Crashing into the truth part 1
Summary ━━━━━ Y/N and Lando Norris have always been enemies — sharp words, sharper stares. One “harmless” gentleman gesture turns into a night neither of you meant to have… and feelings he definitely wasn’t supposed to show. By morning, everything’s ruined. Then comes the crash. And suddenly, everything gets turned upside down.
Word count ━━━━━ 15,4k
The air in Melbourne is different. It’s thick, heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and the electric, buzzing anticipation of a new season. It’s the first race back after the winter break, and the paddock feels like a pressure cooker, every team principal, every engineer, every driver simmering with a potent mix of hope and dread. For him, it’s mostly dread.
Not about the racing. The car feels good, better than last year’s, and the simulations are promising. No, the dread is personal. It’s a low-grade, persistent fever that’s been burning in his gut since the calendar flipped to January. It’s the knowledge that she’s back.
He’s standing in the McLaren hospitality unit, pretending to listen to Zak Brown outline their strategy for the weekend, but his ears are tuned to a different frequency entirely. He’s listening for the click of her heels on the polished concrete floor, for the cadence of her voice, for anything that signals her proximity. It’s pathetic, he knows. A man in his position, reduced to a lovesick teenager with a superhuman sense of hearing. But that’s what she does to him. She turns him into something he doesn’t recognise.
Zak’s voice fades into a dull hum. “Lando? You with me?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just thinking about the long run pace,” he lies, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Zak gives him a look that says he doesn’t quite believe him, but he lets it go. He’s used to Lando’s distracted moments, especially when they’re about to film content. He thinks it’s pre-race jitters. Oscar knows better. He sees the way Lando’s jaw tightens, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. He knows it isn’t the car he’s thinking about.
And then, he hears it. A soft, melodic laugh that cuts through the noise of the paddock like a hot knife through butter. His entire body goes rigid. His heart, that treacherous bastard, gives a painful lurch against his ribs. He turns his head slowly, as if moving too fast might shatter the illusion.
And there she is.
She’s standing by the entrance, talking to one of the PR girls, and for a second, the entire world narrows to the space she occupies. She’s wearing a red dress. It isn’t flashy, not one of those skin-tight numbers some of the WAGs favour. It’s elegant, simple, but it hugs her body in a way that should be illegal. The fabric skims over her hips, dips at her waist, and the colour… fuck, the colour is the same as a victory flag, a vibrant, confident red that makes her skin glow like warm honey. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and he has a visceral, overwhelming urge to bury his face in it, to breathe in the scent of her shampoo and her skin.
His chest aches. It’s a physical pain, a hollow, gnawing ache that starts behind his sternum and spreads outwards, making his fingers feel numb. It’s the familiar ache of wanting something he can’t have. Of knowing, with absolute certainty, that she is so far out of his league she might as well be living on another planet.
She’s intelligent, funny, and so beautiful it makes his teeth hurt. She’s the kind of person who walks into a room and lights it up, who makes people feel seen and heard. He’s… well, he’s Lando. He’s a guy who drives a car fast, who reads hate comments in his spare time, who has never once in his life felt like he was good enough for anyone. He’s never been in love, never even been on a proper date. He’s had meaningless hookups, a way to scratch an itch, to get a release when the pressure got too much, but he never saw them twice. He never wanted to. He told himself it was a choice, a way to stay focused on his career. The truth is, he’s terrified. Terrified of letting someone in, of them seeing the real him—the insecure, needy, broken part of him—and realising he isn’t worth the effort.
And then she showed up.
It was instantaneous. The first time she interviewed him, a year ago, she asked him a question about his mindset, not just his lap times. She looked at him, really looked at him, and he felt something shift inside him, a tectonic plate moving deep in his soul. It was terrifying. So he did what he always does when he’s scared: he got defensive. He was short with her. He gave her clipped, one-word answers. He built a wall between them, brick by cruel brick.
And it worked. She stopped trying to be sweet. Her smiles became tight, her professional. She started giving it back to him, her own barbed comments, her own icy stares. They became known for their ‘rivalry,’ their tension. The fans love it, the media speculates. They think they hate each other. And that’s exactly what he wants them to think. Because if they think they hate each other, no one will ever guess the truth.
That he is completely, hopelessly, and utterly in love with her.
She looks up then, and her eyes meet his. They’re a deep, warm brown, and for a fleeting second, he sees something flicker in them. Annoyance? Resignation? It’s hard to tell. But he’s been staring. He knows he has. He’s been staring at her like a starving man looks at a feast, and he needs to say something, anything, to break the spell, to remind himself that this is his reality.
He forces a smirk onto his face, a practiced, arrogant expression he’s perfected over the years. “Red’s not really your colour, you know,” he says, his voice loud enough for her to hear across the room.
It’s a lie. It’s the most beautiful colour he’s ever seen. But it’s the only thing he can think of to say. It’s the only way he knows how to talk to her now.
Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes harden, turning from warm brown to cool, polished stone. She raises a single, perfect eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re the world’s leading authority on fashion, Norris? Forgive me for not taking style tips from a man who thinks a neon hoodie is formal wear.”
Oscar, who’s been standing beside him, lets out a small, barely-there chuckle. Lando shoots him a glare that could freeze hell over, but he just shrugs, his lips twitching.
Touché.
She turns away, dismissing him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. He’s done it again. He’s pushed her further away. He’s reinforced the wall between them. And he hates himself for it. He hates that he’s so weak, so cowardly, that he can’t just tell her how he feels.
“Alright, let’s get this over with,” he mutters to Oscar, running a hand through his hair. “Time to pretend to be a team player.”
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The first day back is always a blur. It’s a cacophony of camera clicks, shouted questions, and the constant, low hum of a thousand conversations happening at once. She’s been on her feet since seven AM, interviewing drivers from Alpine, Ferrari, and Red Bull, her smile plastered on her face, her questions rehearsed to perfection. But now, as she makes her way to the McLaren hospitality unit, the smile feels brittle, the questions a distant memory.
Because she’s about to see him.
Lando Norris.
The bane of her existence. The thorn in her side. The man who, for some reason she’s never been able to fathom, seems to despise her.
She used to fancy him. God, she used to fancy him so much it was embarrassing. When she first got this job, straight out of university, she had a massive crush on him. He was funny, charming, and ridiculously talented. She watched all his old streams, she followed his career, she thought he was the most incredible person on the grid. The first time she interviewed him, she was so nervous she thought she was going to be sick. She tried to be sweet, to be friendly, to connect with him.
And he was awful. He was cold, dismissive, and acted like she was the most boring person on the planet. She was crushed. She spent the entire night analysing the interview, wondering what she’d done wrong. She came to the conclusion that he was just an arrogant jerk, and she hardened her heart. If he was going to be mean to her, she could be mean right back.
And so, their little war began. Every interaction is a battle. Every conversation a minefield of sarcastic comments and thinly veiled insults. It’s exhausting. It’s also, she’ll admit, a little thrilling. The tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a knife. It’s a rough, jagged energy that crackles in the air whenever they’re in the same room. Everyone notices it. The other drivers, the journalists, the fans. They’re the ‘enemies,’ the ones who love to hate each other.
If only they knew the truth. That a part of her still, deep down, wishes for the day he might look at her without that familiar, disdainful sneer.
She takes a deep breath, smooths down the front of her red dress, and walks inside. She spots him immediately, of course. He’s standing with Oscar and Zak, a picture of casual arrogance, The filming was a special kind of torture.
It was a standard McLaren ‘Two Truths and a Lie’ segment for their YouTube channel. Simple, lighthearted content designed to show off their personalities. For Oscar, it was a breeze. He was charming, witty, and played along with the PR girl’s prompts. For Lando, it was a performance, and he was a terrible actor when she was this close.
They were sitting on a low-slung sofa, the three of them squeezed together. Her thigh was pressed against his, the warmth of her seeping through the fabric of his race suit trousers. He could smell her perfume, something light and floral, with an undernote of something uniquely her. It was intoxicating. It was all he could focus on. He had to consciously force himself to listen to the questions, to form coherent sentences.
“Okay, Lando, your turn,” the PR girl, a cheerful brunette named Chloe, said. “Two truths, one lie. Go.”
Lando racked his brain, trying to think of anything other than the woman sitting next to him. “Uh, right. Okay. I once beat Oscar at tennis 6-0, 6-0.”
“Bullshit,” Oscar interjected immediately, earning a laugh from Chloe.
“I’m not finished,” Lando said, forcing a grin. “I’ve never seen a single Star Wars movie all the way through.”
“That’s a good one,” Chloe mused, scribbling on her clipboard. “And the third?”
He hesitated, his eyes flicking to her for a split second. She was looking at him, her expression unreadable, but he could feel the weight of her attention like a physical force. “I… I hate pineapple on pizza.”
A collective groan went around the room. “The most controversial truth of all,” Oscar joked.
Chloe turned to her. “Y/N, you’re our expert analyst. What do you think? Which is the lie?”
She didn’t even have to think. “The tennis score. No way he beat you that badly, Oscar. And the Star Wars one feels too on-brand, too easy. It’s the pizza. He definitely likes pineapple on pizza, he’s just trying to seem cool.”
Lando’s jaw tightened. She’d seen right through him. She always did. It was one of the things that drove him insane. He felt exposed, raw. “For your information, some of us have sophisticated palates,” he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”
The air in the room went still. Chloe’s smile faltered. Oscar shot him a warning look. But she just met his gaze, her own eyes turning to ice. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “I didn’t realise we were judging people’s intelligence based on their pizza toppings. My mistake. I’ll be sure to consult you next time I want to know what’s acceptable.”
“It’s not about intelligence,” he retorted, his voice rising. “It’s about having taste. Something you clearly lack if you think that dress is appropriate for a professional environment.”
He’d gone too far. He knew it the second the words left his mouth. It was a low blow, a cheap shot that had nothing to do with anything. It was just cruel.
Her face paled, and for the first time all day, he saw a flicker of genuine hurt in her eyes before it was quickly masked by a wall of icy indifference. She stood up abruptly. “You know what, Chloe? I think I’m feeling a bit unwell. I’m going to have to sit this one out.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She just turned and walked away, her back ramrod straight, her head held high. The silence she left behind was deafening.
“Lando, what the hell?” Oscar hissed, his voice low and furious.
“Shut up, Oscar,” Lando growled, standing up and pacing away from the sofa. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight, the ache now a full-blown, crushing pain. He’d hurt her. He’d actually, really hurt her. And the worst part was, a sick, twisted part of him felt a surge of satisfaction. Because at least he’d made her feel something. At least, for a moment, he wasn’t just invisible to her.
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She didn’t go far. She just retreated to a small, quiet corner of the hospitality unit, pretending to look at something on her phone. Her hands were trembling. She felt sick. The comment about the dress had hit its mark, sharp and painful. She knew she shouldn’t let him get to her, knew he was just a pathetic, arrogant man who got his kicks from belittling people, but it still stung.
She took a few deep, steadying breaths, trying to compose herself. She was a professional. She would not let Lando Norris see her cry. She would not give him that satisfaction.
After a few minutes, Chloe came to find her. “Hey, are you okay? Lando can be… a lot sometimes.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Just a headache. I think I need some fresh air.”
As she was gathering her things, Oscar approached them. He looked apologetic. “Hey, Y/N. I’m sorry about him. He’s… you know.”
“He’s an ass,” she said, her voice flat.
Oscar winced. “Yeah. Look, are you coming to the drivers' dinner tonight? It’s at that steak place near the waterfront.”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t invited. I heard it was drivers and partners only.” It was what Lando had told her last month in Bahrain when she’d overheard them talking about it. He’d made a point of saying it, loud enough for her to hear, a clear, deliberate exclusion.
Oscar frowned. “Who told you that? That’s not true at all. As long as you work with McLaren, you’re welcome. It’s just a team thing. No invites needed.”
She blinked, confused. “But Lando said…”
Oscar’s expression tightened, and he glanced over at where Lando was standing, looking moody by the coffee machine. “Well, Lando was wrong. You should come. It’ll be fun.”
She hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to spend another evening in Lando’s orbit, being his personal punching bag. But the thought of him lying to her, deliberately trying to keep her away, sparked a flicker of anger in her chest. Fine. Two could play at that game.
“Okay,” she said, her voice cool. “I’ll be there.”
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He was a mess.
He’d spent the rest of the day in a foul mood, snapping at his engineers, scowling at his reflection. He couldn’t get the look on her face out of his head. The flash of hurt before she’d shut down. He hated himself for it. He hated that he was the cause of it.
Now, he was in his hotel room, staring into his wardrobe, and he felt like he was going to be sick. He was supposed to be getting ready for the dinner, but all he could think about was the fact that she would be there. Oscar had told him she was coming, and the news had sent him into a tailspin.
“Does this look okay?” he asked Oscar, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling through his phone.
Oscar looked up, a patient, long-suffering expression on his face. “Lando, you’ve asked me that about three different shirts now. They all look fine. It’s a dinner, not a fashion show.”
“But which one is best?” Lando insisted, holding up a dark blue button-down. “Is this one too formal? What about the black one? Does the black one make me look like I’m trying too hard?”
Oscar put his phone down and gave him a long, steady look. “You’re nervous,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re actually nervous about what she’s going to think.”
“I am not!” Lando protested, a little too quickly. “I just want to look… professional.”
“Right. Professional,” Oscar said, his voice dripping with amusement. “It’s cute, you know. That you care so much.”
“I don’t care,” Lando grumbled, throwing the blue shirt back into the wardrobe. “I just don’t want to give her any more ammunition to make fun of me.”
“Sure, mate. Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Oscar stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. “Wear the black one. It looks good. Now can we please go? I’m starving.”
Lando finally settled on the black shirt, spending an extra ten minutes in front of the mirror trying to get his hair to sit perfectly. He felt ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to see her again. He needed to. Even if it was just to exchange another barbed insult. It was better than nothing.
The restaurant was loud and bustling, filled with the familiar faces of the McLaren team. Lando immediately spotted her, and his breath caught in his throat.
She was wearing a short, sleeveless bandeau dress in a stark, brilliant white. It was simple, minimalist, but it was devastating. The dress hugged her curves, the white fabric a stunning contrast against her tanned skin. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and she was laughing at something one of the engineers was saying. She looked like a dream. She looked like an an angel. And she was the last person on earth he deserved to be in the same room as. The restaurant was loud and bustling, filled with the familiar faces of the McLaren team. Lando immediately spotted her, and his breath caught in his throat.
She was wearing a short, sleeveless bandeau dress in a stark, brilliant white. It was simple, minimalist, but it was devastating. The dress hugged her curves, the white fabric a stunning contrast against her tanned skin. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and she was laughing at something one of the engineers was saying. She looked like a dream. She looked like an angel. And she was the last person on earth he deserved to be in the same room as.
Oscar, ever the observant friend, followed his gaze and waved her over. A friendly, welcoming gesture that made Lando want to strangle him.
“No,” Lando groaned, the sound escaping his lips before he could stop it. “Don’t.”
Oscar just smirked. “Relax. We’re all adults here. Try not to insult her dress this time.”
She saw them and began making her way through the crowd, a polite smile on her face. As she got closer, her eyes met Lando’s, and the smile vanished, replaced by the cool, professional mask she always wore around him.
“Lando,” she said, her voice clipped and devoid of any warmth.
“Y/N,” he replied, his own tone just as cold. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex. He saw her, his chest seized up with a painful mix of longing and self-loathing, and the only way he knew how to survive it was to push her away. “Didn’t think you’d make it. Figured you’d be busy critiquing other people’s outfits.”
Her eyes narrowed, a flash of anger in their depths. “And I figured you’d be busy crying into your pillow about how unfair the world is. But here we are.”
“Alright, children, that’s enough,” Oscar said smoothly, stepping between them. He gestured to the empty seats at their table. “Y/N, come sit. We were just about to order.”
Lando watched as she took the seat next to Lily, Oscar’s girlfriend, who immediately greeted her with a wide, genuine smile. “Hi! I’m Lily, it’s so lovely to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about your work.”
Y/N’s demeanor changed instantly. The icy hardness melted away, replaced by a warm, shy smile that made Lando’s heart ache. “Oh, thank you! It’s so nice to meet you too. I’m a big fan of your art.”
Lando sat there in silence, nursing a glass of water, as the two women fell into an easy conversation. He watched, mesmerised, as Y/N talked animatedly about a recent documentary she’d filmed, her hands gesturing, her eyes sparkling. He admired the way she listened so intently to Lily, asking thoughtful questions, laughing at her jokes. She was so genuinely sweet, so kind. It was a side of her he never got to see, a side she reserved for everyone but him. And it killed him.
As the night wore on, the restaurant grew louder. Bottles of wine were opened, the mood grew more relaxed, and a pleasant buzz settled over the table. Y/N, he noticed, had become giggly. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, and her laughter came more easily, more freely. She was leaning into Lily, whispering secrets, and every time she laughed, her head would fall back, exposing the long, graceful line of her neck.
Lando couldn’t stop staring. He tried. He really did. He engaged in conversation with his engineer, he joked with Zak, he even listened to one of Will’s long-winded stories about his dog. But his eyes always, always drifted back to her. He watched the way the dim light caught in her hair, the way she’d tuck a stray strand behind her ear, the way her lips would curve into a smile. It was a form of self-torture, and he was a willing participant.
Oscar nudged him. “You’re staring again.”
“Am not,” Lando mumbled, taking a large gulp of his wine.
“Yeah, you are,” Oscar said, his voice low. “You look like a lovesick puppy. It’s pathetic.”
“Shut up,” Lando grumbled, but he didn’t look away.
He was so lost in his own miserable little world that he didn’t notice the change in the atmosphere at first. It was a subtle shift, a cooling of the mood. He only realised something was wrong when he caught the look on Oscar’s face. He was frowning, his gaze fixed on something across the room. Lando followed his line of sight.
Y/N was no longer at the table. She was at the bar, talking to some guy. He was tall, with dark hair and a smile that was a little too charming. He was leaning in close to her, saying something that made her laugh. He handed her a drink, his fingers brushing against hers. And she didn’t pull away.
A hot, sour feeling churned in Lando’s stomach. Jealousy. It was an ugly, vicious beast, and it was currently clawing its way up his throat. He watched as the guy said something else, his eyes roaming over her dress, and Lando saw red. He wanted to get up, to walk over there, to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her away, to snarl at the guy to back the fuck off.
He didn’t, of course. He just sat there, his knuckles white where he was gripping his glass, his jaw clenched so tight it was aching. He felt bitter, resentful. Of the guy, for talking to her. Of her, for letting him. Of himself, for being too much of a coward to do anything about it.
The rest of the night passed in a miserable blur. He barely said another word, just sat there, nursing his drink, his eyes glued to the scene at the bar. He watched as she finished her drink, said goodbye to the guy with a friendly smile, and made her way back to the table. She didn’t even look at him.
When the dinner finally wound down, and people started saying their goodbyes, Lando felt a sense of relief. He just wanted to get out of there, to go back to his hotel room and drown his sorrows in room service and self-pity.
He was waiting by the entrance for Oscar when she walked past.
“Leaving so soon, Norris?” she asked, her voice laced with its usual sarcasm. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
And something in him snapped. The jealousy, the self-loathing, the frustration of the entire day, the entire year, all came boiling to the surface. He was hurting, and he wanted her to hurt too.
He turned to her, his expression cold and hard. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need to hang around bars, desperate for attention from anyone who’ll give it to me. It’s pathetic, really. Did you get his number? Or were you just hoping he’d buy you another drink so you could feel something other than empty for a few minutes?”
The words hung in the air between them, ugly and sharp. He saw the colour drain from her face, saw her eyes widen in shock. He saw the flicker of hurt, so raw and real this time that it took his breath away, before it was extinguished, replaced by a look of utter, cold devastation.
She just stared at him, her lips slightly parted, as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her silence was a thousand times worse than any comeback she could have thrown at him.
Oscar was at his side in an instant. “Lando, that’s enough. Let’s go.”
Lando let Oscar drag him away, but not before he risked one last look back. She was still standing there, alone in the doorway, looking small and broken. And he knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut, that he had just destroyed whatever fragile, hateful truce they had maintained.
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He didn’t sleep at all that night. He lay in the dark, the image of her face burned into the back of his eyelids, the sound of his own cruel words echoing in his ears. He felt terrible. He felt like a monster. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to fix it.
He spent the morning in a haze of regret, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room while the Melbourne sun beat down on the glass. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the look on her face—the devastation, the sheer disbelief. It was a physical ache, a dull throb behind his eyes that wouldn’t go away. He knew he was an idiot. He knew he’d crossed a line. But as the guilt gnawed at him, another, colder thought began to take root.
It was better this way.
If he pushed her away, if he kept her at arm's length, he wouldn't get hurt. He wouldn't be the one left waiting, the one watching her walk away with someone else. It was a coward’s logic, he knew that. But it was the only logic that made sense to him anymore. He’d rather be the bad guy. He’d rather be the one who was mean and cold and distant. At least then he still had some semblance of control over his own destiny.
By the time he got to the track for practice, he was in full "Lando Norris" mode. He was charming on team radio, he was laughing with the mechanics, he was posing for photographers. But everything was a performance. His mind was a battleground, fighting between the urge to go find her and the need to stay away.
And then he started to notice the changes.
It was subtle at first. At breakfast, when he walked past her table, she didn’t glare at him. She didn’t roll her eyes or make a snide comment about his hair. She just… looked at him. Her expression was unreadable, but it wasn't hostile. It was something else. Something softer.
He caught her looking at him a few times throughout the day. He’d be talking to Oscar, or checking his phone, and he’d feel this strange prickle on the back of his neck, like he was being watched. He’d turn around, and there she was. She’d be standing by the Ferrari motorhome, or talking to a cameraman, and her eyes would be fixed on him. The moment their gazes met, she wouldn't immediately look away like she used to. She’d hold it for a second, a beat too long, before turning back to her conversation with a faint blush on her cheeks.
It was driving him crazy. He told himself he was imagining it. He’d finally gone off the deep end, his obsession with her manifesting as hallucinations. He was projecting his own desperate longing onto her neutral expressions, seeing what he wanted to see because the reality was too painful to bear.
Later that afternoon, they were forced into another content segment together—a tire change challenge for McLaren’s social media. He braced himself for the usual barrage of sarcastic comments and icy glares. But they never came. When he fumbled with the wheel gun, she didn't sneer. She just said, “Careful, Norris, wouldn’t want to break a nail,” but her tone was light, almost teasing. When she beat him by a full two seconds, she didn't gloat. She just gave him a small, genuine smile and said, “Better luck next time.”
He was so thrown off by her change in demeanor that he could barely function. He felt like he was standing on shifting ground, the entire foundation of their carefully constructed rivalry crumbling beneath his feet. He didn't know how to act, what to say. So he fell back on what he knew: silence. He was quiet, reserved, and he avoided looking at her as much as possible, which only made him more aware of her.
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That evening, back in the sterile quiet of his hotel room, his phone buzzed. It was his mom. He took a deep breath, pasting on a cheerful voice before he answered.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Lando, love! How are you? Melbourne treating you alright?”
“Yeah, it’s good. The car feels strong.”
They chatted for a while about the track, about the weather, about his sister’s new puppy. It was normal, comforting. Then came the inevitable question.
“And how are you, really?” she asked, her voice softening. “Last time we spoke, you were having a rough time with… well, you know. The comments.”
He felt a familiar pang in his chest. He’d confessed to her once, during a particularly low moment, about the toll the online hate took on him. How it made him feel worthless, how it seeped into every corner of his life and poisoned his self-worth. “I’m better,” he lied. “I’m trying not to look at it.”
“Good. You know none of that is true, don’t you? You’re a wonderful person, Lando. So talented and kind.”
He hummed in response, not trusting himself to speak.
“And… have you met anyone?” she asked, her tone hopeful, the way it always was. “Any nice girls?”
The question hit him like a punch to the gut. Have you met anyone? He had met someone. He’d met the someone. The only one. And he’d systematically destroyed any chance he ever had with her.
He paused for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. “No, Mum,” he finally said, his voice thick. “There’s no one. There’s never anyone.”
“Oh, love. Don’t say that. You’re still so young. It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, wanting the conversation to be over. “Maybe.”
After he hung up, he felt more miserable than ever. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of his loneliness pressing down on him. He was a coward, a liar, and a fool. And he was completely, utterly alone.
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Hours later, the paddock was quiet and empty as he finally headed out. The sun had set, and the streetlights cast long, eerie shadows across the asphalt. He was driving slowly, lost in his own thoughts, when he saw a lone figure walking on the pavement up ahead.
It was her.
She was walking alone, her arms wrapped around herself against the slight chill in the air. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to keep driving, to leave her alone, to not make things any worse than they already were. But another, stronger instinct, one he’d been suppressing for a year, took over.
He pulled the car over, the engine idling softly as he rolled down the passenger window.
“Need a ride?” he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.
She stopped, turning to look at him with a wary expression. “What are you doing?”
“Driving,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You’re walking. It’s dark. Get in.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you want to give me a ride?”
He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Because I’m not a complete asshole, believe it or not. My mum taught me manners. It’s called being a gentleman. Now are you getting in or not? It doesn’t change anything between us, I’m just offering you a lift home.”
She hesitated for another moment, her gaze searching his face in the dim light. Finally, with a small, resigned sigh, she walked around to the passenger side and got in.
The silence in the car was thick and heavy, charged with all the things they weren’t saying. He could smell her perfume again, that light, floral scent that drove him insane. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white.
When he pulled up outside her apartment building, he expected her to just get out and say a terse goodbye. But she didn’t. She turned to him, her expression unreadable.
“You want to come in for a drink?” she asked. “As a… payback favour. For driving me home.”
He was so surprised he almost laughed. A drink. With her. In her apartment. It was everything he’d ever wanted and his worst nightmare all at once. “You hate me,” he stated, his voice flat.
“I do,” she agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. “But I also don’t want to owe you anything. So, are you coming in or not, Norris?”
He was coming in. Of course he was coming in.
Her apartment was nice. It was small and cozy, filled with books and plants and soft, warm lighting. It smelled like her. He felt like he was stepping into her soul, and it was overwhelming.
She poured them both a generous glass of wine, and they sat on her small sofa, the bickering starting up again almost immediately.
“You’re still a terrible driver,” she said, taking a sip of her wine.
“And you’re still a terrible backseat driver,” he retorted, but there was no heat in his voice.
As they drank, the tension in the room began to shift. The wine was making them both a little looser, a little more honest. The barbs became less sharp, the teasing more genuine.
The wine, which had been languishing in the depths of their glasses for an hour, had finally done its work. The sharp, jagged edges of their usual bickering had been worn down by the amber liquid until they were just soft, dull pebbles under the soles of their conversation. The silence in the apartment wasn't awkward anymore; it was comfortable, heavy with the kind of unspoken understanding that usually took months to build.
Y/N was sprawled on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling. Her head was tipped back, exposing the vulnerable curve of her throat, her eyes closed as she took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. Lando was sitting in the armchair opposite her, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling loosely between his fingers. He watched her, drinking her in with an intensity that bordered on the obsessive. He was drunk, he knew that. But it wasn’t just the wine. It was the proximity. It was the fact that she was here, in his space, in her space, and they weren't fighting.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, not opening her eyes. Her voice was thick with sleep and wine, a husky, melodic sound that went straight to his groin.
“Am not,” he lied, though his eyes remained fixed on her throat.
“Liar,” she said, a small, sleepy smile touching her lips. She turned her head, opening her eyes to look at him. They were dark in the dim light, the pupils blown wide. “You’re always staring.”
He didn’t deny it this time. He just took a swallow of his wine, the liquid doing little to quench the sudden, burning thirst in his throat. “You annoy me,” he said, the words coming out rough, unplanned.
Her smile faded, replaced by a flicker of confusion. “I annoy you?”
“So much,” he confessed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The air between them crackled. “You drive me insane. The way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you look at me like you can see right through all my bullshit. I can’t stand it.”
He expected her to get angry, to throw her wine in his face, to tell him to get out. Instead, she let out a soft, humourless laugh. “You think you’re the only one?” she said, sitting up straighter, her wine glass forgotten on the coffee table. “You piss me off so much, Lando. You’re arrogant and rude and you say the most horrible things just to get a reaction. It’s exhausting.”
“Then why are you still here?” he challenged, his voice low.
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling with a deep, unsteady breath. “I have no idea.”
And that was it. That was the breaking point. The raw, honest admission that hung in the air between them, fragile and terrifying. He stood up, his movements clumsy, and crossed the small space between them in two long strides. He didn’t know what he was doing, only that he couldn’t be on the other side of the room from her for another second.
He crouched down in front of her, his knees on the floor, his hands resting on the cushion on either side of her legs. He was so close he could see the individual flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “You piss me off,” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “But you also turn me on so much it hurts.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, and for a second, he thought she was going to push him away. But then her gaze dropped to his lips, and he knew. He knew she felt it too. He closed the remaining distance between them, and their lips met in a crash of a year’s worth of pent-up frustration and longing.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry and desperate, a battle of teeth and tongues. It was every sarcastic comment, every hateful glare, every stolen glance poured into a single, devastating kiss. He tangled his hands in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, and she responded with a fervour that matched his own, her hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He could taste the wine on her tongue, smell her perfume in his lungs. It was overwhelming, intoxicating. He wanted to devour her, to consume her, to lose himself in her completely. He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against hers.
“Bedroom,” she breathed, her voice ragged. “Now.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He stood up, pulling her to her feet. They stumbled towards her bedroom, a tangle of limbs and frantic kisses, their bickering dynamic still at play even in this heated moment.
“You’re a terrible kisser, Norris,” she gasped as he pushed her against her bedroom door, his mouth finding the sensitive spot behind her ear.
“And you’re a terrible liar,” he shot back, nipping at her earlobe. “You love it.”
She didn’t deny it. She just moaned, her head falling back against the door with a soft thud, giving him better access to her neck. He fumbled with the doorknob, finally managing to turn it, and they tumbled into her bedroom, falling onto the bed in a heap of tangled limbs.
But then, something shifted.
As they lay there, tangled together in the soft glow of her bedside lamp, the frantic energy that had been driving them began to dissipate, replaced by a slow, simmering heat. He pushed himself up on his elbows, hovering over her, and just looked at her.
Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen from his kisses, and her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The anger, the frustration, the need to win—it all melted away, leaving behind something much more powerful, much more terrifying.
He slowly lowered his head, not to her lips, but to the column of her throat. He pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the pulse point there, feeling her heartbeat flutter against his lips. He nibbled on the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing her flesh just enough to make her gasp. He moved his mouth down to her shoulder, his fingers finding the thin strap of her bandeau dress. He pulled it down slowly, his knuckles brushing against her skin. The dress didn’t fall, but the movement exposed more of her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breast.
He worked his way back up, his mouth trailing a path of soft, open-mouthed kisses along her jawline until he finally reached her lips again. This time, the kiss was different. It was slow and deep, full of a tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of. It was a kiss that said everything he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud.
He reached around her back, his fingers finding the small zipper of her dress. He pulled it down slowly, the sound of the teeth unzipping echoing in the quiet room. He felt her shiver against him as the cool air hit her skin. The dress loosened, and he gently tugged it down her body, letting it pool at her feet in a whisper of white fabric.
She stood before him in nothing but a simple white lace bra and panties, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. He had never seen anything so perfect. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving his.
He reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Her eyes roamed over his chest, her gaze appreciative. She reached for him, her fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and hooded, a silent question in their depths. He nodded, his breath held in his chest.
She undid the button and slowly pulled down the zipper, her knuckles brushing against the hard, straining length of his cock. He groaned, his head falling back. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, pulling them both down his legs. He kicked them away, standing before her, completely bare.
Her eyes dropped to his erection, and he saw her swallow. He was hard, so hard it was almost painful, the tip already leaking with precum, leaving a dark, wet spot on the fabric of his boxers before she’d pulled them down.
He joined her on the bed, hovering above her. He gently spread her legs, settling his hips between them, the warmth of his length resting against the soft skin of her thigh. He could feel the heat coming off her in waves, and it was all he could do not to just thrust into her right then and there.
He lowered his head, his mouth finding the soft skin of her chest. He kissed her everywhere, his lips tracing the curve of her breasts, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat. He reached behind her, unhooking her bra and tossing it aside. He took a moment to just look at her, her breasts full and perfect, her nipples pebbled into tight, hard points. He lowered his head, taking one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.
She moaned, her back arching off the bed, her hands tangling in his hair. The soft, breathy sounds she was making fueled him, urged him on. He paid the same attention to her other breast, his hands roaming over her body, memorising every curve, every dip.
He moved lower, his mouth trailing a path down her stomach. He reached her thighs, his hands gripping her hips, his mouth placing soft, wet kisses on the sensitive skin. He moved lower, his mouth trailing a path down her stomach. He reached her thighs, his hands gripping her hips, his mouth placing soft, wet kisses on the sensitive skin. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. He loved it. He loved the effect he had on her, the power he held in this moment.
He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panties, the lace soft against his skin. But instead of pulling them down, he lowered his head, his mouth finding the delicate fabric. He took the edge of her panties between his teeth, his eyes locked on hers as he slowly, torturously, pulled them down her legs. Her eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she watched him, her cheeks flushing a deep, beautiful crimson.
He tossed the lace aside, and then he just looked at her. He looked down at the most intimate part of her, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She was perfect. She was clean shaven, her skin smooth and soft, with no hair or texture in sight. He could see everything—the delicate folds of her labia, the pink, glistening wetness of her arousal, the small, swollen nub of her clit. It was the most beautiful, most erotic thing he had ever seen.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a reverent whisper. “You’re so… perfect.”
He gently trailed a finger through her wetness, his touch light, exploratory. She moaned loudly, her hips bucking off the bed, seeking more. He looked up at her, his eyes locking with hers as he slowly slid one finger inside her. She was so tight, so warm, her walls clenching around him, pulling him in.
He began to move his finger, slowly at first, then faster, curling it slightly to find that special spot inside her. He watched her face, watched the pleasure wash over her, her eyes fluttering closed, her mouth open in a silent scream. He held her gaze, his eyes never leaving hers, as he added a second finger, stretching her, filling her. The connection between them was electric, a tangible thing that crackled in the air.
He could feel her getting closer, her breathing becoming more erratic, her moans growing louder. He pulled his fingers away, and she whimpered in protest. He looked down at her, at the glistening wetness on his fingers, at the flushed, swollen folds of her pussy. He felt a primal surge of possessiveness, of need.
He looked her in the eyes, and then he let a string of spit drip from his mouth, watching as it landed on her exposed, aching clit. She gasped, her eyes widening at the raw, erotic intimacy of the act. And then he lowered his head and dove in.
He licked her, his tongue flat and broad, tasting her, devouring her. He lapped at her folds, his tongue finding her clit, swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, her hips grinding against his face. He ate her out with a single-minded focus, his only goal to make her fall apart, to make her scream his name.
It didn’t take long. He could feel her tightening, her thighs clamping around his head, her moans becoming high-pitched and desperate. With a final, loud cry, she came, her body convulsing, her juices flooding his mouth. He drank her in, his tongue continuing to lap at her until she went limp, her body spent.
He crawled back up her body, his mouth finding hers in a deep, passionate kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, and she moaned, her hands roaming over his back, pulling him closer. She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his hard, aching cock.
He stopped her, his hand covering hers. “No,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “Let me.”
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down and kicking them away. He was completely bare, his cock standing proud and erect, a testament to his desire for her. He hovered above her, his hand wrapping around his length, pumping himself a few times, spreading the bead of precum that glistened at the tip.
He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice soft, serious. “Are you sure you want this?”
She nodded, her eyes soft, her expression open and vulnerable. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He looked down at his cock, then back at her. “I don’t have a…”
“Top drawer,” she said, cutting him off. “There’s a pack in there.”
He leaned over, opening the top drawer of her bedside table. He found the pack of condoms, but his eyes landed on something else. A vibrator. A sleek, silver wand. He felt a lurch in his stomach, a dizzying rush of arousal. He smiled, a slow, wicked smile, thinking about her using it, thinking about her touching herself, imagining it was him.
He grabbed a foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth. Y/N watched him, her eyes dark with desire, a soft moan escaping her lips as she watched the raw, primal gesture. He rolled the condom on, hissing softly as the latex slid over his sensitive, throbbing cock. He had never been this hard, this turned on in his entire life. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have come a little in his pants when he was fingering her, when he was tasting her. He was so close to the edge, it was terrifying.
He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock nudging against her wet, swollen folds. He teased her, sliding the tip of his cock up and down her slit, gathering her slickness, coating himself in her. And then, slowly, he pushed inside.
He slid in, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. He bottomed out, his hips resting against hers, and they both gasped. Y/N’s eyes flew open, her mouth open in a silent scream, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. She was so tight, so incredibly tight, her walls stretching around him, gripping him, milking him. It was the most exquisite torture he had ever felt.
He fought for control, fought against the overwhelming urge to move, to thrust, to lose himself completely. He could feel her pulsing around him, her warmth enveloping him, and he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he was ruined. No one else would ever feel like this. No one else would ever be her.
“Are you okay?” he breathed, his voice strained.
She nodded, her eyes still wide, her chest heaving. “Yeah,” she gasped. “Just… give me a second.”
He waited, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. He looked down at where they were joined, at his cock disappearing inside her, and he felt another wave of dizzying arousal. She was so wet, so warm, so perfect.
“Okay,” she whispered, her hands relaxing their grip on his shoulders. “Okay, you can move.”
He began to move, his hips rocking slowly, gently. He pulled out almost all the way, then slid back in, a slow, steady rhythm that built a deep, aching pleasure. He focused on the depth of his thrusts, not on speed or force, but on the connection, on the feeling of being buried inside her, of being one with her.
“You’re so tight,” he breathed, his voice a low, guttural groan. “So fucking tight. And wet. God, you’re so wet for me.”
She moaned, her head falling back, her eyes closed. “Lando,” she gasped, his name a prayer on her lips.
The soft sounds of their heavy breathing, the wet, slick sound of his cock moving in and out of her pussy, filled the room. It was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. He lifted her leg, wrapping it around his waist, changing the angle, allowing him to go deeper. They both moaned loudly as he hit a new spot inside her, a spot that made her see stars.
They kissed, a mess of tongues and teeth and desperate breaths. Their kisses were interrupted by moans, by sharp intakes of breath, by the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to consume them both. He rested his cheek against hers, his breath hot and ragged in her ear, his body lost in hers, his mind a blank, blissful haze.
He was so lost in her, so consumed by the feel of her, the taste of her, the sound of her, that he didn’t even notice when he said it. The words slipped out, a raw, unbidden confession, a truth he had been hiding for so long.
“I love you,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion, his hips still moving in that slow, steady rhythm. “I love you so much.”
He didn’t realize what he’d said. He was too far gone, too lost in the pleasure, too lost in her. But she heard him. Her eyes flew open, her body tensing for a second, a flicker of shock in their depths. But then she saw his face, saw the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes, and she knew. She knew he meant it.
She didn’t say anything. She just wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a deep, soul-shattering kiss, her body arching up to meet his, her hips moving in time with his.
He could feel the knot tightening in his stomach, a pressure building at the base of his spine that threatened to tear him apart. It wasn't just the physical sensation of her walls clamping down around him, the friction that was sending white-hot shocks of pleasure straight to his brain. It was the weight of the situation hanging in the air between them, heavier and more potent than any drug. He watched how her eyes fluttered closed, her head falling back against the pillows, a low, broken moan escaping her lips as his hips shifted, finding that perfect, relentless rhythm that drove them both higher. But then, her hand was in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was desperate and claiming. When she broke away, her forehead resting against his, she whispered, almost too softly to hear over the sound of their heavy breathing, “Feels so good”.
That was it. That was the catalyst. With the barrier of their long-standing rivalry and the fear of vulnerability broken, something inside him snapped. He let go of the last of his control. He didn't just move; he surged, his hips driving forward with a force that made them both gasp. He was lost in her, drowning in the sensation of her warmth, her tightness, the incredible, mind-numbing suction of her body pulling him in deeper with every stroke.
He could feel it building again, the relentless climb toward the peak. Her moans were a symphony to his ears, a desperate litany of his name that spurred him on. He watched her face, the way her brows furrowed, the way her lips parted, the way her back arched off the mattress. He loved her. He loved her so much it hurt. And as the pressure reached its breaking point, as the world narrowed down to just the sensation of being inside her, he moved his hand, his fingers finding her swollen clit, drawing quick, tight circles.
“Lando, I’m going to—” she choked out.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice rough and dominating, even as his own release threatened to spill over. “Let go, baby. Come for me.”
With a final, shuddering cry, she shattered. Her body went rigid, her fingernails digging into his shoulders until he felt the sting, and then she was spasming around him, her inner muscles milking him with a rhythmic, convulsive force that was his undoing.
He followed her over the edge a moment later. His vision blurred, his muscles locked tight, and he thrust deep, holding her hips against him as he spilled into the condom, wave after wave of intense pleasure washing over him. He rode out the aftershocks, his body trembling, sweat beading on his forehead. He collapsed on top of her, completely and utterly spend and satisfied burying his face in the crook of her neck, his arms wrapping around her waist in a bruising embrace.
They lay there for a long time, neither moving.
He lay there for what felt like an eternity, completely immobilised by the weight of his own body and the overwhelming sense of connection. The sheets were damp with sweat, sticking to their skin, but he didn't care. He just needed to be close to her, to feel the rhythm of her breathing against his chest, to ground himself in the reality that she was here, she was real, and she was his, for now.
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself up, being carefull when sliding out of her, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks of his release. He grabbed the condom, tying it off with practiced ease, and tossed it into the bin. The plastic crinkled in the silence, a sharp sound that seemed too loud in the room. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, his head spinning. Squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to process everything—the incredible way she felt around him, the way he had fucked everything up.
When he looked back up, Y/N was watching him. Her hair was a wild tangle around her face, her skin flushed and glistening with a sheen of sweat. She looked like an angel, and he felt a sudden, fierce surge of protectiveness. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His fingers lingered on her skin, afraid to let go, afraid that if he touched anything else, the spell would break.
"Come on," he said softly, his voice raspy. "Let's get cleaned up."
Neither of them spoke much as they moved through the small apartment. The air felt different now, lighter, the tension having evaporated completely, replaced by a warm, comfortable intimacy. They went into the bathroom, the lights too bright, the mirror fogged up with their breath. They stood completely still under the warm spray, the water from the showerhead running over them, washing away the evidence of their passion. Lando stood behind her with her arms around her stomach, and his head resting on her shoulder. They were quiet, both wondering what was gonna happen now.
After they towelled off, they moved back into her room, the atmosphere in the air still thick with steam and scent. Y/N climbed into bed first, pulling the duvet up to her chin, patting the space beside her. Lando hesitated for a second. He was tired, his body aching in a satisfying way, but more than that, he was terrified. He was afraid that now that the sex was over, the reality would set in, and she would realise what she had done.
He slid into bed, keeping a respectable distance at first, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. But the bed dipped as Y/N turned towards him. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, and he turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but they were soft, devoid of any hostility or sarcasm.
She curled into his chest without a second's hesitation, her head resting right on his heart, her arm thrown over his waist. The contact was electric, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with the faint, lingering smell of the shower and his own sweat. It was intoxicating.
His last thought before sleep took him was a simple, profound realization: He was exactly where he wanted to be. He was exactly where he had always wanted to be, but that didn’t mean that it was right.
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The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, hitting the empty space beside him where she had been sleeping just hours before. Lando lay there for a long time, his eyes fixed on the pillow she’d used, still warm to the touch. He wanted to stay. God, he wanted to stay so badly his chest ached with a physical pressure. He wanted to wake her up with a kiss, ask her to stay with him in Melbourne, maybe move in with her next year.
But he was an idiot. He was a coward. He pressed a hand over his eyes, scrubbing away the sleep and the sudden wave of tears threatening to spill over. He couldn't do it. He looked at his hands, at the scars, the calluses. He saw the hate comments on his screen. He saw the way people dissected every breath he took. And he looked at her—beautiful, brilliant, intelligent Y/N—and the old insecurity reared its ugly head. He didn't fit. He was loud, chaotic, and messy. She was soft, composed, and perfect. He was just Lando Norris, the guy who drove a fast car, not the guy who could make a girl feel like she was the only person in the world.
He slipped out of bed, his movements silent so he didn't wake her. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made his ears ring. He grabbed his shirt, pulling it on over his head, his fingers trembling slightly. One last look at her sleeping face, a peaceful, unguarded expression that made his heart hammer against his ribs. He hesitated at the door for a second, his hand on the handle, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then he let himself out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving his heart aching in the empty hallway.
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Y/N woke up to the absence of warmth beside her, the sensation of empty sheets the first thing to register in her groggy brain. She stretched, a sigh escaping her lips as she reached out, her hand brushing against cool, crisp linen. The bed was empty.
She sat up, blinking against the morning light, her heart doing a traitorous little flip. She was disappointed. It was a dull, heavy ache in her chest, a pang of disappointment she tried to squash down because she knew better. She knew him. She knew he talked a big game but ran the moment things got real. But after the way he looked at her last night… after the way he held her… she had let herself hope. She had let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to be the man she knew he could be.
She climbed out of bed and walked to the window. Down on the street, his car was pulling away, the taillights fading into the grey Melbourne morning. She watched until they were gone, then turned away, her shoulders slumping slightly.
She forced herself to get ready, her mind elsewhere.
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The paddock was a battlefield, but Lando was fighting a war on two fronts. Not against a rival driver, but against his own sanity.
For the entire morning, he had managed to keep a respectable distance. He saw her before breakfast, standing by the Ferrari motorhome, laughing at something a mechanic said. She looked radiant, the red dress from the previous day replaced by a smart, fitted navy suit that accentuated her sharp features. He had felt his heart hammer against his ribs, a traitorous biological response he tried to quell with a strategically placed pair of sunglasses. He turned his back to her, pretending to inspect a tire, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to remember the aerodynamic properties of a tire tread.
By the time practice started, the avoidance game was in full swing. He sat as far away from her in the garage as physically possible. When they inevitably crossed paths in the corridor, he didn't make eye contact. He mumbled a quick “morning,” didn’t wait for a reply, and kept walking. Every time he saw her, he felt a pang of guilt so sharp it made his breath hitch. He was a coward, hiding in the shadows while she walked into the light, and he hated himself for it.
But he couldn't hide forever.
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That evening, McLaren hosted another event. It was a smaller, more intimate gathering at a rooftop lounge with a view of the Melbourne skyline. Lando sat at the edge of a low table, a glass of whiskey in his hand that he’d been nursing for an hour. He was quiet, brooding, and staring blankly at the city lights.
“You’re drowning, mate,” Oscar said, sliding into the seat beside him, looking at Lando’s empty glass. “Want a refill?”
“Later,” Lando muttered, not taking his eyes off the venue entrance.
She walked in a few minutes later. The room seemed to shift, the air growing heavier, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the season opener. She was with a group of WAGs and journo friends, looking effortlessly elegant. Lando felt the familiar pull, the gravitational force that always dragged him back to her orbit. He took a large gulp of his drink, the burn of the whiskey doing little to numb the ache in his chest. He needed to move, needed to get out of his head. He stood up, his legs a little unsteady, and walked toward the bar, colliding with her on his way there.
“Watch it, Norris,” she said, stepping back, her eyes scanning his face. She looked concerned. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, the defensiveness automatic. “Just tired.”
“You’ve been drinking since noon,” she pointed out softly.
“Leave it, Y/N,” he warned, gripping the edge of the bar to steady himself.
She looked ready to say something else, but he turned away from her, grabbing two glasses of wine from the bartender. He walked back to the table where she was standing, but he didn't stop. He just kept walking, past her, toward the quiet corner of the balcony where it was less crowded.
The alcohol was doing its job, dulling the edges of his anxiety, but it was also loosening his tongue. He downed his first glass quickly, then the second. By the time they moved to the tables for dinner, he was buzzed, his cheeks flushed, his eyes a little glassy.
He saw her again. She was sitting with Lily and one of the PR girls, looking at him. He couldn't ignore her this time. He needed to feel something, anything other than this hollow regret. He stood up and stumbled towards the bar, his vision swimming slightly. He ordered another whiskey, downing it in one go before turning back to the room. His eyes, unfocused and blurry, scanned the crowd until they found her. She was laughing, her head thrown back, and the sight of it sent a fresh wave of pain and longing through him. He couldn't be here anymore. He couldn't watch her be happy without him.
He pushed his way through the crowd, his movements clumsy, his apologies slurred. He was a man on a mission, driven by a drunken, desperate need. He reached her table, and the world narrowed to the space she occupied.
“Lando?” she said, her smile faltering as she took in his dishevelled state. “Are you alright?”
He didn’t answer. He just collapsed into the empty chair beside her, his body slumping forward until his head was resting on her shoulder. The scent of her perfume, mixed with the faint smell of her wine, filled his senses. It was intoxicating.
“Lando, you’re drunk,” she whispered, her hand hesitantly coming to rest on his back.
“M’not drunk,” he mumbled into her shoulder, his voice thick and muffled. “M’just… sad.”
He felt her stiffen slightly, but she didn't push him away. “Why are you sad?”
He lifted his head, his eyes trying to focus on her face. He was so close he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the small mole on her cheek. He reached out, his fingers clumsily brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You’re so pretty,” he breathed, his voice full of a drunken, slurred reverence. “So, so pretty. Like, all the time. It’s… it’s unfair.”
A faint blush coloured her cheeks. “Lando, you need to drink some water.”
“Nooo,” he whined, leaning his head back on her shoulder. “I have to tell you something. It’s important. I have to—”
“Shhh,” she said softly, her hand moving in gentle circles on his back. “Not here. Not now. Let’s get you home.”
“Home?” he asked, his eyes wide with a drunken hope.
“To my apartment,” she clarified, her voice gentle but firm. “You can sleep it off. Come on.”
He was a dead weight as she helped him to his feet. He leaned on her heavily, his arm draped over her shoulders, his face buried in her hair. “You smell so good,” he mumbled, as she guided him through the crowd. “And you’re so sweet. Everyone thinks you’re mean, but you’re not. You’re soooo sweet.”
She just shushed him again, her arm tightening around his waist to steady him as they waited for a taxi. The cool night air did little to sober him up. In the back of the cab, he was all over her, his hands roaming, his mouth pressing sloppy, drunk kisses to her neck and her cheek.
“Lando, stop,” she said, her voice a soft, breathy laugh as she gently pushed his face away. “Behave yourself.”
“Can’t,” he groaned, his head lolling against the headrest. “You’re too… touchable.”
Getting him up to her apartment was a Herculean effort. He was a mess of long limbs and dead weight, but she managed, her patience a testament to the soft spot she held for him. She led him straight to her bedroom, his arm still wrapped around her waist.
“Sit,” she commanded, gently pushing him down onto the edge of the bed.
He flopped back, his arms spread wide, a goofy, drunk smile on his face. “Your bed is comfy,” he announced to the ceiling. “Can I stay forever?”
She smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “Let’s get your shoes off.”
She knelt in front of him, untying his laces and pulling off his shoes. She then reached for the hem of his shirt, but his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly serious, his eyes focusing on her with an intensity that belied his drunken state. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly, trying to pull her hand away.
He held on tight, his thumb beginning to trace slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. The gesture was so intimate, so tender, it made her breath catch. He watched his own thumb, mesmerised, as if it were moving of its own accord.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words slurring together, but the sentiment was clear. It wasn’t the desperate, lustful confession from the night before. This was something softer, something more profound. “I love you so much. You’re… you’re everything.”
Her heart ached. She looked down at his face, at the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes, and she knew he meant it. But he was drunk. He was a mess of alcohol and regret, and in the morning, he would be gone again.
She smiled, a small, bittersweet smile. “I know, Lando,” she whispered, gently prying her fingers from his grasp. “I know.”
She finished undressing him, pulling the duvet back and tucking him in. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, his breathing soft and even. She stood there for a long time, just watching him, her hand resting on the spot where his thumb had traced circles on her wrist. She knew he would be gone in the morning, and she knew it would hurt. But for now, in the quiet of her apartment, she let herself believe him.
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Lando woke up before the sun was fully up, the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He blinked, his brain sluggish from sleep, and for a second, he didn't remember where he was. Then the scent hit him—the familiar, comforting smell of her shampoo and laundry detergent. He turned his head and saw Y/N standing in front of her closet, rummaging through her drawers. She was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and an oversized band t-shirt that swallowed her frame. She pulled a top over her head, smoothing it down, and turned to grab something from her dresser.
He couldn't look away. He just lay there, propped up on one elbow, watching her. The way the light caught the curve of her shoulder, the playful tilt of her head. She turned back to him, catching him in the middle of a blatant staring session, and a small, amused smile played on her lips.
"Like what you see?" she teased quietly.
Lando cleared his throat, the heat rising to his cheeks. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice rough with sleep. "Wow."
She laughed, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. "You're impossible, Norris. Come on, let's get moving."
They drove to the track in a heavy silence. Lando kept his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the steering wheel, refusing to glance over at her. Every time he did, he felt that familiar pang of regret for the way he had acted that morning, for the way he had been acting all week. He wanted to talk, to apologize, to ask her how she was, but the words wouldn't come. So he defaulted to what he knew best: silence. He was a coward, and he knew it. He'd rather sit in this suffocating quiet than face the music.
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At the track, the silence became a physical wall. He was a whirlwind of forced smiles and hollow pleasantries with the team, but every time she entered his orbit, he found an excuse to leave. He'd suddenly need to talk to his engineer, or he'd remember a meeting he had to attend. He felt her eyes on him, a heavy, questioning weight, but he refused to meet her gaze. He was avoiding her, and he was doing a terrible job of hiding it.
The race was about to start, the roar of the engines a deafening symphony. Y/N stood in the McLaren hospitality, watching the screens with a detached sense of duty. She had no real reason to stay. He hadn't spoken to her all day, hadn't even looked at her. The hope she'd felt that morning had curdled into a bitter disappointment. She grabbed her bag, deciding she'd rather watch the race from the quiet of her own apartment than stand here feeling invisible.
She was just stepping out of the elevator when her phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the air. It was Oscar.
"Oscar? Hey, I was just heading—"
"Y/N," he said, his voice tight, strained. "There's been an accident. Lando's crashed."
The world tilted on its axis. "What? Is he okay?"
"He's... he's alive. He's at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. He's a bit banged up, but he's conscious. He's asking for you."
The words didn't fully register. He's asking for you. She was already running, her heart hammering against her ribs, a cold dread seeping into her bones. "I'm on my way."
The drive to the hospital was a blur of grey asphalt and screaming sirens, a cacophony that was nothing compared to the roaring chaos inside Y/N’s own head. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were bone-white, the leather creaking under the strain. Each red light was an eternity, a cruel pause in the desperate race against a clock she couldn’t see. Her stomach was a tight, tangled knot of dread and adrenaline, a cold, heavy stone that seemed to sink lower with every passing mile. She replayed Oscar’s words over and over in her mind. He's asking for you. The phrase was a lifeline and a death sentence all at once. It was the only thing that had propelled her out of the sterile, silent paddock and into her car, but it was also the source of a terror so profound it made it hard to breathe. What if she got there and it was too late? What if he was… she couldn’t even finish the thought. She pressed the accelerator harder, the city lights of Melbourne smearing into streaks of colour through her tear-filled eyes.
The hospital loomed ahead, a monolithic structure of white concrete and glass that seemed to radiate a cold, clinical chill. She practically abandoned her car in the visitor’s lot, not even bothering to check if she was within the lines. The automatic doors hissed open, swallowing her into a world of antiseptic smells and hushed, hurried footsteps. The reception desk was a beacon of order in the chaos, but the words that came out of her mouth felt foreign, disconnected. "Lando Norris. He was brought in from the track. A crash."
The nurse’s expression was a practiced mask of calm empathy. "Intensive Care, third floor. Room 304. The waiting room is just down the hall."
The elevator ride was the longest of her life. The soft, instrumental music was a cruel mockery of the frantic drumming of her heart. With every floor that dinged, the knot in her stomach tightened. When the doors finally slid open, she saw them immediately. A small group huddled together, a portrait of shared anxiety. A woman with kind, worried eyes and the same warm brown hair as Lando, her hand resting on the arm of a tall man with a familiar, reassuring presence. And Oscar, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
That had to be his parents. Adam and Cisca. Y/N had seen them in pictures, on TV, but in person, they were just… people. People who were terrified for their son. As she approached, Cisca looked up, her eyes scanning Y/N’s face with an intensity that was almost unnerving. This was it. The moment of judgment. She was the girl their son had been so publicly at war with, the one who made his life difficult. And now, she was the one he was asking for.
"Y/N?" Oscar was the first to speak, his voice strained with relief. He crossed the space in two long strides, pulling her into a quick, awkward hug. "Thank God you're here."
"Oscar," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "How is he?"
"He's okay," he said, pulling back. "Banged up, but he's okay. They're keeping him for observation."
She turned her attention to his parents, her heart pounding. "I'm Y/N."
Cisca’s gaze softened, a flicker of something that looked like understanding in her tired eyes. "Oh, my dear. Thank you for coming. He's been… he's been asking for you." There was no accusation in her voice, only a deep, maternal concern. "He was a bit… out of it when they brought him in. On the good drugs," she added with a watery attempt at a smile. "But he was very clear about one thing."
Adam stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding. "He hasn't stopped talking about you," he said, his voice low and gentle. "The paramedics said he was rambling in the ambulance, something about a white dress and being an idiot. We were… well, we were very curious to meet the girl who could reduce our son to such a mess."
A hot blush crept up Y/N’s neck. She felt like an imposter, a fraud who had stumbled into a private family moment she had no right to witness. "I… we're… it's complicated."
"Isn't it always?" Cisca said with a soft, knowing sigh. "Why don't you go on in? He's in room 304. I think… I think he'll be glad to see you."
With a final, grateful nod, Y/N turned and walked down the corridor, her footsteps echoing on the polished linoleum. The door to room 304 was slightly ajar. She pushed it open, and the sight that met her made her heart clench so tightly she thought it might stop.
He was lying in the bed, looking small and broken against the stark white pillows. A monitor beside him beeped in a steady, reassuring rhythm. He had a nasty gash on his forehead, held together with a neat line of steri-strips, and a constellation of bruises was already blooming across his cheekbone. But his eyes, when they fluttered open and found hers, were bright and impossibly clear, a startling, vibrant blue in the sterile room.
A slow, goofy, drug-induced smile spread across his face. "Y/N," he breathed, the name a reverent whisper on his lips. He lifted his arms, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, making grabby hands at her like a toddler demanding a cuddle. "Come here."
She rushed to his side, her earlier dread melting away, replaced by a wave of overwhelming affection. She took his outstretched hand, her fingers lacing with his. "Lando," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You absolute idiot. You scared me half to death."
He didn't answer. He just pulled, his grip surprisingly strong for a man who had just been in a high-speed crash. He tugged her down, wrapping his arms around her in a tight, desperate hug, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to memorize her scent. "I love you," he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred with emotion and medication. "I was so scared. The wall… it just came out of nowhere. Didn't wanna die. Not when I wasn't with you."
He punctuated his declaration with a series of sloppy, frantic kisses to her cheek, his stubble rasping against her skin. Each kiss was a messy, open-mouthed press of his lips, a testament to his relief and his drug-fueled lack of inhibition. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her chest, a wild, untamed rhythm that mirrored her own.
Before she could even process his confession, he was pulling her again, tugging her with a surprising amount of strength. She lost her balance, tumbling onto the bed beside him, ending up half-lying against the stiff, starched sheets, tangled in his arms and the web of wires connected to the monitors. It was only then that she became acutely aware of their audience. His parents and Oscar were standing in the doorway, their faces a mixture of shock, amusement, and profound relief.
A wave of hot, prickling embarrassment washed over her. She felt like a teenager who had been caught making out on the living room sofa. This was so intimate, so private, and it was happening in front of his parents.
Lando, however, seemed completely oblivious to their presence, or perhaps he simply didn't care. He cuddled her closer, his body a warm, heavy weight against hers. He nuzzled his face into her hair, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below her ear. The kisses changed, becoming slower, more deliberate. They were no longer the frantic, desperate pecks of relief, but something else entirely. Something deeper, more possessive. His lips traced a slow, hot path down the column of her throat, and she felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.
Then, she felt it. His hand, warm and heavy, slid under the thin hospital blanket. His fingers traced a slow, teasing path up her outer thigh, a deliberate, intimate caress that made her breath hitch. Her eyes widened in panic. This was happening. This was really happening. In front of his mother.
"Lando," she whispered, her voice a strained, desperate hiss. She tried to pull away, but his arm was like a steel band around her waist. "Stop. Your parents and Oscar are right there."
He seemed to register her words, his movements stilling. He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and innocent, as if he had absolutely no idea what he’d just been doing. He looked from her flushed face to his family in the doorway, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, as if he were just now realizing they weren't alone. He seemed to think for a moment, then a slow, sheepish grin spread across his face. He settled for a quick, chaste kiss on her cheek, a silent, almost comical apology.
He turned his head, his gaze finding hers again as she tried to regain her composure and make polite conversation with his family. But he wasn't listening to the words. He was just staring. She heard a soft chuckle from the doorway, then another. She glanced over and saw Cisca, Adam, and Oscar all looking at Lando, their faces alight with a mixture of amusement and fond exasperation. Confused, she followed their gaze back to him. He was staring at her lips, his mouth slightly agape, his expression one of pure, unadulterated longing. It was the same look he’d given her that morning, but amplified by the pain medication, stripping it of any and all subtlety. He looked like a man dying of thirst who had just been presented with an oasis.
When he noticed her looking at him, he didn't even have the decency to be embarrassed. He just leaned in closer, his voice a low, hopeful, boyish whisper that was loud enough for everyone to hear. "Kiss?"
Her cheeks were on fire. She could feel the heat radiating from her skin, a blush so deep she was sure it was visible to the naked eye. She shot a panicked glance at his parents, but Cisca just covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes crinkling at the corners with suppressed laughter, while Adam looked on with a look of fond resignation. Oscar was openly grinning, enjoying the show far too much. Trapped, and with no graceful way out, Y/N did the only thing she could. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
It was meant to be a quick, reassuring peck. A simple gesture to appease the drugged-up man-child currently clinging to her. But Lando had other ideas. The moment her lips touched his, his hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place. He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing her bottom lip, a slow, deliberate request for more that she found herself powerless to deny. He kissed her with a single-minded focus, a slow, drugging, thorough exploration that made her head spin and her toes curl. It wasn't a frantic kiss, but a deep, possessive one, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the taste of her. He kissed her for what felt like an eternity, a long, drawn-out moment that stretched and warped in the sterile air of the hospital room.
At one point, he let out a soft, needy whine directly into her mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated want that vibrated through her entire body. And that's when she felt it. Through the thin, clinical fabric of his hospital gown and the race suit they’d cut off him but left pooled around his legs, he was hard. A firm, insistent pressure against her hip that was a testament to his very real, very present desire, even in his battered and medicated state.
A fresh wave of mortification washed over her, so intense it was almost paralyzing. She quickly but gently pulled away, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. He whined in protest, chasing her retreating lips with his own, his eyes clouded with confusion and frustration. She smiled, a small, helpless, apologetic smile, and placed a firm but gentle hand on his chest to stop him.
"Alright, mate, that's enough," Oscar chimed in from the doorway, his voice laced with laughter.
Lando’s family burst out laughing, the sound filling the small room and breaking the tension. Y/N saw his pouty expression and couldn't help but lean in to press a soft, placating kiss to his cheek, a silent apology for her rejection.
They stayed like that for a while, a strange, comfortable bubble of family and affection. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, Lando’s head resting in her lap, his fingers tracing patterns on her knee. His parents asked her gentle questions about her work, about how she and Lando had met, their curiosity now tinged with a warm, welcoming acceptance. They weren't judging her; they were just getting to know the person who had so completely captured their son's heart, the person he had been so terrified of losing.
Eventually, Lando's eyes grew heavy, his movements becoming slower, more lethargic. The medication was finally winning. He drifted off to sleep, his hand still tightly clutching hers, his breathing soft and even.
His parents and Oscar said their goodbyes, promising to return in the morning. "Take care of our boy, Y/N," Cisca said, squeezing her shoulder gently.
"I will," she promised, and she meant it.
A doctor came in a little while later to check on him, and Y/N gently shook him awake. "Lando, the doctor's here to see you."
"Mr. Norris will need to be taken care of for the next few weeks," the doctor said, looking at Y/N as the primary caregiver in the room. "He'll need help with basic tasks, someone to monitor his concussion, make sure he's resting. Will you be the one looking after him?"
"Yes," Lando answered immediately, his voice raspy with sleep, his eyes still closed as he snuggled closer to her side.
The doctor smiled, making a note on his chart. "Alright then. He has a few bruised ribs, which will be quite sore, and a lot of deep bruising from the impact. He also has a mild concussion, so he'll need to rest. No strenuous activity. That includes, you know," he said, gesturing vaguely between them with a knowing smile, "all of that."
Y/N nodded, her face flaming. "Understood."
After the doctor left, she looked down at Lando, who was now looking up at her, his eyes soft and full of a love that was no longer hidden by fear or insecurity. He was a mess, he was a handful, and he was hers. And as she sat there, in the quiet of the hospital room, with his hand in hers, she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that she wouldn't have it any other way.
