Temporary Paralysis? Part 1
❤︎ |7k| Summary: Lando is left paralysed after a huge crash. Nobody knows if he will ever be able to walk again, or return to formula 1. His hired a specialist in the field, Y/N. She’s breathtakingly stunning, and she also just happens to be his caretaker.
The scent of his own soap, clean and vaguely antiseptic, clings to Lando’s skin. It’s a smell he’s come to associate with helplessness. He’s freshly showered, a process that is now a meticulous, awkward ritual involving his father’s steady hands and a waterproof shower chair. He’s dressed in black sweatpants and the soft, worn fleece of a McLaren hoodie, the familiar orange logo a small, bittersweet comfort against his chest. It feels like a ghost of the man he used to be, a man who wore that same logo with pride, strapped into a roaring machine, not sitting in a silent, sterile room.
He wheels himself out of his bedroom, the quiet hum of the electric motors the only sound in the sprawling, sterile-feeling hallway. The house is too big for one person, especially one confined to a chair. It echoes with a silence that feels heavier than any physical weight. This silence used to be filled with the sounds of his life: the clatter of his simulator setup, his mates laughing downstairs, the distant roar of a jet ski on the lake. Now, it’s just the hum of his chair and the phantom memory of an engine he’d give anything to hear again. The grief for his career, for the life that was stolen from him in a blur of tire smoke and shattered carbon fiber, is a physical presence in his chest, a cold, heavy stone. He feels useless. A 25-year-old man who can’t even get out of bed by himself, who can’t walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The embarrassment is a constant, burning humiliation, especially when he catches his reflection in a dark window—a man broken, trapped in a chair.
His parents’ voices float from the living room, low and serious. He recognizes the tone. It’s the one they use when they’re about to discuss something they think he won’t like, something they’ve already decided. He steers his chair towards the sound, the wheels gliding silently over the polished wood floors. He stops just at the entrance, partially obscured by the wall, a habit he’s developed since the accident—listening, gathering information before he has to face it.
“…he just needs more support, Adam,” his mom, Cisca, is saying, her voice tight with a worry that never seems to fully leave her these days. “We can’t keep doing this. The Hendersons are expecting us for dinner on Friday, and I have that charity luncheon next week. We can’t keep putting our lives on hold. It’s not fair to him, and it’s not sustainable for us.”
“I know, love, I know,” his dad, Adam, replies, his voice heavy. “But hiring someone? A stranger to be here, with him? It feels like we’re… I don’t know, giving up. Like we’re failing him.”
“It’s not giving up! It’s giving him the best possible chance. This woman isn’t just a carer. She’s a specialist. A physiotherapist, a nutritionist, everything. She’s worked with athletes before, with spinal injuries. She’s the best, and she was available. It’s a miracle.”
Lando’s stomach tightens. A stranger. He knew this was coming, of course. He’d heard the hushed conversations, seen the exhaustion etched deeper around his mother’s eyes, the way his dad’s shoulders seemed to permanently slump. He feels a pang of guilt, sharp and immediate. He hates being a burden. He hates the way his dad has to look away when he helps him with the most intimate things, the forced casualness in his voice as he asks if Lando is ‘good to go’ in the shower. He loves his parents more than anything, but this dependency is a corrosive thing, eating away at all of them. He especially hates the thought of his dad seeing him like this, so weak and vulnerable. His dad, his hero, now reduced to bathing his grown son.
He takes a deep breath and wheels himself into the room.
“Morning,” he says, trying for a cheerful tone that he doesn’t feel.
Both of his parents turn, their expressions softening instantly into the familiar mask of parental concern.
“Lando, sweetheart,” Cisca says, coming over to kiss the top of his head. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log,” he lies. He never sleeps well anymore. His dreams are still full of screeching tires and the violent, sickening crunch of carbon fiber, the smell of fuel and the terrifying moment of darkness that followed.
Adam rests a hand on his shoulder, a firm, grounding weight. “Good. That’s good, son.”
They stand there for a moment, the unspoken thing hanging in the air between them. Finally, his mom gestures to the plush sofa opposite the one they’re sitting on.
“We need to talk to you about something, Lando.”
Here we go, he thinks. He nods, keeping his expression neutral. “Okay.”
His dad takes the lead. “As you know, our schedules have gotten… complicated. We have things, commitments. We’re struggling to give you the care you need, the care you deserve.”
Lando wants to protest, to tell them they’re doing a great job, that he’s fine. But it would be a lie, and they all know it. So he just nods again, his gaze fixed on an abstract painting on the wall.
“So,” Cisca continues, jumping in. “We’ve found someone. To help. We’ve hired someone.”
Lando looks from his mom’s hopeful face to his dad’s weary one. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “A carer?”
“More than that,” Cisca says, her voice warming with genuine enthusiasm. “Her name is Y/n. She’s French. She’s a highly specialized physiotherapist and nutritionist who also does in-home care. She’s going to be your physio, manage your diet, and… well, she’ll be here to help with everything. To be your support system so we can… so we can be your parents again, instead of your full-time medical team.”
The relief that washes over Lando is so potent it almost makes him dizzy. He hadn’t realized how much the thought of his dad helping him shower again today was weighing on him. It’s not his dad’s fault, it’s just… wrong. Awkward. He’s a grown man. The thought of a stranger doing it is also awkward, terrifying even, but it’s a different kind of awkward. It’s professional. It’s clinical. It’s not his dad trying to maintain eye contact with the ceiling while asking if he’s washed everywhere.
“Okay,” Lando says, and a real smile touches his lips for the first time that morning. “Yeah. Okay. That’s… that’s actually a huge relief. I hate you guys having to do all that.”
His mom’s eyes shine with tears. “Oh, Lando.”
“We wanted to make sure you were alright with it,” Adam adds, his own shoulders seeming to lose a fraction of their tension. “She’s very qualified. Comes with glowing recommendations.”
“I’m sure she is,” Lando says. “When do I meet her?”
Cisca glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Actually, she’s due any minute. We wanted to talk to you first.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, a clear, melodic chime that cuts through the tension in the room. His mom’s face lights up. “That’ll be her! I’ll get it!” She practically bounces out of the room, a spring in her step that Lando hasn’t seen in months.
Adam gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s the right thing, son. For all of us.”
Lando just nods, his heart starting to beat a little faster. He smooths down the front of his hoodie, suddenly self-conscious. He hears his mom’s delighted exclamation from the hallway, the sound of her greeting someone warmly. Then another voice, low and melodic, with a lilting accent he can’t quite place.
He wheels himself forward a little, positioning himself to have a clear view of the living room entrance. And then you walk in, following his mother, and the entire world seems to grind to a halt.
You are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
It’s not just one thing. It’s everything. The way the sunlight from the large bay window catches in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold. The kind, intelligent warmth in your eyes as you listen to his mother chatter. The effortless grace of your movements. You’re wearing a matching set, a crisp white top and a flowing white skirt that seems to float around you as you walk. You look like something out of a dream, ethereal and completely out of place in the mundane reality of his injured life.
His mother is already smitten, hugging you tightly and kissing your cheek like you’re a long-lost daughter. “We’re so happy to have you here, Y/n, so happy!”
“Thank you for having me, Cisca. It is a pleasure,” you say, your voice exactly as it sounded from the hall—soft, musical, with that French cadence that makes every word sound elegant.
His dad steps forward, offering a more reserved but still warm hug. “Welcome, Y/n. I’m Adam.”
“Adam. A pleasure.” You smile at him, a genuine, easy smile that reaches your eyes.
And then you turn and your gaze lands on him.
Your smile widens, becomes brighter, and it’s directed right at him. It feels like a physical touch, a jolt of electricity that starts in his chest and spreads outwards, making his skin tingle.
His insides, which have been a twisted knot of anxiety and resignation for months, turn to goo. Complete, utter goo. He feels his own lips stretch into a helpless, besotted smile, his eyes wide as he stares at you. He’s completely and utterly smitten, in the space of three seconds. It’s pathetic, and he doesn’t care one bit.
You glide across the room towards him, and lean in, and for a second he’s confused, then you gently kiss his left cheek, then his right. A French greeting. “Lando. It is wonderful to finally meet you. I am Y/n.”
“Y/n. Hi. It’s, uh, great to meet you too.”
He can smell your perfume up close, something light and floral, like jasmine and fresh linen. It’s intoxicating. His eyes are probably the size of saucers. He knows he must look like an absolute idiot, gaping at you with what his sister would call ‘heart eyes’.
He can feel his parents watching him, and he can practically hear the silent, triumphant conversation they’re having with their eyes. See? He likes her! This is perfect!
“Well,” his mom says, her voice a little too bright. “Adam and I were just about to pop out. We have that… that thing. We’ll be back in a few hours. You two get acquainted!”
It’s the most transparent excuse he’s ever heard, but he’s not about to call them on it. Anything to get them out of here so he can just… breathe. So he can be in the same room as you without feeling like he’s under a microscope.
His dad claps him on the shoulder again. “You be good for Y/n, son. Listen to everything she says.”
“I will,” Lando manages to say, his gaze still fixed on you.
And just like that, they are gone. The front door clicks shut, and the silence that descends is different now. It’s not empty and oppressive; it’s charged, humming with a new and terrifying energy. It’s just him and you.
You turn back to him, your smile softening into something more gentle, more professional, but no less warm. “They seem very lovely,” you say, your voice a low murmur.
“Yeah, they’re the best,” Lando says, his own voice feeling rough and inadequate. “A bit… overbearing.”
You laugh, a light, musical sound that makes his heart do a funny little flip. He’s just… staring. He can’t help it. He traces the curve of your cheek with his eyes, the elegant line of your neck, the way your white skirt drapes over your hips. He feels a familiar, unwelcome heat pool in his stomach, a feeling he hasn’t had much since the crash. It’s both exhilarating and mortifying. He’s a wreck, a broken man in a wheelchair, and he’s getting a crush on the woman who’s been hired to basically babysit him. The humiliation of it is almost enough to extinguish the spark, but then you look at him again, and it roars right back to life.
“So, you say, I know this is all very new. But I was thinking, if you are feeling up to it, we could make a start today. Nothing too strenuous. Just some initial testing, so I can get a baseline. And we can discuss your new nutrition plan.”
He wants to spend time with you. He wants it with a desperation that’s almost embarrassing. He nods, maybe a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Yes. Let’s do that. I’m ready.”
Your sweet smile returns, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Wonderful. But first, I think you need some proper fuel. I’m sure you just had a light breakfast. I’ll make you something. A granola bowl, perhaps? With fresh berries and yogurt. It will give you energy without weighing you down.”
He doesn’t care what it is. If you’re making it, he’ll eat it. “That sounds amazing. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” you say. “Why don’t you show me the kitchen? And then you can tell me what a typical day of eating looks like for you right now.”
He leads the way, the quiet hum of his chair the only sound as you walk beside him. He’s acutely aware of your presence, the soft scent of your perfume, the sound of your footsteps on the floor. He feels a strange mix of self-consciousness and pride. He’s showing you his home, his territory, but he’s doing it from a chair. He pushes the thought away and focuses on the sound of your voice as you ask him about his diet. He has to admit it’s been mostly whatever his mom puts in front of him, a lot of comfort food and takeaways. He hasn’t had the energy or the will to care.
You listen intently, nodding, your expression serious but kind. “That is completely understandable, Lando. But we are going to change that. Food is medicine. It is fuel for your recovery. My goal is to get you walking again. It will be hard work, and it will require discipline from both of us. But I believe we can do it.”
Walking again. The words hang in the air, so full of promise they feel dangerous. He’s dared to hope before, only to be met with cautious platitudes from doctors. But you say it with such conviction, such certainty. You’re a specialist, his mom had said. He wants to believe you. He needs to believe you.
You move around his kitchen with an easy confidence, pulling out bowls and containers from his pantry as if you’ve lived here for years. You slice bananas and sprinkle granola and arrange a handful of vibrant, deep-blue blackberries on top of a cloud of Greek yogurt. It’s beautiful. It looks like something from a magazine.
You place the bowl on the table in front of him. “There you go. Let me know what you think.”
He takes a spoonful. It’s delicious. The crunch of the granola, the sweetness of the fruit, the creamy tang of the yogurt. It tastes like health, like hope. He eats with an appetite he hasn’t felt in months, cleaning the entire bowl. When he’s done, he looks up to find you watching him, a pleased smile on your face.
“Good?” you ask.
“Incredible,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.”
“Excellent. Now,” you say, standing up. “Shall we move on to the testing? We can do it wherever you feel most comfortable. In here, the living room, or your bedroom?”
He wants you in his room. It feels private, safe. “My bedroom is good,” he says, trying to sound casual.
“Perfect,” you say. “Lead the way.”
He wheels down the hallway, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. You follow him, your presence a warm weight at his back. He pushes open the door to his room and wheels inside. It’s his sanctuary, but now it feels like it’s being invaded in the best possible way. You stop just inside the doorway, taking in the space—his unmade bed, the racing posters on the walls, the stack of video games by the TV.
“Where would you prefer to do this?” you ask. “On the bed, or on the floor on a mat?”
“The bed,” he says. It’s easier. Less movement.
“Okay,” you say. “Lie down on your back for me, please. Get comfortable.”
He wheels himself over to the side of the bed and puts the brakes on. He looks at the bed, then at his useless legs. He places his hands on the armrests, preparing to heave his dead weight across the gap, a maneuver he’s perfected but that is always undignified and a little scary. He pushes off, swinging his upper body, his arms straining with the effort.
Before he can complete the clumsy transfer, you’re there. “Oh, let me help,” you say softly. You’re suddenly beside him, your hands gentle but firm on his back and arm. “Just lean into me. I’ve got you.”
Your touch is electric. He freezes, every nerve ending suddenly alight. He can feel the warmth of your hand through the thin material of his hoodie, can smell your perfume, clean and floral and so close. He leans into you as you instruct, his body moving with an ease it never has on its own. You guide him, your strength surprising, and in one smooth motion, he’s on the bed, settled on the soft mattress.
He’s breathing heavily, but it’s not from the exertion. It’s from you. From being so close, from your hands on him. He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs.
You arrange a pillow under his head and gently straighten his legs on the bed. “Comfortable?” you ask, your voice close to his ear.
He can only nod, his throat too tight to speak.
“Good,” you say, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside him. “Now, I am just going to press on different spots on your body. I need you to talk to me. Tell me everything you feel. If you feel pressure, if it hurts, if it’s sharp, if it’s dull, if you feel nothing at all. All of it is important information for me. Okay?”
“Okay,” he manages to croak out.
You start on his chest, your fingers pressing gently on his sternum. “Feel that?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Pressure. No pain.”
You move to his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms. Your touch is clinical, professional, but his body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Every spot you touch ignites a trail of fire. He answers your questions, his voice a little shaky, trying to focus on the sensations and not the fact that your hands are on him.
“Good,” you murmur, moving down his side. You press a spot just below his ribs. “And here?”
“Just pressure.”
Your fingers move to his side, near his armpit. You press into a small muscle there, and a strange sensation zings through him. “Ooh,” he says involuntarily. “That… itches.”
You pause, your fingers still resting on the spot. A flicker of something—interest, maybe excitement—crosses your face before being replaced by your professional calm. “An itch? You can feel an itch?”
“Yeah. A weird one. Deep inside.”
“That is a very good sign, Lando,” you say, your voice warm with genuine encouragement. “That means the nerve signals are trying to get through. That is exactly what we are looking for.”
The hope that had flickered when you talked about him walking again surges, bright and fierce. An itch. A stupid, annoying itch, and it feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
You continue your assessment, your hands moving down his torso, over his hips. He tries to stay detached, to be a good patient, but he’s hyper-aware of your proximity, of the scent of your hair as you lean over him, of the soft fabric of your skirt brushing against his arm. He’s a mess of conflicting emotions—hope, desire, embarrassment, and a deep, burgeoning fondness for this woman who is so gentle and so capable.
Then your hands move lower, down his thighs. Your touch is light, methodical, but as you get closer to his groin, his breath hitches in his throat. Panic and arousal war inside him. He can’t control it. He’s attracted to you, and his body, the traitorous, broken thing, is responding. He feels a flush creep up his neck, his face burning with humiliation.
You must feel it, the sudden tension in his muscles, the way his breathing changes. You glance up at his face, your eyes meeting his for a second. Your expression is unreadable, but you don’t pull away. You just move your hands to a different spot, a little further away, and continue your work as if nothing happened. The relief is so overwhelming he could cry.
Finally, you’re done. You straighten up, pulling a small notebook from your bag and jotting down notes. “Alright,” you say, your voice all business again. “That’s enough for today. That can be quite taxing on the nervous system. I want you to rest now. Sleep if you can. Your body needs to process this.”
He nods, not sure what to say. Thank you seems inadequate for everything.
“Just call out if you need anything at all,” you tell him, tucking your notebook away. “I will be just in the living room, going over these results and drawing up a proper plan for us. I’ll bring you a snack in a few hours.”
“Okay,” he says. “Thank you, Y/n.”
You give him one last, warm smile. “Of course, Lando. Rest well.”
And then you’re gone, pulling the door quietly shut behind you.
Lando lies in the sudden silence of his room, his mind racing. He can still smell your perfume on the pillowcase. He can still feel the ghost of your touch on his skin. He’s exhausted, but his mind is wide awake. He replays every moment of the last hour: the way you smiled at him, the sound of your laugh, the gentle strength in your hands as you helped him onto the bed. He’s so completely gone for you, it’s almost funny.
And then a dreadful thought hits him, and the warm bubble of happiness instantly pops.
You’re going to be taking care of him. All of him.
You’re going to be the one helping him shower. You’re going to see him naked, weak, and helpless. You’re going to be the one dressing him, undressing him, helping him with the most basic, private functions of his life. The thought is so mortifying it makes him physically recoil. He’d felt awkward with his dad, but this… this is a different level of hell. How can he ever face you again after that? How can you look at him, this pathetic, broken man, and not see him as anything less?
It’s strange, he thinks, that his parents would choose a woman for this role. But then he remembers what his mom said. She’s a specialist. The best. And in their small, wealthy enclave, qualified home carers are few and far between. It would be complicated to have a male carer for the daily stuff and then you for the physio. This makes sense, logistically. Emotionally, it feels like a cruel joke.
He turns his head, burying his face in the pillow that still smells faintly of you. He’s so tired. Tired of the embarrassment, tired of the helplessness, tired of the constant, gnawing grief for the life he lost. But for the first time in a long time, there’s something else mixed in with the exhaustion. A tiny, fragile spark of hope. And it’s all because of you.
He falls asleep thinking about the color of your eyes and the way his name sounded when you said it.
You sit at the pristine kitchen counter, your laptop open, but you’re not seeing the screen. You’re seeing him. Lando Norris. You’d read his file, of course. You knew the statistics, the medical history, the details of the crash that had ended his Formula 1 career. You’d prepared yourself to meet a young man who would be angry, depressed, withdrawn.
You had not prepared for this.
For the quiet sadness in his eyes, the vulnerability that he tried so hard to hide. For the shock of messy, damp curls falling over his forehead, for the way the oversized McLaren hoodie made him look boyish and endearing. For the heart-stopping moment he looked at you, his wide, hazel eyes full of a raw, unguarded adoration that nearly made you stumble.
You stop yourself, shaking your head slightly. Professional, Y/n. Be professional.
But it’s difficult. He is, objectively, incredibly attractive. Even in the wheelchair, even with the shadows of pain and exhaustion etched on his face, there’s a beauty there. A strength in his jaw, a warmth in his smile. And those eyes… You force your focus back to your notes. The itch in his latissimus dorsi. That’s what’s important. That’s the breakthrough. The data.
You review your findings, your mind easily slipping back into its clinical mode. You map out a nutrition plan, a schedule of exercises, a timeline of goals. You’re good at what you do. You’re the best. And you are going to help him walk again. You pour all your focus into the work, into the plan, because the alternative is thinking about how cute he looked, all sleepy and soft in that hoodie, and that is a path you absolutely cannot go down. You are his physiotherapist. His caretaker. Nothing more.
A couple of hours pass. You’ve made a comprehensive plan. You feel focused, in control. You glance at the clock. It’s time for his snack. You grab the high-protein, low-sugar energy bar you’d brought with you and head down the hall.
You open his bedroom door quietly. He’s awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He turns his head when you come in, and a shy smile touches his lips.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply, your own smile feeling more natural than it has in hours. “Time for a little refuel. I brought you something.”
You walk over to the bed and hand him the bar. He sits up, a little awkwardly, and takes it from you.
“Thanks,” he says, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting second. He rips open the packaging and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
You watch him for a moment, your professional mask firmly in place. “How are you feeling?” you ask. “Any soreness? Any new sensations?”
He swallows and shakes his head. “No. Just… tired. But a good tired, I think.”
“Good. That’s to be expected. Your nervous system has been stimulated in a way it hasn’t been for a while. Rest is crucial.”
He nods, finishing the bar in a few more bites. He looks at you, his expression open and sincere. “Y/n?”
“Yes, Lando?”
“Thank you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “For… for all of this. For not treating me like I’m made of glass. For talking about me walking again. It… it means a lot.”
Your heart clenches in your chest. You fight to keep your expression neutral, to maintain the professional boundary that is so essential. But it’s hard. It’s so hard when he’s looking at you like that.
“It’s my job, Lando,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “And we are going to work hard. Together.”
The word ‘together’ hangs in the air between you, full of promise. You can see the hope bloom in his eyes again, and it does something to you, something you immediately stamp down. You are his caretaker. That is all.
You give him a final, professional nod. “Get some rest, Lando. We have a big day tomorrow.”
You turn to leave, but something stops you. His file. There was a detail, a confusing anomaly that you need to understand before you can truly formulate a plan. You turn back to find him watching you, his expression still open and trusting.
“Lando, can I ask you something a bit more detailed?” you say, your tone shifting to be more clinical. “I read in your file that the paralysis is primarily from the waist down, but that there’s some… inconsistency with your arms and upper body strength.”
He nods, his gaze dropping for a moment. “Yeah. It’s… weird.”
“Can you tell me about it?” you ask, pulling up the desk chair and sitting down, giving him your full attention. “The file was vague. It said sometimes you have full function, and other times… it’s like they don’t work at all. Is that right?”
He lets out a long, weary sigh, running a hand through his messy curls. “That’s right. It’s the most frustrating part, I think. With my legs, it’s… it’s final. I know they don’t work. There’s no false hope. But my arms… they’re a tease.” He flexes the fingers of his right hand, looking at them as if they belong to someone else. “Some days, I wake up and I can feel the strength. I can push myself up in the chair, I can transfer myself to the bed without help. It feels… normal. Almost. And then, an hour later, or sometimes just minutes later, it’s like someone flips a switch. All the strength just drains away. They become these heavy, useless things. I’ll be trying to grab a glass of water and my hand just won’t grip. I’ll try to push up and my arm won’t hold me.”
He looks up at you, and the raw frustration in his eyes is painful to witness. “It feels like being betrayed by my own body, over and over again. The doctors say it’s something about ‘incomplete’ spinal damage and nerve pathways misfiring, but they don’t really know. It’s random. There’s no pattern. I can be having a good day, feeling strong, and then I’ll reach for something and just… collapse. It’s humiliating.”
You listen, your mind working, processing the information. This is the key. The file hadn’t captured the emotional toll of this inconsistency, the psychological torture of the intermittent hope. This isn’t just about rebuilding muscle; it’s about retraining a chaotic nervous system.
“Thank you for telling me that, Lando,” you say, your voice serious. “That detail is incredibly important. It changes things. It means we need to approach your upper body rehabilitation differently. We’re not just building strength, we’re trying to establish consistent nerve pathways.”
You stand up, your mind already racing with new exercises and tests. “Okay. This is good. This gives me a much clearer picture. We are going to do a lot of testing tomorrow. A lot. I need to map out exactly when and why these ‘switch flips’ happen. We’ll test your strength, your fine motor skills, your endurance, at different times of the day, before and after meals, before and after physio. It’s going to be a long day, so I need you to be mentally prepared for that.”
He looks at you, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “I’m ready,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”
“Good,” you say, pleased by his resolve. You turn to leave again, your hand on the doorknob. Before you go, there’s one more practical, crucial thing to address. You turn back, keeping your tone as matter-of-fact as possible.
“And Lando… one more thing. My role here is to assist you with everything you need. That includes… personal care. So, when you need to shower, or use the bathroom, or anything else that you’re struggling with, you need to tell me. Don’t try to do it yourself and don’t wait for your parents. It’s my job to help you, and I need you to let me. Okay?”
A deep blush creeps up his neck, flooding his cheeks. He looks away, his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. He’s clearly flustered, embarrassed by the directness of the statement.
“Okay,” he mumbles, still not looking at you. “Yeah. I will.”
You nod, satisfied. You’ve laid the groundwork. You give him what you hope is a reassuring, non-intimidating smile. “Alright. Rest up. See you later”
You turn and walk out of the room, closing the door softly behind you. You lean against it for a second, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. That was… intense. The emotional rawness he’d shown you, the trust he was already placing in you—it was more than you’d anticipated.
And then you replay the last five minutes in your mind. The way he’d talked about his body, the frustration in his voice. And throughout it all, you’d noticed it. A subtle, almost unconscious pattern. Every few seconds, his eyes would flicker down. Not to your hands, not to your chest, but to your lips. It happened when you were explaining the testing plan, when you were talking about his nerve pathways. It happened again just now, when you were telling him to ask for help with the shower. A quick, darting glance, then his gaze would snap back up to your eyes, as if he was scolding himself.
You feel a strange flutter in your own chest, a mix of surprise and something else you refuse to name. It’s probably just a nervous tic, you tell yourself. A product of his anxiety and his injury. It means nothing.
You push yourself off the door and walk away, forcing yourself to focus on the plan, on the science, on the work. You are his physiotherapist. You are a professional. And you will not let yourself notice the way his eyes linger on your lips. You simply won’t.
Lando lies in bed long after you’ve left, the silence of the room no longer feeling empty, but filled with the echo of your voice. He replays your conversation, the clinical yet compassionate way you spoke about his body. And he finds himself feeling a strange, twisted sort of gratitude for the bizarre reality of his injury. It’s a weird, almost cruel paradox of his condition. His arms are a lottery, a game of chance he never knows he’s playing until he’s already lost. But there’s one exception, one reliable, consistent function: he can always manage the bathroom. The short, sharp burst of effort needed to transfer from his chair to the toilet, to hold himself up, to manage his pants—it’s a task his nervous system has seemingly hardwired into his ‘always work’ file. It’s a small, pathetic victory, but it’s his. It’s the one sliver of dignity he has left, the one intimate act he doesn’t have to ask for help with.
But the trade-off is absolute. The longer, more complex tasks are impossible. He can never shower himself. The sustained effort of holding himself, of washing, of navigating the wet, slippery space—it’s a non-starter. His arms will always betray him, turning to dead weight halfway through. He can never dress or undress himself. The fumbling with buttons, the coordination to pull a shirt over his head, the simple act of putting on his own sweatpants—it’s a mountain he can’t climb. So he’s left with this absurd situation: he can pee by himself, but he can’t wash his own hands afterward without help. He can take care of the most private biological urge, but he can’t clothe his own body. It’s a weird, broken kind of independence, and as he drifts off to sleep, he’s almost glad for it. Because the thought of you helping him with the former is a humiliation he doesn’t think he could bear.
The darkness in his room is absolute, a heavy blanket that presses in on him. Sleep, when it finally came, was a fitful, restless thing, filled with fragmented dreams of roaring engines and the phantom sensation of his legs working, pumping pedals that no longer existed. He wakes with a jolt, his heart hammering, the need to pee a sudden, urgent pressure in his bladder. For a moment, he lies still, disoriented. Then the reality of his situation crashes back down on him. He’s alone. And he needs help.
His eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight coming from the window, illuminating the small, sleek button on his bedside table. The call button. He stares at it, a wave of hot shame washing over him. He hates this. Hates having to press a button to summon someone for a task a toddler can perform alone. But he has no choice. The pressure is building, insistent. He takes a shaky breath and presses it.
In the living room, you’re curled up on the sofa, a mug of herbal tea growing cold in your hands as you review the initial assessment data on your tablet. The soft, insistent chime of the call button cuts through the quiet. You’re on your feet instantly, placing the mug on the coffee table. You grab the small, prepared medical kit from your bag—a pair of latex gloves, some antiseptic wipes, and a clean towel—and walk calmly down the hall.
You tap lightly on his door before pushing it open. “Lando? You called?”
The room is dark, save for the moonlight. He’s sitting up in bed, a shadowy silhouette. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and embarrassment. “Sorry. I… I need the bathroom.”
“It’s okay,” you say, your tone even and reassuring. “That’s what I’m here for.” You know from his file, from the detailed notes his previous care team provided, that this is one of the few things he can manage on his own. The transfer, the act itself—it’s a short, sharp burst of effort his body can still reliably perform. It’s the aftermath that’s the problem. “I’ll be right outside. Just call me when you’re done.”
“Okay,” he whispers, his relief palpable.
You step back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar, giving him privacy but remaining within earshot. You hear the quiet hum of his chair as he maneuvers it, the soft thud as he transfers his weight, the click of the bathroom door closing. You wait patiently, your mind already running through tomorrow’s intensive schedule.
A few minutes later, his voice, small and hesitant, calls out. “Y/n? I’m… I’m done.”
You push the bathroom door open. He’s back in his chair, positioned by the sink, his head bowed. He won’t look at you, his shame a physical thing radiating from him. You don’t say a word. You just walk over, pull on the thin latex gloves, and turn on the faucet, adjusting the water to a warm, comfortable temperature.
You stand beside him, your shoulder almost touching his. Gently, you reach down and take his hands. They’re limp in your grasp, the fingers slightly curled. You place them under the flowing water, letting the warmth cascade over his skin. He flinches slightly at your touch but doesn’t pull away. You pick up the bar of mild, unscented soap from the dish and begin to lather it between your palms, working up a soft foam. Then, you take his hands again and start to wash them.
Your touch is methodical, thorough, but impossibly gentle. You work the soap over his palms, between his fingers, over his knuckles and wrists. It’s an intimate, strangely tender act. You can feel the faint calluses on his hands, remnants of his former life, a life of gripping steering wheels and working with tools. His hands are beautiful, even when they’re like this, and you force the thought away, focusing on the task. You rinse the soap away, the water swirling down the drain, and then you take the soft, clean towel and carefully, meticulously, dry each finger, each part of his hand, until his skin is warm and dry.
“All done,” you say softly, pulling off the gloves and disposing of them. You meet his gaze in the dim reflection of the bathroom mirror. His eyes are wide, fixed on you, but there’s no embarrassment there now. Just something soft and unreadable.
He gives a tiny nod. “Thanks.”
You follow him as he wheels back into his bedroom. He stops by the bed, and you know what comes next. He puts the brakes on and prepares to make the awkward, strenuous transfer.
“Let me,” you say, moving to his side. Just like this afternoon, you place your hands on his back and arm. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.”
He does, and you guide him, your bodies working together to move his dead weight from the chair to the bed. As you help him settle back against the pillows, your faces are just inches apart. In the moonlight, you can see every detail of his face—the dusting of freckles across his nose, the soft curve of his lips, the thick, dark lashes that frame his eyes. His eyes. They are so soft, so sweet, and they are looking right at you. A powerful urge to look back, to really look, surges through you. You fight it, dropping your gaze to the pillow you’re fluffing behind his head, your heart beating a little too fast.
You help him get comfortable, pulling the duvet up over his chest. “There,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “All set for the night.”
He sinks into the pillows, his body finally relaxing. He looks at you, a genuine, grateful smile on his face. “Thank you, Y/n,” he whispers. “For… you know.”
“I know,” you say, your own smile softening. “Get some sleep, Lando. We have a big day tomorrow.”
You turn and walk out of the room, closing the door gently behind you. You lean against it for a second, just like before, your hand pressed to your chest. You can still feel the weight of his hands in yours, the warmth of his skin. You can still see the look in his eyes. And you know, with a sinking, terrifying certainty, that this is going to be much harder than you thought.
