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...🧡

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