#formula1fic

There's not enough Nando fics so thank you so much <3

Mariposa Pt1 || Fernando Alonso

Pairing:

Fernando Alonso X RaceEngineer!Reader

Warning and tags:

Nothing but fluff. AFAB!Reader writen, but no descriptions used. Friends to Lovers. Soft!Fernando.

Summary:

Fernando finally gets his 33rd win after a nail-biting finish in Hungary, but his victory means nothing without the one person who’s been with him since his rebeginning. His race engineer, his closest friend, and the person he's loved in secret for the longest time. When an old promise resurfaces after the podium celebrations, everything changes.

Word Count:

1.5K

Author's Note:

(See end of story for more notes)

I so agree about there not being enough Fernando Fics on here, and I am trying to help turn that around. So like tag your Favourite Fernando Authors for me please!! We're a small group but we're here and need to support each other!! Anyways, I Hope you enjoy this!!

You couldn't explain how or when the friendship with Fernando had started. You'd probably choke it up to your two years at Alpine when he came out of retirement, but it was the most important relationship in your life. You assumed it was the same as when Fernando had signed with Aston Martin, you were his one non-negotiable. He wanted you as his race engineer, but had eventually settled as just one of his engineers. That was until his main race engineer had retired before the beginning of the season, promoting you into that spot.

It was how you found yourself biting the inside of your cheek as you watched the final 6 laps of the Hungarian grand prix. Since Spain Fernando had become a frequent point scorer, but what you hadn't expected was a possible podium. The race had been intense, with two safety cars and a perfect strategy. You had been in constant communication throughout the race. He had started in tenth, and had fallen to p18 after the first safety car caused by the Ferrari's colliding . He had climbed back to P7 by the time of the second safety car, Lando had found a wall, which had caused him back into P10. But he had raced his heart out passing the Williams and RBs. He had been able to get past Kimi with little fight and had struggled getting past George for third. But he had and it had put him in the position to fight Oscar in for P2.

You watch as they swap positions going through corners.

"Stay focused, Fernando. Use your knowledge" You said. To an outsider it might mean his expertise, but he knew the double meaning. Oscar was managed by Mark Webber and had adopted a lot of his racing styles. Fernando Followed Oscar for a lap and the pressure mounted until Oscar went too wide in the final corner giving Fernando the chance to get passed.

"Well done Fer, Max 1.0 ahead" You told him.

"Yes! Let's go"

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ + ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

ᴍɪʟᴅʟʏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ɴɪɢʜᴛʟɪꜰᴇ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

The night in Italy held the kind of warmth that did not demand attention. It moved subtly, like a lover’s breath on the nape of a neck, brushing past open shutters and gliding across rooftops aged by centuries of forgotten secrets. The cobblestones, smoothed by time and footsteps, shimmered faintly under a half-hearted moon, and the air, velvet and still, carried the scent of orange blossoms, distant firewood, and slow-burning memories. There was a rhythm to the country after dark, one that couldn’t be taught, only felt. A hush that suggested something sacred, something waiting.

Beyond the revelry of the more boisterous piazzas and away from the spectacle of tourist-fed alleyways, there existed a place most could only dream of, or fear. It had no signage, no identifiable name. Only those invited knew where to find it. And even fewer had the privilege of returning. To the world, it was myth. To those within, it was sanctuary.

Nestled in the shadow of a dormant chapel and shielded by a towering iron gate wrapped in flowering ivy, the bar stood like a secret promised to no one. Guards flanked the entrance, tall, silent men in pressed black suits with eyes that missed nothing. Inside, the air did not merely shift—it cloaked. Dim lights swam through gentle smoke, amber bottles glinted like ancient treasure, and the music, a syrupy jazz that curled around every edge, seemed to slow time itself.

But even that faded when she sang.

(Y/n) Amato was not a performer. She was a presence. Under a single golden spotlight, framed by a curtain the color of deep wine, she stood like a relic of another era. She did not dress to impress. She dressed like she had nothing to prove: sleek silk in unforgiving cuts, heels that clicked against marble with intention, and gloves that hid the only parts of her she refused to show. Her eyes, though—eyes that saw through the bluff and bravado of the room—remained bare, defiant, and quietly aching.

The voice that spilled from her lips held contradiction: delicate but powerful, restrained yet raw. She could silence the room with a single note, not because she demanded it, but because something in her tone dared you not to listen. It wasn’t simply beautiful. It was haunting. It carried within it the ghosts of a girl who never got to be one.

Men tried, of course. They always did. They brought diamonds and declarations, hoping to buy her time. But she entertained only those who intrigued her mind, not her ego. She dismissed socialites and influencers without so much as a glance. Actors were ignored. And race car drivers? They were forbidden.

Because her story did not begin with song. It began with betrayal.

Her mother had once stood in that very same spotlight, long before (Y/n) took her first breath. She was the bar’s prized jewel then: poised, magnetic, and devastating in satin. Her voice wrapped around men's ambitions and unraveled them effortlessly. Among her admirers came a man who drove fast and spoke softly. A race car driver, calm in chaos, charming in silence. He did not chase her, and that, of course, was the trap.

The seduction was slow, strategic. He paid for her time and earned her laughter. He touched her gently, spoke like he meant every word. When he finally asked for more, she gave it, not out of obligation, but belief. But the next morning, his bed was cold, and so was the room. He was gone, as if he had never existed. Only, he had. He had left a heartbeat behind.

The betrayal broke her. Not publicly—no, she was too proud for that. But something inside her, something essential, shattered. Her voice lost its clarity. Her smile its spark. She stopped performing. The bar’s Madam, once her confidante, tried to intervene. But nothing could coax her back from that ledge of quiet despair. When the child came, she refused to hold her. The bitterness that bloomed in her chest eclipsed any chance of maternal grace.

And so (Y/n) Amato became the bar’s daughter, but not her mother’s.

Madam, formidable in posture and commanding in grace, took the child in without hesitation. She, along with her three most trusted women—Sabine, Mireille, and Camille—raised her as their own. Each woman had carved a reputation for herself within the establishment. They were not merely performers. They were symbols. Of elegance. Of command. Of survival.

(Y/n) was bathed in silence and chandeliers, in the scent of perfume and the rustle of silk gowns. Her lullabies were rehearsals. Her bedtime stories were whispered conversations between powerful men. The bar was both cathedral and fortress, a place where rules were not enforced, they were embodied. And she learned them all.

She learned how to walk without sound. How to speak with precision. How to observe before responding. Her eyes became sharper than any blade, her expression unreadable. But beneath that was something else, something no one dared acknowledge aloud: loneliness.

Her mother left when she was four. No farewell. No trace. Just silence. As if the woman who had birthed her had never existed. And yet, (Y/n) still remembered the back of her gown as she walked away. The soft click of heels. The scent of her hair. The absence that followed was a phantom she never quite stopped chasing.

By sixteen, she began helping at the bar—never at the forefront. She was a waitress first, blending into the folds of silk and shadow, watching, listening. It was then that her voice made its quiet debut. A slow night, a broken microphone, a dare. She sang, barely above a whisper. But the room stilled. And Madam knew.

What followed was no swift rise. It was meticulous. Her performances were rare, her appearances curated. She did not advertise. She did not announce. But when she sang, the room swelled with people willing to trade power for presence. She became a myth in motion.

By twenty-four, she was legend.

They called her La Sirena della Notte, the Siren of the Night. Not because she lured men to ruin, but because she reminded them what it meant to feel. To long. To ache. And yet she herself never seemed moved. Her rules were clear. She would not entertain actors, nor kings of illusion. And if your hands had ever gripped the steering wheel of a Formula car, your name was poison.

Because (Y/n) Amato knew the damage men like that could do. Not just to hearts, but to lineage.

And then, on an evening painted in gold and garnet, Lando Norris walked through the doors.

He did not belong there. Not by tradition. Not by her rules. He was young, too publicly adored, and worse, a driver. But he had not come with arrogance. He had not come seeking her. In fact, he had not even looked at the stage. He sat quietly in the back, next to a well-connected engineer and a media mogul’s son, speaking in hushed tones about a business venture unrelated to motorsport. He drank water. He checked his watch. He seemed… tired.

(Y/n) noticed. Against her own protocol, she studied him. Not because he was famous. But because he seemed, in that moment, utterly uninterested in being anyone at all.

When she stepped onto the stage that night, her song shifted. She chose an old Neapolitan piece, wistful, rooted in memory, aching with restrained longing. Her eyes scanned the room slowly. They never landed on him.

But he looked up.

It was brief. A flicker of eye contact across the haze of candlelight and distance. He didn’t smile. He didn’t avert his gaze. He simply listened. Fully. And for the first time in years, her voice trembled—not with fear, but with something unfamiliar.

Recognition.

When the performance ended, he stood. He did not approach. He nodded at the engineer, murmured a farewell, and slipped out before the applause finished. No rose. No message. No offer. Just departure.

And something in (Y/n) shifted.

She told herself it was nothing. But she remembered his face. Not because it was handsome, though it was. Not because he was famous, though that too was undeniable. But because he had not tried to possess her. And yet, somehow, in those few minutes, he had seen her.

The bar returned to its rhythm. The days moved forward. And yet, the next time he came, a week later, her heart raced before she even saw him.

He never asked for her. He never lingered. And still, he kept returning.

The guards noticed. So did Sabine. And for the first time, Madam watched (Y/n) with a kind of worry she hadn’t worn in years.

Because even queens can fall prey to the echo of old wounds. Even sirens, for all their strength, can drown in the tide they thought they mastered.

And Lando Norris, with his quiet eyes and careful silences, was not like the man who had broken her mother. But that did not mean he couldn’t break her, too.

Only time would tell if she was singing to warn him away… or calling him closer.

To be continued...🧡

🧜🏻‍♀️ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ🧜🏻‍♀️

📝 Note from the Author: Hello, Alarwynnites! After what feels like a century-long exile in the dark, uncharted lands of University Assignments (yes, I survived, barely), I have emerged to bless your timelines once more. I am BACK serving you with another title—WOOOOHOOO—ready to feed your craving for overly dramatic prose and characters with more baggage than a baggage carousel at NAIA Terminal 3.

This chapter is moody, dangerous, and possibly the lovechild of a romance novel and a mafia movie that spent too long brooding in an Italian wine cellar. If it stabs you in the feelings, know that it stabbed me first while I was writing it.

To my dear Alarwynnites and every single reader still here, thank you. Whether you like, comment, reblog, or simply read quietly while sipping your tea and judging my life choices… your support means the world. Truly. Even your silent lurking fuels my unholy power.

Alright, I’ll leave you to drown in the candlelit tension and unspoken longing. See you in the next chapter. Ciao~

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ

ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴇxʜᴀᴜꜱᴛɪᴏɴ

ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴅᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

The Styrian hills pulsed with sound, engines howling, hearts pounding, thousands on their feet. Lando tightened his grip on the wheel as he hurtled down the straight toward Turn 4, the famed downhill right-hander where so many races had turned to legend or ruin. He braked late, almost recklessly, and the car twitched under him, rear dancing on the edge of control. He caught it, feathered the throttle, and forced the car to obey.

“Gap to P1, eight tenths,” came the voice in his ear.

He didn’t answer. There was no room for words in this kind of battle.

Up through the climb toward Turn 6, the Red Bull Ring’s rhythm grew more violent. It wasn’t a street circuit, it was a battlefield stretched across green hills and bleeding curbs. Every gear shift was a gunshot. Every apex, a calculated risk. He didn’t blink.

Through the high-speed kink of Turn 7, the car shivered, but he kept it pinned. Sector times flickered on his dash, green. He was gaining.

The leader was weaving down the straight to break the tow. Lando stayed tucked in, inches from the rear wing, feeling the downforce slip away like sand through his fingers. He waited. Waited—

Then launched.

Up the hill into Turn 3, he dived late. Locked the inside tire. Smoke. The other car tried to cover it, but it was too late. Lando took the corner like a man possessed, holding the line with just enough tire on the edge of the curb to keep the stewards guessing.

The overtake stuck.

But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

The final laps blurred into survival. The tires were gone, nerves shot, radio silent. Even the cheers from the grandstands had become white noise, he only heard the wind slicing past his visor and the scream of the hybrid engine begging for mercy.

Down through the sweeping final corners, helmet low, jaw tight, he wrung every last breath of speed from the car. The checkered flag was waiting.

He crossed the line.

And then—

There had always been something sacred about winning. Something poetic. Something that turned men into giants and giants into legends. For Lando Norris, the roar of victory had always felt like a rush of flame through his chest—raw, electrifying, impossible to contain. But not today.

Not when his heart felt like a cracked trophy already.

The moment he crossed the finish line—P1, pole converted to triumph, his name echoing across the Red Bull Ring—there should have been a surge of pride. He should have thrown his fists into the sky, screamed through his radio, laughed until his ribs ached. But none of it came. Only silence did.

He coasted his car to a halt in parc fermé, helmet still on, visor down, heart screaming louder than the crowd ever could.

Mechanics and team personnel rushed toward him—cheers, applause, cameras clicking in bursts of artificial light. Oscar pulled in beside him, a proud second. Max Verstappen not long after, third.

Lando stepped out of his car like it weighed far more than it should. Helmet off, curls damp with sweat, the sunlight striking his face just as the tears began to well up.

He tried—gosh, he tried—to bite them back.

Tried to raise his fists in that iconic gesture of joy, to smile through the pain, to honor the people who had made this win possible. But his chest heaved. His shoulders quaked. And then—

He broke.

Right there, in front of the world, he fell to his knees on the tarmac and sobbed.

Not just from exhaustion. Not just from the race.

But from a kind of heartbreak that no victory could mend.

Oscar didn’t even hesitate.

Helmet still on, he jogged over and dropped beside him, crouching low, wrapping one arm around his teammate’s shoulders. The cameras flashed, capturing something far more human than any celebration ever could. Max, after handing his car off to Red Bull engineers, paused when he saw it. And even he, so often stoic and distant, stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Lando’s back as the younger driver’s body shook with grief.

No one had expected it. No one had prepared for this version of a podium finish.

Lando was supposed to be glowing.

But all they saw was a man who had given everything, only to lose something that mattered more than a trophy.

The moment was raw.

Heavy.

Unignorable.

Eventually, Oscar helped him up. Together, they made it to the cool-down room, where Lando sat in silence, staring at the floor, refusing even the water offered to him. When it was time to step up to the podium, he did it with a hollow sort of presence—holding his bottle, lifting his trophy, waving at the crowd—but his smile was faint and false. His eyes betrayed everything.

During the national anthem, he wiped his face once more.

The confetti didn’t matter.

Neither did the champagne.

Because (Y/n) wasn’t there.

And she had made it clear, she never wanted to be.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

But she had seen it.

Back in the quiet of their temporary suite, the television had remained on. Ajax had begged to watch the race, and (Y/n), seated far away with her arms crossed and jaw tight, had reluctantly let him.

She hadn’t spoken a word throughout.

Not when the lights went out. Not when Lando led every lap. Not even when he crossed the finish line, triumphant.

It was only when the camera caught him kneeling beside his car—shaking, crying, utterly shattered—that something flickered behind her eyes.

She couldn’t move.

The cheers from the crowd faded into static. The commentators’ voices became background noise. All she could see was the pain in Lando’s face. The sorrow etched into the way he held himself. And when Oscar crouched beside him, embracing him like a brother—when Max stepped in with a gesture more telling than words—something deep inside her stirred.

But she shut it down just as quickly.

No.

She didn’t want this.

She couldn’t want this.

Not even now.

Her fingers curled tightly into her sleeves.

Ajax had looked at her then. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And she said nothing back.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The next morning arrived in grey and gold.

Suitcases packed. Passports checked. Their taxi waited at the front entrance of the hotel. Their time in Austria had come to an end.

Ajax stood in front of his sister, arms folded, jaw clenched in the way only teenage brothers could manage when they were deeply, miserably disappointed.

“You’re really leaving?” he asked.

(Y/n) didn’t look at him. “We have to. The flights are scheduled.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You could stay. Just a few more days. Talk to him. Explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” she said softly.

“Yes, there is,” Ajax snapped. “You don’t have to want him right now. But you can’t just leave like it means nothing. You saw what happened yesterday. He didn’t even try to hide how broken he was.”

“I never asked for this.”

“Neither did he!” Ajax’s voice cracked. “But he still showed up. He still raced. He still won, even when it was obvious he was falling apart inside.”

(Y/n) didn’t respond.

Their father stepped in then, placing a hand on Ajax’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

“But—”

“Let it be, son.”

Ajax’s chest rose and fell, frustrated tears threatening to spill.

And yet, (Y/n) didn’t speak.

Not as the luggage was loaded. Not as they climbed into the taxi. Not as they pulled away from the hotel, leaving the circuit behind.

She kept her eyes forward.

And the mark on her wrist remained tucked beneath her sleeve.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

It was Zak Brown who broke the news.

Monday afternoon had come with overcast skies and long debriefs. McLaren’s HQ inside the paddock was quieter than usual, the champagne scent already faded, the energy dulled.

Lando sat slouched at the edge of the team’s post-race review, one leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table. Oscar sat beside him, listening intently as engineers walked through the race telemetry. The data was brilliant. His pace had been near perfect.

But Lando wasn’t listening.

Not really.

He was just… there.

Present in body.

Absent in spirit.

Zak entered the room partway through and paused before the monitors. His phone was pressed against his chest, having just ended a call.

He cleared his throat.

“Just spoke to Ajax,” he said. “They’ve flown back to Greece this morning.”

Lando didn’t even flinch.

Not until Zak added, “He tried to convince her to stay. But she wouldn’t.”

That made him close his eyes.

Oscar cast a glance toward him. Quiet. Careful.

Lando swallowed thickly, voice barely audible. “Thanks for telling me.”

Zak nodded slowly. “I know this isn’t what you hoped for. And I’m sorry.”

But Lando just shook his head.

No more tears.

No more questions.

Just a tired, defeated quiet.

The debrief ended thirty minutes later.

And without a word, Lando stood, walked out, and took a flight.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The Norris family home was nestled along the soft green countryside of Somerset, a far cry from the racetracks, press circuits, and roaring engines of the Formula 1 world.

By the time Lando arrived, the sun had begun to set in muted streaks of lavender and apricot. He stepped through the front door carrying only a single duffle bag, his shoulders slumped, eyes ringed in fatigue.

His mother was in the kitchen, slicing apples.

She turned when she heard the door.

And paused when she saw his face.

She didn’t speak.

She just stepped forward and opened her arms.

Lando dropped the bag.

And walked straight into them.

His mother held him like she used to when he was ten years old and inconsolable over a karting crash. Like she had when he first left home to chase a dream the world warned was too far, too high.

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t have to.

She felt it all in the way his body collapsed against hers, in the broken breaths, in the tremble of his fingers.

“I saw the podium,” she whispered against his hair. “You handled it with more grace than anyone else could have. I’m so proud of you.”

He cried again.

Not like before.

Not publicly, not surrounded by the scrutiny of cameras and press.

Just a boy, in the arms of his mother, letting the ache bleed out.

His father joined them not long after. Said little. Just squeezed his son’s shoulder and told him he had nothing to be ashamed of.

That night, Lando didn’t sleep in his usual bedroom. Instead, he lay on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, curled against the soft cushions with his mother seated nearby, watching over him like she had when he was small and sick.

She stroked his hair.

She hummed softly.

And when his sobs finally subsided into the shallow rhythm of sleep, she remained there, hand resting gently on his shoulder.

Outside, the night deepened.

Inside, Lando dreamt of the moment that should have been—of her eyes meeting his, not in fear, but in wonder. Of her reaching back when he extended his hand. Of her choosing him.

But dreams, he would learn, were not the same as fate.

And sometimes, even the deepest connections weren’t enough to make someone stay.

To be continued...🧡

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛꜱ🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, Another day, another chapter to rip out your hearts and sprinkle a little heartbreak over your timelines!

Today’s post is a heavy one, I won’t lie. I wrote this while dramatically playing sad orchestral scores and clutching a pillow like it betrayed me. Just know, if your chest aches after reading it, that’s totally normal. It means you’re still alive.

To the lovely readers who continue to show up for my stories: I SEE YOU. Thank you for reblogging, liking, screaming in the tags, and commenting like you’re unraveling emotionally (because… same). Your support keeps me from launching my drafts into the void.

But if you're just silently reading, lurking in the shadows like a soulmarked (Y/n) hiding her wrist, thank you too. You’re just as valid. You’re seen. You matter. I appreciate every single one of you. Truly.

Now, don’t forget to:

Reblog 🌀 (share the heartbreak)

Like 💔 (suffer with style)

Comment 📝 (make me cry back)

Or do none of those, and still, I am so grateful you’re here. Sending fictional pain and gratitude, always.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ + ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴘᴀʀɪᴛʏ

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ

The realization didn’t come with a thunderclap. It came on a Tuesday.

(Y/n) was sitting in the cramped lounge of the aviation academy, sipping on cheap coffee and reviewing a checklist from their mock ATC drill. One of her classmates, Theo, was scrolling on his phone beside her. "Dude, the Monaco GP recap is finally up," he muttered.

"Grand Prix?" she asked, half-interested.

"Formula 1. The race they just had? It’s all over the place. Lando Norris was in top form."

Her brows pulled together. Lando?

Theo turned his phone toward her. A video played. Loud engines. Papaya-colored cars. Swarms of press. Then, walking into frame, in a crisp McLaren team uniform and a cocky half-smile, was him.

Lando.

Her Lando.

She blinked.

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait. That’s Lando?" she asked, pointing at the screen.

"Yeah. Lando Norris. Are you living under a rock?"

She barely heard him. Her coffee remained suspended halfway to her lips.

She had met that man through a sugar dating app? Had been having dinners, long talks, quiet walks with that Lando Norris?

She bolted out a laugh. Theo glanced over, confused.

"You good?"

"Oh, I’m just fantastic," she said, grinning into her sleeve.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

That evening, she messaged him: So... any reason you left out the whole 'international racing sensation' thing?

Lando responded with a single emoji: 😅

Then: Wanted you to get to know the version of me that doesn’t need a helmet to be interesting.

She snorted. Fair enough. But I’m still going to tease the hell out of you next time.

Can’t wait.

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

They met at his flat later that week. Not the sprawling penthouse she expected, but a modern, minimal apartment tucked above the harbor, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that could quiet even the busiest mind.

He opened the door in a hoodie and socks.

"Hey," he said casually.

"Oh my god," she drawled dramatically, stepping in. "It’s Lando Norris. Do you sign autographs or just race hearts?"

He groaned. "You're never letting this go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

She tossed her bag down and wandered toward the windows. "You do realize you could’ve just told me?"

"And risk being liked for my net worth instead of my sarcasm? No thanks."

She turned and raised a brow. "You think it was your sarcasm that charmed me?"

He laughed. "So, what was it?"

She pretended to think. "The coffee budget. Definitely."

They slipped into conversation as they always did, but something had shifted. Not awkwardly. Just a new awareness. She wasn’t just sitting across from some generous stranger. She was spending time with someone whose face plastered billboards, who was tracked by cameras, who carried pressure she hadn’t understood before.

That night, over takeout and a documentary she half paid attention to, Lando asked, "Have you ever seen a Grand Prix in person?"

She looked at him like he’d grown a second head. "Do I look like someone who has Grand Prix money?"

He grinned. "How about Grand Prix access?"

"What are you offering, exactly?"

"The Spanish Grand Prix is next weekend. You’re off Friday to Monday, right?"

She tilted her head, amused. "You memorized my class schedule?"

"I have an excellent memory when it comes to people I care about."

Her chest did that weird flutter thing again.

He continued, "I can get you a private pass. You won’t be on TV. Not with the media. My family will be there. Oscar and Lily too. You’ll be somewhere...safe. Away from all of it."

She hesitated. "Does your family know about me?"

He shook his head slowly. "They know I’ve been in a good mood lately. That’s about it."

"So, they don’t know I’m a broke aviation student with a sugar app profile?"

He smiled, but it was soft this time. "No. And when they do, they’ll be meeting the version of you I get to see every week. The one who makes me forget how insane my life is."

She swallowed. Then nodded. "Okay. Let’s go to Spain."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

Traveling with Lando was surreal.

The private flight wasn’t flashy, just quiet. Calm. He let her nap on his shoulder, let her pick the music, and even helped her revise a few notes for her systems check exam.

In Spain, everything was discreet. They had separate transportation. A hotel suite with a private elevator. She had passes under a pseudonym. The paddock was off-limits, but Lando made sure she had access to the upper VIP terrace—a space reserved for family and close friends.

There, she met Oscar Piastri, who was polite and oddly hilarious, and Lily, who immediately took to her like an old friend.

"So, you're the mysterious girl," Lily said, sipping champagne. "He’s been grinning for weeks. I thought it was the car upgrades."

(Y/n) laughed. "I assumed it was the carbs."

They clicked instantly.

Zak Brown gave her a brief nod, too busy on the phone. But it was Lando’s parents who made her nervous.

His mother, Cisca, was kind but observant, while his father, Adam, seemed focused more on Lando than anyone else. Neither asked questions, and (Y/n) was glad. No need to explain why she still wore her student ID in the side pocket of her backpack.

From the terrace, she watched her first race.

The roar of the engines. The choreography of pit stops. The sheer velocity. It was beautiful.

And watching Lando drive—knowing now what it took, the persona he wore, the life he didn’t brag about—made her chest tighten in a way she hadn’t expected.

She held her breath as he crossed the finish line.

P3.

Not a podium, but he looked proud. Happy. Exhausted.

Later that evening, she found a note waiting for her on the suite pillow.

You made today less lonely. Thank you.

She sat down, read it again, and smiled.

Maybe she hadn’t just stepped into a new world.

Maybe she belonged here too.

To be continued...

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ✈️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ + ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴀʀ, ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ, ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ

ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜰᴜʟ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟɪꜱᴍ ᴍᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀɪɴ

The days that followed the cake tasting were a blur of nonstop work for (Y/n).

Every hour was packed: venue confirmations, floral arrangements, catering contracts, guest list revisions.

It wasn’t just Kelly and Max’s wedding, her calendar was full of other luxury events too, but this one... this one weighed heavier.

Because every time her phone pinged with an update about the Verstappen wedding, every time she reviewed a seating plan or an RSVP note... the thought of him crept in.

Lando.

She hadn’t been able to shake the way he’d looked at her during that almost-confrontation, equal parts desperate, confused, and wounded.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

She had vanished. Left him without explanation. Because explaining the truth back then... would’ve meant facing it herself. And she hadn’t been ready.

Now, there was no more running. She could feel the moment building, inevitable.

It came sooner than expected.

A week before the final wedding rehearsal, Kelly asked for a last round of decor adjustments at the venue. A small, informal walk-through, just Kelly, Lando, and (Y/n).

(Y/n) didn’t flinch when the request came. Not outwardly. Inside? Her stomach twisted with nerves.

She didn’t even tell Celeste this time, she needed to face him alone.

Château de Villeneuve looked breathtaking in the late afternoon sun when they arrived. The staff had set everything up exactly as it would appear on the day, ceremony chairs, floral arches, dining tables dressed in linens and crystal.

Kelly moved through the space with easy grace, occasionally consulting her notes. Lando lingered behind her, quiet. Watching.

(Y/n) walked them through the layout, voice smooth. "We’ll add a second drinks station here to ease the flow post-ceremony… and the musicians will be set up along this side of the terrace."

“Perfect,” Kelly smiled. "This is going to be beautiful."

Satisfied, she glanced at her phone. "I need to take a quick call, my mum's asking about transport. Be right back."

And just like that, she was gone.

(Y/n) and Lando stood in the empty courtyard, soft sunlight casting long shadows between them.

Silence stretched, thick, loaded.

Lando was the first to break it. "You're good at this," he said, voice low.

(Y/n) gave a small smile. "It’s my job."

He hesitated, then took a step closer.

"(Y/n)... that day at the tasting, you were going to tell me something. Weren’t you?"

Her breath caught. There was no dodging it now.

He held her gaze, something raw in his eyes. "Please. No more running. Just tell me."

For a long moment, she said nothing. The words stuck in her throat, old fear pressing down.

But then, she exhaled slowly.

And finally, the truth spilled out:

"I was scared."

Lando blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "Scared of what?"

(Y/n)’s voice trembled, but she forced herself to go on:

"You. Us. The future you always talked about."

He frowned, taking another step toward her. "What are you talking about? I thought we wanted the same things—"

"That was the problem," she whispered.

His brows furrowed deeper.

"You talked about everything, our house, our cars, our dog... kids," (Y/n) continued, voice cracking. "Every conversation about the future... it was always us. Always together. You never once imagined your life on your own, not for yourself. You built everything around me."

Lando stared at her, stunned.

"And I..." she swallowed hard. "I didn’t know if I could be that person. The one holding it all up. What if one day I... couldn’t give you all those things you imagined? I was terrified of failing you. Of disappointing you."

Silence. The breeze stirred the leaves above them.

Lando ran a hand through his hair, tension radiating off him. "You think that’s why I loved you? Because of what you could ‘give’ me?"

Tears pricked (Y/n)'s eyes. "It wasn’t logical, Lando. It was just... fear. You deserved someone who wasn’t scared of that future."

His jaw clenched. "And you didn’t trust me enough to tell me? You just—left."

A beat passed, sharp, painful.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I thought I was protecting us both."

Lando’s shoulders heaved with a heavy breath.

"You broke my fucking heart," he said, voice raw.

(Y/n) squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping free.

Before either could say more, Kelly’s voice called out from across the courtyard: "You guys ready? I sorted the transport!"

Lando stepped back, shoulders rigid. His gaze burned into her one last time.

And then, he turned away.

(Y/n) swiped at her tears quickly before following after them.

The final prep week flew past.

Rehearsals. Seating plans. Last-minute floral swaps.

One thing was different, though, Lando wasn’t present at the next session.

Kelly mentioned casually that he was away doing promo events for the team.

(Y/n) felt relief. And a strange emptiness, too.

She threw herself into the work, anything to keep from thinking about that conversation... or the way Lando’s voice had cracked when he said she’d broken his heart.

The wedding day arrived warm and bright, an early summer masterpiece.

(Y/n) had barely slept the night before. Her nerves weren’t about the wedding, those, she could handle. It was seeing him again.

Would he ignore her? Speak to her? She had no idea what to expect.

She arrived at the chateau hours before the guests, headset clipped on, coordinating the final details. The grounds buzzed with florists, caterers, musicians.

Her clipboard was in her hands constantly, checking lists, adjusting placements, calming Kelly’s nerves.

And then, he was there.

Lando arrived with Max and the groomsmen, sharp in a tailored navy suit.

(Y/n)’s breath caught at the sight of him.

He looked... devastating. But there was something guarded in his posture, something brittle beneath the easy smile he gave to others.

For the first two hours, they barely crossed paths. She kept to her role; he stuck close to Max.

But as the final prep unfolded, small fires started.

The welcome drink station was behind schedule. The custom seating board got smudged. And worse, a floral runner meant for the head table had arrived tangled, the assistant florists unsure how to reassemble it in time.

It was too much. (Y/n)’s head spun as she tried to manage it all. Her headset buzzed with constant questions.

In the middle of it, a low voice startled her:

"Need a hand?"

She turned, and there was Lando.

For a beat, she stared, unsure. But the genuine offer in his eyes made her nod.

"Yes," she exhaled. "Please."

He rolled up his sleeves without hesitation. They knelt together at the head table, untangling the stubborn floral strands. Their hands worked in tandem, moving through the delicate petals and ribbons.

For a long moment, it was just the two of them, moving in sync, old rhythms resurfacing.

When they finally secured the runner in place, (Y/n) slumped slightly, breathless.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He glanced at her, something softer in his gaze now. "Didn’t think I’d see you this stressed."

She huffed a laugh, wiping her brow. "It happens."

They stood, brushing off their hands. For a beat, neither moved, caught in the quiet.

Then Lando spoke, voice low.

"You really think... that version of me, the guy who had a new girl every week... that was about moving on from you?"

Her breath hitched. "Wasn’t it?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. That was me being angry. At you. At myself. At everything."

(Y/n)’s heart ached.

He studied her, voice quieter now. "You’ve changed, I know."

She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"You used to run from moments like this," he said softly. "Now you run the whole show. You turned into someone... who belongs here."

His eyes flicked to the reception setup, the flowers, the grand terrace.

"Maybe," he added, "you needed me out of your life... to become her."

The words struck deep.

But before she could answer, Celeste buzzed in her ear: "Guests arriving in ten!"

Duty called.

(Y/n) exhaled shakily. "I have to go."

Lando nodded. "I know."

As she moved away, her chest tightened painfully. There was so much still unsaid between them.

But today wasn’t the day.

Today was about the couple. The wedding.

And so, like the professional she’d become, (Y/n) pulled herself together, pasted on her smile, and went to greet the arriving guests.

To be continued...🧡

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴄᴏɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ💍

📝 Note from the Author: To the ever-loyal Alarwynnites, still here, still breathing (barely) through the emotional landmines I keep planting: thank you. Truly. You are the real MVPs of this chaotic storytelling journey.

We’re back again for the second emotional gut-punch of the day, hope your hearts are doing well, because mine sure isn’t. I just wrote a navy-suited Lando Norris untangling wedding florals like it’s a metaphor for everything they never said. Tragedy? Comedy? Romance? Yes.

Just a gentle reminder (again): this story was inspired by everlovingdeer’s brilliant one-shot “Love and All Things Fake.” If you haven’t read it, run to Wattpad and soak in the angst and beauty. That story stuck with me in the quietest, deepest way. This is my tribute to it.

And if you believe this work is skating a little too close to plagiarism, don’t worry, no defense lawyer arc here. I’ll just delete it and disappear like (Y/n) after the breakup. Swift. Clean. Elegant.

In conclusion: Luxury weddings are stressful. Lando Norris is a menace. And I... need to lie down.

With love, me 🧡

Taglist:

✨ NEW STORY DROP ✨

(F1 x Reader | Lando Norris AU | Second Chances + Heartache + Healing)

Title: Ties That Still Bind

Chapter 1: Entanglements

Monaco's most sought-after wedding planner was thriving—tailored suits, client lists full of royalty, and a perfectly curated life.

Until he walked in.

Lando Norris. The one she loved. The one she left. Now sitting across from her… planning someone else’s wedding.

Not just any someone. His best friend. And he has questions.

The kind that unravel everything she worked so hard to bury.

——————————————— 💬 "I was scared." ———————————————

She’s mastered the art of smiling through grief. Of looking untouched while everything inside her still bleeds.

But old love doesn’t die easy.

And this time, he’s not letting her run.

📖 A story of tension beneath pressed linen, love buried beneath ambition, and the unspoken truths that haunt the ones who walked away too soon.

📝 Note from the Author: Ties That Still Bind was inspired by a Harry Potter one-shot titled “Love and All Things Fake” (James Sirius Potter), written by the incredibly talented author everlovingdeer from Wattpad.

I have always loved that one-shot, always going back to it. The way it captured emotion, subtlety, and longing stayed with me. They are a wonderful writer with a whole collection of stories worth reading.

That’s why one day, I said to myself: why not create a version of that feeling, but for someone else? This story still carries the emotional essence of that original fic—the same ache, the same questions—but with different characters, settings, and with a full closure… if you know what I mean?

But if any of you feel that it shouldn’t have been done this way, if it feels too similar, if it disrespects the original, I genuinely want to say I’m sorry. I never intended for this to feel like plagiarism. I just wanted to explore what that kind of story might look like with a different ending. Second chance, healing, and a wedding.

Please feel free to share your thoughts. If this crosses a line, I will absolutely take it down, no hesitation. I mean that. Your comments mean so much to me, and your honesty helps me grow. I never want to hurt any writer, especially not one whose work has inspired me so deeply.

This version is my love letter to that inspiration.

Chapters coming soon. 🥂🧡

Taglist:

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴅɴɪ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

The sun burned brightly over the Riviera, turning the cobblestone streets of Monaco into a shimmer of warmth and sea salt. The glint of expensive watches, the rustle of designer skirts, and the whisper of languages laced with wealth and influence wrapped around Lewis Hamilton like silk—comfortable, familiar, but also, lately, insufferably predictable.

At forty, he had grown accustomed to the cadence of adoration. He knew what it meant when strangers glanced at him for a beat too long, when they crossed the street subtly to intercept his walk, when their phones lifted discreetly under the guise of texting but angled perfectly for a snapshot. He wore sunglasses and a hoodie not for fashion today, but for escape.

That’s why when he noticed her, again, his patience wavered.

A young woman with long, unbothered strides, hair pulled back carelessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline, pretending not to look at him. He first clocked her outside of Café de Paris. Then again at the marina when he’d stopped to check messages. And once more near the old casino steps. It was subtle, but the kind of subtle that raised alarms when you’ve spent years in the public eye.

By the fourth time, when he slowed at a quieter side street and saw her again across the way, Lewis stopped walking altogether.

He turned. Waited.

And she froze.

Her eyes widened slightly—an expression of a deer caught mid-thought, not quite guilt, but something adjacent. Surprise.

That did it.

“Alright,” Lewis muttered under his breath, then strode toward her with calm resolve.

She took a tentative step back, but stood her ground as he approached. Her eyebrows furrowed now, lips parting as if to speak, but Lewis got there first.

“Okay, seriously, are you following me?” he asked, arms crossing in a casual yet unmistakably defensive posture.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been behind me since the harbor,” Lewis said, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but this is Monaco, not Times Square. It’s kind of obvious.”

She stared at him, stunned. Her lips moved, but no words came. Then, a beat later, her brows lifted, and she scoffed with soft disbelief. “You think I’m stalking you?”

Lewis tilted his head. “Well, aren't you?”

A pause. Then her cheeks flushed, not with guilt, but with something closer to offense.

“I have no idea who you are,” she said plainly.

He blinked.

“I’m not following you. I’m... I’m following them,” she continued, stepping sideways and subtly motioning across the plaza. “My best friend is on a date. A suspicious one. She asked me to keep an eye.” (Author: It's a lieee~)

Lewis followed her gesture. A couple sat on the terrace of a rooftop café, seemingly engrossed in one another. Nothing about them screamed drama, but Lewis could see how someone might be wary.

Just then, as if summoned by the very act of being observed, the woman at the table turned. Her eyes narrowed. Recognition dawned.

“Oh no,” the woman beside him muttered.

The friend stood abruptly and made her way across the plaza with brisk, purposeful steps.

“I take it that’s her?” Lewis asked dryly.

She winced. “Yeah.”

The approaching woman came to a sharp stop in front of them and crossed her arms. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?” (“What are you doing here?”) she hissed, voice low but sharp.

The woman beside Lewis stammered. “Je… Nous passions juste par là. C'est une coïncidence.” (“I... We were just passing by. It's a coincidence.”)

Lewis watched the exchange, bemused as her friend scolded her rapidly in French. The young woman’s shoulders slumped in surrender. Finally, she raised both hands in mock defeat, responding calmly in fluent French, her tone soothing even as her friend remained riled.

Then, without warning, she turned back to Lewis. “Sorry about that,” she said quickly, and before he could react, she slipped her hand into his.

His brows lifted.

Her friend’s mouth dropped open.

“Bye, Clémence!” she called over her shoulder, already tugging Lewis down the street. Her fingers gripped his for only a few seconds, but it was long enough to leave a strange warmth on his skin.

Once they rounded the corner and out of sight, she let go with an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Well, that was dramatic.”

Lewis looked at her, still baffled. “Did you just use me as an escape plan?”

She met his gaze unapologetically. “Yes. And thank you for playing along, even if unintentionally.”

He smirked. “You could’ve just told her the truth.”

She scoffed lightly. “You don’t know Clémence. Telling her the truth would’ve meant a full interrogation, and I wasn’t in the mood for that.”

Then, muttering in French, she added something that sounded irritated and vaguely poetic. Lewis, not fluent beyond basic phrases, frowned.

“What did you just say?”

She glanced sideways at him. “Nothing.”

That look in her eyes—annoyed, intelligent, amused—sparked something in him. Before she could disappear again, Lewis called after her, “Wait.”

She turned, arching a brow.

He hesitated for only a second. “What’s your name?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then: “(Y/n) Robinson.”

He smiled, extending his hand. “Lewis.”

“Just Lewis?” she asked, not taking it.

“That’s all you get until you stop pretending not to know me,” he said, half teasing, half challenging.

But she only shrugged. “I wasn’t pretending. Still not sure why you’re familiar.”

Lewis chuckled, genuinely thrown. It was such a foreign experience, he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or intrigued.

She turned away again and began walking. He followed.

“You’re not going to shake me off that easily,” he said casually.

“Are you the stalker now?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

She stopped abruptly outside a small patisserie tucked between two narrow buildings. It wasn’t flashy, no golden signs or velvet ropes, just a quaint spot with a chalkboard menu and glass display filled with confections. She looked at him. “You really don’t have anywhere better to be?”

“Right now?” he said, hands in his pockets. “No. Got some time.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re being weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She pushed open the door. He followed.

The smell of butter, sugar, and espresso wrapped around them like a memory. Inside, only three other patrons sat scattered between tables. The soft clink of china and faint jazz music filled the space.

(Y/n) stepped up to the counter and pointed to a slice of raspberry cheesecake. “And a lavender latte, please.”

Lewis ordered something simpler, an Americano and a plain almond croissant.

They sat at a small table near the window. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, streaking the table with warm light.

He watched as she quietly opened a novel from her tote bag and began to read, seemingly unbothered by his presence. She didn’t ask him questions, didn’t glance at her phone, didn’t fish for details.

Lewis studied the side of her face, her soft expression as she turned pages. He sipped his coffee and tried to place what felt so unusual about the moment.

It was the silence.

It wasn’t uncomfortable or expectant. It was... easy. She wasn’t pretending not to care, she genuinely didn’t.

For once, he wasn’t the spectacle in someone else’s story.

Eventually, after a few attempts at small talk that were met with polite nods and monosyllables, he gave up trying to draw her into conversation. Instead, he leaned back and let himself enjoy the peace.

She finished her cheesecake slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and finally closed her book. Standing, she looked at him and offered a simple smile.

“Well. That was oddly pleasant,” she said.

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the company, Lewis.”

“Anytime, (Y/n),” he replied.

And just like that, she walked out.

He watched her disappear down the street, her figure weaving through late afternoon foot traffic.

For a long moment, Lewis sat alone. Then he looked down at the empty table, at the fork she had set gently across her plate, at the faint imprint her coffee cup left on the tablecloth.

No selfies. No squealing. No asking him to rev the engine of his fame.

Just cheesecake, silence, and the odd feeling of not being known.

He smiled to himself, pulled out his phone, and opened the notes app.

He typed two words:

Find her.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴇʏᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ🕶️

📝 Note from the Author: Hello my dear Alarwynnites! First post again for this very first title of the month of September hehehe, I hope you like this one! There will be some MDNI moments here, and a huge age gap I tell y’all. If you’re uncomfortable with these kinds of things, it’s totally okay to skip it, yes? Yeeeesss.

I love you guys so much, thank you for always supporting me! To my new followers—welcome, welcome! I’ll try to post as much as possible for this title. Andddd, anyone wants to request something? Another title maybe? I’m running out of ide—just kidding HAHAHA. This author has way too many ideas, but I’d love to hear yours too so the stories don’t all feel the same. So, if you have any, just drop me a message or leave it on my wall, okay?

Also, a huge thank you to Firefly Graphics for the amazing border—they make everything look so beautiful!

Thanks again, always.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ + ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴜᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɴᴄɪʟɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴋɪɴᴅʟᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

ᴄᴀʀᴇᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ

ɴᴏɴ-ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴏꜱᴀʟ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ

ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ꜱᴘᴏʀᴛꜱ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ (ꜰ1 ʀᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ)

It started as a casual thing, really.

An unspoken agreement.

Every few weeks, when Lando was home between races, he’d swing by Maison de Lys around lunchtime. No big declarations, no grand plans, just... him bringing takeaway or coffee, slipping into her office with an easy grin.

And slowly, what had once felt impossible, being friends again, being close, became natural.

The first time he’d shown up unannounced, (Y/n) had blinked in surprise.

She’d been hunched over her desk, hair in a loose knot, fingers flying across her laptop.

Then: three sharp knocks on the glass pane.

She looked up, and there he was, grinning through the door with two coffee cups in hand and a takeaway bag under his arm.

She opened the door, arching a brow. “Is this bribery?”

He laughed. “Depends. Will it get me ten minutes of your time?”

And somehow... it had.

From there, the habit stuck.

Some days it was coffee and pastries. Other times sandwiches from their favorite deli. Once, he’d even brought her a full sushi spread and a tiny potted plant for her desk.

(Y/n) found herself looking forward to those days more than she’d admit.

Not because of the food, though that helped. But because in those quiet hours, with no fans, no media, no clients buzzing in her ear, Lando was just... Lando.

Not the man everyone expected him to be. Not her ex, not the playboy the tabloids loved to paint.

Just... hers.

And she was learning to let herself be herself around him again.

It didn’t take long for Celeste to notice.

One particularly sunny afternoon, Lando was sitting cross-legged on the floor of (Y/n)’s office, unpacking Greek wraps and olives from a paper bag. (Y/n) perched on the edge of her desk, barefoot and laughing at one of his stories.

That’s when Celeste stuck her head through the door, arms full of swatch books.

“Well, well,” she teased, eyebrows lifting. “Look who’s made himself at home.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes fondly. “He brought food. I’m easily bribed.”

Celeste grinned. “You know, I knew there was chemistry between you two during those wedding sessions. No one takes that much floral stress flirting unless there’s history.”

(Y/n)’s cheeks flushed. Lando smirked playfully.

“I plead the fifth,” he said.

Celeste laughed. “No need. It’s written all over your faces.”

She breezed off down the hall, leaving (Y/n) half-embarrassed, half-smiling.

Lando looked up at her, eyes sparkling. “She’s not wrong, you know.”

(Y/n)’s heart fluttered.

“No,” she murmured softly. “She’s not.”

And somehow, just like that... they were steady.

No grand declarations. No rush. Just a quiet, growing certainty.

TWO YEARS LATER

The change was so gradual, (Y/n) barely noticed it happening.

One day, Lando’s toothbrush was in her bathroom. Then an extra hoodie on her coat rack. Then—half his wardrobe in her closet.

He still traveled constantly. She still juggled her weddings. But between the flights and the races, he always came home to her.

And when he was away, texts, calls, late-night video chats kept them connected.

It wasn’t always easy. Their schedules clashed, tempers flared, exhaustion sometimes won.

But every time—every single time—they chose to stay. To fight for it.

It was the healthiest, most real relationship (Y/n) had ever known.

And if anyone had told her two years ago, when she’d walked out of his life, that this would be their future?

She wouldn’t have believed them.

The proposal wasn’t elaborate.

No fireworks. No staged moments.

Just... them.

It was late summer. Lando had just flown home after a brutal triple-header on the F1 calendar—jet-lagged, sunburned, running on fumes.

He’d texted her from the airport:

Lando: Missed you. See you in an hour?

When he arrived at her flat, she was curled up on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies, hair messy, face bare of makeup.

He dropped his bag, toed off his shoes, and flopped beside her with a groan.

She laughed, wrapping her arms around him. “Rough week?”

“The worst.” He nuzzled her shoulder. “This, being here, is the only part I was looking forward to.”

They lay there for a while, tangled together in easy silence.

Then, without preamble, he reached into his backpack.

Pulled out a small velvet box.

And set it on her knee.

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

“Lando...”

He sat up, gaze steady, voice rough with exhaustion, but full of certainty.

“I love you,” he said simply. “More than anything. And I’m done waiting.”

She blinked, heart pounding.

He opened the box, revealing a simple, stunning ring. Classic. Elegant. So them.

“Marry me,” he said softly. “Please.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

She cupped his cheek, voice trembling. “Of course I will.”

He kissed her, slow, deep, full of emotion.

But when they finally pulled apart, she hesitated.

“There’s just... one thing,” she said, trying to steady her breath.

His brows lifted. “Name it.”

(Y/n) gave a watery laugh. “We’re not planning the wedding this year. Or next. It has to be at least three years from now.”

He blinked. “Three years?”

“I need time,” she explained. “My calendar’s insane, and... I want us to enjoy being engaged. Not rush it.”

Lando groaned dramatically, flopping back on the cushions.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered.

She giggled, tugging his arm playfully. “You’ll survive.”

But then, he sat up, a gleam in his eye.

“Okay. How about this?” he said. “If I win the Driver’s Championship next season... we move the wedding up. One year after I win.”

(Y/n) laughed. “That’s a big ‘if’.”

He shrugged. “You’re worth it.”

She pretended to consider, then smiled slyly. “Fine. If you win, we do it sooner.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Deal.”

They sealed it with another kiss, both knowing the odds weren’t in his favor.

But neither cared.

In that moment, nothing else mattered but them.

ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX

The season that followed was... electric.

Lando drove like a man possessed, more focused than she’d ever seen him. Race after race, podium after podium.

And with each victory, whispers grew louder.

Was this finally his year?

(Y/n) watched from the sidelines, heart in her throat every weekend, proud, anxious, hopeful.

She’d thought the bet was playful. That it would buy them time.

But as the championship drew closer, suddenly, it didn’t seem so impossible.

And when the final race came, Abu Dhabi, under the floodlights, Lando crossed the finish line first.

World Champion.

Against all odds, he’d done it.

The second his car rolled into parc fermé, helmet off, tears in his eyes, his first words to the team weren’t about the title.

They were about her.

“I need to call (Y/n),” he said hoarsely.

And when her phone rang, shaking hands barely managing to answer, his voice was pure joy.

“You’d better start planning, love,” he laughed. “We’re getting married next year.”

Tears streamed down her face.

“Deal’s a deal,” she whispered, heart full. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he said. “Always.”

To be continued...🧡

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛꜱ ɴᴏᴡ💍

📝 Note from the Author: Second post of the day, my Alarwynnitessss~ 💛 Yes yes, your girl is on a roll and guess what? This is the second to the last oneeee heeheehee. We’re almost at the finish line, and I’m hanging on by the edge of my seat with Lando’s championship arc like it’s my own personal F1 season finale.

Now let’s talk about this chapter: Started with coffee runs and soft office flirting... ended with a whole engagement ring on the couch. Like, HELLO? I did not sign up for this much softness from a man who used to wear bucket hats unironically. And (Y/n)? Giving us boundaries, career goals, and a three-year engagement clause? She’s winning and she knows it. Honestly, Celeste deserves a raise just for witnessing all this unfold while carrying swatch books like a rom-com side character with taste.

As always, this was inspired by everlovingdeer and her one-shot from Love and All Things Fake (check it out on Wattpad if you haven’t yet—it’s so good I nearly cried over fake dating tropes).

Also, if any of you feel this is too similar or even bordering on plagiarism, please don’t hesitate to comment. I’ll delete it instantly. No drama, no backflips, no fight scenes. I am not built for fandom wars, Alarwynnites HAHAHAHA 💀

Thank you again for reading, loving, and staying with this story. Your support means the world. See you in the next (and final!) post soon!

With love, me 🧡

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