s... this guy’s different. He’s, uh, tall. Tall and fast. Maybe… Maybe it could be Esteban? Yeah, yeah... but Esteban doesn’t have the cause…”

Carlos bit back a sigh, sitting down across from him. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he couldn’t let Lando keep spiraling like this.

“But if it’s not Esteban,” Lando continued, his voice rising in pitch, the frustration clear, and he stumbled over his words, “then who the fuck is it? Who’s fast enough, who’s quick enough to get in and out like that? The little one? What his fuckin’ name, the little Leclerc… Him, maybe?”

Carlos didn’t even get a chance to butt in, before lando cut himself off, mind whirling faster than even he could keep up. “It could, he’s fast, but–” He growled in frustration. “But– No, no, he’s too young, too dumb. Fuck! I don’t know.”

He slammed his fist onto the desk again, hard enough to make the bookshelves tremble against the walls.

Carlos’s voice was calm, soothing, though the older man was struggling to keep his own anxiety in check. “Lando, you need to take it easy, mate. You are not going to figure this out in one night. You need to sleep. You need to rest.”

But of course, Lando was well beyond hearing him. His mind was running a thousand miles a minute, trying to piece together the jumbled mess of thoughts that never seemed to fit. He was a man unraveling at the seams, and all Carlos could do was watch, powerless.

“Charles — no, it’s not him, not his height,” Lando muttered, shaking his head violently, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk. “It has to be someone on his fucking behalf. Someone quick, young, someone who could’ve gotten in and out fast... but who? Fucking who, Carlos?”

Carlos leaned forward, trying his best to keep his voice level yet again. “We don’t know, hermano. Let’s slow down, alright? We’ll figure it out, but you need to take a step back.”

But Lando’s eyes were wild, unfocused. He wasn’t listening. “It’s Pierre,” he hissed, almost to himself. “It’s Pierre who would’ve known about her shift—Kika works with her. He could’ve... he could’ve known when she was there.”

Carlos knew there was no use in trying to reason with him right now. Lando had worked himself into a frenzy, and the more Carlos tried to calm him down, the more agitated he became. It was like watching a man fighting himself, and Carlos wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Lando,” Carlos said, his voice sharp. “Stop! Just— stop it. You are not thinking straight. This isn’t right.”

But Lando wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even aware that Carlos had been speaking. He grabbed another file, tossing it across the desk, frustrated. “I’ve got the CCTV, I’ve got Logan’s pictures, I’ve got the bullet shells—what the fuck am I missing? What is it?” His voice cracked, barely audible now. “I’m so fucking close.”

That’s it.

Carlos sat back, his mind racing. He couldn’t let Lando keep going like this. It was clear he wasn’t going to listen to reason, not like this. The younger man was running on empty, and the all the liquor he’d consumed wasn’t helping. The man needed rest, not more whiskey. He needed someone to help him see past the blur.

With a deep breath, Carlos made the call.

“Max,” he said quietly, into the phone. “Lando’s... not alright. Can you come get him? He’s not in a good place right now.”

As the conversation ended, Lando continued to ramble, his words barely making sense, his movements jerky. “I’ll get them, Carlos,” he muttered, his voice lower, darker. “I’ll fucking get them for what they did. To her. To me. To Daniel.”

Carlos stood up, his hand on Lando’s shoulder, trying to guide him away from the desk. “Come on, mate. You’ve been at this for almost two days. You need rest. You’re not gonna get answers like this.”

Lando didn’t respond. He just stared at the wall, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes dull and bloodshot.

Max Fewtrell arrived moments later, his face taut with worry. He looked at Carlos and then at Lando, who had fallen silent, his body sagging as if the fight had been drained out of him.

“Take him home,” Carlos said, his voice resigned. “He needs sleep. He needs... something.”

Max nodded, walking over to Lando and gently taking hold of his arm. “Come on, mate,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

There was an odd knock at the door. Not urgent or rhythmic, just... offbeat and uneven.

Unfamiliar.

Carefully, she opened it to find a stranger standing there, slightly out of breath, his arm slung firmly around a half-conscious Liam. Liam, who looked like he’d been poured into the shape of a man and then left out to dry, his form rumpled, sagging, his eyes glazed.

“Hi,” the stranger said, awkwardly clearing his throat. He appeared young, likely around Liam’s age, if she had to guess. He seemed well kept, so she could probably rule out him being one of those weirdos that lived down the block. “I— I’m Max. He’s, uh...” He gestured down to the weight dragging on his side. “He’s drunk. I think he could use some company tonight.”

She nodded once, her hand already reaching out for Lando’s weight. “Thank you for bringing him home, Max.”

Max gave a small smile, half-gratitude and half-apology. “Yeah. Of course.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but Lando groaned and shifted, and that was cue enough. 

Instead, what he said was, “He’s heavier than he looks. Good luck.”

With a nod, Max turned and disappeared down the hallway and into the night.

She eased Liam inside, his full weight slumping into her side until he was half-carried, half-dragged to the couch. He mumbled something that might’ve been her name, or perhaps it was a string of consonants meant to sound like it. Lando leaned more of his weight against her. “Smells like you,” he mumbled, somewhere between recognition and comfort, and she huffed a laugh, guiding him inside.

“Yeah, well. That tends to happen when you’re in my apartment.”

“Mm,” he hummed.

When she dropped him gently onto the cushions, he sighed as if he’d been holding tension in for hours.

Then, he blinked up at her.

“You were reading,” he slurred, his eyes falling on the book still splayed open on the armrest. “You always read.”

“Well, yes. I like reading,” she replied with a soft smile, moving to tidy up the blanket he’d bunched with his elbow.

He reached out suddenly, his fingers catching a lock of her hair between them. “I like your hair.”

Her breath caught, half-amused. “You told me that last week.”

“I did?” He frowned, like the thought surprised him. Then his face relaxed into a crooked smile. “Smart me.”

Once she got him settled on the couch, she helped him out of his jacket one sleeve at a time. He flopped back with a groan, arm over his face like the light hurt.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand dropped to the side, head turning until his gaze settled on the book she’d set face down on the coffee table.

Her fingers brushed the hair back from his forehead, and he sighed like the tension was melting from his spine. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The TV flickered quietly in the background, the only sound in the room besides the rhythm of his breathing.

“I don’t like being drunk,” he admitted softly, voice slurred but honest.

“Then why’d you drink?”

He paused at that. She leaned back to look at him , waiting patiently to listen to his answer like it mattered.

“Because if I stopped thinking tonight, I thought maybe I’d stop feeling too.”

She didn’t respond right away. Truthfully, she didn’t know what to say – so she settled for saying nothing. Instead, she just ran her thumb along his temple, slow and steady.

He looked up at her then — not smiling, not joking, just watching her like he needed to memorize the shape of her kindness.

“I like it here,” he said, voice quiet as if he was sharing a secret someone else might accidently overhear. “With you.”

She could’ve said something witty, or maybe even deflected like she always did. But tonight, she just whispered, “Good. You know you’re always welcome to stay.”

He smiled again, sleepier this time and let his eyes fall closed for a long blink as he leaned his head back against the couch.

“Don’t disappear, yeah?” he mumbled.

“I won’t,” she promised, soft and sincere. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After Y/N returned from the kitchen with some electrolytes and pain medication for the inevitable hangover he’d suffer tomorrow, she returned to find him sitting up again, halfway between sleep and consciousness. His eyelids were fluttering, barely hanging on. 

He reached for her before he could stop himself, one of his hands curling itself loosely around her wrist, the pad of his thumb tracing absent, slow circles against her skin. There was nothing sexual or even intentional about it – just a kind of tethering, like he didn’t want to drift too far.

“You’re good t’me,” he mumbled, barely comprehensible. “Don’t get it. But I like it.”

Her heart fluttered so rapidly that it felt like her breath had escaped her, and took anything she could have thought to say along with it. She focused on the only thing she still could, just brushing his hair back from his face with her, feeling something soft and stupid settle in her chest.

Finally, the soothing motion of her hand stopped, causing him to blink  groggily. “Alright, buddy,” she murmured, “let’s get you horizontal. You should probably get some proper rest.”

He blinked owlishly, looking up at her as if it was his first time ever seeing her. “But you were readin’.” he slurred.

She glanced at the book she’d put aside when she heard Max knock on the door. “Yeah, I was.”

“That’s nice. You read nice things.”

“I try to,” she laughed. “Come on, lay back before you fall over, stupid.”

“Nice,” he said, genuinely. “You’ve got the kind of face that should always be near a book. Or in a paintin’. Or…” He swayed. “In my lap. Wait—no. Me? My head. In your lap.”

She couldn’t help it — she snorted. “You’re so articulate when you’re drunk.”

“Mm, yes, ’m very talented,” he replied solemnly, then immediately missed the couch by a few inches and collapsed half-on, half-off it with a dull thump.

She rolled her eyes, crouching beside him to help maneuver his limbs. “Alright, Casanova, come on.” She guided him up and onto the cushions, and when she finally sat down, he immediately curled onto his side and nudged his head into her lap like it was where he belonged.

She froze for just a second — surprised at how naturally he did it, how much he seemed to trust her this way. Her fingers hovered over his curls, indecisive, before she allowed them to settle there gently, simply resting their comfortable weight.

Oh, Liam. Why do you do this to me?

It took what was probably a concerning amount of effort for her to try and breath very, very slowly in hopes that it would quiet the way her heart was hammering against her ribs. It would be quite embarrassing if he could hear it.

Mortifying, really.

Just as soon as she’d deemed her efforts mostly successful, his eyes fluttered closed before opening again slowly, like he was afraid he’d miss something if he blinked too long. 

His fingers brushed her wrist again, then lazily trailed to the hem of her sleeve. He smiled up at her, squinting like she was glowing under a sun only he could see.

“So pretty, you are,” he murmured, words thick and slow. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

Oh, fuck me.

You can’t just say things like that.

To his credit, however, it was hard to distinguish of he was even aware he’d said that aloud, or if he simply thought he was talking to himself. She raised an eyebrow, amused. “I’m, uh, I am very real, I assure you.”

Apparently satisfied with her answer, his eyes fluttered closed. “Mm. Dunno, you feel like a dream. Like, the good kind. One of the good ones. The ones you wake up from and try to fall back asleep for.”

She swallowed, heart tripping over itself.

“Liam…”

Her heart gave a quiet, reluctant thud.

“You should sleep,” she said gently, brushing a few stray curls from his forehead. It was like she couldn’t help it – hopefully, he’d be too hungover in the morning to remember any of this.

“But you were reading.” He blinked up at her, almost pouting. “Read to me?”

“I’m not reading that to you,” she laughed, nodding at the very nonfiction-looking book. “You’ll have nightmares about European history.”

He hummed like that was a genuine concern. “You’ll protect me?”

She smiled despite herself. “From Napoleon?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Of course. Always.”

A beat passed. He blinked slowly, his long lashes brushing his cheeks. Y/N had always found it remarkably unfair how he naturally had such long beautiful lashes, ne that framed his eyes so perfectly it was like God personally wanted her to suffer knowing how beautiful his eyes were 

“I like your laugh,” he murmured, already drifting. “And your hands. And your whole… you-ness.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept brushing his hair back, slower now. His breathing evened out, lips slightly parted, finally quiet in a way she hadn’t seen him all week.

“Can you still read to me? I just… I like hearing your voice.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the way he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Hm? Y- yeah, of course. Just relax, you can close your eyes too, if you want to.”

Lando’s lips twitched in a sleepy grin, and he gave her a slow nod, letting his body go limp. She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her last words, but he wasn’t fighting it anymore — his tiredness was taking over. She turned to the book, brushing a few stray hairs away from his forehead as she began reading lowly in the quiet room.

He shifted a bit, restless at first, but she kept going, her voice steady and warm as she read. It wasn’t anything special, really — just the hum of her voice and the rustle of pages. But then he shifted again, and again, clearly unable to get comfortable.

She paused, glancing down at him. “Hey, something wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand, tentative and slow, stretched up from his side and reached for her free one. She blinked, unsure at first, but then she let him take her hand. He pulled it gently to his head, bringing her fingers to lightly brush against the soft strands of his hair, as if seeking permission.

This boy will be the death of me.

She didn’t question it. She just let him, sensing the need for something more than what words could give him right now.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she began to play with his hair, the soft, rhythmic motion easing into something natural. His head tilted slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he leaned into her touch.

Without saying anything else, she resumed reading. It was a slow, gentle ebb of words, her voice falling into a soothing lull as the minutes passed. By the time she reached the end of the page, his breathing had already deepened, soft and steady. 

He was out like a light — his face relaxed like’d never known anything but sleep as restful as this. Like he’d never known stress, or fear, or grief. Like those things would never be able to reach him again.

Even once she stopped reading out loud, she couldn’t help but smile to herself, continuing to run her fingers through his hair as he slept. Something in the quiet comfort of that moment made her chest tighten, but in the best way — like she was finally allowed to just be, without the weight of the world pressing down on her, or him. Like she was allowed one more glimpse of him, another sliver of this dream she’d begun to crave so deeply.

It was a pocket of peace, the two of them in this bubble. The last thought she remembered having as her own eyelids began to drift close was how much she wished she could freeze this moment in time, a snow globe capturing the sweetest of dreams.