✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇꜱʜᴏʟᴅ✈️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ + ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ
ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ
ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ (ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ)
ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ (ɴᴏɴ-ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ)
The rain tapped against her dorm window like a ticking clock, quiet and unrelenting. Outside, the street lamps lit the wet pavement in dull amber streaks, catching the shuffle of late-night students returning from the library or their part-time jobs. Inside her small room, (Y/n) sat in the dark with her laptop open, blue light casting shadows across her face.
Her McLaren hoodie draped loosely over her frame. Her embroidered name? It felt more like a pulse tonight, a mark of something both dangerously close and absurdly unreal.
She had received another package from him that morning: a rare aviation mechanics manual out of print for years. Inside the front cover was a short note:
So you’ll have an edge before uni even starts. Let me know which chapter makes you think of flying the most. — Lando
She smiled at that. Always thoughtful, always skirting the line between doting partner and someone still tethered by the weight of the world watching.
But tonight felt different. He was calling.
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“Hey,” she answered, sitting cross-legged.
His voice was soft on the other end. “Hey, you.”
“You sound… tired.”
“Media day. Sim sessions. Debriefs.” A yawn. “And I missed you. That part was worse.”
(Y/n) tucked a knee to her chest, trying to keep her voice light. “You’re getting sappy.”
He chuckled. “I’ve always been this way. You’re just finally seeing it.”
A pause.
Then—
“I want to see you this weekend. It’s not a race weekend, and I’ll be in Monaco for a few days. You could come.”
“Lando—”
“I’ll have a car come for you. Nothing official, nothing that traces back to me. No press. No one knows except my assistant. You’ll stay at the apartment.” He paused, voice softer. “I just want time with you, without looking over my shoulder.”
She hesitated, heart hammering. “Won’t that be more dangerous?”
“I’ve thought it through.”
“…Okay,” she whispered. “Then I’m in.”
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The car ride wasn’t something she’d ever fully get used to. Not because it was flashy, because it wasn’t, but because of how deliberately invisible it felt. Tinted windows, a nondescript dark interior, the steady hum of tires against wet asphalt as Monaco blurred past outside. Nothing about it screamed him, and that was the point.
There were no other passengers. Just the driver, who kept his eyes forward and the music low, offering her bottled water with a quiet nod.
It was raining when they pulled into the underground garage beneath the apartment building.
The elevator ride up was silent except for the soft whir of cables and the distant patter of rain echoing somewhere far below. When the doors opened, warm light spilled into the hallway, muted and calm, like the world had been turned down a notch.
Lando was already inside.
She barely had time to set her bag down before the door closed behind her, the lock clicking softly into place. He was standing a few steps away, hoodie on, hair still slightly damp like he’d been pacing near an open window. No rush. No crowd. Just him, waiting.
She crossed the space between them.
It wasn’t a dramatic run or anything cinematic—just a quick, slightly unsteady walk that ended in his chest, her forehead pressing against his neck, arms wrapping around his back like muscle memory taking over.
“I missed you,” she mumbled into his hoodie.
He smelled like warm cotton and faint cologne, familiar in a way that made her chest ache.
“I missed you more,” he murmured, arms tightening around her as the rain continued tapping quietly against the windows behind them.
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His apartment overlooked the marina.
He had moved some things around. There was a toothbrush for her in the bathroom, oat milk in the fridge, and a copy of a textbook she had mentioned weeks ago sitting on the kitchen island.
(Y/n) sat on the couch, her fingers playing with the hem of her sweater. “You’re nesting.”
Lando raised a brow, sitting beside her. “Excuse me?”
“You’re preparing your space for me. Like I’m… more than just a visit.”
His gaze softened. “Aren’t you?”
Her heart tripped.
“I’ve been thinking,” he continued, looking out the glass window, the rain now just mist. “In a few months, you’ll turn eighteen. Legally, everything gets easier. No grey area. No lines to blur.”
She nodded slowly.
“And I don’t want this to be just some pocket of rebellion or secrecy. I want it to be something real. That we build on.”
“Even if people find out?”
He turned to face her fully. “Even if. I’ll take the heat. But I want to do right by you. We move at your pace. We set our own rules.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then leaned in and kissed him—gentle, grateful, grounding.
And then she whispered, “Then can I sleep here tonight?”
He hesitated. His hand was already curled around her waist, warm and possessive.
“Yeah,” he said softly, “but just cuddling.”
“I know.” She didn’t push. “Just cuddling. Nothing else.”
“Then yes. A thousand times yes.”
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The night passed in quiet intimacy.
They lay in bed, his arm tucked beneath her head, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along his chest. (He still had his shirt on, for goodness’ sake.)
He told her stories about karting in the rain, about crashing in practice at a local karting place and laughing through the bruises. She told him about her mother’s cooking, about the time she broke her wrist trying to assemble a DIY glider.
At one point, she asked, “Were you ever scared?”
“Of racing?”
“Of… being this public. This exposed.”
He looked up at the ceiling.
“Every day. But I signed up for it. I trained for it. I never expected, though, to have something private I wanted to protect this much.”
“You mean me.”
He met her eyes. “Yes. You.”
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The next morning, she woke up before him.
The light was pouring in over the bay, casting golden streaks across the bed.
She watched him sleep, eyelashes dark against his cheek, mouth slightly parted.
Her heart ached in the best way.
She got up quietly and padded to the kitchen, pulling his hoodie around her. It nearly swallowed her whole.
She made coffee. And when he finally stirred, hair a mess, smile sleepy and crooked, she handed him a mug and said, “Happy morning, boyfriend.”
He choked on his coffee. “Boyfriend?”
“You don’t like labels?”
He set the mug down, grinned, and pulled her into his lap. “I love that one.”
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Later that afternoon, they didn’t go anywhere at all. The world stayed outside, muted behind glass and drawn curtains, while the apartment settled into a quiet rhythm around them.
They shared gelato straight from the freezer, sitting on the kitchen counter like it was the most normal thing in the world. She chose lemon. He went for chocolate. He teased her about it; she stole a bite anyway.
They ended up by the window, the balcony door cracked open just enough to let the breeze in. Below them, the marina existed only as distant movement—boats rocking gently, voices too far away to matter.
She asked softly, “What would you be if you weren’t a driver?”
He leaned back, considering it. “A mechanic,” he said. Then, after a moment, “Or maybe a photographer.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“I like seeing moments,” he said. “Capturing what no one else notices. You do that too, in your own way. With engines. With pressure points.”
She turned her face toward the open door, letting the air brush her skin.
“I think I’d be a bird if I could,” she said quietly. “Just flying. No press. No expectations.”
Lando nodded, gaze steady on her. “But birds don’t get to fall in love like this.”
She looked at him.
And didn’t say anything for a long time.
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That night, they lay tangled again.
No words, just the rhythm of breath and quiet heartbeat.
His fingers brushed over her temple.
He whispered, “Whatever happens next, I’m with you.”
To be continued...
✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ✈️
