#f1readerinsert

There's not enough Nando fics so thank you so much <3

Mariposa Pt1 || Fernando Alonso

Pairing:

Fernando Alonso X RaceEngineer!Reader

Warning and tags:

Nothing but fluff. AFAB!Reader writen, but no descriptions used. Friends to Lovers. Soft!Fernando.

Summary:

Fernando finally gets his 33rd win after a nail-biting finish in Hungary, but his victory means nothing without the one person who’s been with him since his rebeginning. His race engineer, his closest friend, and the person he's loved in secret for the longest time. When an old promise resurfaces after the podium celebrations, everything changes.

Word Count:

1.5K

Author's Note:

(See end of story for more notes)

I so agree about there not being enough Fernando Fics on here, and I am trying to help turn that around. So like tag your Favourite Fernando Authors for me please!! We're a small group but we're here and need to support each other!! Anyways, I Hope you enjoy this!!

You couldn't explain how or when the friendship with Fernando had started. You'd probably choke it up to your two years at Alpine when he came out of retirement, but it was the most important relationship in your life. You assumed it was the same as when Fernando had signed with Aston Martin, you were his one non-negotiable. He wanted you as his race engineer, but had eventually settled as just one of his engineers. That was until his main race engineer had retired before the beginning of the season, promoting you into that spot.

It was how you found yourself biting the inside of your cheek as you watched the final 6 laps of the Hungarian grand prix. Since Spain Fernando had become a frequent point scorer, but what you hadn't expected was a possible podium. The race had been intense, with two safety cars and a perfect strategy. You had been in constant communication throughout the race. He had started in tenth, and had fallen to p18 after the first safety car caused by the Ferrari's colliding . He had climbed back to P7 by the time of the second safety car, Lando had found a wall, which had caused him back into P10. But he had raced his heart out passing the Williams and RBs. He had been able to get past Kimi with little fight and had struggled getting past George for third. But he had and it had put him in the position to fight Oscar in for P2.

You watch as they swap positions going through corners.

"Stay focused, Fernando. Use your knowledge" You said. To an outsider it might mean his expertise, but he knew the double meaning. Oscar was managed by Mark Webber and had adopted a lot of his racing styles. Fernando Followed Oscar for a lap and the pressure mounted until Oscar went too wide in the final corner giving Fernando the chance to get passed.

"Well done Fer, Max 1.0 ahead" You told him.

"Yes! Let's go"

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴꜱ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ

ᴛᴇᴀʀꜰᴜʟ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

The lake lay still, its surface like darkened glass catching the last fire of the day. Shadows stretched across the landscape as the sun prepared its final descent, casting a glow that made everything look softer than it truly was—more golden, more forgiving. The gentle hush of nature, the faint sound of birds returning to trees, the distant ripple of water lapping against rock, these were the only witnesses as two soulmates stood apart in the breathless hush of coming evening.

Lando leaned against the side of the car, arms crossed loosely, head tilted down toward the ground like it could offer answers he hadn’t already asked for. His jaw was tight, a vein twitching at his temple, but he didn’t speak immediately. There was something cautious in him now, a restraint unfamiliar to the once-playful man who smiled easily, teased endlessly, and carried the weight of his fame with practiced grace.

Beside him, (Y/n) stood still, her arms wrapped around herself—not out of cold, but because her soul felt exposed, like she had peeled too much skin off in a room without walls. She watched the horizon, trying to draw courage from the way the sun never hesitated to leave, never questioned its place in the sky.

It was Lando who finally broke the silence, his voice low, deliberate, trembling slightly on the edge of raw vulnerability.

"Why?"

That was all he asked.

A simple question.

But not a small one.

He didn’t look at her when he asked. He stared out toward the lake, voice steady but brittle, like glass under pressure.

"Why did you run when we had just found out? When we had just—" he paused, exhaled, and then finished, "—discovered each other as soulmates? Why didn’t you want this? Why didn’t you want me?"

(Y/n) flinched, not from his words, but from the pain they carried. There was no malice in his tone, only ache. It was like the kind of ache someone carried quietly for weeks, refusing to scream because they knew no one would understand.

She turned to him then.

And breathed.

Once in.

Once out.

And then she began.

"I didn’t run because I hated the idea of us. Or because I didn’t feel anything." Her voice was steady, but hushed, threaded with restraint, like she was scared too much volume would make it all too real. "I ran because I was terrified of what it meant to have someone… tied to me like this. Because all my life, I’ve been doing things. Carrying things. Working behind the scenes, helping the people I love, protecting them. But a soulmate?" She swallowed. "That wasn’t part of the plan."

Lando said nothing.

So she continued.

"You’re famous, Lando. The whole world watches you. Loves you. Criticizes you. You already carry so much, and I didn’t want to be another weight around your neck. I didn’t want to be some girl who was suddenly seen as your person, not my own. I didn’t want to be defined by you. And more than that, I didn’t want to be vulnerable to something that could destroy me if it fell apart."

Her hands clenched at her sides.

"I’ve seen what love can do when it breaks. I've watched it ruin people. Make them shadows of themselves. I’ve watched my own family crack under pressure, under expectations. I didn’t want that. Not with you."

The silence that followed was not empty, it was filled with the weight of everything that had never been said until now.

Lando turned to her slowly, his eyes searching, tired.

"So you ran."

She nodded.

"I ran."

"And you didn’t think that would destroy me?"

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Lando laughed, but it wasn’t bitter, it was soft and broken. A dry exhale of disbelief. "You were scared of being destroyed. But did you even think about what it did to me? I broke down, (Y/n). Publicly. In front of millions. I kept smiling when I needed to scream. I kept driving when all I wanted was to disappear. Do you know how hard it is to keep showing up, to do interviews, to race, when your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out?"

Her breath hitched at that.

Because she remembered. She remembered Cisca’s voice back in Greece—calm, loving, but sharp with truth.

"He cried. In front of all of us. Not just once. On camera. In interviews. In private. And we didn’t know what to do. Because all he kept saying was, 'She was there, and then she was gone.'”

(Y/n)’s throat tightened. She stepped forward a little, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Lando looked down, jaw clenching again.

“I’m trying,” she continued, firmer now. “I’m here. That must mean something.”

He looked up at her finally, eyes red-rimmed, weary.

“You say you’re here,” he said softly. “But what happens when you get scared again? When it feels too real or too much or too fast? What happens when you decide I’m not worth staying for?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Because the truth was—she didn’t know.

Not fully.

She couldn’t promise she wouldn’t run again.

But she could promise this:

“I’ll try,” she said. “I’m not asking you to trust me blindly. I just need you to know that I’m trying. I don’t know where this leads. I don’t have it all figured out. But I won’t walk away right now. Not without giving this a real chance.”

Her words hovered between them like a fragile truce.

Then silence.

Then breath.

And finally, peace.

They sat together near the hood of the car, shoulder to shoulder, as the sun melted into the horizon. Neither spoke again. They didn’t need to. Not right now. The air between them had changed—not cleared completely but softened. Something had cracked open and spilled light through the wounds.

And in that golden silence, healing began—not as a grand event, but as something subtle. Like the way dusk slips into night without anyone noticing.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

By the time they arrived at his flat in Woking, the sky had surrendered fully to night. City lights blinked faintly through the windows, casting quiet shadows along the walls of a space that felt more like a showroom than a home.

Inside, the air was still. No scent of herbs, no low murmur of family in the kitchen. Just silence, and a slight chill that hadn’t yet been warmed by life.

(Y/n) stepped through the door first, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She paused near the entryway, slowly taking in the flat: the clean lines of the furniture, the untouched throw blanket folded too perfectly over the arm of the couch, the faint hum of the heating system kicking in.

It didn’t feel cold, exactly.

Just… lived in by one person. For a long time.

Lando followed behind, dropping his keys into a small dish near the door. His eyes swept the space briefly, then moved back to her.

“I usually order food when I get back from trips,” he said, his voice soft, a little unsure now that it was just the two of them and the long drive was behind them. “But there’s stuff in the fridge. If you’re hungry.”

(Y/n) nodded faintly. “Let me help.”

That surprised him.

But he didn’t argue.

She set her bag down by the couch, rolled her sleeves up without another word, and followed him into the sleek, minimal kitchen. They moved around one another carefully at first—awkward, almost too polite—but then something shifted. He handed her a cutting board. She passed him the olive oil without being asked. They began to cook in tandem, finding a rhythm as they assembled a simple pasta dish: garlic sautéed in butter, fresh basil torn between fingertips, tomatoes crushed slowly into the pan.

They didn’t speak much.

But the silence between them wasn’t empty, it was new. Unfolding. Becoming.

At one point, Lando looked over, catching sight of (Y/n) stirring the sauce with the focus of someone grounding themselves in the act. Her presence, her ease in his kitchen, it shifted something in his chest. A quiet warmth, cautious but undeniably real.

Later, they sat together at his dining table. No centerpiece, no candles—just two plates of steaming food and the shared sound of forks clinking against ceramic.

There was laughter.

Not loud.

Not constant.

But real.

The kind that emerged unexpectedly, between bites, between glances, between moments when their eyes met and neither looked away too quickly.

Afterwards, Lando stood to wash the dishes, but (Y/n) was already ahead of him, sleeves pushed up again, fingers working beneath the water. He joined her without hesitation, shoulder to shoulder at the sink, suds rising between them.

It wasn’t domestic bliss.

Not yet.

But it was a beginning.

A subtle unraveling of hesitation. A quiet acceptance that maybe, just maybe, they could exist in the same space without fear pressing in from every side.

And when the dishes were done, and the lights dimmed, and they prepared for sleep, it was simple.

She took the guest toom.

He went to his room.

Just like before.

But something had changed.

The space between them no longer held the unbearable tension of things left unsaid. Instead, it held the soft breath of possibility, of two people finding their way, cautiously, tenderly, toward something unknown.

Lando lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling.

And though his heart still guarded itself, still feared she might leave again… for the first time in weeks, he let himself hope.

Just a little.

Because tonight, she stayed.

And that was enough.

To be continued...🧡

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10: ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, This is the third and last post for today, thank you for still being here with me!

Honestly, Chapter 9 felt like watching two emotionally constipated soulmates trying to process 47 years of repressed feelings in one lakeside evening... and then deciding pasta would fix it. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. All I know is: we’re cooking garlic and crushing tomatoes like it’s therapy now. 🍅

Also, a heads-up! There might not be an update this Monday because it’s Race Day at Night in my country (yes, Formula 1 under the stars, baby), and I will be slightly feral and emotionally unavailable.

But I wanted to deeply thank every single one of you who still takes the time to read my little emotional essays disguised as chapters. Whether you’re silently lurking, liking from the shadows, reblogging with tears in your tags, or writing me full-blown paragraphs in the comments, thank you. Truly.

💌 If you have a moment, please don’t forget to reblog, like, or comment. It helps this story reach more soft-hearted readers like you. If not, that's okay too. Just the fact that you're reading this means the world to me.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ᴍɪʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ

ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

The rhythm they eventually found was neither instant nor effortless. It took time. Gentle time. The kind of time that didn’t rush or demand or try to solve everything at once. Instead, it unfolded in the small, ordinary hours—the quiet mornings, the soft dusk returns, the slow, steady learning of each other’s space.

In Woking, when there wasn’t a Grand Prix looming or a trackside briefing tearing him away, Lando stayed. And so did (Y/n).

Sometimes they cooked dinner together in the little kitchen that once felt too clean, too silent, but now pulsed with the low hum of music playing from someone’s phone speaker, or the faint sound of laughter slipping from one room to another. They had made a small habit of brushing shoulders while preparing meals, of sharing soft glances while plates clinked and water boiled. And sometimes, when the food was finally ready and set between them, they didn’t rush to eat. They just sat. Together. Comfortable in the knowledge that they weren’t going anywhere.

Lando had always been a fast driver, a quick thinker, someone who lived off instinct and milliseconds. But with her, he slowed down.

And she let him.

There were mornings when she was the first to wake. She would tiptoe to the kitchen, barefoot on cool wooden floors, preparing coffee in two mismatched mugs. By the time he appeared—hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep—she’d have one waiting for him, and he’d smile that sheepish smile that always made her breath catch for a reason she couldn’t yet name.

Some nights, when the weather was cooperative, they would sit on the balcony of his flat, knees drawn to their chests, blankets wrapped around shoulders, just watching the Woking sky. It wasn’t filled with stars like back in Greece, but it was theirs for now, and it was enough.

And sometimes, they would talk.

About everything.

About nothing.

She told him stories about Ajax, about the tiny island village they’d grown up in. He listened. Really listened. His favorite was the one where they’d gotten lost as children and ended up discovering a hidden cliffside covered in wild lavender. Her eyes lit up when she told it. He would always remember that.

And in return, Lando told her about karting in the rain, about his first-ever podium, about the fear that came with pressure and success, and the loneliness he never admitted to anyone, not even himself, until now.

She listened too.

There were no promises between them yet. No declarations. But they tried. Every day, they tried.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

One warm Saturday afternoon, Oscar and Lily invited them out to a café tucked beside the River Wey. The place had ivy crawling over its windows, and old wooden benches warmed by the sun.

The moment Lily saw (Y/n), she grinned. They had fallen into conversation so effortlessly the first time, and nothing had changed. Talk of books, of music, of mechanical engineering dreams filled the space between their drinks and shared slices of cake. Occasionally, their laughter would draw glances from nearby tables.

Oscar, sitting across from Lando, leaned back in his chair and nudged his teammate with a knowing smirk.

“She fits here,” he said simply.

Lando looked over at her, watched the way her hands moved when she spoke, the way Lily leaned in closer with every word. He didn’t say anything, just smiled faintly. Quietly. Thankfully.

Later, when the four of them took a walk along the river, Oscar and Lily stepped ahead, hand in hand, talking about something Lando couldn’t hear. That left him and (Y/n) trailing behind. A breeze picked up, pushing strands of her hair into her face. He reached out without thinking, gently tucking them behind her ear. She blinked, surprised. He dropped his hand quickly, embarrassed, but she didn’t pull away.

That night, back in Woking, they didn’t talk about it. But something settled differently between them. Softer. Warmer.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Max Fewtrell was next.

Lando hadn’t seen him in a while, not properly. The chaos of the season, the shifts in his own life, everything had made it harder to hold space for old friends. But this time, he wanted Max to meet her.

They went to a little pub near town, not loud, just busy enough. Max showed up in his usual hoodie and that same casual air he carried since karting days.

When he saw (Y/n), he grinned wide and said, “So this is her, huh? The one who makes you look less miserable in the paddock.”

(Y/n) laughed, instantly liking him.

They talked easily, the three of them, but more than once, Max pulled Lando aside for quick words, always with that grin.

“She’s good for you,” he said once, after (Y/n) had stepped away to take a call. “You’re less annoying.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway.

Before they parted that night, Max gave her a quick hug and whispered, “Don’t run again. He’s different now. Because of you.”

She nodded slowly. And this time, she meant it.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

A few weeks later, Ajax flew into London for a weekend off from Formula 2 testing. They had planned a brother-sister date, just the two of them, but Ajax insisted that Lando join too.

“He’s family,” he said firmly, in Greek. “Whether you like it or not.”

So Lando went.

They spent the afternoon wandering through Camden Market, trying street food and vintage shops. Ajax and (Y/n) slipped into rapid-fire Greek more than once, their laughter bubbling up into the air. Lando didn’t understand all of it, but he understood the sound of her happiness—and that was enough.

At one point, she turned to him mid-conversation, still smiling, and asked, “Do you want us to speak English?”

He shook his head. “No. I like listening. Even if I don’t understand.”

Ajax clapped him on the back. “He’s alright.”

And in that moment, Lando felt something ease in his chest. A small validation. A quiet welcome.

That night, when Ajax left to meet friends, (Y/n) and Lando walked back to the car under a silver-lit sky. She was quiet for a long stretch, then said softly, “He likes you. He doesn’t say that about many people.”

Lando looked at her, his voice steady. “I want him to.”

She smiled, eyes distant. “I think he always wanted to. He just didn’t know if you’d still be around.”

Lando didn’t answer.

But he reached out and took her hand.

She didn’t let go.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Three months passed like this, stitched together by shared meals, laughter, missed trains, engine sounds, lazy Sunday mornings, tangled chargers, and whispered apologies after small arguments.

Three months of figuring each other out.

Three months of slowly pulling back the layers.

By the time he brought her to Monaco, spring had settled like silk along the coasts. The air was warmer. Softer.

She had never been to his house there. Not yet. He’d waited. He wasn’t sure why, but he had. And now, it felt right.

The flight was smooth. Quiet. She fell asleep against his shoulder somewhere over France, and he didn’t move, even when his arm went numb.

When they landed, the drive through the winding streets of Monte Carlo brought its usual charm: high-end cars, glimmering storefronts, the sea curling up against the stone like a lazy promise.

His flat overlooked the water. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Clean lines. He opened the door for her like he always did, and for a moment, she stood there, taking it all in.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“You’re the first to see it,” he replied.

That made her turn.

“No one else?”

He shook his head. “No one that mattered.”

She looked at him for a long time. Then nodded.

They didn’t rush the evening. They went for a walk first, down to the harbor, watched the boats. He pointed out his favorite restaurants, told her which corners the fans usually hid during race week, laughed as he recalled sneaking out during media days when he was younger.

They bought gelato and shared it, because hers melted too quickly and his tasted better. At least, she said so.

Back at the flat, the sun began to dip. Orange bled into lavender. The sky split into soft ribbons of dusk.

He stood on the balcony, watching it.

She came up beside him, brushing against his side.

“This feels like a different world,” she murmured.

“It is,” he replied. “But I don’t like it alone.”

She turned toward him, unsure of what to say.

But Lando had already turned, too. His eyes searched hers—carefully, hesitantly.

And then, slowly, he leaned in.

It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was deliberate. Fragile. Real.

Their first kiss wasn’t fireworks or symphonies. It wasn’t some cinematic climax. It was something quieter. Deeper. A tether clicking into place. A breath held. A wound slowly healing.

When they pulled apart, she looked at him,  really looked.

And whispered, “You waited.”

He nodded. “You’re worth waiting for.”

She exhaled like she hadn’t in weeks.

They didn’t say anything more.

They didn’t need to.

That night, they didn’t talk about labels. They didn’t talk about the future. But when they curled up on the couch, legs tangled, her head on his chest and his fingers running through her hair, it was clear.

They were trying.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like trying too hard.

It felt like breathing.

It felt like home.

To be continued...🧡

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11: ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ, ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏɪꜱᴇ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, It’s Tuesday, and I know, I know, I was meant to post this yesterday. But alas… I was too sleepy and, more truthfully, a little too brokenhearted. Our boy didn’t get P1😭. Still, he fought hard. He did his best. And what a day for McLaren, right? Huge congrats to Oscar for the win! A double celebration in orange.

So! Here's the first post for today. Consider it a soft reset. And this chapter? It's the slow burn of all slow burns. A love story that simmers, not sizzles, until it finally does. (Also, how many cafes, rivers, and soft glances can two people have before kissing? Apparently, a lot.)

Thank you to everyone who still finds time to read my works. Whether you’re curled up in bed, on your lunch break, or just escaping the real world for a moment, thank you. Truly. You make these late-night writing sessions worth it.

Please don’t forget to reblog, like, or leave a comment if something touched you. Or made you laugh. Or scream. Or sigh. Your reactions bring life to this little fic world we share. But if you’re just silently enjoying from the sidelines? That’s perfectly okay too. Thank you for simply reading.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴅɴɪ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

The sun burned brightly over the Riviera, turning the cobblestone streets of Monaco into a shimmer of warmth and sea salt. The glint of expensive watches, the rustle of designer skirts, and the whisper of languages laced with wealth and influence wrapped around Lewis Hamilton like silk—comfortable, familiar, but also, lately, insufferably predictable.

At forty, he had grown accustomed to the cadence of adoration. He knew what it meant when strangers glanced at him for a beat too long, when they crossed the street subtly to intercept his walk, when their phones lifted discreetly under the guise of texting but angled perfectly for a snapshot. He wore sunglasses and a hoodie not for fashion today, but for escape.

That’s why when he noticed her, again, his patience wavered.

A young woman with long, unbothered strides, hair pulled back carelessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline, pretending not to look at him. He first clocked her outside of Café de Paris. Then again at the marina when he’d stopped to check messages. And once more near the old casino steps. It was subtle, but the kind of subtle that raised alarms when you’ve spent years in the public eye.

By the fourth time, when he slowed at a quieter side street and saw her again across the way, Lewis stopped walking altogether.

He turned. Waited.

And she froze.

Her eyes widened slightly—an expression of a deer caught mid-thought, not quite guilt, but something adjacent. Surprise.

That did it.

“Alright,” Lewis muttered under his breath, then strode toward her with calm resolve.

She took a tentative step back, but stood her ground as he approached. Her eyebrows furrowed now, lips parting as if to speak, but Lewis got there first.

“Okay, seriously, are you following me?” he asked, arms crossing in a casual yet unmistakably defensive posture.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been behind me since the harbor,” Lewis said, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but this is Monaco, not Times Square. It’s kind of obvious.”

She stared at him, stunned. Her lips moved, but no words came. Then, a beat later, her brows lifted, and she scoffed with soft disbelief. “You think I’m stalking you?”

Lewis tilted his head. “Well, aren't you?”

A pause. Then her cheeks flushed, not with guilt, but with something closer to offense.

“I have no idea who you are,” she said plainly.

He blinked.

“I’m not following you. I’m... I’m following them,” she continued, stepping sideways and subtly motioning across the plaza. “My best friend is on a date. A suspicious one. She asked me to keep an eye.” (Author: It's a lieee~)

Lewis followed her gesture. A couple sat on the terrace of a rooftop café, seemingly engrossed in one another. Nothing about them screamed drama, but Lewis could see how someone might be wary.

Just then, as if summoned by the very act of being observed, the woman at the table turned. Her eyes narrowed. Recognition dawned.

“Oh no,” the woman beside him muttered.

The friend stood abruptly and made her way across the plaza with brisk, purposeful steps.

“I take it that’s her?” Lewis asked dryly.

She winced. “Yeah.”

The approaching woman came to a sharp stop in front of them and crossed her arms. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?” (“What are you doing here?”) she hissed, voice low but sharp.

The woman beside Lewis stammered. “Je… Nous passions juste par là. C'est une coïncidence.” (“I... We were just passing by. It's a coincidence.”)

Lewis watched the exchange, bemused as her friend scolded her rapidly in French. The young woman’s shoulders slumped in surrender. Finally, she raised both hands in mock defeat, responding calmly in fluent French, her tone soothing even as her friend remained riled.

Then, without warning, she turned back to Lewis. “Sorry about that,” she said quickly, and before he could react, she slipped her hand into his.

His brows lifted.

Her friend’s mouth dropped open.

“Bye, Clémence!” she called over her shoulder, already tugging Lewis down the street. Her fingers gripped his for only a few seconds, but it was long enough to leave a strange warmth on his skin.

Once they rounded the corner and out of sight, she let go with an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Well, that was dramatic.”

Lewis looked at her, still baffled. “Did you just use me as an escape plan?”

She met his gaze unapologetically. “Yes. And thank you for playing along, even if unintentionally.”

He smirked. “You could’ve just told her the truth.”

She scoffed lightly. “You don’t know Clémence. Telling her the truth would’ve meant a full interrogation, and I wasn’t in the mood for that.”

Then, muttering in French, she added something that sounded irritated and vaguely poetic. Lewis, not fluent beyond basic phrases, frowned.

“What did you just say?”

She glanced sideways at him. “Nothing.”

That look in her eyes—annoyed, intelligent, amused—sparked something in him. Before she could disappear again, Lewis called after her, “Wait.”

She turned, arching a brow.

He hesitated for only a second. “What’s your name?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then: “(Y/n) Robinson.”

He smiled, extending his hand. “Lewis.”

“Just Lewis?” she asked, not taking it.

“That’s all you get until you stop pretending not to know me,” he said, half teasing, half challenging.

But she only shrugged. “I wasn’t pretending. Still not sure why you’re familiar.”

Lewis chuckled, genuinely thrown. It was such a foreign experience, he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or intrigued.

She turned away again and began walking. He followed.

“You’re not going to shake me off that easily,” he said casually.

“Are you the stalker now?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

She stopped abruptly outside a small patisserie tucked between two narrow buildings. It wasn’t flashy, no golden signs or velvet ropes, just a quaint spot with a chalkboard menu and glass display filled with confections. She looked at him. “You really don’t have anywhere better to be?”

“Right now?” he said, hands in his pockets. “No. Got some time.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re being weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She pushed open the door. He followed.

The smell of butter, sugar, and espresso wrapped around them like a memory. Inside, only three other patrons sat scattered between tables. The soft clink of china and faint jazz music filled the space.

(Y/n) stepped up to the counter and pointed to a slice of raspberry cheesecake. “And a lavender latte, please.”

Lewis ordered something simpler, an Americano and a plain almond croissant.

They sat at a small table near the window. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, streaking the table with warm light.

He watched as she quietly opened a novel from her tote bag and began to read, seemingly unbothered by his presence. She didn’t ask him questions, didn’t glance at her phone, didn’t fish for details.

Lewis studied the side of her face, her soft expression as she turned pages. He sipped his coffee and tried to place what felt so unusual about the moment.

It was the silence.

It wasn’t uncomfortable or expectant. It was... easy. She wasn’t pretending not to care, she genuinely didn’t.

For once, he wasn’t the spectacle in someone else’s story.

Eventually, after a few attempts at small talk that were met with polite nods and monosyllables, he gave up trying to draw her into conversation. Instead, he leaned back and let himself enjoy the peace.

She finished her cheesecake slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and finally closed her book. Standing, she looked at him and offered a simple smile.

“Well. That was oddly pleasant,” she said.

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the company, Lewis.”

“Anytime, (Y/n),” he replied.

And just like that, she walked out.

He watched her disappear down the street, her figure weaving through late afternoon foot traffic.

For a long moment, Lewis sat alone. Then he looked down at the empty table, at the fork she had set gently across her plate, at the faint imprint her coffee cup left on the tablecloth.

No selfies. No squealing. No asking him to rev the engine of his fame.

Just cheesecake, silence, and the odd feeling of not being known.

He smiled to himself, pulled out his phone, and opened the notes app.

He typed two words:

Find her.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴇʏᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ🕶️

📝 Note from the Author: Hello my dear Alarwynnites! First post again for this very first title of the month of September hehehe, I hope you like this one! There will be some MDNI moments here, and a huge age gap I tell y’all. If you’re uncomfortable with these kinds of things, it’s totally okay to skip it, yes? Yeeeesss.

I love you guys so much, thank you for always supporting me! To my new followers—welcome, welcome! I’ll try to post as much as possible for this title. Andddd, anyone wants to request something? Another title maybe? I’m running out of ide—just kidding HAHAHA. This author has way too many ideas, but I’d love to hear yours too so the stories don’t all feel the same. So, if you have any, just drop me a message or leave it on my wall, okay?

Also, a huge thank you to Firefly Graphics for the amazing border—they make everything look so beautiful!

Thanks again, always.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ

ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ

ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄ

Monaco, for all its glamour, had an odd stillness to it when he returned.

Lewis stepped into his apartment, the familiar scent of oakwood polish and ocean salt lingering just beneath the surface of luxury. It had been nearly a month, twenty-eight days to be exact, since he'd last walked through his own front door. The season was in full swing. Races blurred into one another—Bahran, Saudi Arabia, Miami. The weight of time zones clashed with the thrill of podiums. Airports, circuits, press conferences, tire strategy—he lived in a world dictated by split-seconds, mechanical symphonies, and roaring applause.

But none of that filled the quiet now. The emptiness of his home echoed around him, pressing into his skin. It was beautiful, his Monaco flat. Sleek, expansive, with glass doors that opened out to a view of the marina. Yet somehow, today, it felt impersonal. Cold. Too quiet.

He had unpacked only the essentials, leaving his travel-worn suitcase slumped near the entryway. He moved slowly, methodically, as though reacquainting himself with stillness. He tried to read, to scroll aimlessly, to drown himself in music, but his mind kept circling back.

To her.

(Y/n).

That unexpected stranger who had somehow embedded herself into his thoughts like a soft refrain he couldn’t quite forget.

And so, the next morning, he found himself standing outside her apartment door, hesitating for only a breath before he knocked. His knuckles hit the wood three times, measured and patient. He waited. No answer. He tried again.

Still silence.

Just as he was about to turn away, a voice caught his attention.

“She’s not home, monsieur,” came a gentle, accented tone. An elderly woman leaned slightly out from the next-door balcony, her pale hair pinned back neatly with bobby pins and a faded scarf. “She left town last week. Business, I think. She’ll return in two days.”

Lewis offered her a grateful nod and smile. “Merci, madame. Thank you.”

She nodded in kind, then disappeared behind her curtains, leaving him alone once again with the Mediterranean breeze curling around his jacket.

Two days. He could wait two days.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

While Lewis raced across continents, (Y/n) Robinson had been writing her own quiet narrative. It was one laced not with speed, but with intention.

Her modeling career was flourishing, but never chaotic. She chose her projects carefully, more curator than participant. Her shoots took her across Europe: a sustainable fashion campaign in Amsterdam, a barefoot coastal editorial in Lisbon, a moody winter piece for a Danish brand in Copenhagen. The lens loved her, but it was never just about beauty. Her images spoke—through her eyes, her stillness, her grace. They captured something often elusive in the industry: sincerity.

She turned down more offers than she accepted. When a luxury handbag label approached her with an extravagant proposal, she politely declined after learning about their exploitative labor practices. It wasn’t about the money. It never had been.

Her boy best friend, Julian, a French-Moroccan designer rising rapidly through the fashion world, often roped her in for his brand’s campaigns. With him, there were no pretenses. Their work was collaborative, fluid, playful. She modeled. He sketched. She captured behind-the-scenes moments on her vintage film camera.

And in the spaces between, she lived.

Charity was never for show. Once a month, she’d visit a local youth center in Nice, offering workshops in photography and design. The children there never knew her as a model, only as “Miss Y/n,” the woman who brought them paint supplies and listened to their stories.

Her life wasn’t loud. But it was rich.

So when she opened her door that day—hair tousled, dressed in an oversized shirt that fell to her thighs, and blinking in mild confusion—it took her a moment to register who was standing there.

Lewis.

Real, in front of her, with that slightly sheepish grin and hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“You came back,” she said, surprised but not displeased.

“I did,” he replied, voice warm. “Was hoping you’d be home this time.”

She stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in.”

Her apartment was modest, but it breathed with personality. Light filtered softly through gauzy curtains, landing on books stacked along the windowsill and half-developed photographs pinned haphazardly to the wall above a vintage desk. The scent of lavender clung faintly in the air.

“Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?” she asked as she padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

“Coffee and biscuits sound perfect,” Lewis answered, easing onto the couch.

Minutes later, she returned with a wooden tray: two mugs, a tin of shortbread biscuits, and a bar of dark chocolate cracked into neat squares. She placed it on the coffee table and sat across from him, curling her legs beneath her.

“I’ll go change real quick,” she added. “Unless you’re into pajama interviews.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, you’re good. But go ahead. I’ll still be here.”

She disappeared into her room and returned soon after in denim shorts and a loose white shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Comfortable, understated, lovely.

“So,” she asked, settling in again, “what brings you here?”

“Wanted to see you,” Lewis answered honestly. “And I figured I better do it before either of us flies off again.”

(Y/n) smiled, and it reached her eyes.

Conversation flowed easily after that, pausing and resuming like tides. They spoke of places visited, moments missed, people encountered along the way. He told her about the intensity of race weekends. She told him about an off-the-grid eco retreat she’d modeled for in Spain, where phones were locked away for seventy-two hours.

He liked hearing her speak. She chose her words carefully, not for affectation, but because she thought before she spoke. He liked that about her.

As the sun crept higher, hunger began to stir.

“Want to grab lunch somewhere?” Lewis asked, half rising.

(Y/n) shook her head with a small grin. “No need. I’ll cook.”

“You sure?”

“Sit. Enjoy the view.”

He watched her work in the kitchen—chopping, stirring, seasoning. She moved with a kind of rhythm that made it look effortless. The kitchen was her studio now, her canvas. Soon, she plated the dishes with the same care she gave to styling photoshoots: pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, sautéed greens, and a bowl of herb-infused couscous.

As he took his first bite, he closed his eyes briefly in appreciation. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s good.”

“Only ‘good’?” she teased.

“Okay, amazing. Might need to up your salt game next time, though,” he added with a grin.

She laughed and tossed a napkin at him. “Noted.”

After lunch, he insisted on helping with the dishes. Elbow to elbow, they worked through plates and cups, their hands occasionally brushing beneath the water. Neither acknowledged it, but both noticed.

That day turned into a quiet evening, and the next followed in much the same rhythm. He came by again, bringing flowers this time—lavender and peonies, her favorites, though he never asked. She raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Who told you?”

“Lucky guess,” he lied, knowing full well he’d caught a glimpse of dried petals in a jar on her windowsill last time.

By the third day, it felt like a pattern had been carved. A warm, strange pattern of closeness stitched between their vastly different worlds.

She folded laundry in the living room while he scrolled through his phone, lounging in the same spot on her couch as he had the past two afternoons. He looked at home there—barefoot, relaxed, a world away from the hyper-polished figure seen on television and billboards.

Then her phone rang.

Her eyes flicked toward the screen and lit up.

“Ciao!” she answered brightly.

Lewis looked up.

Italian. Her voice shifted into a melodic cadence, quick and lilting.

The man on the other end laughed, teased, congratulated. She beamed.

“Cinque giorni,” (“Five days,”) she repeated. “Non di più.” (“No more.”)

There was an ease in the way she spoke to him. Familiarity. Warmth. Maybe even history.

Lewis listened, catching fragments of the conversation—cinque giorni, non di più—but not enough to follow it fully. The rest slipped past him like music half-heard through a wall. Still, he could read everything in the tilt of her head, the warmth in her tone, the way her fingers twirled the edge of her shirt absentmindedly. He knew enough to feel it, and he didn’t know why that unsettled him.

When she hung up, she glanced at him.

“That was my friend,” she explained. “He’s taking me to Italy for a few days. Kind of a thank-you gift after our last campaign.”

“Campaign?” Lewis echoed.

She nodded. “We worked together last month. Brand launch. It did well.”

He smiled. Or at least, he tried to.

“That’s great,” he said. “You excited?”

She beamed, shrugging casually. “Of course. I love Italy. I leave tomorrow.”

He nodded again, eyes dropping briefly to his phone. “You deserve the break.”

Something in his voice made her look at him more closely, but she said nothing. She just smiled again and began folding the last of her shirts.

The next morning, she left. Early flight. Taxi waiting. Passport and film camera in her tote bag.

She didn’t text him goodbye. He didn’t expect her to.

Still, he stared at her empty building later that evening, wondering what kind of silence was left behind when someone took their light with them.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Time moved quickly when it was structured by race calendars. Lewis found himself pulled back into the vortex—media appearances, simulator sessions, press obligations, and strategy meetings. He boarded his flight out of Nice with a practiced ease, the private jet engine roaring to life beneath a sky streaked with gold.

Yet through it all, something sat quietly beneath his ribs—a curious, persistent ache.

He didn’t know what he and (Y/n) were, not exactly. It wasn’t a romance. Not yet. But it wasn’t casual either. It was the beginning of something that refused to be labeled. A quiet chemistry. A budding comfort.

And now she was in Italy. With a man.

Lewis wasn’t jealous, not in the possessive way he’d once been in his younger years. He respected her independence, admired it even. But still, it stirred something. An ache that whispered: you miss her.

And as the plane soared above the clouds, he wondered if she thought of him too.

He hoped, somewhere between the vineyards and sun-drenched cafes of Italy, she did.

Even just a little.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴ🕶️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ / ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ / ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ

ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡᴇᴀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ʜɪɴᴛᴇᴅ

ᴄᴏʟᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ

ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀɪɴ

ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ

There was something almost cruel about routine, the way it lulled people into thinking time healed everything.

The days had grown familiar again, full of sponsors, circuits, press obligations, and ever-growing expectations. Between sim sessions and flights, Lando had tucked away the ache. He’d taught himself how to walk past the memory of her name, how to nod and smile like nothing had changed. As far as the world knew, he was fine.

He had to be.

So, when Zak strolled into the hospitality unit with two black garment bags slung over his shoulder and a devilish grin on his face, Lando already knew what was coming.

“Another gala,” Zak said without preamble, tossing one of the bags to Oscar. “You’re both on the guest list. High-profile event. We want you looking like the face of McLaren, not two exhausted twenty-somethings with helmet hair.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “So… back to Madam Cho again?”

Zak nodded. “She’s expecting you tomorrow. And be nice this time, don’t mess up her carpet with those trainers.”

Lando forced a chuckle, fingers curling tightly around the armrest of his seat. The name hit like a stray pebble to the ribs—not enough to break, but enough to sting. He hadn’t thought about Madam Cho in weeks, hadn’t stepped foot in her atelier since the last time.

Since she was there.

But he nodded. “Sure. We’ll go.”

The following afternoon, they found themselves back at the towering building tucked away in one of London’s quieter streets. The entrance still smelled of expensive fabric and soft florals. The grand piano still stood in the middle of the marble-floored lobby, polished to a mirror-like sheen.

But this time, no music floated through the air.

This time, no melody wrapped around Lando’s ribcage like a memory come alive.

He stepped inside with Oscar, his pace even, his face unreadable. He didn’t scan the room. He didn’t look for her.

But she was there.

(Y/n) stood near the back of the lobby, her frame slightly thinner than before, draped in a soft beige knit and slacks that hung a little looser at the waist. Her hair was tied up in a practical bun, face bare of makeup, eyes focused on the fabric samples in her hands.

Still her.

Still her.

But something was different.

There was a slowness to her movements, a kind of caution in the way she stood, as if her bones remembered pain her voice refused to acknowledge.

And when she looked up—when their eyes met, just for a flicker—she smiled. Just barely.

But Lando didn’t smile back.

He looked away.

And just like that, the air shifted.

(Y/n) swallowed, quickly turning her attention to Oscar instead. She greeted him warmly, even teased him about how quickly his shoulders had bulked since their last visit. Oscar laughed, playfully flexing for effect.

Lando stood by in silence, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes carefully trained on anything but her.

“Madam Cho will be with you shortly,” (Y/n) said, gesturing toward the hallway. “If you’d both follow me, the fitting room’s already set.”

Her voice was even. Smooth. Practiced.

Not once did she falter.

She led them down the corridor with the same grace she always had. Inside the fitting room, she adjusted the lights, fluffed the cushions, poured glasses of water, and made sure every pin and measuring tape was in place.

She didn’t ask how he’d been.

She didn’t mention the silence.

She didn’t explain.

Because he hadn’t asked.

Because he hadn’t cared to hear it.

Not anymore.

Madam Cho entered moments later, her presence as commanding as ever. She greeted the boys with her usual no-nonsense tone, immediately moving to take their measurements.

Oscar chatted easily with both women, unaware of the undercurrent that had settled between Lando and (Y/n) like dust on an untouched shelf.

(Y/n) moved around the room quietly, assisting Madam Cho, fetching fabrics, holding sketch pads. She never stood too close. Never lingered near Lando. Her fingers were steady. Her steps precise.

But her eyes were tired.

Lando noticed.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

She was a stranger now.

And if she wanted to disappear, then return as if nothing had happened, then so be it. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking why.

He wouldn’t let her see that he still thought about her. That he’d waited.

He kept his gaze elsewhere. Let Oscar fill the space with jokes. Let the silence between them grow roots.

And (Y/n)? She didn’t break either.

Even when her chest tightened. Even when she wanted nothing more than to explain—to tell him about the hospital, the IVs, the fluorescent lights that never dimmed. About Madam Cho sitting by her bed, about the fear that had gripped her when her body betrayed her again.

But she had begged Cho to say nothing.

Because if she was going to face Lando again, she wanted it on her terms. Strong. Composed. Professional.

Not as a ghost of the girl who once pulled him from the edge.

Eventually, the fitting wrapped. Madam Cho clapped her hands, satisfied, and said the final alterations would be ready in two days.

Oscar high-fived (Y/n), thanking her with that bright, easy grin of his. She returned it.

Lando didn’t say goodbye.

He turned and walked out the door.

And (Y/n), standing in the quiet aftermath, let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Still her.

But not the same.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴛʜᴇ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴀᴄʜᴇ🛏️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟ ɪᴅᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ꜰʟɪʀᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ / ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ʜɪɴᴛꜱ

ʜɪɢʜ-ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ ꜰ1 ᴄᴀʀᴇᴇʀ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ

ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

Weeks had passed since the hill.

Since the edge. Since the ice cream. Since her.

Lando had returned to the whirring rhythm of his life, the hum of obligations buzzing back into his bones. There was no time to pause anymore, no space for quiet. The media circuits spun with endless interviews, post-season reviews, and reflective commentary dissecting every tenth of a second from the championship that had slipped through his fingers.

He smiled more now. It wasn’t always real, but it wasn’t a lie either. He was doing better. Breathing easier. Sleeping some nights without waking up at the memory of wind against his skin and the silence of that ledge.

Oscar remained close, the young champion busier than ever with press and appearances. Lando held no resentment; if anything, their camaraderie had only deepened. A quiet understanding pulsed beneath their banter, a recognition that the sport they loved could be both crown and cross.

So, when Zak Brown, with his ever-commanding tone and sharp eyes, told them they had a final obligation before the winter break, Lando didn’t complain. Not when he mentioned the name Cho.

"One of the best designers in Europe. She’s doing the suits for the charity gala next month. I want you both looking sharp. This is a high-stakes crowd. Old money, new media. We don’t cut corners with this one."

That was how he and Oscar ended up in the backseat of a sleek black town car, windows fogged slightly as they sped through city streets toward a studio tucked into a quiet cobbled lane. It was one of those buildings that seemed to hum with importance, its facade minimalist and glassy, etched with the gold-foiled name: Maison de Cho.

The driver pulled up to the curb and wordlessly opened their doors. Lando stepped out first, fingers tugging at the collar of his coat. Oscar followed, hands in his pockets, head swiveling with mild curiosity.

Inside, the studio was an elegant hush of cream and gold. Sunlight spilled through vaulted windows, catching on crystal pendants that hung like frozen stars. Mannequins stood poised in corners, draped in suits that whispered wealth and precision.

But what caught their attention wasn’t the polished floors or the fragrant air, faintly sweet like peonies and leather.

It was the music.

A grand piano stood in the corner of the marble-floored lobby, its black lacquer gleaming like a mirror. Seated on its cushioned bench was a woman, her fingers gliding across the ivory keys with effortless grace.

The melody drifted like something from a memory. A Thousand Years.

Her eyes were closed, head swaying gently, lips parted as if she could taste every note. She wasn’t just playing—she was feeling it, breathing life into every progression, every gentle crescendo. There was something achingly vulnerable about the way she played, as though the music was a confession only the piano could hold.

Lando froze.

He knew her. Even before she opened her eyes, he knew.

And when she did, when she lifted her head and those familiar eyes flickered toward them, the rest of the world seemed to drop away for a moment.

(Y/n) Hwang.

Her gaze met his and widened, not with shock but amusement. A smile curled on her lips, subtle but unmistakably teasing.

"Well, well. Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Norris," she said, voice soft with humor.

Oscar looked between them, brows raised. Lando said nothing at first, just blinking as if to make sure she was real.

Before he could speak, another voice sliced through the serene air.

"Gentlemen!" A woman swept into the room, her heels clicking like a metronome. She was dressed in all black, her hair pulled into a severe chignon, eyes sharp behind thick-framed glasses.

"Welcome to Maison de Cho. I am Madam Cho. You must be Lando and Oscar. It is an honor."

She smiled with practiced warmth, then turned to (Y/n), who had stood from the bench and now stood quietly beside it, hands clasped politely in front of her.

"(Y/n), darling, would you be so kind as to take our guests to the private fitting suite? And perhaps prepare a tray—something light, some tea, perhaps a few of those matcha things you make. I will gather the fitting essentials shortly."

"Of course, Madam Cho," she replied, bowing her head slightly.

She turned back to Lando and Oscar, giving them a playful wink. "Right this way, gentlemen."

Oscar nudged Lando with a smug grin. "Friend of yours?"

Lando didn’t answer. Not yet.

They followed her down a narrow corridor lined with sketches and framed fabric swatches. Everything smelled of cedarwood and jasmine, like memory and refinement woven into the walls.

The fitting room was less a room and more a private lounge. Velvet sofas in emerald green flanked a mirrored wall. Spotlights hovered like halos, adjustable but currently dimmed. A large rack stood to one side, draped in pristine garments waiting to be tailored.

(Y/n) moved with fluid precision, adjusting a tray table near the lounge. Within minutes, she returned bearing a lacquered wooden tray. On it were two porcelain cups, a glass teapot filled with golden-hued tea, a small plate of neatly arranged matcha mochi, and two glasses of water with lemon slices.

Oscar was already lounging on one side of the sofa, eyeing the sweets with intrigue.

Lando, however, stood awkwardly near the rack.

She placed the tray on the center table and glanced up at him.

"Still brooding, Norris? Or just shy now that we’re indoors?"

He laughed, quietly. His voice felt strange in his throat. "Didn’t expect to see you again."

“And yet here I am. The universe has a sense of humor.”

Oscar, already mid-bite, looked up between them. “Alright, someone catch me up. What exactly did I miss?"

(Y/n) sat delicately on the armrest of the sofa, crossing her legs with casual elegance.

"Your dear teammate almost mistook a cliff for a balcony view. I happened to be walking by."

Oscar blinked. "Wait. Seriously?"

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. "It was a rough day."

(Y/n) shrugged. "We had ice cream. It ended fine."

Madam Cho arrived moments later, arms filled with fabric rolls, measuring tape slung around her neck like a scarf. The mood shifted with her presence, businesslike but not unkind.

She began her work swiftly, directing them to stand, measure, shift, turn. She barked numbers in French to an assistant who appeared from another door with a tablet. Lando endured it with quiet patience. Oscar made faces every time a measurement was taken.

But Lando's eyes kept drifting.

To the corner where the piano stood.

To the woman who had unknowingly saved him, now humming softly under her breath as she noted down fabric preferences on a tablet. As if she hadn’t held his soul in her arms weeks ago.

When the measurements were done, and Madam Cho vanished behind a curtain to prepare swatches, (Y/n) returned with another pot of tea, this time infused with lavender.

Lando reached for a cup. Their fingers brushed.

She didn’t flinch. Just smiled.

"Nice suit, by the way," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t put it on yet."

She tilted her head, a glint in her eye. "Still suits you."

Oscar groaned dramatically. “God, I need Lily here. This is too much flirting for one fitting."

Lando laughed, a real one this time. Not forced. Not hollow.

As the appointment wound down, and their choices were finalized, Madam Cho returned with sketches and instructions. Business wrapped with precision, but the air lingered with something softer.

On their way out, just as the car pulled up again outside, Lando hesitated.

He turned to (Y/n), who stood beside the grand piano, fingers resting gently on the edge of the lid.

"Do you come with the suit?" he asked, voice low.

She smiled, half-teasing, half-tender.

"No," she replied.

Then added, more gently, "But I’ll be at the gala. Maybe you’ll save me a dance."

Lando nodded slowly, lips parting in a soft breath.

"I will."

Outside, the wind brushed his face. But this time, it didn’t sting.

The hill felt far away. And for the first time, the road ahead didn’t look so lonely.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴋ🛏️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟ ɪᴅᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴄʟɪꜰꜰ / ɴᴇᴀʀ-ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ɪᴍᴀɢᴇʀʏ

ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ

ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ / ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴀᴠɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

The sky was a dusky canvas of grey-blue, bleeding faint streaks of orange as the sun began its slow descent behind the hills. There was a brittle kind of quiet in the air, the sort that hums inside your ears when your thoughts are too loud to ignore. Wind brushed through the tall grass in shivering waves, the hill sloping down into an expanse of wilderness that looked endless. Lando Norris stood on the edge of it all, his shoes resting dangerously close to the crumbling cliff, the breeze nudging against him like a taunt.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there. Time had dissolved the moment he parked his car and wandered up the dirt path, led by instinct more than purpose. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, knuckles white from how tightly he clenched his fists. The air stung his eyes, or maybe that was just the lingering burn of tears he refused to let fall.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix had come and gone, leaving behind champagne-soaked celebrations, applause, and glittering lights. And yet, Lando could still feel the weight of the moment he knew the championship had slipped from his grasp. One race. One shot. It had been within reach—so close he could practically taste it. But fate, or misfortune, or perhaps just sheer bad luck, had other plans.

Oscar had won.

Oscar Piastri, his teammate, the rookie. The prodigy. The golden boy.

Lando was happy for him. He truly was. But happiness was not a cure for the slow suffocation of disappointment. He had given everything. Years of sacrifice, relentless discipline, pushing past the limits of body and mind. And still, it wasn't enough.

He had smiled for the cameras, clapped for Oscar, lifted his glass in toast. But inside, something had cracked. Something deep. And when the celebration ended, and the world moved on, Lando didn’t.

So here he was.

At the edge of everything.

He inched closer, heels half-dangling now. A sick sense of peace began to blanket his nerves. The stillness below looked inviting. Quiet. Final. His chest rose in a sharp inhale, his body leaning ever so slightly forward—

And then, a hand.

Strong fingers gripped his wrist. Another arm looped around his shoulders and yanked him back with startling force.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Lando stumbled, breath catching in his throat, as he was pulled backwards onto stable ground. He blinked, eyes adjusting, disoriented by the sudden disruption.

A woman stood before him, her brows drawn in tight fury. Her grip on his arm didn’t loosen.

“Were you seriously about to jump? Are you completely out of your mind?”

He stared at her, too stunned to speak.

“Goshhh, do you even realize how close you were? A few more centimeters and—” She trailed off, shaking her head, eyes glistening with frustration and something else. Fear.

He managed a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I just—”

“Just what? Thought you'd lean over for a better view?” she snapped. “Jes-. You're Lando Norris, right? The Formula One driver?”

His throat tightened. He nodded.

She exhaled sharply, clearly exasperated. “You didn’t win the championship, so what? You're going to throw your entire life away because of one bad season?”

Lando flinched at the words.

“You came second, right? Or third? Do you know how many people would give their entire existence to even race in F1, let alone stand on that podium? Maybe it wasn't your year. Maybe next year is. You don't quit just because the timing isn’t on your side.”

She didn’t stop.

“You endured so much this season. You smiled through the pressure, through the cameras, through the media constantly comparing you to everyone else. You were brave enough to celebrate your teammate when your heart was breaking. That’s not weakness. That’s courage.”

Her voice softened, just a touch. “You matter, Lando. You’re more than just a championship.”

His chest heaved, and without warning, it all came undone.

He broke.

Tears spilled over, unbidden. First a few, then a storm. He cried with a rawness that startled even him, loud and ugly sobs that echoed into the hollow sky. The ache in his chest exploded into something uncontainable.

And still, she held him.

She dropped to the ground with him as his knees buckled, his head burying into her shoulder. Her arms wrapped around him, solid and warm, a stranger's embrace offering the comfort he hadn't known he needed.

She whispered into his ear, a soft stream of words meant only for him.

“You’re not weak. You’re human.”

“You’re strong, even when it hurts.”

“You did good. So good.”

They sat there for what felt like hours, cradled by the earth and silence, the stars beginning to emerge in quiet twinkles above.

Eventually, he spoke, voice trembling. “Who are you?”

She leaned back slightly, giving him a small, tired smile. “( Y/n ) Hwang. I live not too far from here.”

“Why were you up here?” he asked, wiping at his face.

She chuckled softly, gesturing toward the grass. “I needed space to think. I work for a fashion house in the city, the lead designer told me to disappear for a while until I ‘get my creative brain back.’ I guess this hill felt like the right place to vanish for a bit.”

He laughed quietly, the sound still raw. “You always save people when you vanish?”

“Only the stubborn ones,” she teased.

They sat in silence again before she stood, brushing off her jeans. “Come on. There’s a bench nearby. You look like you need to sit somewhere that isn’t this dramatic.”

He let her guide him. A short walk led to a weathered wooden bench tucked beneath a small willow tree. It creaked as they sat, but the view was beautiful, overlooking the sleepy lights of the town below.

“Wait here,” she said suddenly, trotting off toward a small hatchback parked under the trees.

Lando watched her disappear, puzzled.

Minutes later she returned, triumphantly holding a tub of ice cream and a plastic bag filled with spoons.

“You keep that in your car?” he asked, a brow raised.

“Emergency therapy snack,” she said. “I came prepared.”

They passed the tub between them, trading spoonfuls, melting ice cream becoming a balm. Conversation flowed, tentatively at first, then deeper. They talked about racing, about design, about dreams and disappointments. The night air was cool, but not cold, their breath fogging faintly with every laugh and sigh.

At some point, her watch buzzed. A soft chime, not intrusive.

She looked down, smiled.

“That’s my cue. Time to go back to real life.”

Lando frowned. “You’re leaving?”

“We both should,” she said gently. “And you, especially, should go home. Rest. Don’t ever come back to that edge like that again.”

He nodded slowly. “I won’t. Not now.”

She stood, brushing her hands together, the empty tub discarded into a nearby bin. As she turned to leave, she glanced over her shoulder.

“It was nice meeting you, Lando Norris. Try not to break anymore hearts, including your own.”

He watched her walk back to her car, engine purring to life, taillights glowing like little red stars as she disappeared into the night.

And for the first time in a long while, Lando sat alone—not in despair, but in a quiet sort of gratitude.

The hill hadn’t taken him.

It had given him something instead.

Someone.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴍᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ🛏️