#ex gf

You aren’t standing in Ferrari’s garage, you aren’t waiting in the paddock to comfort him from shitty race results. Instead, you’re sitting in your apartment, staring aimlessly at nothing like you have been for two hours straight. 

Your living room is completely silent. You feel the heavy absence that settles over it. The absence of him. There’s still polaroids on the shelf beside the TV, there’s a Ferrari bullet-point pen that cost a stupid amount of money sitting on the coffee table. You haven’t touched anything that belongs to him—you haven’t been able to. You see traces of him everywhere, like the dent in the wall he’d made when you’d both come home too drunk one night and the leftover snacks in your pantry. 

For ten months, you’ve lived in an apartment that might as well belong to him. You knew you should’ve moved ages ago, out of this apartment that wasn’t ever solely yours, out of this town, out of this country. But you hadn’t. So here you were.

The roar of the crowds outside are deafening, the kind of screaming that can only mean one thing.

He’s about to win it.

You know if you turn on the TV, every single channel will be broadcasting it. His face, his voice on the radio, that familiar red that you’d grown to hate. You can already hear the chants of his name outside, the anticipation of the long-awaited home race win he’d chased every year you were together. 

Your fingers are itching for the TV remote, your gaze is drifting to the window outside.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

You cave.

The screen flickers back at you, painstakingly clear as his car crosses the checkered flag. The screams from the crowd fill your head, the sound of victory, of relief, all mixed into one.

You hate how your heart stops when his voice comes on. You hate how you can pinpoint every single emotion running through him by his tone—how you know he’s been crying since he’d started his final lap. 

You hate how you aren’t there.

The TV is playing his interview when you force yourself off the couch and into the kitchen. 

“I want to thank everyone—everyone who supported me. My friends, my team, my family especially. My…” 

He pauses then. You hear him pause, but keep your back turned, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine and a glass. 

“I can’t—I won’t say names,” your fingers tremble as you listen. “I’m not too sure if she… they’re watching. I hope they are. But I want to dedicate this not just to myself, but to them. For supporting me through it all. Thank you.”

You don’t realize you’re completely frozen on the spot, or that your fingers are clenched so tight they leave indents on your palm. All you can think about is him. Charles Leclerc. And how he’s just dedicated the biggest win of his career to you. 

The crowd is still roaring outside. The broadcast moves on, and you realise this moment isn’t devastating to anyone else other than you. He’s celebrating. Everyone's celebrating.

You leave the glass on the kitchen counter, only grabbing the bottle of wine instead. When you sit back down on the couch, taking the first sip, you tell yourself you don’t care. 

It doesn’t work. It never has.

The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning. 

The bottle of wine is finished, though clutched against you like a lifeline. The TV is still playing, always flicking back to replay his victory every half an hour. You aren’t sure why you haven’t turned it off yet, but the distance between the remote and your hand is too far for you to be bothered with. 

The second knock makes you glance over, makes your heart sink with an unmistakable kind of knowing.

“Baby,” you hear, and immediately, you feel the world starting to crash down around you. Charles’s voice is muffled, but clearer than ever. You hear the the slight rasp in his voice, the edges of alcohol that haven’t worn off yet. 

He’s drunk. But so are you.

You don’t register standing up, or even walking to the door. The only thing that snaps you back is the cold handle, and the equally as cold bottle in your other hand. 

“Baby please,” he says, and you hear him lean himself against the door, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Open the door.” “Go home, Charles,” you say, though your fingers are still clenched around the door handle.  There’s silence for a few seconds, as if he’s processing the sound of your voice.  “I am home.”

The click of the door unlocking resounds in your ears, and when the door swings open, you immediately want to close it again. He’s standing there, shirt unbuttoned at the top, his hair messy from champagne and his eyes still partially glowing with the light of winning. He doesn’t look shocked at the sight of you, like he knew you’d give in—that you always do. 

You hate the fact that he looks like he belongs, like he never even left in the first place. 

“Charles,” you say, because you don’t know what else to.  He’s staring at you, every inch of your face like he’s trying to relearn it. 

“I left early.” “What?” “I left the celebrations early.”

He shifts on the spot, almost stumbles, before catching himself. 

“I left because I needed to see you.” “Charles,” you repeat, and he steps closer. “I—” “I dedicated my win to you. My home race. I didn’t even know if you were watching—I didn’t know you still lived here.” He’s standing right on the threshold of the door now, right between you and the rest of the world. 

“I won it,” he says, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I won Monaco. The race I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid, and all I’m thinking about it you.”

You should be shutting the door on him, blocking him out before you let him back in again. He’s close enough you can smell his familiar cologne, the one that you’d only just managed to get rid of. He’s close enough you can reach over and touch him, run your fingers through his hair like you used to, let him kiss you and apologize over and over again.

“What am I supposed to…” your fingers clench around the bottle, and you take a step back. “You can’t just show up here—you can’t just do this, Charles.” “Do what?” he answers. “Tell you the truth? I can’t tell you how much I miss you and how much I need you back? I can’t tell you that I still love you—” “You don’t mean that.” “Of course I mean that,” his voice grows slightly louder, frustration and want mixing into one.  “On my last lap, all I could think was is she watching? And when I won it, the first thing I did was fucking dedicate the win to you.”

You see it then. The pure, raw emotion that shows on his face up close. You wonder if he’s been drinking not out of celebration, but to drown out the thought of you. You aren’t sure which you’d prefer.

“You weren’t there,” he says, voice cracking at the end like it hurts him to say it. “I couldn’t run to you—I couldn’t stare at you from the podium. I looked at every grandstand, every crowd that screamed my name, and you weren’t there—” “You shouldn’t need me there anymore.” “And yet I do,” he moves closer, the door shutting closed behind him. “I need you so bad it hurts. I can’t focus on anything else, I crashed the first time I got back on track after we broke up. Free practice in Brazil, turn 1.”

You knew that. You’d switched off the TV as soon as he’d come on the radio and confirmed he was okay, and hadn’t watched a race since. Until today.

“Every podium I get, I want to run to you,” he says. “Every shitty result, I still want to run to you. I couldn’t care less about anyone else—fuck, I would’ve ignored the whole team today if you were there. I am ignoring the team by being here, and you’re telling me that I don’t mean a word I’m saying?”

The words hit hard. Harder than they should, with ten months apart. Your mind struggles to form a sentence, and when he moves closer, you can’t bring yourself to step away again.

“You look fine whenever I see you,” you manage to say, voice strained. “Like nothing ever changed.” “You know better than that.” “Do I?” you answer, and his jaw clenches. “Why are you here now? Why are you showing up after almost a year, drunk and telling me how much you miss me right when I’ve moved on?” “You haven’t moved on,” his gaze flickers to the TV, still on, sitting there like proof, then it settles back on you. “You wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. You wouldn’t be drinking.” 

The empty bottle in your hand suddenly feels like a joke. He was right. Of course he was fucking right. Since when has Charles Leclerc ever been wrong?

“Go home, Charles,” you say, voice dropping in volume. “This isn’t—you’re not supposed to even be here. Go back and celebrate with people you actually love.” “I love you.” “Stop it.” “I love you so much. I always have and I always will—baby, please.” “I can’t do this with you any—” “Then force me out. Force me out of your life and I swear I’ll stay out,” he says, and your throat is closing up at the words. “I promise. I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”

You stare at him. You stare at the face you’d loved for years, the face you’d memorized through late nights and early mornings in bed. You stare at his eyes, red rimmed, desperate. Your heart is screaming at you now, to reach forward and kiss him, to take him back like nothing ever went wrong. 

“I can’t be who you need me to,” you find yourself saying instead, and it comes out like a whisper. “I can’t come second. I can’t sit there and wait my whole life knowing I’ll never compare.” “I’ll—” “You can’t hold onto me and racing at the same time. Don’t you remember how bad it was before? How late you stayed up at night obsessing over lap times and how early you left solely to train? I can’t do that—I can’t live like that.”

He blinks, slowly, standing straighter even slower.

“I’ll never come first,” you say, and when he reaches for you, hands sliding around your waist and pulling you close, you don't pull away. “You know that.” “Do I?” he says, repeating your own words from earlier. He leans closer, gaze flickering to your lips. “Do I know that?” Your heart is pounding in your ears. The space between you two is so easily closable, lessening with every word. “You should,” is all you say, eyes starting to shut on instinct. 

You don’t know when the gap closes completely. You feel his lips on yours—soft, familiar. The bottle of wine in your hand drops, shatters, and neither of you address it. Your hands are already moving to his hair, fingers tangling in it like second nature. 

“Charles,” you say somewhere between everything. It doesn’t come out like the beginning of something this time. It comes out final. He presses you closer, grip tightening around your waist. The kiss deepens, building with ten months worth of frustration, and you swear tears are starting to fall down your face. “Charles.”

Just like that, he pulls away. His grip is still firm on you, and he’s panting, gaze locked on your lips. 

“I’m not letting you choose me over racing.”

He freezes completely. 

There’s a faint, dull ringing in your ears when his hands drop from your skin, taking all the familiar warmth away. It isn’t hurt that flashes across his face, but realisation. He stumbles again when he takes a step back, still drunk and not quite there yet, but he’s there enough to know what the sentence means. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet, and the single word makes you want to rip your hair out. “I’m…I—” He stops himself, and doesn’t start again until he’s at the door. 

You’re still standing in the entryway, shattered glass on the floor, the kiss lingering on your lips.

“Charles,” you say, for what feels like the millionth time.  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says before you can. “Don’t apologize.” He brings a hand up, wipes at his lips slightly, runs his hand through his hair and reaches for the door handle.

“I’m sorry,” you say anyway. “I’m so sorry.” The door opens, and he’s right on the threshold of it when he glances back at you.  “I don’t regret it,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means coming here tonight, dedicating his home race win to you, or your relationship as a whole. “Any of it. All of it.” You don’t answer. You watch him hesitate, watch him stare at you like he’s scared of forgetting. 

The door slamming shut echoes throughout the entirety of the apartment. The TV is still playing in the background. His voice comes through the speakers, his car crosses the checkered flag, and the reporter says his name like a miracle, a blessing, and a curse all in one. 

Every flicker of it.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The world around you blurs, photographers hustling past, scooters zipping by, the roar of an engine starting up. All of it feels far away.

You finally look away first, pretending to check your phone even though your hands are suddenly shaking. When you glance back, Lando has quickly looked down, pretending to adjust his bag, pretending he wasn’t just staring at you like a ghost he’s spent a year trying not to think about.

You force your feet to move.

Keep walking to your sponsor booth.

Straight into safety. Except safety doesn’t exist here, not when every corner of this place is a memory you tried to outgrow.

Behind you, Lando lifts his head just in time to watch you disappear around the curve of the garage row.

He doesn’t call your name. He just stands there, breathing unevenly, as if the championship he’s fighting for suddenly matters a little less than the girl who unexpectedly came back to watch.

Lando’s driver room is quiet, the air-conditioning humming softly over the scent of fresh fireproofs and fabric cleaner. A place meant to be calm. A bubble and a shield from the noise outside.

Except today, the quiet feels heavy. Magui sits on the small sofa, legs crossed neatly, scrolling on her phone. She looks…nervous. Biting her lip, adjusting her hair, glancing at the door every few seconds.

She knows something’s off, she’s known since this morning.

The door handle rattles, footsteps then Lando walks in.

He stops when he sees her not surprised, exactly, but not relaxed either.

“Hey” he says softly, almost politely.

Magui smiles. “I thought I’d wait for you before race. You seemed…distracted.”

The word hits him like a pinprick, distracted.

He sets his water bottle down on the table, his hands lingering on it longer than necessary. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move further into the room.

Magui watches him, eyes narrowing in concern. “You okay?” she asks gently.

Lando breathes out slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a way that screams exhaustion, not physical, but emotional.

“I saw her.”

Magui stills as her fingers tighten around her phone.

“…Y/N?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Lando nods once.

Silence sweeps through the room like a cold gust of wind. Magui’s jaw clenches, she looks down at her hands.

“How did it feel?” she asks, trying to keep her voice casual. But it wobbles.

He doesn’t answer immediately because he knows the truth is cruel.

He knows she deserves better than a lie.

Finally, he says “…like my chest forgot how to work for a second.”

Magui flinches. Just a little. Barely visible but Lando sees it. “I’m sorry” he adds quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“No” she says quietly. “I asked.”

She stares at the floor for a moment, breathing unevenly before she lifts her gaze to him, resigned, sad, already knowing where this is going.

“So that’s why...” she murmurs.

Lando swallows, Magui didn't mentioned it but Lando knew he has been different to Magui every time he thinks of you. Distant, unfocused at dinner, hesitating when she held his hand and letting her kiss him without really kissing back.

Magui stands slowly, clutching the edge of the sofa for grounding. “Do you still love her?” she asks. No wiggle room. No soft version.

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine.

Lando’s throat tightens He tries to speak but fails. Tries again but it's worse “…I never stopped.”

It’s not loud and not dramatic but it’s the most honest thing he’s said in months.

Magui blinks fast, tears forming despite her best attempt to keep composure. She turns away from him for a moment, wiping quickly under her eyes.

“God...” she breathes shakily. “I think I knew. The whole time. I just hoped…”

She trails off. Lando finally moves closer, slow, hesitant, as if afraid to hurt her more just by existing.

“I’m sorry” he whispers. “You didn’t deserve this. You’re amazing and kind and patient and I-”

Magui laughs bitterly. “Don’t give me the polite breakup speech, Lando.”

He closes his mouth.

She looks at him, eyes red but steady. “You’re not a bad person” she says softly. “You’re just in love with someone who isn’t me.”

Lando’s chest aches, because she’s right. Brutally right.

He runs a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have tried to move on before I was ready.”

Magui gives a small, sad smile. “That’s what hurts the most. Because I think… you really tried.”

He did. God, he did.

But this morning, when he saw you in that dress, sunlight catching your hair, looking like the dream he’d forced himself to bury, something cracked open inside him.

A raw, overwhelming realization that he was still yours, he had always been yours even if you're not his.

Magui steps closer and gently squeezes his arm. “Break up with me properly” she says quietly. “Say it.”

Lando’s voice is barely a whisper “end...we should end this...Magui”

A tear slips down her cheek. She nods.

“It’s okay” she murmurs. “I’ll be fine. It just… really sucks that you’ll go on track now with a broken heart.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I think seeing her broke it open” he says. “But it didn’t break it. It’s been broken since the day she left.”

Magui’s eyes soften with understanding with a painful, but genuine. “Then go fix it.”

Lando looks at her, wide-eyed. “You don’t hate me?”

“I’m hurt” she admits. “But I don’t hate you. I liked you too much to hate you.”

He nods, jaw tight, grateful in a way he can’t express. Magui grabs her bag, wipes one more tear away, and walks toward the door. She pauses, hand on the handle.

“And Lando?” she says without turning around.

“Yeah?”

“My PR team sent it to me actually and the way she looked at you today...she wasn’t over it either.”

He freezes. Magui pulls the door open, steps out, and closes it behind her with a soft click.

Lando stands alone in the quiet room, pushing both hands into his hair, breathing hard. His heart is pounding, not with panic but clarity.

He loves you, he always has.

And seeing you today felt like waking up after a long, restless sleep.

Outside, mechanics bustle past, engines roar, and the countdown to qualifying ticks closer.

But Lando is standing there, feeling something he hasn’t felt in a year.

Hope.

The paddock is a storm, engines finally roaring, crowds humming, commentators screaming over microphones. The air vibrates with the kind of pressure only a championship decider can create.

And you? you’re clutching your clipboard like it’s a life raft.

You’re supposed to be focusing on sponsor obligations, brand activations, VIP escorts literally anything except the McLaren garage.

Except…your eyes keep drifting to the big TV anyway. You're on paddock but in a different place.

You tell yourself it’s just habit. Muscle memory, not longing and definitely not heartbreak.

The cars roll out for the formation lap. Mechanics scatter. Fans rise to their feet.

Your chest tightens when the papaya car showed on TV. The number 4 gleams under the sun like it was made to blind you specifically.

He’s so focused, he should be.

But then the broadcast crackles through every speaker in the paddock, every TV, every radio, every phone on Lap 23.

“Is this being broadcasted?”

You go still, every muscle in your body freezes.

The commentators visibly choke.

His engineer responded

“Uh… yes, mate. Global feed. Everyone hears.”

There’s a pause, the kind that holds the weight of something irreversible but still his voice panting

“…Y/N...”

Your breath catches.

Oh no. No no no. What is he doing?

People around you are already whispering, turning toward you, eyes wide, phones rising to record your reaction.

Before you can move, before you can look away, before you can run

It happens.

“I, uh… I just want her to know I ended things. With Magui. That it wasn’t fair. And...”

He hesitates, the entire racing world hangs on the silence.

You swear the planet tilts.

“And that I still...I never stopped...”

The engineer panics.

“Lando. Focus. Now. Save it.”

But the damage is done. No, not damage but the revelation.

Your heart slams against your ribs, you grip your lanyard so hard the plastic digs into your palm.

People are staring at you, you hear whispers spreading like wildfire from ither booths.

“Isn’t that Y/N?”

“He means her.”

“He’s talking about her.”

“Oh my god...she was his ex right? does she hear this?”

“Holy shit this is about her.”

Close by, someone films you outright, your face goes cold.

You turn away from the crowd, stepping into the shadow of the hospitality tent, breathing hard, trying to steady yourself because this is too much.

Lando just admitted to the world that the breakup with Magui is real, that he never stopped loving you, that he wanted you to hear it.

Your vision swims.

You press a hand against your mouth to stop your reaction from spilling out where cameras will catch it. But your eyes burn anyway, betraying you.

Because it’s one thing to miss him.

One thing to see him again.

One thing to feel the ache.

But it’s another entirely to hear him fight for you in front of millions of people.

A hand touches your shoulder, you jump.

It’s a colleague, eyes wide, whispering “Hey… hey, you okay?”

You nod, but your voice doesn’t work.

The race continues, but everything inside you has stopped.

Broadcast static crackles again.

“Lando, we need full focus, mate.”

“Just tell me if she's comes to McLaren garage, please.”

Your legs nearly give out, he meant it.

He really meant it.

He is driving the most important race of his life…and all he cares about is whether you stay.

Cameras turn toward the paddock stands toward where you’re standing and zoom in, catching you mid-breath, wide-eyed, overwhelmed.

The world sees, the commentators gasp as your heart collapses inward.

The moment the commentators start replaying Lando’s desperate radio message, your coworkers in the paddock control center slowly turn toward you like you’re the main character in a telenovela.

You stare straight ahead at the monitor, pretending nothing in the world is happening.

“Y/N.”

One of your colleagues nudges your shoulder. “If you want… you could go to the McLaren garage. You know. To… check on things.”

You shake your head immediately, heartbeat too loud for your own ears.

“No. No, I can’t. We ended things. It’s not… appropriate.”

They exchange looks, the kind that say you’re lying to yourself and we all know it but no one pushes further. Because outside, everything shifts all at once.

A low rumble, a gust of wind then the sky cracks open.

A wall of rain slams down like someone flipped a switch from sunny race day to biblical flood. The paddock erupts, umbrellas, plastic covers, people running, camera crews scrambling, marshals yelling instructions.

The race director immediately calls “Heavy rain, I repeat heavy rain, race delay, race delay. All cars to the pit lane.”

Suddenly, there’s no engine sounds. No roaring crowds. Just heavy rain hitting metal and concrete.

And in the McLaren garage, Lando tears off his helmet, wet curls sticking to his forehead, chest expanding too fast, adrenaline pouring off him like heat.

He whips around to his race engineer. “Did she come?”

His voice is raw. Urgent. Almost shaking. The engineer freezes. “Lando...no and we need you to focus until we know the restart procedure.”

“Please.” His jaw tightens. “Then then..just..I need to know if she’s still here in Paddock”

The engineer sighs, presses a button on the tablet, pretending he’s checking weather updates.

Meanwhile, your coworkers have pulled up the delay announcement. Everyone is restless. You feel yourself pacing without meaning to.

Thunder rolls.

You try to act busy, but your mind is full of him.

Full of the way he said your name over the radio, the full, heavy desperation in his voice.

Full of the fact that he ended things with Magui, right before the deciding race.

Your heart is a traitor, pounding like it remembers him too well.

On the other hand, Lando is a storm in human form, he walks back and forth. Runs his hands through his hair. Sits, stands, sits again, unable to stay still.

Oscar watches from the side, quietly eating a banana, whispering to a mechanic “He’s in love. Deep. Like… stupid deep.”

“Shh” the mechanic whispers back. “He can hear you.”

“I want him to hear me” Oscar shrugs.

Lando ignores them, eyes locked on the entrance of the garage. Every few seconds he flinches, like he’s half-expecting you to appear, soaked from the rain, breathless, walking straight into his arms.

But you’re nowhere near. You’re on the opposite side of the paddock, staring at the weather radar, pretending your chest isn’t curling in on itself.

He leans close to his engineer again. “Can you check sector cameras for Y/N? She must be somewhere. Please.”

“Lando” the engineer says gently, “if there’s a restart, you need to be ready. This is your WDC on the line. And sponsored booths are on different place in paddock”

Lando swallows hard. His voice is barely a whisper “I need her here.”

The engineer softens. “You’ll have your moment. Just...focus for now.”

But Lando can’t. He keeps staring at the rain. Keeps clenching and unclenching his gloves. Keeps replaying the breakup...Magui’s tears, his own guilt, the crushing truth that hit him like a crash. That he never stopped loving you. Not for one single day even he was with Magui.

Back to you, another colleague approaches you, whispering like they’re afraid of breaking something delicate.

“He’s asking for you again.”

You freeze. “What do you mean again...”

They glance at the monitor showing the pit lane feed, Lando pacing like a man possessed, like a man who’s running out of time, like a man who would sprint across the paddock for you if they let him.

“Just…stay away from the garage” another coworker murmurs. “For your own sake if you want..”

You nod, even though every part of you is trembling with the urge to move, to run, to see him.

Lightning flashes, the rain grows louder as your pulse thunders in your ears beacuse surely when the rain stops, one of you is going to break.

—

The rain didn’t just fall. It collapsed onto the paddock like a sky breaking.

And then it stopped, instantly. Like the world inhaled and held everything still.

The announcement blared through every speaker “Ten minutes to restart. Ten minutes.”

The paddock snapped back to life around you, crews running and cameras wheeling.

Mic stands clattering as media teams shoved equipment under cover. Everyone with the frantic energy of a race resurrecting.

And you? You could barely hold your tablet steady.

Your clothes clung to your skin, soaked through. Your hair stuck to your cheeks. And even though the rain had ended, something inside you felt like it had only just begun, a flood of thoughts, memories, feelings you had tried so hard to bury.

You kept walking, fast, head down, pretending you were fine.

Pretending your heart wasn’t beating itself to death inside your ribs.

Lando sat on the pit wall stool, suit half-zipped, chest rising and falling too sharply. The rainwater on his hair dripped down the side of his face but he didn’t wipe it away.

He wasn’t seeing anything around him.

Not the mechanics, not the countdown.

He was replaying a single sentence like a fever, your name.

He didn’t even know if it was true, but the possibility was enough to set his pulse on fire, that you heard him.

A new camera feed flickered onto the monitor, a walkway near the media center.

And there you were.

Soaking wet, carrying equipment, moving quickly, intentionally, like you wanted to disappear before anyone noticed you were there.

Lando froze.

The engineer turned toward him but Lando was already on his feet, helmet forgotten on the table.

“Lando? Where are you...”

He didn’t answer, he just ran.

“Oh god LANDO! LANDO WAIT-” he didn't listen. He wanted to talk to you, he's desperate.

Your shoes slapped against the wet concrete as you rushed toward the building, coworkers trailing behind, dodging puddles and equipment cases.

You didn’t want to see him, you couldn’t see him not after everything, not after hearing him say your name on a radio that wasn’t meant for the world to hear.

Your eyes stung with exhaustion, with confusion, with the truth cracking through your ribs. You blinked the tears away before they could fall.

Move. Just keep moving.

“Y/N!”

You stopped breathing.

His voice...God.

His voice was like someone had reached directly into your chest and squeezed.

You didn’t turn, you just grip your equipment tighter. Your coworkers look between you and the sound behind you, wide-eyed, unsure whether to intervene or run.

“Y/N!” Closer now, ragged, desperate.

You quicken your pace. He quickens his.

You turn a corner. He’s faster.

A hand catches your wrist.

Not pulling, just stopping you, gently, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds too tight.

You feel him before you face him. His warmth, his breath, the trembling in his hand. Slowly..slowly..you turn.

And everything inside you breaks.

He looks wrecked, rainwater and sweat mix on his skin. His curls are plastered to his forehead.

His eyes...God, his eyes are wide and pleading, like the sight of you just knocked the air out of him.

He says your name again, softer this time. “Y/N…”

It hits you like a punch, your throat closes, your vision blurs and before you can stop yourself a tear falls.

Then another, then everything just spills.

Because you’re tired, maybe becayse you’re hurt, maybe because your never stopped loving him too.

Or maybe because seeing him run through the paddock for you felt like something out of a dream you’ve never been allowed to have.

Lando steps closer, breath trembling. “You’re crying” he whispers.

You shake your head, wiping your cheeks uselessly. “I’m fine. I just...I wasn’t expecting..”

Your voice cracks.

He swallows hard, staring at you like you’re the only real thing in the world. “I never wanted to hurt you again.”

That sentence almost brings you to your knees.

You inhale sharply, trying to anchor yourself.

“Lando… why are you doing this?” You sound smaller than you intend. More vulnerable and he hears it, he knows.

“I didn’t run after anyone else” he whispers. “I only ran after you.”

His hand still on your wrist loosens, but he doesn’t let go.

You look away, chest heaving, emotion clawing its way up your throat.

“I don’t know how to handle this right now,” you breathe out. “I don’t know what any of this means anymore.”

He steps closer again, close enough that your foreheads could touch if one of you leaned forward.

“It means…” He exhales shakily. “It means I never stopped loving you, and I’m terrified I’m too late.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, tears fall harder.

You are breaking open and folding into yourself all at once.

And the cameras are already everywhere, zooming, focusing, broadcasting every second.

But at this point, all you can hear is him. All you can feel is him.

“Lando!” Suddenly a McLaren staff member skids into view, breathless.

“You have to get to the car. Now.”

He doesn’t move.

The staff member tries again, urgent “Lando! We’re serious!”

Finally, he looks at you, eyes searching, vulnerable, hopeful, afraid.

You sniff, wiping your cheeks again, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest.

“Go” you whisper.

His jaw tenses, he doesn’t want to and you can see it, raw and painful on his face.

You force a small breath. “I need to move these first” you say, lifting your equipment with shaking hands. “And then… I’ll follow.”

He blinks, startled like he wasn’t expecting you to promise anything.

“You’ll come?” he whispers.

You nod.

It lights something in him...something fragile and bright and overwhelming.

He releases your wrist like it physically hurts him to do it, his fingers trailing until the last moment.

“Okay” he says, voice unsteady. “I’ll be waiting.”

He steps back, turns, then stops again, looks at you one last time like he’s memorizing you.

And then he runs toward the garage, splashing through puddles, suit half-open, every camera locked onto him.

You stand there for a moment, shaking, wiping your tears trying to steady your breathing, trying to stop your heart from ripping open.

You whisper to yourself, barely audible “…What am I doing?”

The equipment felt heavier than usual as you carried it through the paddock, heavier than it should have, heavier than anything physical. It felt like guilt. It felt like hope. It felt like fear.

You placed the last case on the storage rack, hands shaking, breath still uneven from the confrontation with Lando.

Everyone around you was rushing back to their posts. The rain delay was over. The restart had already begun.

Engines roared back into life and the sound ripped through your chest.

And you froze.

Do I go to the McLaren garage? Do I face him again? Do I step into a place where half the cameras would turn toward me? Where every mechanic would look at me and think she’s the reason he’s racing like this?

Your legs stayed rooted.

You pushed hair off your damp forehead, trying to breathe through the tightness around your heart.

What am I doing? What am I walking into? What if this is a mistake?

You shook your head, backing away from the hallway. Your hands were trembling.

This doesn’t make sense. None of it made sense anymore. The breakup, the running, his desperation, your tears…You didn’t know what the right thing was.

So you did the first thing your body allowed you to do.

You turned around…and ran

“Where is she? Is she there now??”

Lando asked in radio and his engineer hesitated, the garage was silent.

“Uh… Lando… from what we’ve heard… she’s left the paddock.”

Silence.

A single beat, a single panting breath, his voice broke

“…oh.”

Then he lost two tenths in the next sector.

Water splashed beneath your shoes as you sprinted across the paddock, crew members shouting for you to slow down, cameras pivoting as you bolted past.

You didn’t care because right now your chest is burning, your throat hurt and your tears blurred the edges of everything.

You didn’t know if you were running away from him or toward something else, but you couldn’t stay still another second.

You reached the paddock exit tunnel, almost slamming into a barrier, and you stumble right into someone’s body.

“O! shit...sorry! I didn’t see...”

You stopped.

Magui, her eyes still swollen from crying, her mascara faintly smudge, her bag hanging from her shoulder.

She had come back probably forgot something.

Fate had terrible timing.

She blinked at you, startled then her expression softened. “Oh” she whispered. “It’s you.”

You swallowed hard, backing away slightly.

“I...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

But she stepped forward, shaking her head gently. “No. It’s okay.”

Something inside her seemed calmer now, resolved, sad, but softened. “I know you didn’t do anything wrong” she said quietly. “But I know what happened in that room. I know why he ended things.”

Your stomach dropped, you nevet asked, she opened it up herself. She continued, voice trembling but honest “Every time we were together… he was so sweet, and so good to me… but his eyes?”

She gave a small, sad smile. “His eyes were always somewhere else. On someone else.”

You blinked hard, trying not to cry again. “He tried” she said. “He really tried with me. And part of me wanted to pretend that was enough.”

She swallowed. “But do you know what hurts the most? Not that he ended things, y/n”

She looked straight into you painfully and truthfully. “What hurts is that… he never stopped loving you”

A tight sound escaped your throat. “I’m sorry” you whispered, voice shaking. “I never wanted...”

“I know” she said softly. “And I’m not here to blame you. Or hate you."

She stepped closer, voice gentle “He only looks like that when he talks about you. He only lights up like that when he thinks about you. And he only ran after one person today.”

The words hit you like a crack of lightning. And at that exact moment, the commentator screamed and fans already screaming.

Your breath hitched. Her hand squeezed your arm, one final time, with so much sincerity it shattered you “Go to him. Because he’ll regret it for the rest of his life if you don’t.”

“THREE LAPS REMAIN! If Norris holds P3, he becomes the 2025 World Champion!”

Your heart stopped, you turned and Magui nodded once encouragingly.

That was it.

You ran again, faster this time.

Your lungs burned, your legs already hurting for going back and forth.

Your soaked clothes stuck to your skin but none of it mattered. Because with every step, the sounds of the race grew louder, with every turn, mechanics yelled updates, with every screen you passed, you saw Lando fighting, pushing, racing with a desperation the commentators could feel.

He was still in P3.

He was still holding it.

He was still fighting for something bigger than the title.

You pushed through crowds, past reporters, engineers, media staff until finally the McLaren garage came into view.

A gasp rippled through the team.

“Y/N?! You’re here?!”

Someone rushed forward, grabbing a spare headset.

“Take this” they said breathlessly.

“It’s connected to his channel. If you want...you can talk to him after he crosses.”

You took the headset with trembling hands.

Your heart thundered.

The whole garage stood frozen, watching the screens.

“Lando, this is the final lap. Hold it together. You’re P3.”

Static and heavy breathing.

Then Lando’s voice tired, raw and strained

“Copy…”

He didn’t sound happy, hell he didn’t sound excited.

He sounded empty, because he thought you were gone. You closed your eyes, tears welling again.

Come on, Lando, just one more lap.

The garage erupted into shouts

“HE’S DONE IT!!!! HE CROSSES THE LINE!!!P3! MAX WON THE ABU DHABI BUT LANDO NORRIS MAINTAINED THE P3, LANDO NORRIS IS THE WORLD CHAMPION!”

The paddock exploded, mechanics screaming, hugging, lifting each other.

But through all the noise, all the joy, you noticed

Lando’s voice didn’t come.

No scream, no laugh, no celebration.

Just heavy, quiet breathing.

Then, softly “…thank you team..."

Your throat clenched as you pressed the button.

Your voice cracked into the channel

“Lando?”

There was a beat, a breath.

“…Y/N?”

Your lips trembled.

“I’m here...Congratulations, Lando. You’re a World Champion.”

A soft, stunned laugh escaped him, shaky, choked, overwhelmed.

“Are you...you’re really...you’re really here?”

You swallowed a sob.

“Yes. I ran back. I’m here.”

You could hear his smile, his disbelief, relief. His heart catching up with everything he felt.

“Y/N…”

His voice broke completely.

“This...this is the best moment of my life and it didn’t mean anything without you.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth, trying not to cry again.

He continued, voice trembling

“I finally did it but God...I was waiting for you.”

Your knees went weak.

And the world, the whole roaring garage paused to watch what would happen next.

The minute Lando’s car rolled into the parc ferme, the world exploded.

Mechanics ran, cameras flashed, commentators screamed and fans roared so loudly the air vibrated.

But Lando? He didn’t hear any of it.

He tore off his gloves with shaking hands. Ripped off his balaclava, breathing fast and uneven not from the race, but from you.

From your voice still echoing inside his radio.

His visor flipped up as he went to mclaren garage desperate, searching, hungry and hopeful.

Not for the trophy, not for Zak and not for the celebrations waiting.

For you, only you.

You watched him on the screens, chest heaving, curls soaked with sweat and rain, eyes wide and frantic.

He wasn’t smiling, not yet.

He was looking for something that hadn’t reached him yet.

You.

A McLaren mechanic touched your shoulder.

“Go” he whispered. “You got to go.”

Your knees felt weak but you nodded, stepping out of the garage

And that’s when the screaming started. Not at you, not in panic but in recognition.

Because Lando saw you.

Across the chaos, across the sea of orange, qcross everything.

His whole body stopped for a bit but he ran.

You stepped outside the garage, your pass barely raised, your breath caught nd Lando almost collided with a cameraman trying to get to you faster.

“Y/N-” Your name ripped out of him.

Your throat closed instantly, tears already forming, legs rooted in shock.

You barely managed a whisper “Hi…”

He didn’t slow, he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t care about the cameras, the crew, the world watching.

He ran straight into you, stopping inches away because he needed to see your face first.

Needed to confirm you were real.

Here and not disappearing again.

His chest was rising and falling like he’d sprinted a marathon.

“You're here.”

His voice was breathless. Broken. “A-are you...you’re really here?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “I’m here.”

He shut his eyes once, a sharp, trembling exhale leaving him like a prayer answered.

“God, Y/N… fuck.. I love you"

He cupped your face gently, carefully like he was afraid you’d shatter or he’d wake up from a dream.

“I chased you for months without even moving” he whispered against your forehead. “I wished for you after every race. I missed you in every city. And today when they said you left…” His voice cracked. “I swear my heart stopped.”

You choked on a sob. “Lando I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d ruin everything-”

“You could never ruin anything.” His hands slid down your arms, grounding you.

“You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not racing alone.”

Your breath hitched. “Lando…”

He swallowed hard, staring at your lips, then your eyes.

“I love you.” Said on a whisper with no hesitation, said like he’d held it in too long.

“I love you” he repeated, firmer. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”

A camera zoomed in and someone gasped behind you.

McLaren crew members exchanged looks like they were watching a movie.

His smile the real one, bloomed instantly, relieved, overwhelmed.

You took his face in your hands. “I love you too, hey but court me first, I'm not easy to get.” Your voice broke beautifully. “But i think I think I always have love you”

And then he kissed you and no, it wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t hesitant. It was months of longing, weeks of heartbreak, days of fighting feelings and hours of panic and hope and running. It was everything.

Lando’s hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, lifting you slightly off the ground.

Your fingers tangled into his damp curls.

Crowds screamed, fans shrieked, cameras clicked so fast it sounded like rainfall.

He kissed you until he had to breathe then rested his forehead against yours.

“You were the missing piece” he whispered, smiling breathlessly. “I won the World Championship… but getting you back?” His thumb brushed your cheek. “That’s the real victory.”

McLaren mechanics rushed in, cheering, shouting, laughing.

Someone threw orange confetti.

Another shouted “HE GETS THE GIRL BACK AND THE TITLE IN ONE DAY!”

Lando stuck his tongue out at them without breaking eye contact with you. Then he grabbed your hand tight, sure and warm.

“Come with me.” His smile was crooked and shy and so in love. “I want you with me for everything today. Every picture. Every celebration. Every moment.”

You laughed through your tears. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezed your hand once more, meaning it. “Good.”

His voice dipped low, intimate. “Because I’m never letting you go again.”

And as they placed the Champion’s cap on his head, Lando didn’t look at the cameras.

He looked at you, every single time.

Because of course he did.

Because this was never just about racing. It was always about you.

Fin.