#monacomornings

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀᴛᴇʀɴɪᴛʏ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ꜱɪᴄᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴘᴀɪɴ, ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ

ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ/ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ (ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ, ɢᴜɪʟᴛ, ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪᴏɴ)

ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ɪɴᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ (ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇꜱ)

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ

ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʟᴜᴄᴀ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ

ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴘʀᴇɴᴀᴛᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ-ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ

ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏ-ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

POV: Lando

It wasn’t the noise of the track that got to him.

He was used to that, used to the roar of engines, the sharp commands over radio, the choreographed chaos of pit walls and team briefings. But lately, the silence between the noise felt heavier.

Lando sat alone in the back corner of the team hospitality suite, a water bottle untouched in front of him as engineers huddled at another table, reviewing telemetry data. He was supposed to join them five minutes ago.

His head throbbed.

Part of it was exhaustion. The rest? Guilt, confusion, fear, emotions that didn’t slot neatly into spreadsheets or tire strategies.

He pulled out his phone again.

No new messages.

He hadn’t texted her since she stopped replying last night. Part of him wanted to give her space. The other part, the stubborn, panicked, disbelieving part, still wrestled with the weight of her words from that quiet parking lot.

“I’m pregnant.”

“It’s yours.”

He wanted to believe her. God, a part of him did. But something in his brain, the logical, skeptical, broken-bit-of-him part, kept whispering: What if it’s not?

What if she was playing him? What if Luca really was involved? What if—

He stood up, too fast.

Oscar caught him on his way out. “Where you going?”

“Air,” Lando muttered. “Need some air.”

He found it out back, on a narrow fire escape with a view of the harbor. The wind off the water hit his face and cleared some of the fog, but not all of it.

He thought about her again. The way her hands had trembled. The way she’d looked at him, not like someone trying to trap him, but someone bracing for impact.

She wasn’t lying.

He could feel it. And still… the thought of Luca, the fact that they knew each other, it gnawed at him. It made him feel like an idiot.

“Stop thinking like that,” he muttered to himself. “She didn’t ask for anything.”

That was the part that unsettled him most. She hadn’t demanded money. She hadn’t threatened headlines. She hadn’t even asked him to stay.

She just told him the truth, and braced for him to walk away.

And he almost had.

He reached for his phone again and typed a contact into a secure group chat he rarely used.

Lando: Need a private referral. Someone discreet. Monaco-based OB or clinic. No PR risk.

He stared at the message.

Then hit send.

If she really was pregnant, if this really was his, then hiding wasn’t an option anymore.

POV: (Y/n)

It had become harder to hide.

Not just the nausea or the food aversions, but the fatigue. The constant thirst. The way her lower back ached if she stood too long in one position.

(Y/n) moved slowly behind the counter, pretending to adjust a jewelry display while secretly pressing a hand to her side. She hadn’t slept well, not because of discomfort, but because of replaying the same moment again and again.

Lando’s face. His doubt. His question.

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

The words still sat on her chest like bricks.

She had almost walked out. Would have, if he hadn’t stopped her, voice low, eyes unsteady, asking her to let him help. Not promising much. Just asking.

Still, it stung.

“You good?” Amara asked as she walked by, voice low.

“Yeah,” (Y/n) lied.

Amara didn’t push. She only placed a protein bar in front of her and kept walking.

Carla was near the window, scanning through Instagram reels with the brightness turned down. “You know,” she said casually, “McLaren just posted a video of Lando walking into the paddock this morning. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.”

(Y/n) didn’t react.

Carla peeked over her shoulder. “Girl, I’m not trying to stir the pot. But if he’s acting off, and you’re acting off... maybe you should actually talk again.”

“We did talk,” (Y/n) muttered, pressing a hand to her belly briefly. She was around eight weeks now. Still early, still in the danger zone, but she could feel things shifting. The tenderness, the small fluttering changes in her core.

Carla hummed. “You sure he’s ready for this?”

“No one’s ready for this.”

Amara passed by again, muttering, “Especially not the media. So whatever you do, don’t open Twitter.”

(Y/n) looked up. “What now?”

Carla’s grin vanished. “It’s... just gossip. People wondering who the girl in the McLaren paddock photo is. Some fans think you’re a cousin or team intern. Others are already pairing you two in edits.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Welcome to F1 TikTok.”

(Y/n) sighed and leaned against the wall. “I just wanted a quiet life.”

Amara handed her a chilled bottle of ginger tea. “Well, now you’ve got a fast one.”

(Y/n) took a sip. The boutique felt suddenly too bright, too loud. The chime over the door rang again, just a customer. Not him.

Still, part of her hoped.

POV: Lando

Back at his apartment, Lando’s phone buzzed.

Referral confirmed. Appointment slot held next week. Private. No press.

He exhaled.

Then sent a message to (Y/n):

Lando: Got us a place. Private. Clean. No attention. You don’t have to decide now—but it’s yours if you want it.

There was a pause.

Then her reply:

(Y/n): Thank you.

And then, a minute later:

(Y/n): I’m scared, Lando.

He stared at that one the longest.

Then wrote back:

Lando: Me too. But I’m not running anymore.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10: ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ᴡᴀʟʟꜱ, Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: This is the second post for today (I’m on a roll, huh? 😭), back again with more chaos, feels, and everything in between.

Thank you as always for reading and sticking with the story. Don’t forget to like, reblog, share, and comment, I love hearing from you 💬💖

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (7–8 ᴡᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ

ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ/ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ꜱʏᴍᴘᴛᴏᴍꜱ (ɴᴀᴜꜱᴇᴀ, ꜰᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ɢɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴄʜᴇᴡꜱ)

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴇᴛᴀʀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴛʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (ꜰᴏʀ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ)

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ (ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ)

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ/ᴛʜɪʀᴅ-ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ (ʟᴜᴄᴀ)

ꜱᴜʀᴠᴇɪʟʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴠɪʀɢɪɴɪᴛʏ ʟᴏꜱꜱ

The next morning, as the Riviera city stirred slowly awake beneath lemon-colored light, (Y/n) stood behind the boutique counter, pretending to rearrange a display of silk scarves. Her hands trembled, betraying her nerves.

Amara was there too, unpacking a new box of accessories, but kept sneaking glances toward the door.

Carla, humming softly to herself, was fixing a jewelry stand near the window when the bell above the door jingled.

And there he was.

Baseball cap low, sunglasses on, hoodie zipped halfway to the neck.

Lando Norris.

No entourage. No camera flashes. No press.

Just him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her, really looked.

Carla froze. Her mouth dropped open slightly as recognition hit.

She glanced between (Y/n) and Lando, then mouthed to Amara across the room: Is that Lando freaking Norris?

Amara rolled her eyes playfully, nodded once, and signed to her to be quiet.

Then quietly, Lando said: “Can we go somewhere?”

(Y/n) glanced at Amara, who raised both brows but gave a single, slow nod of encouragement.

Without a word, (Y/n) stepped out from behind the counter.

“Let’s go,” she said.

The door jingled behind them.

Silence.

Then—

“What in the actual Monaco was that?” Carla hissed, rushing over to Amara. “Was that seriously Lando Norris or did I eat expired yogurt this morning?!”

Amara just grinned, folding tissue paper like nothing had happened. “Yep. That was him.”

Carla smacked her arm lightly. “And you’re just—what—chill about it?! Do you know how many people would scream if he walked into their shop?”

“I mean, I could scream,” Amara teased, “but I think (Y/n) would kill me.”

Carla narrowed her eyes. “Okay, but why was he here? Why did he look at her like she just slapped him with a love letter? And why did she just… leave?”

Amara gave her a pointed look, lips twitching. “You ask too many questions.”

“Oh my God,” Carla whispered dramatically, hand over her mouth. “Is this like… a thing?”

Amara only smiled again and turned back to the accessories box. “Not our story to tell, Carla.”

Carla gasped. “So it is a thing!”

“Shhh,” Amara warned, laughing now. “Let them figure it out.”

The walk from the boutique to Lando’s car was quiet.

He didn’t speak, just opened the passenger door of a discreet black SUV and waited for her to get in. She hesitated only briefly, just long enough to question if this was a mistake, then climbed in. The door shut with a quiet click, sealing them inside a space too silent and too small.

Lando slipped into the driver’s seat, pulling away from the curb like he’d done it a thousand times before, like this wasn’t the most surreal morning of either of their lives.

He drove up the winding hillside roads, far from the city’s hum, until the coast stretched wide and blue on one side, villas on the other. After ten minutes of tension-thick silence, he turned onto a small overlook tucked behind flowering hedges and parked.

Still, he didn’t speak.

(Y/n) unbuckled her seatbelt, but didn’t move. “You said five minutes.”

“I know,” he said, gripping the steering wheel. “I just… didn’t want anyone to see.”

“You’ve said that before.”

His head turned sharply at that. “Yeah. And you walked away before I could explain.”

“I didn’t need an explanation,” she replied, staring out the window. “I got the message when you offered me money.”

Lando winced.

“Look,” he said after a pause. “I was drunk. Not as drunk as I should’ve been to justify what I said, but drunk enough to think I was solving a problem instead of… making one.”

He wasn’t looking at her, and she wasn’t looking at him. The car was a capsule of half-swallowed truths.

“I remember more than I let on,” he continued. “Not everything. But enough. You were quiet. Sharp. You asked about the stars.”

(Y/n) turned to him slowly. Her voice barely above a whisper. “You said you didn’t even know my name.”

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

A beat of silence passed. Wind rustled the hedges outside.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said, eyes fierce now. “This isn’t some trap. I didn’t track you down. You showed up.”

“I know.” He finally looked at her. “And I’m not here out of guilt. Or pity. I’m here because... I think something happened that night that matters. More than just a mistake.”

She scoffed lightly. “You think?”

He exhaled. “I’m trying, okay?”

“Trying what, exactly?”

“To understand. To be decent. To make this right.”

(Y/n) stared at him, lips parted like she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Her hands curled in her lap.

Finally, she asked, “And what would right even look like?”

Lando didn’t have an answer. Not one he trusted yet. But he looked at her then, not her sunglasses, not the tension in her jaw, but her. And he saw the weight she was carrying. The exhaustion. The fear.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.

Tears threatened the edges of her vision. She blinked them away quickly.

“You say that now,” she murmured.

“I’ll keep saying it,” he said. “As long as you let me.”

They sat there, still as the air around them.

Then she said the words she’d been holding in for days:

“I’m pregnant, Lando.”

There was no dramatic music. No gasp. Just the words, dropped between them like a fragile, living thing.

Lando blinked. Once. Twice.

“How far?”

“About seven or eight weeks.”

His brows knit together.

“So... right around then.”

She nodded slowly.

He stared straight ahead. “And... there’s no chance it’s someone else’s?”

(Y/n)’s expression changed instantly. “Excuse me?”

“I just—” he ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “That Luca guy. He was there. At the paddock. He knew you. I’d be an idiot not to ask.”

Something inside her snapped.

“Oh my God,” she said, voice sharp. “You think I’m lying? You think I’m trying to trap you or pin this on someone?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lando replied, but it was too late.

She was already reaching for the door handle.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she muttered. “Enough of being looked at like I’m some—some whore who can’t even remember who got her pregnant.”

She flung the door open, halfway out already. “If you want proof, Lando, there was blood on the sheets that morning. That’s your proof.”

His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, not rough, not tight, just firm enough to make her stop. “Wait. Please.”

She froze.

Lando’s voice was quieter now, steadier.

“I’m sorry. That was... wrong of me. I just—this is a lot. And I’m scared too.”

(Y/n) didn’t say anything.

He let go of her wrist.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “I don’t want you to walk away thinking I think the worst of you.”

She still didn’t move.

“So let’s fix this,” he continued. “Together. However this goes, whatever you decide… I want to be part of the conversation.”

(Y/n) hesitated, caught between exhaustion and the stubborn little hope he’d just reignited.

“Then stop accusing me,” she said. “Because I’ve been alone with this for weeks. And it’s already been hell.”

Lando nodded once, voice quiet. “Okay.”

She closed the door again.

And for the first time, silence didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like the start of something real.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪᴛ ʟᴀɴᴇ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: This is the third post for today (I know, I know 😭), again, I hope you like it! Don’t forget to like, reblog, comment, or anything your heart feels like doing 💭