#firstkisstrope

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.