second chances
mob boss! lando norris x reader
part twenty-eight: that funny feeling
work count: 4.8k :(
warnings: this chapter contains detailed descriptions of loss and grief. reader discretion is advised.
twenty-seven | twenty-eight | twenty-nine
Lando didn’t remember standing.
All he remembered was her—shaking, red-handed, barely breathing—as he gently pried her fingers from Margot’s blood-soaked sweater. She hadn’t even noticed the paramedics. She just kept whispering Margot’s name, like the sound alone might anchor her back to life.
When they took Margot away, Y/N made this sound—weak and raw—that didn’t belong to her. Lando didn’t speak. He just sat beside her in the hospital waiting room, their shoulders almost touching, both of them suspended in the kind of silence that presses hard on your ribs.
Her hands were stiff with dried blood. He tried to wipe them clean with a crumpled packet of tissues someone had left behind. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, glassy-eyed and still, like her body had forgotten how to respond. He simply kept watching her.
It was messing with his head.
He’d seen bodies on the floor, heard threats hissed through teeth, stared into the eyes of people who’d kill for sport. But this—this felt different, off-kilter, wrong. His heartbeat was too fast. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. He didn’t know what to do with himself because he couldn’t do a damn thing for her.
And then, slowly, her shoulder leaned into his—just slightly, like gravity had shifted—and in a moment, all the background noise faded to nothing, a vacuum of sound. A realization soundlessly dropped like a pit in his stomach, causing a wave of nausea to wash over him.
This wasn’t random.
It wasn’t just about Margot.
His mind raced. His heart pounded, his ears ringing. It felt like panic—but not the kind that came with gunfire or danger or losing control of a situation. It was something deeper, dirtier – more personal.
It was Y/N.
They went after Margot to get to her.
The realization landed heavy in his chest, winding him. His stomach churned, and the air thickened around him. If they knew to go after someone she loved... then that also meant they knew what she was to him.
Someone was trying to get to him.
And they knew exactly how.
He froze, staring at her like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.
He hadn’t seen it. He’d been too close, too soft, too distracted by her smile and by the way she had slowly become part of his days without him noticing. And now—this. Someone used her to make him bleed.
He wanted to be angry, wanted to let the fire rise and burn everything in its path. But when she shifted beside him, curling closer like her body knew who he was even if her mind didn’t, it all just caved in on itself.
His stomach turned. He knew it now with sickening clarity – somewhere along the way, somewhere between the first time he laid eyes on her and the present moment, he had royally fucked up.
Somewhere along the way she had stopped being his acquaintance or his barista or even his friend. Instead, she had become something else entirely. She’d become his someone, his emergency contact, his person. At some point in time he had fucked up and allowed her to be something more.
He had allowed her to become his fucking weakness.
And whoever orchestrated this? They’d figured that out before he had.
She shifted again, leaning into him just a little more—like some part of her still recognized him as safe, even if the rest of her was lost. And still, he didn’t move.
He looked down at her, at those warm brown eyes dulled by shock and fluorescent lighting, and something twisted inside him. Nothing about her looked like the girl who used to send him pictures of ugly latte art and drag him into debates about her stupid law readings. But if he looked at her, from just the right angle, he could almost see that Y/N, the one he’d recognize.
He hated it. Hated how she had become something that hurt him too. How her pain, her danger, affected him in ways he didn’t know how to handle.
If someone was targeting her to get to him, then maybe that meant he wasn’t as far gone as he’d tried to convince himself he was. And maybe, just maybe, it meant he had more to lose than he ever thought possible. He wanted to pull away, to shove it all down, to pretend he didn’t feel like this.
But the truth was that it was too late. It wasn’t about protection. It wasn’t about responsibility or guilt or keeping her out of harm’s way because it made tactical sense.
He cared.
He wanted to shield her from all of it—every gunshot, every sharp edge, every painful memory. He wanted to keep her close and hold her through all of it and never let go. Even if it was selfish. Even if she didn’t feel the same. Even if she never could.
She wasn’t his, not really — she never could be. But that didn’t stop the way he felt. It didn’t stop the part of him that kept whispering mine, mine, mine like a prayer. It certainly didn’t stop the way the thought of losing her made something in him go cold.
So he sat there beside her—silent, steady, trying to remember how to breathe—his hand hovering near hers but never quite making contact. He’d spent years convincing himself he didn’t need anyone. But sitting there, watching her fade away in silence, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.
She had him, whether she knew it or not. Whether he liked it or not.
And all he could do was promise, quietly, that he’d never let anyone touch her like that again. Even if it meant staying in the shadows. Even if it meant becoming the version of himself he hated most.
Because she was already his heart, and even he knew that losing her would ruin him.
So though he didn’t say a word, the promise was there, burning just beneath the surface:
If anyone even dared to think that they could touch her, they’d have to go through him first.
Once the sounds of gunshots and sirens and hospital equipment had finally faded away, after the shaking and the sobbing and the way she clung to Margot like letting go would make it real had all gone quiet—Lando brought her home in silence.
She hadn’t said much in the car, hadn’t cried or screamed. She just… sat there, her face pale and blotchy, Margot’s blood drying in the creases of her fingers, staring at nothing. Her breath came shallow, her expression unreadable. He didn't ask if she was okay. The question felt meaningless.
When they got back to her apartment, she didn’t move to get out. He’d had to coax her gently, quietly, just enough to get her into the bathroom inside.
In the bathroom, she stood frozen in front of the sink, eyes locked on the basin. He waited for her to do something—anything. But she just stood there, silent. She stared at the sink like she didn’t know what it was for, like she couldn’t process the next step.
So he did it.
He rolled up his sleeves, wet a cloth under warm water, and knelt in front of her like a man trying to find reverence in something he didn’t understand. He washed the blood from her hands as gently as he could, wringing out the cloth over and over again, watching the red swirl down the drain like it meant something. She didn’t say a word. She barely even blinked.
He was gentle—more gentle than he thought himself capable of. He wiped her hands, slowly, methodically, pressing the cloth into her palms like it might undo the memory. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just watched him with empty eyes.
That night, he’d stayed until her body gave in to sleep—if you could call it that. It wasn’t restful. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of sleep that only came from shutting down—like her body had turned off all the lights and locked every door. It was a light going dim in a house too big and too quiet.
In the days that came after, he’d been giving her space. But not distance.
He didn’t flood her phone with messages. He didn’t show up unannounced. He just kept close, quietly. A text here and there—
liam! : Want to grab something to eat? Seen 7:12 PM
liam! : Work dragged today. I hope you’re alright. Seen 12:46 AM
liam! : I can come by with a movie or something. We could go on a drive too. Either works. Or whatever you want, really. Seen 4:33 AM
Sometimes she responded. More often, she didn’t.
Her replies were never cold. Just… hollow. The words were hers, but the warmth was gone. No emojis. No exclamation points. Just small, clipped sentences that did the bare minimum of indicating she was likely still alive, but not much else.
He stopped by the café now and then, mostly just to check. Kika was the one holding it down, keeping things afloat. Susie would pick up the extra shifts that she couldn’t.
They looked tired. Everyone did.
Once, he caught sight of her walking down the street with a half-full grocery bag tucked under one arm. She looked thinner. Her hair was pulled back in a loose tie, like she'd forgone checking the mirror. Her eyes were dull. Not fragile, but dimmed — like something inside her had gone quiet.
A few days later, he ran into her outside the shop. She saw him first.
“Hey,” she said, offering a small, forced smile.
“Hey,” he echoed.
She didn’t stop walking—just slowed, enough to be polite. Enough to acknowledge him. But not enough to invite conversation. He didn’t chase her either – just stood there and let her pass, watching her disappear down the street like smoke.
She was still her. Still kind. Still present. But she seemed so out of reach nowadays that the distance between them felt like miles. And the version of her he’d known—the one who used to text him pictures of dogs on skateboards and send voice memos when she was too lazy to type—that version hadn’t shown up in weeks.
He wanted to say something. Something stupid, something selfish, something completely insane like I miss you. Come back.
But he didn’t, because this wasn’t about him, and she wasn’t his to fix.
Margot had been her anchor. Her second mother. Her heart. That kind of grief doesn’t soften on anyone else’s timeline.
So he let her walk away.
But he stayed – close, quiet, orbiting. Still steady, always hers.
Even if she didn’t know how to be his.
It was on Saturday that Logan approached him, crossing his fingers in the hope that there wasn’t a sniper on a faraway rooftop that had its scope trained on his head since he’d dared to walk into the boss’s office uninvited.
I’m too young to die. Here goes nothing.
“She’s not eating,” he said one evening, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office. “I’ve been checking in, doing sweeps when I can – she barely leaves the house though. Half the time, there’s nothing in the fridge but expired oat milk and that weird herbal tea she pretends to like.”
Lando didn’t look up from the file in his hands, but his jaw flexed. Just once. “She’s not a child.”
“No,” Logan agreed, “but grief makes people forget basic shit. Like food. Or sleep. Or how to tie their own shoelaces.”
Lando didn’t respond. Just flicked the page a little too hard.
Logan knew he wasn’t really reading it anyway.
He sighed. “I’m just saying—if someone doesn’t look after her, she’s going to disappear.”
Later that night, Lando ordered from that Lebanese place she used to rave about. The one with the fresh hummus and grilled halloumi she swore was better than what she’d had in Beirut. He sent some Italian too, enough for two meals—just in case she wanted options.
He didn’t include a note. He couldn’t bring himself to. Too intimate. Too soft.
He just made sure it would get to her door warm, before resuming his world like he’d never been disturbed in the first place.
But there was no one around to notice how he breathed a little bit easier this time around.
A little before dusk, a knock sounded at her apartment door. When she opened it, there was a gangly, wide-eyed teenager in a too-big hoodie and scuffed-up trainers standing there, his skateboard leaning against her wall, holding a brown paper bag that smelled like warmth and garlic and real food. Keegan –one of the local runners Lando had taken under his wing a while back– stood there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, looking somewhat uncertain what to do with himself. No ties to anything too dangerous—just a kid with good instincts and quick feet.
“Uh, He said to give you this,” Keegan said, holding the bag out, and hesitated before adding, “...Miss.”
She blinked at him.
He looks a bit young for a delivery driver.
He blinked back.
“And, uh… also not to argue? So you should probably jus’ take it. Please.”
She blinked at him, caught off guard.
Keegan scratched the back of his head. “I think there’s pasta. And the really soft bread. The kind with, like, the crusty outside? Anyway, hope you’re okay, Miss.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, already backing away before she could even say thank you.
She stood there for a long moment after the door closed, holding the warm bag like it was something fragile. It smelled like comfort. Like someone still cared.
After the funeral, she’d become… smaller, somehow.
The grief settled on her like a heavy, unshakable fog. She felt the weight of it in every moment of her waking hours, suffocating and endless, clinging to her as if she were drowning. The days blurred together, one indistinguishable from the next, and everything felt muted—like she was walking through a dream where the colors were too dim, and everything was too far out of reach.
Her apartment became her world.
Classes came and went—sometimes she made it, sometimes she didn’t. No one called her out on it, not really. A few professors sent the occasional check-in email. A classmate texted her once: Hey, we missed you today. Hope you’re okay.
She left it on read.
The textbooks piled up beside her bed, unread and forgotten. The assignments? Unfinished. She couldn’t find the strength to make herself do anything, let alone the things that would keep her tethered to reality.
The fridge stayed mostly empty. She picked at instant meals when her stomach ached too hard to ignore. Some nights, she eats cereal dry out of the box. Others, she doesn’t eat at all.
But the worst of it, the fact stayed like an ever-present nausea was that she hadn’t stepped foot near the café since that day.
She couldn’t.
How could she?
The memories hung there like a thick veil, pressing against her skin every time she thought of walking back through the door. She couldn’t even imagine stepping into the backroom where she’d once stood, laughing with Margot, feeling her steady warmth beside her. Instead, she locked herself in her apartment, doing everything she could to remain invisible to the world, to avoid confronting what had been taken from her.
Every time she even walked past that block, her lungs would seize up. Her feet froze in place, cementing her where she stood. The moment she’d lay eyes on that familiar building, on the same storefront and familiar emblem she’d once considered signs of home, it’d all begin to flash before her eyes—Margot’s glasses scattered on the tile. The stillness of her body. The blood.
The sound she made. The sounds she’d made. The way her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
After that first time, she’d made it a point to take some other route back to her apartment, any route but that one. It likely also helped that she’d pretty much stopped leaving the apartment altogether.
She didn’t go back there. She didn’t need to.
There was nothing there for her now.
Nothing but the ghost of someone she loved more than she ever had the chance to say aloud.
It was Kika who finally began to show up at her door.
The Portuguese girl came by once with bags of food, and didn’t say a word when she noticed the empty fridge – just set the bags down quietly and lingered for a moment, as if waiting to see if her friend would break the silence. But Y/N couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t bring herself to eat, to leave, to live outside this space that felt so hauntingly... empty without Margot in it.
Each time Kika came by, Y/N waited for the inevitable push, the expectations, the disappointment in the way she chose to dwell in the cave that her apartment had become.
But it never came.
Kika didn’t push her, didn’t force her into the light before she was ready. She simply gave her space, patiently accepting the silence, the isolation. There were no judgmental glances, no angry words. Kika knew better than most that grief didn’t come with a timeline, and sometimes the best thing you could offer was quiet companionship.
She didn’t bring casseroles or pity or long speeches. She didn’t barge into the apartment or force conversations.
She texted. She dropped off soup. She’d knock twice and leave things at the door—a clean hoodie, a candle with a note that says: No pressure. I just wanted you to have something that smells like cinnamon.
Sometimes, she sat with her in the silence. The first time Kika did, Y/N looked visibly shocked – like she didn’t even know that was an option, that it was something they could do.
Kika started to come by a little more often after that.
One evening, after they’d sat together for hours in the same quiet space, Kika gently placed a hand on her shoulder. It was warm. It was a lifeline.
“Y/N,” Kika began, her voice quiet but firm, “I know it hurts. For you… probably more than I think I can understand. But, you can’t keep hiding from this. You can’t keep avoiding it. Not if you want to heal. You know how much Margot would’ve wanted you to keep living, to keep going. She was your biggest believer, Y/N.”
The words felt uncomfortable, a prickling sensation spreading across her skin. Instinctively, what Y/n wanted to say, what she’d been wanting to say was that know one could sit here and definitively tell her what Margot would have wanted. Only Margot could really know that, but Margot
When Y/N dared to peer at her friend over the bundle of blanket underneath which she was curled up, she was surprised to find that Kika was smiling, warm and gentle. There was none of the pity she was drowned in at the funeral, the shallow sympathies that existed in abundance evr since Margot’s casket was lowered into the ground.
But Kika looked… like perhaps she could understand. Like maybe she could actually see what Y/N had lost. Like maybe she could feel it too – same, but different.
“She wouldn’t want you to run away from the people who loved her. From the life you have here. That place... it’s part of her too, you know.”
Y/N flinched at the mention of the shop. Of the place that felt so much like the last piece of Margot she had left, and yet so much like a cemetery of memories.
But Kika wasn’t done.
“I know it hurts. I know it feels impossible right now. But hiding from the place she loved, that you both loved… that’s not mourning her. That’s trying to pretend she never existed.” Kika’s voice softens, like the words cost something to say. “You don’t have to go in and act like everything’s fine. You just have to go. Even if you only stay for five minutes.”
“Maybe you just sit in the back for a while. Maybe you don’t say a word. But you need to face it. You need to stop pretending it didn’t happen, because it did. And the longer you stay away from this place, the longer you stay away from Margot’s world, the harder it’ll be for you to mourn her. You won’t find peace in hiding from her memory. You can’t.”
“It’s okay to fall apart there,” she adds after a beat. “She’d understand.”
Y/N’s heart was still heavy, and the idea of being back there—the place Margot had poured so much love into—felt like a betrayal. It felt too real, too raw.
Maybe just not yet.
Another afternoon, after a week of more silence, Kika picked at the edge of her coffee mug and tried again.
“You know, I don’t think Margot would want the place to feel haunted.”
Y/N didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked to the window. She hadn't opened it in days.
“She made that café feel like home to a lot of people. To you most of all,” Kika continued, voice quiet, even. “And now it’s the only part of her you still have.”
Y/N’s throat tightened.
Kika gave her a moment. “You can’t mourn someone properly if you avoid everything they touched.”
Y/N felt like she’d had a bucket of cold water dumped on her. Not in the refreshing, but more like everything around her went frozen and silent for a long, striking moment.
Eventually, a few minutes after she’d finally regained the ability to breathe, she looked to her friend and nodded — though it came with no words, just a slow, hollow motion of her head.
Deep down, in somewhere she’d neglected to acknowledge until now, she knew Kika was right. Knew that grief didn’t shrink by ignoring it—it waited, patient and cruel.
“Maybe… Maybe tomorrow.”
It was quiet. Quieter than she remembered.
The kind of quiet that lived in old books and early mornings. The door creaked the same way it always did when she pushed it open, but now it sounded too loud, like it didn’t belong to her anymore.
The scent hit her first—fresh espresso and rose syrup. Warm milk. Something sweet baking in the back. Familiar. Overwhelming. A little like coming home, and a little like being sucker-punched.
Her lungs tightened, but she didn’t back out.
Her fingers were stiff around the strap of her bag. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing here, what she thought would happen. There was no fanfare. No one rushed to hug her or give her a special seat or offer her peeled clementine. The girl at the register—a newer hire, someone she didn’t know—glanced up, offered a soft smile, and went back to work.
It was all normal.
Too normal. Like Margot’s blood wasn’t on the floor just weeks ago.
She walked slowly past the counter, every step heavier than the last. The old espresso machine hissed in the corner. Someone coughed, two students laughed softly by the window. Everything was just… continuing.
That was the part that stung the most.
And then she saw it.
Tucked near the register—framed in a gold rim, slightly tilted from someone bumping the counter earlier that day.
Margot.
It’s a photo she’d seen a hundred times. Margot’s head tilted back mid-laugh, eyes closed, mouth open, joy spilling out of her like she didn’t know how to hold it all. Someone must’ve taken it on film. The light was warm, her scarf was crooked, and she looked alive.
She was still standing when someone placed a to-go cup in front of her.
“On the house,” the barista said quietly. “Kika mentioned you might come in. I wasn’t sure what you took, so I made what she said was your favorite.”
She looked down. It was her drink, perfectly made. The lid was slightly askew too, a coincidental but uncanny resemblance to how Margot used to leave it, so it wouldn’t get too hot for her to sip.
Her hand shook as she took it. The warmth bled into her skin, and for one terrifying second, she thought she was going to cry in front of everyone.
But she didn’t.
She sat in Margot’s old booth. The one near the back, under the crooked painting of wildflowers. The spot Margot used to pretend was “hers,” even though she’d let anyone sit there if they looked even the slightest bit lonely.
Makes for the best people watching, Margot used to say.
Y/N sipped her drink, the taste both achingly familiar and wrong. Everything tasted different now.
And then, finally, she did cry. Quietly into her sleeves, her eyes puffy and red, the drink cupped like something precious between her hands.
No one said anything. No one interrupted. Someone placed a napkin on her table when they passed by. She pressed it to her face and let herself feel it—really feel it—for the first time since the blood, and the sirens, and Liam’s arms around her.
Margot’s gone. She’s really, truly gone. And somehow… She was still here too.
It wasn’t closure. Not even close.
But it was… a beginning – a breath in, a promise to try again tomorrow.
Across town, Lando coped with things the best way he knew how – by attempting to bury himself in anything that hurt.
The gym was the only place where his brain stopped spinning, where the echo of that night didn’t come clawing back. His knuckles were already split open, the skin on his wrists raw from the wraps. But it wasn’t enough.
He boxed until his shoulders burned and his vision blurred. He picked fights that didn’t need picking. A supplier who’d delivered late. A rival who got too bold. A runner who looked at him the wrong way. Anyone. He welcomed the violence because it was simple. It was controlled. It was pain with purpose.
He went back to the gym. Back to the ring. Back to the sweat and the fists and the ache of muscle against bone. He’d been spending more time there lately—longer hours, harder rounds. Bruised knuckles, bloody tape. Sparring until the pain in his ribs could quiet the noise in his head.
But none of it worked. Not really.
Not when she haunted his thoughts. The blood on her hands. The way her voice cracked when she said Margot’s name. The ghosted version of her that had returned to the world, polite and smiling but nowhere near whole.
He told himself he was doing the right thing—giving her space. Not crowding her. Not pushing. But he checked his phone too often. He told Logan to keep an eye out. He pretended it didn’t sting when days passed without a single message.
Lando had grown up with blood on his hands. He knew how to carry loss. But watching her unravel quietly was different. He didn’t know how to fix it.
He only knew that some ancient, forgotten part of him wanted to.
He didn’t even know if she missed him back.
But now, more than ever, he was trapped—caught in a war he never asked for, playing the catchup game, unable to escape. Someone had brought the fight to him, gone after his people and made this fight personal.
And the worst part? It felt like this was just the beginning.
So he leaned into the version of himself that didn’t need people—because he was starting to hate the part of him that did. Lando drove his knuckles bloody at the boxing ring, over and over, punishing himself with each swing. He spent the late hours of the night sparring until his arms felt like lead and his lungs were on fire, until the aching in his body was louder than the silence her absence left behind.
The boys around him noticed. He’d gotten meaner, shorter. The fuse he once kept so carefully coiled now lit itself at the smallest spark. He threatened more than commanded, and his eyes held less warmth, more calculation. He was slipping back into a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown. But the worst part? He didn’t care. Because feeling empty was easier to carry than heartbreak.
And still, he couldn’t get her out of his head.
The last time he’d seen her, she wasn’t even really there—polite, quiet, careful. Like she was speaking through glass. And he hated how helpless it made him feel. He was used to controlling situations. But there was no controlling this. Not her grief. Not the way she’d disappeared behind it. Not the aching emptiness she left in his life.
So he threw himself into the fire. Again and again. Hoping maybe if he burned hot enough, he could cauterize whatever part of him she still owned.
But he’d still started keeping his phone face up on the table.
Just in case.
a/n: i don't know how i feel about this one. sorry if it's bad.
