Summary: You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Song: STAY · Justin Bieber
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 4.0k
MASTERLIST - F1
The paddock air always smelled the same—a sharp, metallic cocktail of high-octane fuel, expensive espresso, and the frantic, buzzing energy of three hundred people trying to move in a space designed for fifty.
It was a sensory overload you had grown accustomed to over the last four years, but even with the familiarity, the weight of the cameras and the prying eyes of the media never quite ceased to feel like a spotlight burning against your skin.
You walked beside Lando, your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your team hoodie.
You were doing your best to keep up with his quick, rhythmic stride, his McLaren team kit a bright papaya blur against the charcoal gray background of the hospitality units.
"You're quiet," Lando said, not breaking his pace. He didn't look at you, his eyes scanning the horizon of the Silverstone paddock, but you felt the subtle shift in his demeanor.
It was the Lando-radar—he always knew when your mood dipped, even if you were masking it with the practiced cool of a driver’s partner.
"Just tired," you lied. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. You were exhausted, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from being ‘on’ for seventy-two hours straight.
Without warning, Lando stopped. He didn’t just slow down; he pivoted on his heel, effectively blocking your path. Before you could react, his arm was around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
It was a casual, possessive movement, the kind that reminded everyone watching—and there were always people watching—that you were his.
You stiffened, your hands instinctively coming up to push against his chest. "Lando," you hissed, your voice low. "People are taking photos. Right there."
You gestured vaguely toward a group of fans pressed against the metal fencing, phones already held high like digital offerings. Lando didn’t even glance at them. Instead, he ducked his head, his nose brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your ear.
"Let them," he murmured, his voice laced with that mischievous, boyish charm that had stolen your heart in the first place. He squeezed your waist, his grip firm and grounding. "I haven't seen you all morning. You’ve been busy with PR, I’ve been in the sim. I’m allowed to say hello."
"You said hello at breakfast," you countered, though your heart was performing a treacherous little somersault in your chest.
"That was two hours ago," he insisted, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes were bright, lit with a spark of genuine affection that softened the sharp lines of his face. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "I missed you."
You didn't know how to handle it. After four years, you still didn't. You were a person of quiet gestures—notes left on bathroom mirrors, shared silences while watching movies, holding hands when the lights were out.
You weren't a ‘public display’ person. The vulnerability of being seen in private, intimate moments—even something as simple as a touch—felt like undressing in a crowded room.
Lando, however, had spent his entire adult life under a microscope. He had learned that if you’re going to be watched anyway, you might as well control the narrative. If he wanted to hold your hand, he held it. If he wanted to pull you close, he did it without hesitation, regardless of the cameras.
"Come on," he said, shifting his grip from your waist to your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. He started walking again, pulling you along with him, his pace unbothered by the stares.
The rest of the morning was a blur of briefings and team meetings. You found yourself retreating to the back of the McLaren garage, watching the mechanics work on the MCL38.
It was a beautiful, terrifying machine, and you often felt like you were just a spectator to a life you were only partially living.
When the session ended and the drivers began to filter out, you saw Lando heading your way. He looked winded, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a chaotic mess beneath his cap.
When he spotted you, his entire face transformed. The intense, focused ‘racer’ expression melted into a wide, effortless grin.
He didn't head for the engineers or the debriefing area. He walked straight to you, ignoring the team principal standing five feet away, and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"God," he groaned, his voice muffled by your hoodie. "I need a coffee before I throw a headset through a wall."
"That sounds like a productive way to spend the afternoon," you teased, though you reached up, patting his back awkwardly. Your eyes darted around the garage. Several mechanics were snickering, and the telemetrics lead was pointedly looking at his tablet.
Lando pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders now. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing the skin of your neck. "Come to the hospitality with me? Please? I need a witness so I don't punch something."
"I have emails to catch up on," you started, but he was already shaking his head before you finished.
"Emails can wait. You’re coming with me." He didn’t bother asking twice. He took your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, comforting pattern.
As you walked through the paddock, he kept his hand firmly clutched in yours, occasionally swinging them between you like a couple of teenagers.
It was almost nauseatingly domestic, and it made your skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the spectators.
"Lando," you said, once you reached the relative privacy of the McLaren hospitality tent. You ducked into a quiet corner near the coffee machine. "Could you… maybe not?"
He paused, a cup of black coffee halfway to his mouth. He looked at you, genuinely confused. "Not what?"
"The… the touching. The holding hands in the paddock. The leaning on me when there are twenty cameras pointed at us."
He tilted his head, his expression earnest. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"It’s not that it bothers me," you said, choosing your words carefully. You didn't want to hurt him, but you needed him to understand. "It’s… it’s just that I’m not used to it. Private things should stay private. I feel like we’re performing when we do that."
Lando set the cup down. He moved into your space, his presence filling the corner. He didn't touch you this time, which felt strangely more intimate than the public displays. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.
"I’m not performing," he said softly. "I’m just… I’m proud. You’re my person. You’ve been my person for four years. Through the podiums, the crashes, the bad races, the move to Monaco. You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel real."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don’t want to hide you. I don't want to act like you're some secret I’m keeping in a drawer. If I want to hold your hand, I want to hold your hand because I like the way your skin feels against mine. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the fans. I care about how I feel when I’m with you."
"That’s very sweet," you said, your throat tight. "But you know how people talk. They dissect everything. They look for meaning in where you put your hand or how you look at me. It’s exhausting."
"Let them talk," Lando countered, a glint of defiance in his eyes. "Let them dissect. They don't know us. They don't know the late nights, or the way you make tea, or the way you handle me when I’m losing my mind after a DNF. They’re just observers. We’re the ones living it."
He reached out, tentatively this time, covering your hand with his. "I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m just telling you why I am the way I am. For me, the PDA… it’s a way of tethering myself to you. In a world that’s always moving, you’re the only thing that stands still. I just want to make sure I’m always touching that anchor."
You looked at him—really looked at him. You saw the layers of the man the world saw as a race driver, but you also saw the man beneath. The one who was lonely at the top, the one who navigated the pressures of fame by clinging to the few things that were genuine.
"I’m an anchor?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, the tension breaking. "You’re the best anchor. A little bit stubborn, maybe, and you complain about the cameras too much, but you’re definitely the anchor."
He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours. It was a soft, gentle moment, a stark contrast to the chaos just outside the tent.
"I’ll try," you whispered. "To be… less bothered by it."
"You don't have to change," he insisted, pulling back to look at you. "Just know that when I do it, it isn't for the cameras. It’s for me. And hopefully, it’s for you, too."
The rest of the weekend was a learning curve.
When you walked through the paddock on Saturday morning, Lando’s arm was around your waist again. The inevitable cameras clicked, but this time, you didn't stiffen. You didn't try to pull away.
You looked up at him, and he smiled down at you, and for a fleeting second, the cameras didn't exist. There was just the two of you, moving through a crowded space, anchored to each other.
You realized that perhaps you had been looking at it wrong the whole time. You had viewed the PDA as a performance for the world, but Lando viewed it as a statement to himself. It was a way of claiming his own reality in an environment that was designed to be artificial.
By Sunday, the atmosphere was thick with the tension of the race. The drivers were in ‘the zone,’ quiet and focused. You spent most of the morning in the motorhome, catching up on those emails you’d ignored.
A few hours before the race, there was a knock on your door.
Lando stood there, his race suit unzipped to his waist, his hair slicked back with sweat from his warm-up. He looked pale and intense, the adrenaline already beginning to surge through his system.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.
"Hey. You okay?"
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t go to the sofa. He didn’t pace. He walked straight to you, pulled you into a crushing embrace, and just held you. He didn't speak. He just rested his chin on the top of your head, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
This was the PDA that no one saw. This was the vulnerable, quiet reality.
"I’m nervous," he admitted finally, his voice barely a murmur.
"You’re always nervous before the start," you reminded him, rubbing circles into his back.
"I know. But today feels… different. I just wanted to see you one last time before I have to go be 'Lando Norris' for three hours."
He pulled back, searching your face. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—a lingering, soft touch that tasted of nervous energy and deep, abiding love. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline.
"See you after?" he asked.
"Always," you promised.
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He turned to leave, walking with a renewed sense of purpose, his shoulders squared, his head held high.
As he walked out, you realized you hadn't even thought about who was watching. You hadn't felt the need to hide, or to be ‘proper,’ or to worry about how the world perceived your love.
You watched him go, feeling the quiet hum of his presence still lingering in the room. You realized that Lando was right. The world could look, they could stare, they could dissect every interaction until there was nothing left.
But they would never understand the alchemy of it—the way you held each other together, the way his hand in yours wasn't about the show, but about the connection.
When you walked out of the motorhome to head to the garage, you saw him ahead of you, walking with his team. He stopped at the entrance, turned around, and scanned the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours.
He didn't wave. He didn't seek attention. He just gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment, a secret language that only the two of you spoke.
You nodded back, a smile playing on your lips.
The cameras were still there, the paddock was still screaming with noise, and the pressure was still building.
But as you made your way through the crowd, you didn't feel the need to hide. You kept your head high, your pace steady.
When you reached the garage, Lando was already in the cockpit. You stood by the wall, watching the mechanics scramble. You felt someone standing next to you—another driver's partner, someone you’d spoken to a few times.
"He looks focused today," she said, nodding toward the car.
You watched his helmeted head, the way he was checking the steering wheel settings, his movements precise and calm.
"He is," you said, a sense of pride swelling in your chest.
As the cars began to move, the noise became deafening. You reached out, gripping the safety rail. A hand covered yours. You looked down—it was Lando’s trainer, a man you’d known for years, offering a silent gesture of support.
You squeezed his hand. You weren't holding Lando’s hand, but you felt the connection, the web of people who loved him, who supported him, who were tethered to him.
The race went well. It was a grueling, tactical battle, but you watched every lap, every overtake, every moment of brilliance. When he crossed the finish line—a solid P3, a hard-fought battle—you felt a surge of relief that hit you like a physical wave.
When he finally made his way back to the pit lane, the adrenaline was high, the fans were screaming, and the cameras were desperate to capture his reaction.
You were in the ‘cool down’ room, waiting. When he burst in, tossing his helmet onto the table, he looked ecstatic. He was drenched in sweat, his lungs laboring for air, his face glowing with raw, unadulterated joy.
He spotted you immediately.
He didn't run to his team, he didn't check his phone, he didn't wait for the cameras. He bypassed everything and everyone, closed the distance between you, and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off your feet.
You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the small room. He spun you around, his face pressed into your shoulder, his heart hammering against your own.
"We did it," he breathed, his voice ragged with exertion.
He didn't care about the producers behind the glass, didn't care about the microphones picking up his breathing, didn't care about the optics of a driver being ‘soft’ after a podium. He just held you, his hands tight against your back, his head resting on your shoulder.
"You did it," you whispered back, holding him just as tightly.
He pulled back, his face inches from yours. He was glowing, his hazel eyes wide and bright. He didn't let go of your waist. He didn't try to pull away to talk to the team. He just stood there, his forehead resting against yours, taking a moment to breathe you in.
"That was for you," he whispered, a smirk touching his lips.
"The race?" you teased.
"Everything," he said. "The race, the fight, the waiting. Everything is for you."
You smiled, the last of your resistance melting away. You realized then that the PDA wasn't about him being dramatic or needy; it was his way of saying, ‘this is my center.’ It was his way of remaining human in a world designed to strip humanity away.
You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, your touch lingering on his skin. You didn't care about the cameras anymore. You didn't care about the optics.
"You're a menace," you whispered.
"I know," he said, his grin widening. "But I'm your menace."
He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, fleeting kiss before pulling back to see the effect it had on you. You didn't shy away. You held his gaze, your hand moving to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heart beneath the papaya suit.
"We have to go out there," he said, nodding toward the door where the interviews were waiting.
"I know," you replied.
"Stay close?" he asked, his hand finding yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in that familiar, grounding way.
"Always," you said.
He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and turned toward the door. As he walked out, he didn't let go. He didn't try to look composed for the cameras.
He just walked out, dragging you along with him, his hand in yours, his heart laid open for the world to see, and you didn't pull away.
For the first time in four years, you didn't feel like you were performing. You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be—right by his side, anchored in the eye of the storm, holding onto the one thing that made all the chaos worth it.
The lights of the paddock hit you as you walked out, the noise rising to a crescendo, but you barely heard it.
You were focused on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his hand in yours, the physical tether that connected you to him, through every race, every win, every defeat, and every quiet moment in between.
As Lando greeted the reporters, he didn't pull his hand away. He kept it firmly in yours, a silent, defiant, and beautiful declaration. You stood beside him, watching him speak, realizing that for all the years you’d spent worried about the world, you had missed the most important lesson of all: that when you’re with the right person, the world doesn't matter.
Only the anchor does.
The weeks that followed brought a series of races, each one a different challenge, but the dynamic between you had shifted, subtly but fundamentally.
You were in Singapore, the humidity so thick it felt like a heavy, wet blanket pressing against your skin. The heat in the paddock was stifling, the noise of the city reflected off the glass buildings, echoing in the narrow walkways.
Lando was exhausted. The jet lag, the heat, the relentless schedule—it was wearing him down. You found him late on Saturday night, sitting on the steps of the motorhome, his head in his hands. He looked defeated.
You didn't say anything. You just sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. He didn't look up, but his hand found yours, his grip tight, almost desperate.
"It’s just… it’s been a lot lately, hasn't it?" he said, his voice quiet, barely audible over the hum of the cooling units.
"It has," you agreed, leaning into him.
He leaned his weight against you, a silent plea for support. You sat there for a long time, the only movement the shifting of your hands as you rubbed his palm, his breathing slowly steadying as he leaned into your presence.
A group of team members walked past, casting curious glances in your direction. A few weeks ago, you would have pulled away. You would have felt the heat of the embarrassment rising in your cheeks.
But tonight, you didn't. You kept your hand in his, your body pressed against his side, a silent, unified front.
Lando shifted, turning toward you and resting his head on your shoulder. He sighed, a long, shaky sound. "I don't know what I'd do without you here."
"You’d do just fine," you said, your voice soft. "You’re Lando Norris. You thrive on this."
"I thrive on the racing," he corrected, looking up at you with tired, genuine eyes. "The rest of it… the travel, the lights, the expectations… that’s just noise. You’re the only thing that isn't noise."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch tender and vulnerable.
"I know I’m a lot," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I know I’m clingy. I know the PDA is probably annoying for you."
"It’s not annoying," you admitted, the words feeling true for the first time. "It’s… it’s a lot to get used to. Especially with everyone watching."
"I know," he said, his thumb brushing your temple. "I don't mean to put pressure on you. I just… I need to know you’re still there. I need to feel like I’m anchored to something real, even when everything around me is drifting."
You looked at him, feeling the weight of the last four years—the highs, the lows, the moments of profound isolation, and the moments of intense, shared joy.
You realized that you and Lando weren't just a couple; you were a unit, a team of two navigating a life that few people could ever truly understand.
"You’re always anchored to me," you said, your voice steady. "I’m not going anywhere."
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of the night forgotten.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He closed his eyes, a sense of peace finally settling over him. He didn't move away, and you didn't pull back. You just sat there, two people against the world, holding onto each other in the quiet, humid dark.
The final race of the season was in Abu Dhabi. The air was cool, the track lights shining brightly against the darkening sky. The energy was electric, a mix of anticipation and the bittersweet end of a long, grueling year.
You stood in the garage, watching the final preparations. Lando was calm, focused, a version of himself you’d come to cherish—the man who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much he was loved.
When he finally pulled his helmet off after the post-race debrief, he caught your eye across the garage.
He didn't wait. He walked straight to you, ignoring the cameras, the reporters, and the team members. He pulled you into a hug that felt like coming home.
"We made it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"We made it," you echoed.
He pulled back, his hands resting on your waist, his eyes bright with that familiar, boyish spark. "So, what are we doing for the off-season?"
You laughed, the sound light and free. "I’m taking you somewhere quiet. Somewhere with no cameras, no paddock, and absolutely zero motor racing."
He grinned, the expression wide and genuine. "Sounds perfect."
He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both a celebration and a promise—a promise of more to come, of more years spent side-by-side, navigating the noise, the pressure, and the chaos, together.
As you walked out into the paddock, the lights overhead shimmering like stars, he didn't let go of your hand. He held it firmly, his fingers interlaced with yours, his presence a constant, grounding rhythm against your own.
You looked up at him, the man you’d chosen, the man who had chosen you. You realized you didn't care about the cameras, the fans, or the prying eyes. You didn't care about the performance of it all.
You only cared about the person holding your hand, the person who made all the noise feel like silence, and the person who made you feel, for the first time in four years, like you were finally exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily, naturally, a truth that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Lando smiled, a soft, radiant look that belonged only to you. He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and pulled you a little tighter against his side.
"I love you too," he said, his voice low and steady. "Now, let’s go start that vacation."
And as you walked away, deeper into the night, you didn't look back.
You just walked forward, hand in hand, anchored to each other, ready for whatever the next season—and the rest of your lives—would bring. . . .
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Dialogue: Seeing Sabo after he went on a mission for a year made you acknowledge your feelings for Sabo.
A/n: I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing this! <3
The dust swirled around your boots as you stood on the docks of Baltigo, squinting against the harsh sunlight. A year. It had been a whole year since you last saw him. A year of coded messages, hurried updates through carrier pigeons, and restless nights spent staring at the ceiling, tracing the constellations and missing your best friend.
The Wind Granma, one of the Revolutionary Army's sleekest ships, was finally pulling in, its sails billowing and snapping in the salty breeze.
You told yourself you were here for duty, to help unload supplies and debrief returning scouts. You certainly weren't here, heart hammering against your ribs, to catch a glimpse of straw-blonde hair and a familiar, lopsided grin.
You busied yourself with checking the inventory manifest on your datapad, pretending not to notice as the ramp lowered and figures began disembarking. You recognized Koala, her bright orange hair a beacon amidst the crowd. Hack was there too, his stoic face unreadable as always. But then, you saw him.
Sabo.
He looked…different. Taller, maybe. More weathered. His familiar blue coat seemed to hang a little looser on his frame, suggesting he'd lost weight.
His eyes, usually bright with mischief, held a depth that spoke of battles fought and victories won, but also of hardships endured. A new scar bisected his left eyebrow, a stark white line etched against his tan skin. It made him look even more…dangerous.
Your breath hitched. You told yourself to stay calm, to remain professional. He was just another soldier returning from a mission.
You were a valuable member of the Revolutionary Army, respected for your strategic mind and unwavering dedication. You couldn't afford to let emotions cloud your judgment, especially not now.
He scanned the crowd, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on Koala, then Hack, before finally landing on you. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.
A slow smile spread across his face, the one that always made your stomach flip and your carefully constructed defenses crumble.
"Well, if it isn't Y/N," he called out, his voice rougher than you remembered. "Working as hard as ever, I see."
You forced a neutral expression, lifting your gaze from the datapad. "Sabo," you acknowledged, your voice betraying none of the chaotic emotions swirling within you. "Welcome back. Debriefing is scheduled for 1400 hours. Be punctual."
He chuckled, a warm, familiar sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Always the stickler for rules, aren't you?" He started walking towards you, his gait confident and easy. You tried to maintain your distance, subtly shifting behind a stack of crates.
"Just ensuring efficiency," you replied, keeping your eyes fixed on the datapad. "The Revolutionary Army can't afford to waste time."
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could smell the sea salt and gunpowder clinging to his clothes, a potent reminder of the life he led, the life you were both committed to.
"And how have you been, Y/N?" he asked, his voice softening. "Keeping busy, I presume?"
"Extremely," you said, your fingers tightening around the datapad. "We've been planning the next phase of the operation. It requires all my attention."
You risked a quick glance at him. He was still smiling, but there was something else in his eyes now, a knowing glint that made you uneasy. He wasn't buying your act for a second.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "The revolution always comes first." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Anything else keeping you occupied? New strategies to implement? Perhaps... a new love interest to distract you?"
The question was laced with a playful teasing, but you could detect a hint of underlying seriousness. You bristled, your cheeks flushing slightly despite your best efforts.
"Don't be ridiculous," you snapped, finally meeting his gaze. "My priorities are firmly in place. And I hardly have time for… distractions."
He raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. "Is that so? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you're working awfully hard to avoid making eye contact with me."
Damn him. He always knew how to get under your skin. You opened your mouth to retort, but he cut you off.
"Relax, Y/N," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I'm just teasing. But I have missed you."
The admission, so simple and direct, stole the air from your lungs. You wanted to deny it, to tell him you hadn't missed him at all, that you were perfectly fine without him. But the words caught in your throat.
You looked away, focusing on a distant seagull circling overhead. "I'm sure you were very busy on your mission," you mumbled, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in your voice.
He stepped closer, closing the distance between you. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You instinctively flinched, but didn't pull away.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the sounds of the docks. "Look at me."
You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. But you knew you couldn't resist him forever. Slowly, reluctantly, you raised your eyes to meet his.
His gaze was intense, unwavering. He saw right through your carefully constructed facade, to the longing and vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal. The smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of tenderness and understanding.
"I see right through you, love," he whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "You've missed me too."
The dam broke. All the carefully constructed walls you had built around your heart crumbled, washed away by a tidal wave of emotion. You wanted to deny it, to maintain your composure, but you couldn't.
Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they streamed down your face, hot and unbidden.
"Don't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't do this."
He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Don't do what? Acknowledge that we care about each other? That we've been apart for too long?"
You closed your eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming emotions. It was no use fighting it. He knew you too well. He always had.
"It's just… it's difficult," you said, your voice trembling. "This life… it's not easy. We're constantly risking everything. And when you're gone… it's like a part of me is missing."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "I know, Y/N. I feel the same way. But that's what makes it so important, isn't it? To hold onto those connections, to cherish the moments we have together."
He tilted your head back, looking deeply into your eyes. "I promise you, I'll always come back to you. No matter what happens, no matter how long I'm gone, I'll always find my way back."
You swallowed hard, struggling to regain your composure. "You can't promise that," you said, your voice laced with fear. "This is war. Anything can happen."
He smiled, a confident, reassuring smile that chased away the shadows of doubt. "I know the risks, Y/N. But I also know what's worth fighting for. And you… you're worth fighting for."
He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours in a light, tentative kiss. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that he was here, that he was real, that you weren't alone.
You closed your eyes, melting into the kiss. It was a simple kiss, but it spoke volumes. It spoke of longing, of devotion, of the unbreakable bond that connected you.
You pulled away slightly, your heart still pounding in your chest. "Sabo," you whispered, your voice filled with emotion.
He smiled, his eyes sparkling with affection. "Yes, love?"
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Debriefing is still scheduled for 1400 hours," you said, a hint of your old formality returning. "Don't be late."
He chuckled, throwing his head back in laughter. "Of course, Commander," he said, his voice filled with amusement. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He winked, then turned and walked towards the main headquarters, leaving you standing on the docks, a warm smile gracing your lips.
The dust still swirled around your boots, but now, it felt like a celebration. The sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter. He was back. And for now, that was all that mattered.
You knew the challenges ahead wouldn't disappear. The war was still raging, and the future was uncertain.
But with Sabo by your side, you knew you could face anything. Because you had each other. And that was a revolution worth fighting for. . . .
The fluorescent lights of the Revolutionary Army headquarters hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the exhaustion thrumming in your own temples. Hours had bled into one another since Sabo had returned.
Hours spent poring over the maps he’d brought back, charting new territories, analyzing political landscapes, and searching for any sign of the World Government's ever-tightening grip. The war room, usually a hive of bustling activity, was now mostly deserted, save for you and the scattered remnants of hastily consumed coffee cups and half-eaten rations.
The debriefing had run long, you knew. You could hear snippets of it through the thick walls – heated discussions about strategic alliances, hushed whispers about potential threats, and Sabo’s steady, commanding voice cutting through the chaos.
You told yourself you weren't listening for his voice specifically. You told yourself you were focused solely on the task at hand, on deciphering the intricate details of the maps spread before you.
But the truth, as it often did, felt like a heavier weight.
Your eyes traced the contours of an unfamiliar island, your finger gliding over a network of rivers you'd never seen before. You were tired, bone-tired.
The relentless pace of the Revolution rarely allowed for rest, and Sabo's return, while a welcome relief and a vital push for progress, had only amplified the pressure.
You knew what was at stake. You knew the importance of every detail, every strategic advantage. But your mind felt sluggish, your focus wavering.
You rubbed your temples, trying to ward off the encroaching headache that threatened to derail your train of thought completely.
“Still working?”
The voice sent a jolt through you, a current of awareness that had nothing to do with the maps and everything to do with him. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
His presence filled the room, a familiar warmth that both comforted and unsettled you.
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your expression carefully neutral. "Just finishing up." You gestured vaguely at the maps, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hand. "These are… comprehensive. Thank you."
Sabo closed the distance between you, his eyes, the color of a stormy sea, searching your face. The years hadn’t been kind to him, etching lines of worry and determination around his eyes and mouth.
But they had also made him… more. More powerful, more confident, more devastatingly attractive.
“You look exhausted,” he said, his voice soft, laced with concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before you could react. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the intimacy you had both tried so hard to bury.
You flinched, pulling away slightly. "I'm fine. Just… a long day."
He didn’t retract his hand, letting it hover in the air for a moment before slowly dropping it to his side. The small gesture spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of the invisible barrier you had erected between you.
“The debriefing ran late,” he explained, his tone apologetic. “Dragon wanted to go over every detail.”
“I figured.” You kept your voice even, your eyes focused on the intricate lines of the map. "It's important."
Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the hum of the lights. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, questioning. You knew what he saw: the fatigue etched on your face, the forced composure in your posture, the subtle tension that vibrated in the air around you.
He knew you too well. That was the problem.
“You don’t have to push yourself so hard,” he said finally, his voice low. “We all appreciate what you do.”
“Someone has to do it.” You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Besides, I’m good at it.”
“And what about what you want?” he asked, his gaze intensifying. “What about what makes you happy?”
The question hung in the air, a loaded grenade threatening to explode the carefully constructed facade you had spent years building. Happiness. It was a luxury the Revolution couldn’t afford, and neither could you. Not when it came to him.
“Happiness is a luxury we can’t afford,” you said, echoing a sentiment you had repeated to yourself countless times.
He sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, a gesture that was both familiar and achingly endearing. “Is that what you really believe?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth was that happiness, for you, was inextricably linked to him. And allowing yourself to feel that, to acknowledge the depth of your feelings, was a risk you couldn't afford to take.
"How was your journey?" you asked, changing the subject abruptly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
He let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Did I ever. The World Government is digging its heels in deeper than ever. The situation is… precarious."
"Then we have to work harder." You straightened your shoulders, forcing a renewed sense of determination. "We need to be ready."
He watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded slowly. "You're right. We do."
He reached for one of the maps, his fingers brushing against yours. You pulled back instinctively, pretending not to notice the lingering warmth of his touch.
"Tell me about this island," he said, pointing to the same one you had been studying. "What do you think we can learn from it?"
And so, you plunged back into the work, immersing yourselves in the details of the maps, the intricacies of the terrain, the potential for strategic advantage.
You talked about supply lines, fortifications, and the ever-present threat of the World Government. You talked about everything but the one thing that truly mattered: the unspoken connection that still crackled between you, the unresolved feelings that haunted your every interaction.
As the hours ticked by, you found yourself relaxing slightly, drawn in by the familiar rhythm of collaboration. You and Sabo had always worked well together, your strengths complementing each other’s weaknesses.
He brought the raw power and tactical brilliance, while you provided the meticulous planning and strategic foresight.
For a brief, fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If you could let down your guard, if you could allow yourself to be vulnerable, if you could finally admit the truth that had been burning within you for years.
But the moment passed, shattered by the harsh reality of your situation. You were soldiers in a revolution, fighting for a cause that demanded sacrifice. There was no room for personal happiness, no time for romantic entanglements.
And besides, even if there were, you weren't sure you were brave enough to risk it. The potential for heartbreak, for devastation, was too great. Better to keep your distance, to protect yourself from the inevitable pain.
As the first rays of dawn began to creep through the windows, painting the room in a soft, golden light, you finally finished your analysis of the maps. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your stiff muscles.
"I think that's everything," you said, your voice hoarse with exhaustion. "We have a better understanding of the situation now. We can start planning our next move."
Sabo nodded, his eyes still fixed on the maps. "Thank you," he said softly. "You've done an amazing job."
"It was a team effort." You gathered the maps, stacking them neatly on the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some sleep."
You stood up, ready to escape the confines of the war room, to flee the suffocating tension that had been building between you. But before you could take a step, Sabo reached out and gently took your hand.
His touch sent a jolt through you, stronger than before. You looked down at your hand, engulfed in his, the warmth spreading through your veins.
"Wait," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. You saw a flicker of something in his eyes, something that mirrored the emotions you had been trying so hard to suppress.
"I know you're trying to protect yourself," he said, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "But you don't have to. Not with me."
Your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to believe him, you desperately wanted to let go of your fears and allow yourself to be vulnerable. But the fear was too strong, the risk too great.
You pulled your hand away, breaking the connection. "I don't know what you're talking about," you said, your voice trembling slightly.
He didn't try to stop you. He simply watched you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding.
"Maybe someday," he said softly. "Maybe someday you'll be ready."
You turned and walked away, your back to him, your heart aching with a pain that was both familiar and unbearable.
You knew you were making a mistake, that you were pushing him away, that you were sacrificing your own happiness for the sake of self-preservation.
But you couldn't stop yourself. You had built this wall for a reason, and you weren't ready to tear it down. Not yet.
As you walked out of the war room, leaving Sabo standing there alone, you couldn't help but wonder if you had made the right choice. If you had condemned yourself to a life of loneliness and regret.
But you told yourself that it was necessary, that it was the only way to protect yourself. You told yourself that the Revolution came first, that personal happiness was a luxury you couldn't afford.
You told yourself a lot of things.
But deep down, you knew the truth. You knew that you were running away from the one thing that could truly make you happy. And you knew that someday, you would have to face the consequences of your choice. . . .
The dust motes danced in the harsh morning light filtering through the barracks window, each speck a tiny reminder of the time that had passed. Months.
Three months, to be exact, since Sabo had returned from his year-long mission. Three months since those words, etched into your memory, had been spoken.
"I know you're trying to protect yourself," he had said, his voice a low murmur amidst the chaos of his homecoming. His touch, the gentle stroke of his thumb against your hand, had been a brand against your skin. "But you don't have to. Not with me."
The words were a lifeline, a promise of safety and vulnerability offered with a sincerity that made your heart ache. But you, ever the pragmatist, ever the cautious one, had kept your distance.
You'd smiled, offered a quick hug, and retreated into the familiar safety of your routine.
Protecting yourself was second nature. Loss was a constant companion in this life, a shadow lurking behind every victory, every shared laugh. You had learned early on that the less you allowed yourself to care, the less it hurt when someone was ripped away.
Sabo’s mission had been a brutal reminder of that lesson. So many faces you knew, so many voices you’d heard in the mess hall, gone. Erased.
The new recruits, a fresh wave of faces filling the void, were a constant reminder of the lives lost. You threw yourself into training them, burying your grief and fear in drills and strategy sessions.
It was easier to focus on the mechanics of combat than to contemplate the fragility of life.
One recruit, in particular, caught your attention. His name was Silas, and from the moment he arrived, something about him didn't sit right. He was charming, undeniably so, with a disarming smile and an easy laugh.
He was eager to learn, always asking questions, always volunteering for extra training. He quickly integrated himself into the unit, becoming a favorite among the other soldiers.
But beneath the surface, you saw something else. A calculating glint in his eyes, a subtle shift in his expression when he thought no one was watching. He was too smooth, too perfect. His stories, though seemingly innocuous, felt rehearsed, carefully crafted to elicit the desired response.
You tried to articulate your unease to Captain Eva, a hardened veteran with a keen sense for danger. But your words felt flimsy, based on instinct rather than concrete evidence.
“He’s a good soldier, Y/N,” Eva had said, her brow furrowed. “His scores are excellent, his record is clean. You can’t condemn a man based on a feeling. We need every able body we can get.”
You knew she was right, logically. The losses from Sabo's mission had crippled their forces. They were stretched thin, vulnerable. Questioning a promising recruit without cause would be detrimental to morale and could potentially weaken their defenses.
So, you kept your suspicions to yourself, watching Silas, analyzing his every move. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something, that his presence here was more than just a coincidence.
Meanwhile, Sabo's presence was a constant, bittersweet ache in your chest. He tried, subtly, to bridge the gap you had created. A casual invitation to join him for a drink, a shared smile across the training grounds, a lingering touch on your arm during a strategy session.
Each gesture was a reminder of the vulnerability he offered, the safety he promised. And each one made you pull further away. You were afraid. Afraid of letting him in, afraid of the pain that would inevitably follow if something happened to him.
One evening, you found yourself patrolling the perimeter of the base, the cold night air biting at your exposed skin. The quiet was unsettling, broken only by the distant howl of wind and the creak of the metal fences.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to seep into your bones.
A voice broke the silence. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"
You turned to see Silas leaning against the fence, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He smiled, that charming, disarming smile that always made you uneasy.
"What are you doing out here?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.
"Just taking a walk," he replied, shrugging. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd enjoy the fresh air."
His explanation sounded plausible, but your gut screamed otherwise. You studied him, searching for any sign of deception.
"Everything alright, Y/N?" he asked, tilting his head. "You seem tense."
"Just doing my job," you replied, turning away. "You should get back inside. It's going to rain."
He chuckled. "Always so serious. You know, you should lighten up a little. Life's too short to be so worried all the time."
His words were a casual observation, but they struck a nerve. You stopped, turning back to face him.
"You don't know anything about my life," you said, your voice low.
"Maybe not," he replied, his smile fading. "But I see you. I see how you keep everyone at arm's length. How you're afraid to let anyone get close."
His words were too close to the truth, too perceptive. You felt a surge of anger, a desire to lash out.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," you snapped, turning to leave.
"Don't you?" he called after you. "Or are you just afraid to admit it?"
You ignored him, quickening your pace towards the barracks. His words echoed in your head, a painful reminder of the walls you had built around yourself.
Later that night, as you lay in your bunk, unable to sleep, you replayed the conversation in your mind. His words, his presence, his very existence, felt like a threat. You couldn't shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on, that he was playing a game with you.
The next day, you decided to trust your instincts. You started digging, discreetly, into Silas's background. You spoke to contacts in other units, combed through old records, piecing together fragments of information.
What you found was disturbing. Silas's file was clean, almost too clean. His past seemed meticulously crafted, with no inconsistencies, no red flags. But there were gaps, holes in his story that couldn't be easily explained.
You discovered that he had transferred to your unit from a remote outpost, citing personal reasons. But the commander of that outpost had no record of Silas ever being stationed there. The name Silas, it seemed, was an alias.
Your pulse raced as you sat in the dim light of your office, the glow of the computer screen casting eerie shadows on the walls. You knew you had to tread carefully.
You were too busy to confront him directly, and he wasn't an immediate threat.
Yet.
Sabo adjusted his cravat, the morning sun catching the gold buckle. He scanned the newspaper, a frown etching itself onto his forehead as he read about the latest World Government atrocities. A sharp rap at the door pulled him from his grim thoughts.
"Come in," he called, folding the paper and setting it aside.
The door creaked open to reveal Silas, one of the newer recruits, standing stiffly at attention. He looked young, barely out of his teens, with a nervous energy that radiated from him. In his hands, he held a steaming cup, its contents swirling gently with each subtle movement.
"Excuse me, Mr. Sabo," Silas stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Miss Y/N requested for this to be sent to you." He carefully placed the cup on Sabo's cluttered desk, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood.
Sabo's eyebrows rose in surprise. Y/N? He hadn’t seen her much lately, both of them caught up in the endless tasks of the Revolutionary Army.
A warm feeling bloomed in his chest. "Really? Did she say why?"
Silas scratched the back of his head, his nervousness amplified under Sabo's curious gaze. "Well, she didn't actually say to tell you it came from her, but… she said something about your cold."
That sounded exactly like something Y/N would do. Always thoughtful, always looking out for others, but often preferring to offer her kindness in a roundabout way, avoiding direct credit.
He had been battling a persistent cough for the past few days, a minor annoyance he'd been trying to ignore. He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.
"Thank you," Sabo said, reaching for the cup. He carefully lifted it, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and warming his hands. He inhaled deeply, the aroma of ginger and lemon filling his nostrils.
It was definitely her concoction; he recognized the unique blend of herbs and spices she used to soothe a sore throat. He took a sip, the warm liquid coating his throat, a soothing balm against the scratchiness. It tasted wonderful.
"You're welcome, sir," Silas replied, relief evident in his voice. He hesitated for a moment, then saluted clumsily. "If there's nothing else, I'll be going now."
"That's all, Silas. Thank you again," Sabo said.
He turned back to the cup, taking another slow, deliberate sip. He wondered what Y/N was up to. He hadn’t seen her since the last strategy meeting.
He took another sip, feeling a pleasant warmth spreading through his body. He chuckled softly to himself. She was too good to him.
He was about to take a third sip when a strange dizziness washed over him. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the papers on his desk blurring into an indistinguishable mess.
He gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady himself, a flicker of confusion warring with a growing sense of unease.
This wasn't just a head cold.
His vision swam, the vibrant colors of his surroundings fading into a dull gray. His muscles felt heavy, unresponsive. He tried to call out, to shout for help, but his voice caught in his throat, a strangled gasp that died before it could even escape his lips.
The cup slipped from his grasp, the ceramic shattering against the hard floor, the remaining liquid splattering across the wooden planks. The sound seemed muffled, distant, as if he were underwater.
Sabo's knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the world spinning around him. His vision grew darker, the edges of his consciousness closing in like the jaws of a vise.
He tried to push himself up, to fight the sudden weakness that gripped him, but his body was no longer his own.
The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was Silas' evil grin, the glint of triumph in the young recruit's eyes as he stepped back from the shattered remnants of the cup.
The room tilted further, and then there was only blackness, a void that swallowed him whole.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the training grounds, painting the Revolution Army's headquarters in hues of orange and gold. But you weren't admiring the view.
No, you were pacing, your boots crunching on the gravel path, growing increasingly agitated. Sabo was late. Thirty minutes late.
You knew exactly what he was doing. He'd promised to personally inspect the new shipment of weaponry before they were distributed, a task he usually delegated. He’d even insisted on handling the initial inventory himself.
All a thinly veiled excuse to draw you in, to trap you in his office with endless debates about strategy and… well, just about anything. You knew his tactics, his charming smile, his infuriatingly insightful questions that always managed to unravel your carefully constructed composure.
And dammit, you were falling for it. Again.
You stopped pacing, a sigh escaping your lips. You told yourself it was the weapons, the crucial importance of their quality, that was driving you to his office. The Revolution Army's safety depended on it. But deep down, you knew it was more than that.
It was the pull, the undeniable gravitational force that Sabo exerted on you, a force you both resisted and craved in equal measure.
"Fine," you muttered to yourself, pivoting and striding purposefully towards Sabo's office. "He wants to talk? I'll give him a talking to. About punctuality, about delegation, about the importance of not making people wait."
You reached his door, your hand hovering over the knob. You didn’t bother knocking. Your patience had officially evaporated.
"Sabo–"
The word died in your throat. The scene that unfolded before you was nothing like the playful confrontation you'd envisioned. Sabo lay on the floor, a shattered teacup beside him, its contents staining the rug in a dark, ominous pool.
Towering over him was Silas, one of the new recruits, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing intensity as he clutched the newly arrived weapons. Weapons that were far too dangerous to be wielded by someone with ill intentions.
A cold dread washed over you. Silas had always given you an uneasy feeling. Something about his eagerness, his overly zealous patriotism, felt…off.
You’d meant to report your suspicions, but the chaos of the recent operations had pushed it to the back of your mind. Now, seeing Sabo vulnerable and Silas armed, the weight of your negligence pressed down on you.
Acting on instinct, you channeled your Devil Fruit powers. Water materialized from thin air, coalescing into a powerful stream that slammed into Silas with the force of a tidal wave. He was knocked off his feet, the weapons clattering to the floor as he landed in a heap, unconscious.
Adrenaline coursed through you as you rushed to Sabo's side. Your fingers trembled as you checked his pulse. Faint, thready, barely there.
You frantically scanned the scene, your eyes landing on the shattered teacup. The sickeningly sweet aroma that lingered in the air confirmed your worst fears. Poison.
Without hesitation, you activated your Devil Fruit again. You meticulously controlled the water, guiding it into Sabo's body, a delicate operation fraught with risk. You had to be precise, careful not to damage his already weakened system.
You enveloped the poison with the water, isolating it, pulling it away from his vital organs. It was a slow, agonizing process, draining your energy with each passing second.
Finally, you managed to extract the tainted water, expelling it from Sabo's body in a rush. You collapsed back on your heels, gasping for breath, your vision blurring.
You were exhausted, depleted, but your relief was short-lived. Sabo remained motionless.
The reality of the situation crashed down on you with brutal force. It was your fault. All your fault. If you’d trusted your instincts, if you’d reported Silas sooner, Sabo wouldn’t be lying here, fighting for his life.
"Sabo, please wake up," you pleaded, your voice cracking. You gently shook his shoulder, willing him to respond. But he didn't move. His face was pale, unnervingly still.
Despair washed over you, a suffocating wave of regret and fear. You sank to your knees, burying your face in his chest, the rough fabric of his jacket scratching against your cheek.
The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was so faint, so fragile, it filled you with a chilling premonition.
It was then, in that moment of utter desperation, that the truth you had so diligently suppressed burst forth. You realized, with a clarity that bordered on pain, that your feelings for Sabo ran far deeper than professional admiration or friendly camaraderie.
"I've always loved you," you whispered, the words choked with emotion, "even when I pretended not to."
The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. You pressed closer to him, clinging to the hope that somehow, somewhere, he could hear you.
"I said it okay," you continued, your voice rising in desperation, "please wake up now."
Silence. Only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beating of your heart filled the room. You didn't know when the tears started to fall, hot and stinging, tracing paths down your cheeks and soaking into his jacket.
You cried, not just for Sabo, but for all the unspoken words, the missed opportunities, the wasted time spent denying what had always been there. You cried for the future you might never have, for the happiness that seemed to be slipping through your fingers.
Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, each second an agonizing reminder of your potential loss. You stayed there, huddled against him, a broken mess of fear and regret.
Then, a voice, raspy and weak, broke the silence.
"It took you me almost dying for you to confess?"
You gasped, your head snapping up. Sabo. His eyes, though still clouded with pain, were open. A faint smile played on his lips.
You scrambled back, your heart leaping with a mixture of relief and disbelief. "Sabo! You're awake!"
He slowly reached up, his hand trembling as he gently wiped away a tear from your cheek. "Yeah," he said, his voice gaining strength, "thanks to you."
The relief was overwhelming, so intense it almost brought you to your knees again. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. "You idiot! Don't ever do that to me again!"
He chuckled, a weak but genuine sound. "Promises, promises," he murmured, then winced in pain.
You immediately sobered, your concern returning. "Don't talk," you said, your voice firm. "You need to rest. I'll get someone."
You started to pull away, but his hand tightened on yours, stopping you. "Wait," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "What you said…before."
Your cheeks flushed crimson. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable. You’d confessed your deepest feelings while he was unconscious, believing it was a one-way conversation. Now, the weight of his attention, the intensity in his eyes, felt almost unbearable.
"It was… I was just… scared," you stammered, trying to downplay the moment. "I didn't mean…"
He cut you off, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "Did you mean it?"
The question hung in the air, demanding honesty. You looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of mockery or pity. All you found was sincerity, a vulnerability that mirrored your own.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible. "I meant it."
Sabo's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He pulled you closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of doubt or regret.
"Y/N, I've known for a long time," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "But hearing you say it…" His thumb stroked your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine. "It means everything."
Your heart raced, your breath hitched in your throat. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the coolness of the floor beneath you, a reminder that this was real, that he was alive.
"Sabo," you whispered, your voice trembling. You didn't know what to say next, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. You felt the heat of his breath against your skin, the thump of his pulse under your fingertips. You had never been this close to him, never allowed yourself to be.
His hand slid to the nape of your neck, his touch firm yet gentle, sending a cascade of sensations through your body. Your pulse quickened, your heart pounding against your ribs like a caged bird desperate to break free.
"Sabo," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. "I-"
He placed a finger to your lips, silencing you. "Shh, love," he said, his eyes searching yours. "You don't need to explain."
The moment stretched, filled with a tension so potent it could have powered the entire island. You could feel the throb of your own heartbeat in your ears, a wild drumroll to a crescendo you hadn’t anticipated.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice a soft, hopeful whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.
You stared at him, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread, connecting you in a way that no words or battles ever could. It was a simple request, one that could have been brushed aside with a laugh or a joke, but instead it felt like the most significant question you had ever been asked.
You nodded, unable to form a coherent response. Your breath caught in your throat as he leaned in, closing the space between you. His lips met yours with a softness that belied the intensity of his gaze, a gentle pressure that spoke of the depth of his feelings.
But before the kiss could intensify, you placed your hand on his chest to stop it. "Sabo," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, "you need to get checked. There could still be poison in your system."
Sabo's eyes searched yours, the passion in them momentarily fading into a look of understanding. He nodded, his hand moving from your neck to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his heart.
"I know," he whispered, the beat beneath your palm reassuringly steady. "But I had to know that you felt the same."
You felt his heart's rhythm, the warmth of his skin, and the firmness of his chest. His breathing was shallow, and you could see the effort it took for him to maintain the gentle pressure of his lips.
You didn't want to stop the kiss, but you knew he was right. Safety had to come first, especially now.
"Alright," he murmured, his voice a soft caress against your mouth. He kissed you once more, a light, lingering brush of his lips that spoke volumes of his love and restraint. He pulled away, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'll go get checked."
You nodded, the reality of the situation sinking in. The urgency of the situation hit you like a tidal wave. "Do you need help?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.
Sabo looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and amusement. "No thank you, love," he said lightly, his voice still a little hoarse from the ordeal.
"You're sure?" You asked, concern etched on your face.
Sabo nodded, his eyes still clouded with pain but filled with determination. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, his voice a little stronger. "You have to take Silas to the prison."
You nodded, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on you. The man who had tried to kill the person you loved lay unconscious a few feet away, and you had to ensure he was dealt with accordingly. You stood, your legs feeling wobbly, but you knew you had to act swiftly.
"How did he get you to drink it?" you murmured, the question echoing in your mind as you took a deep breath and turned to face the chaos.
You saw the shards of the teacup, the dark liquid seeping into the floorboards. It was a stark reminder of the vulnerability that had been so artfully exploited.
Sabo looked up at you, his cheeks flushing slightly. "He said that you sent it," he admitted, his voice low and hoarse. "That you'd heard I'd picked up a cold on the last mission and had brewed me something special to help."
You stared at him, your eyes wide. "A cold?" you repeated, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. "You almost died because of a cold?"
Sabo looked shy as if he remembered too, his eyes flickering with a hint of embarrassment. "He said that you wanted to give me tea for my cold," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should have called to get confirmation, I was just happy that you gave me something."
Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and a warm blush crept up your neck, staining your cheeks. The thought of Silas using your kindness as a weapon made your blood boil, but at the same time, a tender warmth spread through you.
You had never been one to show affection openly, not with the weight of the revolution resting on your shoulders. But here was Sabo, admitting to a vulnerability that you hadn't even known he had.
With trembling hands, you helped him to his feet, his lean frame surprisingly heavy against you. Each movement sent waves of pain through his body, and you could feel his muscles tighten as he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.
His eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you understood that you had been wrong to push him away, to deny what was so clearly written in the air between you.
You used your Devil Fruit powers once more, creating a gentle cushion of water beneath his feet to ease the pain of his steps. "I'll get Hack," you murmured, knowing that your friend and fellow comrade would know exactly what to do.
With a flick of your wrist, you sent a stream of water through the air, weaving around the corridors and towards Hack. The power was a part of you, a silent call that only those who knew you well would recognize.
And Hack knew you well. A moment later, you heard a small yelp. Hack stumbled into the room, his eyes wide with surprise as he took in the scene.
He had been following the trail of water, unsure of what he would find. But when he saw Sabo's ashen face and the shattered teacup, his expression turned to one of concern.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice sharp with alarm.
You didn't have the luxury of time to explain everything. "A new soldier went rogue," you said tersely. "Silas. He tried to kill Sabo with poisoned tea, pretending it was from me. I need to take him into custody and get him to the interrogation room."
The fishman, a burly, silent type named Triton, nodded solemnly. His gills flared slightly, a sign of his own shock. "Understood," he said, his voice a guttural growl. "I will take Sabo to the medical bay immediately."
You felt a pang of guilt as you watched them go, torn between your duty to the revolution and your desire to stay by Sabo's side. But you knew you had to deal with Silas.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. The traitor had to be contained before he could cause any more harm.
With a firm step, you approached Silas's prone form. His eyes fluttered open, the same feigned innocence you had seen so many times in his interrogations. But you knew better now. You knew the darkness that lurked beneath his surface.
You grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hoisted him to his feet, his body limp and uncooperative. His smug smile faltered at the sight of your watery eyes and clenched jaw. He must have realized that his charade was over.
"You're going to tell us everything," you said through gritted teeth. "Everything about the enemy's plan, every detail you know. And if you don't, I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this headquarters."
Silas's eyes widened in genuine fear for the first time, and you felt a grim satisfaction knowing you had the upper hand. You marched him through the corridors, his feet dragging behind you as you made your way to the interrogation room.
The room was stark, the walls painted a cold, institutional gray. The only source of light was a single flickering bulb that cast eerie shadows across the floor. It was a stark contrast to the warm, inviting light of Sabo's office.
You pushed him into the room, his body collapsing into the metal chair at the center. You secured his wrists and ankles to the chair with water-based cuffs, the same ones you had used countless times to contain and question enemy combatants.
You stepped back, arms crossed over your chest, and stared him down.
"Why?" you demanded, the question echoing through the small space. "Why would you do this to us? To him?"
Silas remained silent, his smug expression slipping away to reveal something darker, something more sinister. You could feel the anger building in you, a pressure cooker threatening to blow. But you needed information, not just a confession of guilt.
You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Why, Silas?"
Silas's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, for anything that might give him leverage. But there was nothing. Only the cold, unforgiving steel of the chair and the unwavering gaze of the woman he had underestimated.
"Okay, have it your way, Karasu," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you stepped away from him. "It's your turn."
With that, you turned and strode out of the interrogation room, the door slamming shut behind you. The sound of the lock clicking into place was a harsh echo in the quiet corridor.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The scent of the antiseptic cleaner on the floor was a stark contrast to the coppery smell of blood and fear that clung to Silas.
As you walked away from the room, you felt the weight of what you had to do next. You knew that you couldn't let your emotions cloud your judgment.
The mission was more important than your personal feelings. You had to be cold, methodical, a force to be reckoned with.
The echo of the slammed door was still reverberating in your ears when you heard the first faint cry, a sound that made your blood run cold. Silas's voice, strained and desperate, was unmistakable.
Soon enough, the cries grew louder, more insistent. The sound of his pleading sliced through the air, a grim reminder of the reality of war and the sacrifices it demanded.
You knew you had to remain strong, to focus on the mission. But the screams grew more intense, and with each one, your resolve wavered.
The walls of the corridor seemed to close in around you, the cold metal pressing against your skin, a prison of your own making. You clenched your fists, willing the cries to stop, to no avail.
With a deep breath, you turned on your heel and sprinted towards the medical bay, the urgency of the situation propelling you forward. The corridor blurred as you moved, your boots echoing off the walls, a staccato rhythm that punctuated the silence.
The medical room was a stark contrast to the rest of the headquarters. The sterile white walls gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant a stark reminder of the fragility of life.
The door swished open as you approached, revealing Hack's concerned face as he bent over an unconscious Sabo, a medical scanner in his hand.
"Is he okay?" you asked, your voice a desperate whisper.
Hack looked up, his expression grim. "The antidote is working," he said, "but the dose was strong. He's going to need rest."
Sabo's eyes fluttered open, the room swimming into focus. The first thing he saw was your face, hovering above his, your eyes filled with a mix of relief and sadness.
"Love," he whispered, his voice still raw from the poison.
You leaned in, your hand lingering on his forehead, feeling the heat of his fever. "Don't talk," you murmured, "just rest."
"Missed you," Sabo slurred again, his eyes half-closed. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, vulnerable and weak, and it twisted your heart in a way that was both painful and exhilarating.
You knew the strength he had to maintain out there, the persona he had to uphold, and now, here he was, laid bare before you.
"Sabo," you whispered, your voice thick with a mix of fear and love. "You can't say things like that."
He managed a weak smile, his eyes drifting shut again. "It's the truth," he murmured. "I can't hide it anymore."
Your heart clenched at his words, the weight of your carelessness crashing down on you like a waterfall. If only you had paid more attention to Silas, if only you had trusted your instincts, he wouldn't be here now, fighting to survive.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
Sabo's hand searched for yours, his fingers feebly entwining with yours. "Love, don't cry," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to resonate through your very soul. "This isn't your fault. It's war. It's what we signed up for."
Tears spilled over your lashes and rolled down your cheeks, leaving salty trails on your skin. You didn't want to let go of his hand, didn't want to accept the reality of the situation. But you knew you had to. You had to be strong, not just for the revolution, but for him.
You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Rest," you ordered softly. "I'll handle everything."
With a nod, you turned and left the medical bay, the echo of his words lingering in the air. You couldn't afford to be weak, not now.
The corridor outside was eerily quiet, the cries from the interrogation room now just a distant memory. You took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. Silas had to be dealt with, and the revolution had to move forward.
Your boots clicked against the cold, hard floor, each step a silent promise to protect the man you had realized you loved. You knew what you had to do, and you would do it, no matter the cost.
As you approached the interrogation room, you paused, steeling yourself for the battle of wills that was about to unfold.
The door slid open at your touch, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of your emotions. Silas was still bound in the chair, his eyes wild with fear.
"You're going to tell me everything," you said, your voice firm and unwavering.
He looked up at you, a sneer twisting his features. "What makes you think I'll tell you anything?"
You leaned in, your eyes narrowing. "Because, Silas, I know your type," you said, your voice low and dangerous. "You crave power, and now that you've tasted it, you can't get enough. But you're a fool to think you can betray us and walk away unscathed."
He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that sent chills down your spine. "You think you know me?" he spat. "You know nothing. Nothing at all."
The anger bubbled up within you, hot and fierce, but you pushed it down. You had to keep your cool, had to get the information you needed. You leaned back, a small smile playing on your lips.
"Oh, but I do," you said, your voice sweet as honey. "I know that you're in love with the idea of the revolution, but you're too much of a coward to truly commit to it."
His eyes flashed with rage, but you didn't flinch. You knew you had struck a nerve, had found the weakness in his armor. "You're wrong," he hissed.
You cocked your head, your eyes gleaming. "Am I?" you asked, your voice a siren's call. "Or are you just too scared to admit it? To admit that you're nothing more than a pawn in a game you can't win?"
He struggled against his bindings, the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to argue. "You don't know anything about love," he spat. "You're all just a bunch of cold-hearted soldiers playing at affection."
You felt the sting of his words, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand trailing along the chair's arm. "Love," you murmured, the word a soft caress in the stark room. "Don't cry."
You leaned in, your breath a warm whisper against his cheek. "You see, Silas, love is what makes us strong. It's what keeps us fighting, even when the odds are stacked against us. And you," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper, "you don't know the first thing about love."
Your hand hovered over his chest, the heat of his anger almost palpable. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palm, a frantic beat that mirrored the chaos in your own chest.
"But I do," you said, your voice a gentle reassurance. "I know love, and I know that what you did to Sabo, that's not it."
With a flick of your wrist, you released the water from your hand, letting it pool around his chest, creating a cage of liquid steel. His eyes widened in shock and fear, his breaths coming in sharp gasps.
"You're going to tell me everything," you said, your voice calm, almost tender.
"Everything you know about the enemy, every move they plan to make. And if you don't," you paused, your hand tightening, the water pressing closer to his skin, "I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this headquarters."
His eyes searched yours, looking for a hint of mercy, but all he found was a steely resolve. You knew that this was it, that you had to be the one to hold the line, to protect the man you had realized you couldn't live without.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until finally, with a defeated sigh, Silas began to speak. His words spilled out in a torrent, a confession of his betrayal, of the enemy's plans to infiltrate the headquarters, of their desire to dismantle the revolution from within.
As he talked, you felt your heart rate slow, the pressure in your chest easing slightly. You had done it. You had saved Sabo, you had protected the revolution, and you had kept your promise.
But even as you felt the warmth of triumph, the cold reality of what you had just done seeped into your bones. You had used your power to coerce a confession, had played on his fear and his pain. The weight of it settled in your stomach like a leaden stone.
You stepped back, the water retreating with a soft hiss. "Thank you," you said, your voice devoid of emotion. "You've been very helpful."
Silas's eyes remained locked on yours, a silent plea for understanding, for forgiveness. But you knew you couldn't give him that. Not now, not ever.
Turning on your heel, you left the interrogation room, the door sliding shut behind you with a finality that echoed through the empty corridor. The cries had stopped, replaced by the heavy silence of the night.
As you approached the elevator, the gravity of what you had just done settled heavily on your shoulders. The thought of telling Dragon, the leader of the Revolutionary Army, about Silas's treachery and your part in it was almost too much to bear.
You took a deep breath, willing your shaking hands to still, and stepped inside the metal chamber.
The descent felt like an eternity, the walls closing in as your mind raced with the potential consequences of your actions.
When the doors opened, you were greeted by the dim glow of Dragon's office, the only source of light a single candle flickering on the desk. He looked up as you entered, his piercing gaze locking onto yours.
You could almost feel the weight of his scrutiny, the intensity of his stare cutting through the shadows.
"What is it, Y/N?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air around you.
You took a moment to compose yourself before speaking, the words thick in your mouth. "Silas," you began, "he's been working with the enemy. He tried to kill Sabo."
Dragon's expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew tense. "Go on," he prompted, his tone unyielding.
You recounted the events, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. The way Silas had taunted you, the smell of the antiseptic floor, the sound of the lock clicking into place. The memory of Sabo's weakened form, his hand reaching for yours, his whispered confession.
"And what of the traitor?" Dragon's eyes bore into yours, his voice cold, the flame of his anger barely contained.
"He's in the interrogation room," you said, your voice tight. "He confessed."
Dragon nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "And what of your involvement?"
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a boulder. "I used my powers to extract the truth," you admitted. "But it was necessary. For the revolution."
Dragon's gaze softened slightly, his understanding clear. "And how is Sabo?"
"Recovering," you whispered. "But it was close."
He nodded again, the silence stretching between you like a tightrope you were both balancing on.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Dragon said finally, his voice measured. "You did what you had to do."
You nodded, the weight of his words a balm to your tortured soul. But the question remained, hanging in the air like a specter. "What happens now?"
Dragon leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he considered your words. "Now," he said, his voice a whisper, "we must be vigilant. The enemy will not rest."
You felt a shiver run down your spine. The thought of the enemy infiltrating their ranks was a terrifying prospect, but one you were all too familiar with. You had to be ready to face whatever came next.
"We will deal with Silas accordingly," he continued, his voice a low growl. "And we will find the others."
The promise of justice was a comfort, but you couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning. The war was far from over, and the battles ahead would be fiercer, more personal.
"Dismissed," Dragon said, his gaze returning to the flickering candle.
You turned and left the room, the weight of his words and the unspoken promise in his eyes following you like a shadow. You knew that the path ahead was fraught with danger, but with Sabo by your side, you felt invincible.
The corridors felt colder as you made your way back to the medical bay, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound in the quiet night.
The lights were dimmer, the air heavier with the scent of fear and anticipation. But you were determined.
As you reached the medical bay, the door slid open, revealing Hack still at his post. He looked up, his expression a mix of relief and concern.
"How is he?" you asked, unable to keep the tremor from your voice.
"Stabilizing," he replied, his eyes flicking to the unconscious form of Silas on the gurney. "But he'll need to be monitored closely."
"Thank you, Hack," you said, the words a sigh of relief. You stepped forward, taking over the monitoring equipment with a gentle nod to the doctor. "I've got it from here."
Hack nodded, his eyes understanding as he handed you the charts. "I'll be outside if you need me."
As Hack disappeared through the sliding door, you were once again alone with the man who had become the center of your world. Sabo lay on the medical bay bed, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.
His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh, sterile lights, but his aura was as potent as ever, filling the room with the warmth of his spirit.
Slowly, you climbed into the bed beside him, needing to hear his heartbeat, to feel the reassurance of his presence. "I've missed you too," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.
Your fingertips grazed his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath the fabric of his shirt. His pulse was strong, a comforting rhythm that seemed to sync with the erratic beat of your own heart.
You curled into his side, your body fitting against his like two pieces of a puzzle that had been apart too long. His arm slid around your waist, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back, warm and possessive.
You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him—sea salt, gunpowder, and a hint of something that was uniquely, intoxicatingly Sabo.
His heartbeat was a steady thump, thump, thump beneath your ear, the rhythm of it a soothing lullaby that seemed to speak directly to your soul. You felt your own heartbeat slow to match his, the frantic pace of the day melting away into the warmth of his embrace.
For all the times he had shielded you, you were more than happy to return the favor. You had seen the way he looked at you during battles, the split second glances that said more than a thousand words ever could.
The fierce protectiveness in his eyes was something you had come to crave, to cherish, even when it scared you. Because it meant that, in this brutal world, you weren't alone.
You leaned into him, your nose buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of him was a potent cocktail of sweat, smoke, and something else—something that was unmistakably, irrevocably, him.
It was a scent that had haunted your dreams, invaded your thoughts during the loneliest nights of the revolution.
Sabo's hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still. His breathing grew deeper, his chest rising and falling against your side.
You felt his eyes on you, heavy with meaning, and you knew he was fighting the same battle you were—the urge to ignore the war outside and lose yourself in each other.
You turned to face him, your eyes searching his for any hint of regret or doubt. But what you saw was unbridled passion, a yearning that matched your own. It was a heady feeling, intoxicating and overwhelming.
You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips, feeling the stubble rasp against your skin. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed.
"I don't know if this is the right time," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. "The revolution, the war, it's all so… intense."
Sabo's eyes searched yours, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "Life is intense," he murmured, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. "But moments like these, moments of connection, of love, they're what make it all worth fighting for."
You felt your resolve slipping, the dam you had built around your heart crumbling piece by piece. You had yearned for this, for his touch, for the validation of his feelings, for so long.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and brushed his lips against yours. It was a gentle kiss, tentative at first, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he pushed too hard.
But you were real, solid, and you were not going anywhere. . . .
Summary: You don't want to be just Aj's best friend, you want to be something more.
Song: House Of Balloons / Glass Table Girls · The Weeknd
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.8k
The echoing clang of the university gates closing behind you felt like a jailbreak. You sucked in a lungful of the crisp autumn air, the scent of dying leaves and freedom a heady mix. Beside you, AJ mirrored your expression, a wide grin splitting his face.
"Well," he said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, "that was… underwhelming."
Underwhelming was an understatement. You'd both envisioned university as a grand adventure, a portal to a world of knowledge, independence, and self-discovery.
Instead, you found yourselves drowning in a sea of dry lectures, forced social interactions, and the unsettling realization that conforming to a rigid structure wasn't for either of you.
"Underwhelming? I'd call it soul-crushing," you replied, kicking a stray pebble down the pavement. "I swear, Professor Davies looked like he hadn't cracked a smile since the Cretaceous period."
AJ chuckled, a warm, infectious sound that always managed to lift your spirits. "He probably hasn't. Geology. Dinosaurs. Makes sense."
You'd met that morning, a chaotic collision of limbs and dropped textbooks in the crowded registration hall. His disarming smile and quick apology had instantly put you at ease.
You'd both confessed your growing dread as the orientation speeches droned on, and by lunchtime, you were hatching an escape plan.
"So," AJ said, breaking the silence, "Now what?"
You shrugged, a feeling of exhilaration bubbling inside you. "Anything's better than another lecture on the socio-economic impact of 18th-century pottery."
"Agreed. Pizza?"
Pizza turned into an impromptu brainstorming session at a local park. You sprawled on the grass, the discarded university pamphlets forming a makeshift picnic blanket. AJ, animated and full of energy, tossed ideas around like confetti. Musician? Writer? Chef? None of them felt quite right.
"What about you?" he asked, turning his bright eyes to you. "What do you actually want to do?"
You hesitated. Admitting your secret aspirations felt vulnerable, especially to someone you'd only known for a few hours. But there was something about AJ, an openness, a genuine interest, that made you feel safe.
"I… I've always wanted to model," you confessed, tracing patterns in the grass. "But it feels so… frivolous, doesn't it? Especially after spending all morning listening about climate change."
AJ sat up straight, his eyes widening. "Frivolous? Are you kidding me? You're stunning! Seriously. You could totally do it."
His unwavering belief, his complete lack of cynicism, was infectious. You spent the rest of the afternoon building up the courage to take the leap.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you had a plan. He'd start a YouTube channel, something funny and relatable, and you’d start compiling a modelling portfolio.
That was the beginning. You and AJ, two kindred spirits who'd stumbled upon each other and opted for the road less travelled. You'd spent the next few years navigating the unpredictable terrain of your chosen paths, always there for each other as unwavering pillars of support.
AJ's YouTube channel, initially a solo venture, gradually morphed into something bigger. He started collaborating with other creators, forming a collective that eventually became Beta Squad.
Their goofy challenges, witty banter, and genuine camaraderie resonated with millions. You watched his star rise with a mixture of pride and disbelief. He was still the same AJ you knew, but now, he was AJ Shabeel, a bonafide internet sensation.
Your own journey was a whirlwind of castings, rejections, and the occasional triumph. You landed a few small campaigns, built your portfolio, and slowly started making a name for yourself.
The industry was cutthroat, filled with unrealistic expectations and relentless pressure, but you persevered, driven by the same determination that led you to walk out of that university on the first day.
Through it all, AJ was your constant. Late-night phone calls dissecting disastrous auditions, celebratory dinners after landing a big gig, pep talks when self-doubt threatened to consume you. He was your confidant, your cheerleader, your best friend.
He was also, unbeknownst to him, the silent anchor of your heart.
You'd carefully compartmentalized your feelings, tucking them away in a hidden corner of your mind. The fear of jeopardizing your friendship, the comfort of the familiar, had always outweighed the longing for something more. But lately, the walls you'd so meticulously built were starting to crumble.
Seeing him on screen, laughing with the other Beta Squad members, signing autographs for adoring fans, stirred something deep within you.
It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. It was more like a quiet ache, a yearning to be the one who made him laugh like that, the one he looked at with such genuine affection.
The realization had hit you hard a few weeks ago, a tidal wave of emotion that left you breathless. You were in love with your best friend.
It wasn't just his rugged good looks or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, it was the way he listened, really listened, to your fears and aspirations.
The gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder during a particularly tough day, the way his voice could soothe your anxieties, the warmth of his embrace that never failed to make you feel safe.
It was the way he looked at you, not as a model or a muse, but as a person, a soulmate, a partner in crime.
But you'd convinced yourself that it was a one-sided affair, that AJ saw you as nothing more than a friend.
Until tonight.
The party was a blur of flashing lights and pounding music, a cacophony of laughter and the clink of glasses.
You'd had one too many, your thoughts swirling like the colors of the disco ball above your head. You'd stumbled into a quiet corner, seeking refuge from the chaos, when you felt a hand on your elbow.
"You okay?" AJ's voice was a lifeline in the storm, grounding you.
You nodded, leaning heavily against the wall. "Just tired," you murmured.
His gaze searched yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your bare skin. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
The words were out before you could stop them. "I do talk to you," you whispered, "but I don't know if you're listening to what I'm not saying."
The music seemed to fade into the background as AJ's hand stilled. His eyes searched yours, a question hanging in the air, unspoken. You felt your heart racing, the heat of his body against yours, the anticipation thick like the scent of your combined perfumes.
He leaned closer, his breath a warm gust against your ear. "What aren't you telling me?"
Your breath hitched, your body responding to his proximity with an ache that was impossible to ignore. "I'm in love with you, AJ."
The confession hung between you, a tangible thing, crackling with electricity. His hand tightened around your elbow, his eyes widening.
You braced for rejection, for the friendship to shatter into a million unfixable pieces.
Instead, he stepped closer, his free hand cradling your face. "You're my best friend," he said, his voice hoarse, "and I've been waiting for you to say that for so long."
The world stopped as he kissed you. It was nothing like the chaste pecks you'd shared as friends. This was a declaration of passion, a promise of forever.
His lips were firm, demanding, yet tender. The kiss was a symphony of sensations, a crescendo of desire that left you trembling.
As your lips parted, his eyes searched yours for permission, for confirmation that this was what you wanted. You nodded, unable to form coherent words, and he claimed your mouth again.
The taste of him was intoxicating, a blend of the whiskey from the party and the sweetness that was uniquely AJ.
The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as his hand slipped from your elbow to the small of your back, pulling you into his embrace. You felt the firmness of his body, the thump of his heart against your chest.
His breath hitched in your ear as he pulled away, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrored your own.
"I... I can't believe this is happening," he whispered, tracing the curve of your jaw with his thumb. "I thought I was going to have to carry this unspoken feeling forever."
A laugh bubbled up from your chest, a mixture of relief and disbelief. "So, you... you feel the same?"
He nodded, his gaze intense. "More than you know. I've been terrified of ruining everything, of scaring you away. But tonight..." he hesitated, his eyes flicking downwards before meeting yours again. "Tonight, I couldn't stand it anymore."
With a gentle touch, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering on the soft skin of your cheek. The warmth of his hand sent shivers down your spine, igniting a trail of fire that coiled in your belly.
He led you to the edge of the dance floor, where the music was a muffled rhythm that echoed through your bodies. The lights were dimmer here, casting shadows that danced on your skin as you moved closer to him.
"Good," you muttered into the crook of his neck, the word a sigh of relief that seemed to resonate through his entire being. His hands slid down your back, cupping your waist. The knowledge that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him was a heady aphrodisiac.
Your own hands found his shoulders, tracing the contours of his muscles through his shirt.
The fabric was damp with the heat of his skin, and the scent of him—that delicious mix of sweat, cologne, and the faint smokiness of his hair—filled your senses.
AJ's mouth moved from your lips, trailing kisses along your jaw, down your neck. Each brush of his lips sent a pulse of pleasure through you, and you felt your knees threaten to buckle.
"We've wasted so much time," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
Your pulse quickened, and you leaned into him, the heat between you becoming palpable. "We don't have to waste any more," you whispered.
But AJ's arms tightened around you, and he pulled back slightly. "Let's wait until you're sober," he muttered, his voice a soft rumble in your ear. "I want to make sure you know what you're doing, that this isn't just the alcohol talking."
You blinked, the fog of desire and confusion clouding your thoughts for a moment.
But his words cut through the haze, and you nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. It was the responsible, caring thing to do, even though every part of you screamed for more.
AJ's arms loosened slightly, his thumb stroking your cheek in a comforting gesture. "I know this is new for you, and I don't want to rush you," he said, his voice a soothing balm to your racing heart. "But when you're ready, when you're sure, I'll be here."
You leaned into his touch, the tenderness of his words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. "Thank you," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the music.
The understanding in his eyes washed over you like a cool wave, easing the tension that had coiled around your heart.
AJ kissed you once more, a soft, lingering press of his lips to yours, sealing the unspoken promise that hung in the air. "Let's get you home," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate in your very soul.
The drive home was a blur of city lights and the sound of your own racing heart. Each gear shift, each turn of the steering wheel, was a reminder that your life had just taken a sharp detour down a road you never knew existed.
His hand rested on the gearstick, the muscles in his forearm flexing and releasing in a hypnotic rhythm. You watched, your eyes drawn to the stark contrast of his skin against the leather.
The car stopped in front of your apartment, and the sudden silence was deafening.
You turned to him, the gravity of the moment pressing down on you like a heavy weight. The interior lights cast a soft glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw and the dark pools of his eyes.
He reached out, his thumb tracing the plumpness of your lower lip. The touch was feather-light, sending a tremor of anticipation through your body.
"I've dreamed about this," he said, his voice a low, sensual rumble. "But not like this. I never wanted your first time to be because of a dare, or because you're tipsy."
You reached up to cover his hand with yours, the warmth of his skin searing into your palm. "It's not because of the dare," you assured him, your voice a whisper. "It's because of you."
His gaze searched yours, looking for the truth in your words. After a moment, a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Okay," he murmured, the sound sending a delicious shiver down your spine. "But we're still taking it slow."
The walk to your apartment was fraught with tension, the kind that crackled in the air and made the hairs on your arms stand on end.
Each step you took brought you closer to the reality of what could happen, what you both wanted. The door closed behind you with a soft snick, and suddenly, the world outside ceased to exist.
AJ took your hand, his touch gentle but firm as he guided you down the hallway. Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat echoing through your veins like a drum.
The floorboards creaked softly underfoot, a reminder of the intimacy of the moment. The only light came from the sliver of moon peeking through the bedroom curtains, casting a silver glow across your bed.
He helped you to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. Each movement was deliberate, a silent question that you answered with a nod, a blush, a deepening of your breath.
The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, and the coolness of the sheets was a stark contrast to the heat building between you.
His hands hovered over your shoulders, unsure if he should proceed. You reached up and pulled his face down to yours, kissing him with a hunger that surprised even you. The kiss grew deeper, more demanding, until the need for air became a distant concern.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathless.
"Will you stay over tonight?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could second guess yourself.
AJ's eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. He took a deep, unsteady breath, the silence between you stretching taut as a bowstring.
"I… I can't," he murmured, the disappointment in his voice a dagger to your heart. "But not because I don't want to. I just don't think it's a good idea, not like this."
You nodded, trying to ignore the pang of rejection. You knew he was right; this wasn't the way you wanted it either. But the ache in your body was a persistent throb, a yearning that hadn't been satiated by the kiss.
AJ stood, his movements deliberate as he stepped back, putting space between you. You felt the chill of his absence like a cold shower. "But I want to," he continued, his voice thick with desire. "More than anything, I want to stay and explore this with you."
You swallowed, the air in the room suddenly too thick to breathe. "Then why can't you?" you managed to ask.
"Because," AJ said, his voice tight, "I want to do this right. I want to show you everything you deserve, not just because we're caught up in the moment."
His gaze held yours, unwavering. "I want to be the one who takes you to new heights, who makes you feel like the only person in the world. And I can't do that if you're not entirely sure."
You sat there, the fabric of your dress sticking to your skin as the heat of his words washed over you. The ache in your chest grew, a potent blend of desire and frustration. "But what if I am sure?"
AJ took a step closer, his eyes dark and intense. "Call me tomorrow," he said, his voice a velvet demand. "If you still feel this way when you're sober, when you've had time to think, then tell me the same thing."
Your stomach flipped at the challenge. The idea of waiting, of being unsure if this was just a drunken confession or the truth you've been too afraid to speak, was exhilarating. You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.
He leaned in, his breath a whisper against your cheek. "And when you do," he murmured, "make sure you mean it."
With that, he turned and walked away, the door clicking shut behind him. You remained on the bed, the warmth of his words a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of the room.
The moonlight played across your skin, illuminating the goosebumps that had risen in the wake of his touch. Your body hummed with need, your mind racing with the possibilities of what tomorrow could bring. . . .
Summary: Oscar has a biting kink and is ashamed of it while you are obsessed with it
Song: My Love · Justin Timberlake
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 18+ ONLY! 🤭🫶
Word count: 3.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Stop looking at me like I’m a piece of fruit you’re trying to decide whether to buy," Oscar muttered, though he didn't move his shoulder away from your reach.
He was still in his team kit, the fire-retardant fabric stiff and smelling of ozone and spent rubber, a sharp contrast to the sterile, chilled air of the motorhome.
He kept his gaze fixed on the telemetry data on the screen, but the slight tremor in his jaw gave him away; he was vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with the qualifying lap he’d just nailed.
"I'm not looking at you like fruit, Oscar," you replied, your voice dropping an octave, trailing a finger along the sensitive line where his neck met his collarbone. "I'm looking at you like someone who knows exactly what you're suppressing."
He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, a sound that was half-sigh and half-groan. "It's animalistic," he whispered, finally turning to face you, his eyes dark and clouded with a guilt that only served to make the air between you thicker. "It's not… it's not polished. It's not how I'm supposed to be."
"Who decided you had to be polished in this room?" You didn't wait for an answer, sliding your hand up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down until his breath hitched against your skin.
You could feel the heat radiating off him, a feverish intensity that broke through his carefully curated composure. When his lips finally brushed yours, it wasn't a kiss—it was a reconnaissance mission, hesitant and searching, until you tilted your head, exposing the pale, vulnerable stretch of your throat as a silent invitation.
The shift was instantaneous; the restraint snapped with an audible sharpness. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed a territory, his teeth grazing the junction of your shoulder and neck with a predatory precision that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pelvis.
You gasped, your fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as he sank his teeth in—not enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a deep, blooming ache.
The sensation was a bruising pressure, a rhythmic pulsing of heat that radiated outward, leaving a searing map of ownership across your skin that would take days to fade.
"Is this what you're afraid of?" you managed to choke out, your voice trembling under the weight of his intensity. "That you're not… polished enough?"
You tilted your head further back, offering him more space, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Because I don't want polished, Oscar. I want the parts of you that you try to hide from the cameras."
He let out a sound that was less a word and more a guttural vibration, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat of suffocating silence.
"It feels like losing control," he admitted, his voice rough, stripped of its usual composure. "Once I start, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be gentle when the only thing I can think about is how much you're shaking for me."
He didn't move away, but instead shifted his weight, his thigh brushing against yours with a slow, deliberate friction that made your breath hitch. He began to trace the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb, the pressure barely there, a ghost of a touch that felt like a live wire sparking against your skin.
Every millimeter of contact felt amplified, the static electricity between you humming louder than the distant roar of the idling engines outside the motorhome.
His fingertips dipped lower, grazing the hollow of your throat where your pulse was hammering a frantic rhythm, his touch hesitant, almost questioning, as if he were waiting for you to recoil from the hunger he couldn't quite mask.
The tension snapped when he finally lunged, not for your lips, but for the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder. This time, there was no hesitation; he sank his teeth in with a focused, deliberate intensity that elicited a sharp, involuntary cry from your lungs.
The sting was immediate and electric, a searing point of contact that bloomed into a deep, thrumming heat.
He sucked the skin upward, the pressure creating a vacuum that pulled the blood to the surface, marking you in a way that was visceral and undeniable, a bruised signature of his hidden nature.
You arched into him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms, pulling him flush against you until there wasn't a sliver of air left between your bodies.
The smell of him—salt, adrenaline, and a hint of expensive cologne—filled your senses, dizzying and intoxicating. As he moved to the other side of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin with a predatory precision, you felt the low growl vibrating in his chest, a sound of surrender to the very instinct he had spent his entire career suppressing.
He paused, his lips hovering just millimeters from a fresh patch of skin, and for a heartbeat, the silence in the motorhome became a physical weight.
He didn't commit; instead, he let his hot breath ghost over the surface, a teasing torture that made your skin prickle and your core ache with a demanding void.
His hand slid from your neck down to the small of your back, his palm pressing firm and heavy, anchoring you to him while the anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, a spring wound too far, waiting for the slightest trigger to snap.
The friction of his team kit against your thighs was a coarse reminder of where you were, a stark contrast to the wet, sliding heat where his mouth finally clamped down again.
He didn't just bite this time; he lingered, swirling his tongue around the mark he'd made, tasting the salt of your skin before pulling back with a sharp, sudden nip that elicited a strangled gasp from your throat.
It was a calculated rhythm of pain and pleasure, a silent dialogue of hunger that bypassed words entirely, leaving only the visceral evidence of his desperation.
"You're shaking," he whispered, the words vibrating against your collarbone, his voice now a dark, honeyed rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers splaying across your hip to pull you tighter against the hard line of his body, ensuring you felt every erratic beat of his heart.
The control he prized so highly was fraying at the edges, replaced by a raw, urgent need to leave a map of his desire across your skin, one bruising mark at a time.
He didn't go back to your neck immediately; instead, he began a slow, agonizing descent, his fingertips tracing the ribs beneath your shirt with a lightness that felt like a dare.
It was a sensory contradiction—the heavy, possessive weight of his body pinning you back against the cold wall of the motorhome, while his touch remained teasingly tentative, barely grazing the surface.
The friction of his calloused fingertips against your skin sent tremors through your thighs, a starving kind of tension that made you want to scream for him to either stop or shatter you completely.
You reached for him, your palms sliding over the slick, fire-retardant material of his sleeves, trying to find purchase, to pull him back into the violence of the moment.
When your fingers finally locked behind his neck, pulling his face back up to yours, you caught the flash of something primal in his gaze—a hunger that was stripped of all apology.
He didn't kiss you; he simply leaned in until his nose brushed yours, his breath mingling with your own in short, jagged bursts, the air between your lips charged with a static that felt thick enough to taste.
The silence was punctured by the distant, metallic clatter of a tool trolley in the paddock, a sudden reminder of the world outside their sterile sanctuary. Oscar flinched, the sound momentarily snapping him back to the persona of the poised athlete, but the instinct won.
With a low, guttural sound, he bypassed your lips entirely and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his teeth finding a fresh, unmarked stretch of skin.
He clamped down hard, a sudden, sharp pressure that forced a broken moan from your throat, the pain blossoming instantly into a searing, concentrated heat that radiated down your spine.
"Does it make you feel like you're losing it?" you gasped, your voice a fractured wreck of its former self. You tilted your head back, offering him a wider canvas, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the wet, heavy suction of his mouth claiming the mark. "Does it make you feel like you're finally not in control, Oscar?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless pits of hunger. "I hate how much I like the way you look when I do it," he admitted, the words barely audible, stripped of any pretense. "The way your breath hitches, the way you stop thinking… it's the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet."
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, arching you into him with a force that knocked the remaining air from your lungs.
The coarse fabric of his racing suit scraped against your skin, a tactile friction that served only to heighten the sensitivity of every nerve ending. He didn't wait for a response; he simply lunged forward again, his teeth grazing the underside of your jaw with a slow, deliberate precision that promised a slow descent into a very beautiful, very bruised kind of chaos.
As he shifted his weight to anchor you more firmly against the wall, the heavy muscle of his inner thigh drove upward, his legs pressing against your pussy with a blunt, insistent pressure.
The heat of him soaked through the layers of fabric, a searing weight that mirrored the pulsing throb between your legs. Every time he breathed, every time he shifted to find a new patch of skin to claim, that relentless pressure ground deeper, creating a friction that felt like a slow-burning fuse leading straight to your core.
The sensation was an anchor, grounding the dizzying vertigo of his bites with a visceral, physical demand. You could feel the hard line of him, the sheer strength of his legs pinning you in place, making it impossible to retreat even if you wanted to.
It was a territorial claim of a different sort—not the visible marks he was leaving on your neck, but a hidden, crushing intimacy that left you breathless.
You let out a strangled sound, half-sob and half-sigh, as you wrapped your own legs around his waist, pulling that heavy pressure closer, desperate to collapse the final sliver of space between you.
Oscar paused, his lips hovering just above a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone, his chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the tremor in his thigh, the way the muscle jumped against your heat, betraying the fragility of his remaining composure.
The silence of the motorhome felt heavy, saturated with the scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of desire, as he waited for the exact moment your resistance would snap and you would beg for the very thing he was too ashamed to name.
"You're not even trying to stop me," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to echo inside your own chest. The admission was stripped of his usual calculated poise, replaced by a raw curiosity that made his teeth graze the surface of your skin once more, a teasing promise of a deeper pressure.
"Most people would tell me I'm being too much. They'd tell me to dial it back, to be careful with the skin."
"Who is 'most people'?" you countered, your voice a strained, breathless wreck as you arched your back, practically shoving your throat into the path of his hunger. "I'm not most people, Oscar. I'm the person who wants to wake up tomorrow and see exactly where you’ve been, in a way that no amount of concealer can hide."
You felt him shudder against you, a sudden, violent ripple of surrender that made him growl, the sound vibrating through your ribs. "Do it again," you whispered, "and don't you dare be gentle about it."
The command acted like a trigger, snapping the last thread of his restraint. He lunged forward, his teeth sinking into the juncture of your shoulder with a sudden, bruising force that made your vision blur and your toes curl against the backs of his calves.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a claim, a sharp, focused point of intensity that sent a cascade of white-hot sparks radiating down your spine and pooling in the heavy ache of your pelvis. T
he sensation was visceral and grounding, a rhythmic thrum of pressure and release that left you gasping, your fingers locking into the muscles of his shoulders as he began to systematically map the territory of your skin with a desperate, starving hunger.
As he shifted his focus, his mouth sliding toward the sensitive dip of your collarbone, a low, fractured sound escaped you—a moan that started in the depths of your belly and tore through your throat, raw and unplanned.
It wasn't a soft sound; it was a jagged, guttural admission of how much you craved the violence of his touch. The vibration of it seemed to electrify him, causing his grip on your hips to tighten until his knuckles went white, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches that mirrored the frantic cadence of your own heart.
He answered that sound with one of his own, a deep, resonant vibration that felt less like a voice and more like a physical weight pressing against your chest. It was a sound of absolute surrender, the noise of a man who had stopped fighting the animal inside him and had finally decided to let it lead.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, the friction of his stubble scraping against your skin, and let out a shuddering, half-smothered sound that vibrated through your entire frame, a sonic reflection of the bruising pressure he was applying to your skin.
His hand slid lower, the rough material of his racing suit scraping against the silk of your underwear as he pressed you harder into the wall, his thigh now a relentless, grinding force against your center.
The contrast was dizzying—the cold, sterile air of the motorhome biting at your exposed skin and the searing, concentrated heat of Oscar’s mouth wherever he chose to land.
He began to suck a long, slow line from your jaw down to the valley of your chest, his teeth grazing the surface just enough to leave a stinging trail of anticipation, ensuring that by the time he reached the soft swell of your breast, you were trembling with a need that felt like a physical hunger.
The sudden, sharp rap of knuckles against the door shattered the silence, followed by the muffled, insistent voice of his engineer. "Oscar? You in there? We need to go over the turn-four data before the press conference, Zac is already in the briefing room."
The voice was casual, oblivious to the wreckage of composure occurring inches away, but the sound caused Oscar to freeze, his lips still clamped firmly onto the curve of your shoulder.
He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he let out a low, frustrated hiss, the sound of a man caught between two different worlds, his forehead leaning heavily against yours while his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"Just a minute!" Oscar called back, his voice a jagged, strained rasp that sounded nothing like his usual measured tone. He didn't move an inch away from you, his eyes dark and searching, his teeth still grazing the skin of your neck in a silent, stubborn refusal to let go.
"Give us two minutes!"
The engineer paused, the silence in the hallway heavy with a sudden, flickering curiosity. "Everything alright? You sound… strained. You're not having a panic attack about the tires, are you?"
You let out a stifled, shaky laugh, the sound vibrating against Oscar’s chest as you felt him tighten his grip on your hips, a silent promise that this was far from over.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ghost of a whisper that sent a fresh shiver cascading down your spine.
"He has no idea," he murmured, the words tasting of hunger and desperation, "that I’m currently trying to decide exactly how many more marks I can leave before I have to put the helmet back on."
"Then stop deciding and start doing," you breathed, your voice a fractured sliver of its usual self, your fingers digging into the fire-retardant fabric of his shoulders.
You could feel the heat of him, the sheer, concentrated intensity of his focus shifting from the door back to the pale, bruised expanse of your skin. "Let him wait. Let Zac wait. Let the whole world wait while you figure out exactly how much of me you can claim."
"You're a menace," he rasped, though the way he looked at you—pupils blown wide, eyes dark with a raw, unvarnished need—betrayed the fact that he was completely undone.
He didn't move away; instead, he shifted his weight, the heavy, hard muscle of his thigh grinding deeper into your center with a slow, deliberate friction that made your vision swim. "You want me to lose my mind in front of the telemetry screens, don't you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, his mouth crashing back into the hollow of your throat with a sudden, bruising force that stole the air from your lungs.
This wasn't the tentative exploration of a man ashamed of his urges; it was a calculated demolition of restraint, his teeth sinking in with a sharp, rhythmic precision that sent a jolt of electric heat straight to your core.
You arched into him, your heels digging into his calves, the sensation of his teeth clamping down creating a searing, focused point of pleasure that blurred the edges of the room until there was nothing left but the scent of ozone and the visceral, bruising weight of him claiming you.
He began to work his way downward, his lips leaving a trail of scorching heat across the pale expanse of your chest, each touch a deliberate mark of ownership.
Every time he pulled back, it felt like a physical loss, a sudden void that made your skin prickle with a desperate need for the pressure to return. He wasn't just kissing you; he was carving a map of his desperation into your skin, leaving deep, blooming hickeys that felt like warm embers glowing against your flesh.
The friction of his racing suit against your thighs was a coarse, grounding reminder of the ticking clock outside, yet the way he lingered on the curve of your collarbone felt like a defiance of time itself.
The engineer’s voice drifted back, more insistent now, the sound of a world demanding Oscar’s return to the polished, calculated version of himself.
But as Oscar sank his teeth into the soft dip of your shoulder one last time, he didn't pull away with the suddenness of a man caught; instead, he let the pressure linger, leaving a bruised signature that pulsed in time with your own frantic heartbeat.
He lingered in the space between the public and the private, his breath a ragged heat against your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the exact scent of your surrender before the sterile air of the paddock claimed him.
He eventually stepped back, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling exposed and shivering, though your skin was humming with a thousand electric needles.
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of his uneven breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of the paddock. He didn't look at you as he smoothed the front of his kit, his fingers trembling slightly, the ghost of his hunger still flickering in the dark intensity of his gaze.
He was leaving the room, but he was leaving something behind—a map of heat and soreness that burned through your clothes, a secret language written in purple and red across your collarbone. . . .
Summary: You've never had a boyfriend that protects you every time
Song: See You Again · Kali Uchis
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! 🤭🫶
Word count: 6.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The man’s breath smelled like stale beer and bad decisions. He leaned too close, his elbow propped against the bar beside you, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the sticky wood.
"C’mon, love, just one drink," he slurred, grinning like he’d already won something. You forced a smile, gripping your untouched glass tighter. "I’m good, thanks."
Across the room, the crowd pulsed with laughter and music, but your attention snagged on the way his gaze kept sliding down your shirt. You shifted sideways on the stool, but he mirrored you, undeterred.
"You don’t gotta be like that," he said, louder now, like volume might make you reconsider. The bartender glanced over, then away—purposefully uninterested.
You were about to slide off the stool and bolt when a warm hand settled on your lower back.
The drunk guy’s grin faltered as Oscar materialized beside you, his voice calm but edged with something unyielding. "She said no, mate."
The drunk blinked, swaying slightly as he processed Oscar’s presence—tall, steady, and decidedly not drunk. "Who’re you?" he muttered, squinting.
The drunk guy’s grin widened, revealing a chipped tooth as he leaned even closer, his breath hot against your cheek. "Looks like your boyfriend’s got a problem with me," he said, jerking his chin toward Oscar.
His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it—Oscar’s presence was a wall he couldn’t quite scale. You swallowed, your pulse thudding in your throat.
"It’s not a problem," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "Just leave it."
Oscar’s hand stayed firm on your back, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc over your spine. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t puff up—just leveled the guy with a look that said try me.
The drunk hesitated, glancing between you two, then huffed a laugh. "Yeah, whatever," he muttered, pushing off the bar with a wobble. "Didn’t know she was yours."
Oscar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he guided you away with a gentle nudge, steering you toward a quieter corner near the pool tables.
The neon lights overhead flickered, casting his profile in sharp relief—all focused intensity, like he was still cataloging threats even now. "You okay?" he asked, fingers brushing your wrist.
You nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Just… hate that yours shit."
Oscar’s grip loosened, his fingers sliding down to intertwine with yours. The noise of the bar faded into a dull hum as he tugged you closer, his other hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Like you’re a fucking trophy.” His thumb swept over your knuckles, a silent apology for the guy’s words, even though they weren’t his fault.
You leaned into him, the solid warmth of his chest a welcome anchor. The drunk had already stumbled off toward the bathrooms, but the tension still coiled in your shoulders.
Oscar noticed—he always did—and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Want to get out of here?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew the answer.
You nodded, and he didn’t hesitate, dropping a few bills on the bar before guiding you toward the exit. The night air was sharp with the scent of rain-soaked pavement, a relief after the stifling heat inside.
Oscar’s arm settled around your waist as you walked, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your hip—some racing cadence he’d picked up from hours in the simulator.
“You know,” you said after a quiet stretch, “you didn’t have to do that.” You nudged his side, teasing. “I could’ve handled him.”
Oscar snorted, shaking his head as he pulled you a little tighter against him. “Yeah, I know you could’ve,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “But why should you have to?”
He glanced down at you, eyebrows raised like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, I like pissing off guys who think they’re entitled to your time.”
You laughed, the sound carrying down the empty street. “Oh, so it was selfish, then?”
“Totally,” he deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “My evil plan all along.”
The streetlights flickered above you, casting long shadows as you walked. Oscar’s thumb traced idle circles on your hip, his touch warm even through the fabric of your jeans. You leaned into him, savoring the quiet after the noise of the bar.
“Where are we going?” you asked, though you didn’t really care—anywhere with him was better than that sticky countertop and the weight of some stranger’s gaze.
Oscar tilted his head toward a neon sign glowing faintly at the end of the block—a tiny 24-hour diner you’d never noticed before, its windows fogged with condensation.
“Hungry?” he asked, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist suggested he already knew the answer.
You nodded, and he grinned, quick and bright like he’d won something.
The sharp scent of hot tarmac mingled with exhaust fumes as you blinked against the midday glare. Your fingers cramped around another Sharpie, autographing a cap thrust toward you by a sweating teenager in team merch.
The crowd pressed closer, voices overlapping—requests, compliments, questions about Oscar—until they blurred into a single buzzing hum in your skull.
Someone’s elbow jabbed your ribs as they leaned in for a selfie. Your smile felt like it was cracking at the edges.
The Sharpie slipped from your grip, clattering against the concrete as you tried to steady yourself against the wave of dizziness. Too many bodies, too many voices—your vision blurred at the edges like a photograph left out in the rain.
Another cap was shoved into your hands, the brim damp with someone’s nervous sweat. You scribbled something—your name? Oscar’s?—before the pen died mid-stroke.
The pen's death was a small mercy—your fingers had begun shaking too much to keep up the pretense of enthusiasm anyway. Someone in the crowd shouted Oscar's name like a demand, and the sound ricocheted against your skull.
You pressed your lips together, willing your knees not to buckle as the sea of faces swayed in your vision. A bead of sweat trickled down your spine beneath your blouse.
The cap slipped from your hands—your grip suddenly useless—and you watched it tumble in slow motion toward the pavement. A dozen voices surged louder, fingers snatching at it mid-fall like vultures diving for scraps.
Your breath hitched, throat tight as the crowd's heat pressed in from all sides. Someone's phone grazed your cheek, screen blindingly bright as they angled for a shot.
Your vision tunneled—just the blur of outstretched hands, the glare of phone screens, the suffocating press of bodies. Someone’s perfume choked the air, thick and cloying.
The Sharpie was gone. The cap was gone. Your breath came in shallow gasps, ribs aching like they were wrapped in steel bands.
The pavement tilted under your feet—just slightly, like the deck of a ship in gentle swells—and you curled your toes inside your shoes as if that could anchor you.
Someone’s voice cut through the din, sharp with excitement: "Oi, mate, get McLaren’s girl to sign this!" A wrinkled race flag was thrust toward you, the fabric brushing your wrist.
Your signature would’ve been a shaky mess even if your fingers weren’t numb.
Then, like a current shifting, the crowd parted. A familiar shape shouldered through—broad shoulders cutting through bodies with the same precision Oscar used to carve through S-curves.
His hand closed around your elbow, warm and sure, before you could sway again.
"Alright, enough," he said, not loud, but with that quiet firmness that made people step back. The crowd’s noise dimmed by half, as if someone had turned a dial.
Oscar didn’t tug you away—just slid his grip down to your hand, lacing his fingers with yours like he was slotting a battery into place. Solid. Simple. His thumb brushed your knuckles once, a silent breathe.
The remaining Sharpie was plucked from your limp fingers by a grinning team PR guy who materialized out of nowhere.
"We’ll handle the rest, yeah?" he said, already herding fans toward a table stacked with merch.
You expected Oscar to steer you toward the hospitality suite—air-conditioned, quiet, safe—but instead he ducked into the narrow gap between two haulers, pulling you into the shadowed alley of stacked tires and coiled cables.
The sudden silence was dizzying. His hands framed your face, calloused thumbs catching the dampness under your eyes you hadn’t realized was there.
"Hey," he murmured, forehead nearly touching yours. "Still with me?"
You nodded against Oscar’s palms, but your breath still came in uneven hitches, the adrenaline making your ribs feel too tight. The rough texture of his thumbs grounding you more than the cold metal of the haulers at your back.
"I’m here," you managed, voice thinner than you wanted. The distant roar of engines from the track vibrated through the pavement, a steady counterpoint to the static still buzzing in your skull.
Oscar exhaled through his nose, a sound you recognized—the same one he made when his engineer suggested a questionable strategy over the radio. His hands slid down to your shoulders, squeezing gently.
"You were signing for forty minutes straight," he said, like it was a fact, not an accusation. "Even I tap out after twenty."
The corner of his mouth twitched, that almost-smile he reserved for moments when he was trying not to fuss.
A laugh punched out of you, shaky but real. "You’re not supposed to admit that," you murmured, curling your fingers into the fabric of his team shirt.
The familiar scent of his detergent—something citrus and sharp—cut through the lingering haze of sweat and petrol.
"Too bad." His fingers traced the tense line of your spine, slow and deliberate.
Oscar’s fingers didn’t leave your spine—just pressed a little firmer, grounding you in the way only he could, like he was recalibrating your center of gravity.
“Next time,” he murmured, “you tap my shoulder. Just once. Doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m talking to.” His voice was low, the kind of quiet that curled around you in the dark before a race when he’d tell you about his first kart. “I’ll notice.”
You swallowed, the tightness in your throat easing as his thumb traced the hinge of your jaw. The noise from the paddock was muffled here, just the occasional burst of laughter or rev of an engine, but you could still feel the residual buzz in your fingertips, the phantom weight of a hundred Sharpies.
“You’d really abandon a sponsor mid-sentence for me?” you teased, but your fingers tightened in his shirt anyway.
He didn’t smile. “Try me.”
The words landed somewhere under your ribs, warm and certain.
You believed him—not just because of the way his hands steadied you now, but because you’d seen it before: the way he’d cut interviews short when your texts went unanswered for too long, how he’d materialize at your side during paddock chaos like he had some internal radar tuned to your pulse.
"No, seriously—what does he even see in you?" Your cousin Liam grinned over his beer, elbowing your brother, who snorted into his plate. "I mean, no offense, but Oscar Piastri could date literally anyone. And he picks… this." He gestured vaguely at you with a chicken wing, grease dripping onto the tablecloth.
You rolled your eyes, stabbing at your salad with more force than necessary. "Wow, thanks. Real nice family bonding moment."
"It's just charity work at this point," your brother added, wiping his mouth. "Him dating you is basically community service." The table erupted into laughter, forks clinking against plates like a shitty applause track.
The chicken wing grease had barely dried before Liam leaned in again, his smirk widening. “Seriously though—how much did you pay him to show up to family dinners? Or is he just really into pity projects?”
Your brother snorted so hard he nearly choked on his mashed potatoes, thumping his own chest while the rest of the table dissolved into another round of laughter.
You gripped your fork tighter, knuckles whitening, but kept your mouth shut. Defending yourself never worked—they’d just twist it into another joke.
“Bet he’s got a spreadsheet tracking how many times he’s had to pretend to laugh at your jokes,” your brother wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Column A: Painful Silence. Column B: Fake Smile.”
The table erupted again, Aunt Carol nearly spitting out her wine. You focused on the way the lettuce in your bowl had gone slightly limp, the dressing pooling at the bottom like a sad little pond.
The back of your throat burned like you'd swallowed a lit match, but you clenched your jaw tighter, refusing to let them see the sting.
The dining room blurred at the edges—your vision going watery despite your best efforts—and you stared harder at the sad little pond of dressing in your salad bowl, willing yourself not to blink. If you blinked, the tears would fall. If they fell, they'd win.
Your fork trembled against the plate, a tiny, betraying clink. You could feel Oscar's knee pressing against yours under the table, steady and warm, but even that wasn't enough to stop the hot prickle behind your eyelids.
God, you hated this. Hated how they could reduce you to this—a joke, a charity case, something to poke at until you folded. You hated it more because part of you wondered if they were right.
The sound of the front door opening cut through the laughter like a blade. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him—the shift in the air, the way your family’s voices stuttered mid-chuckle, the sudden scrape of chairs adjusting.
Oscar’s footsteps were quiet, but the silence they left in their wake was deafening.
You stood so fast your napkin fluttered to the floor. The chair legs screeched against hardwood, a sound so harsh it made your brother wince.
You didn’t look at Oscar—couldn’t, not with your eyes this close to spilling over—just strode past him toward the hallway, the kitchen, anywhere but here.
Your shoulder brushed his arm as you passed, and the contact burned. Not because you wanted to pull away, but because you wanted to collapse into him, and that was worse.
The laughter had died, replaced by the clinking of silverware and someone clearing their throat.
You barely made it three steps down the hallway before Oscar’s fingers closed around your wrist—not tight, not demanding, just there. Like an anchor.
The contact was warm, almost electric against your skin, and for a stupid second, you considered shaking him off just to prove you could. But then his thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitched.
“Hey,” he murmured, so soft it was almost swallowed by the hum of the fridge in the kitchen ahead. You didn’t turn around, but you didn’t pull away either.
His grip shifted, fingers sliding down to lace through yours, squeezing gently. “Look at me.”
You swallowed hard, staring at the smudged fingerprint on the door handle instead. “I’m fine.” The words came out brittle, cracked at the edges like old pavement.
Oscar sighed, stepping closer until his chest brushed your shoulder. “You’re shaking.”
“Am not.” But you were—your fingers trembled against his, your breath coming too fast. The hallway light flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that made the walls feel like they were closing in.
He didn’t argue. Just tugged you gently backward, turning you toward him. When you finally looked up, his expression wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even anger. It was something far worse—understanding.
Like he knew exactly how much it hurt, and it pissed him off. “They’re idiots,” he said simply, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.
A laugh punched out of you, raw and unexpected. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t make it less true.”
His jaw tightened. “What part? The part where they think I’m dating you out of charity?” The corner of his mouth twitched, something sharp glinting in his eyes. “Or the part where they think I’m capable of faking a damn thing around you?”
You blinked. That wasn’t the response you’d braced for.
Before you could reply, Oscar stepped closer, crowding you against the hallway wall—not trapping you, just… grounding.
His free hand came up to cradle your face, fingers warm against your cheek. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that shit.” His voice was low, rougher than usual.
You swallowed. “I don’t—”
“Try again.”
The words tangled in your throat. It wasn’t that you believed them—not fully—but after years of hearing the same jokes, the same digs, some part of you had started carving out space for the possibility.
Like a splinter working its way deeper every time you laughed it off.
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You really think I’d sit through your uncle’s conspiracy rants and your grandma’s passive-aggressive pie critiques if I didn’t want to be here?” A beat. “With you?”
The fridge hummed louder in the silence. Somewhere behind you, someone dropped a fork, the metallic clatter echoing down the hall. You focused on the way Oscar’s thumb kept brushing your wrist, steady and sure, like he was counting your pulse points.
“I don’t know,” you admitted finally.
His expression did something complicated—twisting between frustration and something unbearably soft—before he leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.
“Then let me be clear,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t fake smiles. I don’t track your jokes in spreadsheets. And I sure as hell don’t do charity.”
His breath warmed your lips. “I’m here because every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe. That clear enough for you?”
Your chest ached. “Oscar—”
“Tell me you know that,” he interrupted, fingers sliding up to tangle in your hair. “Tell me you’re not seriously sitting there wondering if I’d rather be anywhere else.”
The problem wasn’t that you doubted him—it was that you didn’t. Not really. The problem was the way your family’s laughter still rang in your ears, the way their jokes had carved grooves into your ribs over the years until you started bracing for impact.
Oscar’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, startlingly gentle. “Say it.”
“I know,” you whispered.
“Louder.”
“I know,” you repeated, voice cracking.
Oscar exhaled, long and slow, his fingers loosening in your hair. “Good.” He didn’t pull back—just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he was memorizing the space between your ribs.
The hallway light flickered again, casting his eyelashes in shadow. You could count his freckles from here.
The pressure of Oscar's forehead against yours grounded you, but the weight of his words—raw and unfiltered—left your chest tight. You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"I need a minute," you murmured, pulling back just enough to break contact. His grip loosened reluctantly, fingertips trailing down your arm as you stepped away.
"Go compose yourself," he said, voice low but firm. His jaw was set, the sharp line of it betraying the tension beneath his calm exterior. "I want to speak to them."
You hesitated, fingers hovering near his wrist. "Oscar, you don't have to—"
"I know." He caught your hand, squeezing once before letting go. "But I'm going to." There was no room for argument in his tone, no playful edge—just quiet, simmering resolve.
The bathroom tiles were cool against your palms as you braced yourself over the sink, staring at your reflection. Your eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged just enough to be noticeable.
You splashed water on your face, the shock of cold bringing you back to your body. Outside, the murmur of voices had stopped entirely, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards.
Oscar hadn't raised his voice—you would've heard it. That wasn't his style. But the absence of sound was somehow worse, like the entire house was holding its breath. You dried your hands slowly, focusing on the way the towel absorbed each droplet, delaying the inevitable return.
When you finally cracked the door open, the first thing you heard was your brother's strained chuckle. "C'mon, mate, we were just—"
"Just what?" Oscar's voice was lethally calm. "Bullying her? For fun?" A chair scraped, someone clearing their throat. "Because let's be clear—that's what you were doing. And you've been doing it for years."
You peered around the corner to see Oscar standing at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood. His shoulders were rigid, the tendons in his forearms standing out. Your brother opened his mouth, but Oscar cut him off with a look that could've frozen lava.
"No. You don't get to justify it. You don't get to laugh it off." His thumb tapped once against the tablecloth. "You don't get to make her feel small ever again."
Aunt Carol dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Now, Oscar darling, surely you're overreact—"
"I'm not your darling." The words landed like a guillotine. "And if I hear one more 'joke' at her expense, I will personally ensure none of you ever see her again." His gaze swept the table, ice-cold. "Try me."
Your cousin Liam scoffed, but it lacked its usual bravado. "What, you gonna punch me over a salad joke?"
Oscar didn't blink. "No. I'll ruin you financially." A beat. "I know exactly where you work, Liam. And I know exactly who owns the building." The blood drained from Liam's face. Your brother's fork clattered onto his plate.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked three times before your mother stood abruptly, her chair legs shrieking against the hardwood. "Alright. That's enough." Her hands trembled as she adjusted her pearl necklace—the one she only wore for special occasions. "Oscar's right."
Silence.
She turned to you, eyes glistening. "I should've stopped this years ago." The admission hung in the air like smoke. Your brother gaped at her. "Mum—"
"No." She pressed a hand to his shoulder, her rings catching the light. "I let you boys think this was funny. That was my mistake." Her gaze flicked to Oscar, then back to you. "But I won't let it continue."
Your father cleared his throat, staring at his wineglass like it held the answers. "Darling, surely we can discuss this—"
"There's nothing to discuss." Oscar's voice cut through the room like a scalpel. "Not unless it starts with an apology." His knuckles whitened against the tablecloth. "A real one."
The air conditioner kicked on with a groan, ruffling the napkins. Someone's phone buzzed—a frantic, misplaced sound. You watched a bead of condensation slide down your water glass, tracing the path with your eyes until it vanished into the tablecloth.
Liam shifted in his seat, tugging at his collar. "Alright, alright—Jesus. We were just having a laugh." His laugh sounded like gravel in a blender. "No need for theatrics."
Oscar didn't move. "You know what's theatrical?" His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried farther than a shout. "Pretending cruelty is comedy for twenty-three years." The math was so precise it made your chest ache—he'd counted. He'd kept track.
Your brother's fork clattered onto his plate. "Okay, fuck, we're sorry—"
"Not to me." Oscar stepped back from the table, hands sliding into his pockets like he couldn't trust them. "And not like that."
The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating. You watched Liam's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his beer bottle.
Your mother reached for her wineglass, then thought better of it, folding her hands neatly in her lap instead. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked four times before your father sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright. Perhaps we've been… unkind."
Oscar's laugh was short and humorless. "Unkind." He tested the word like it was a foreign object. "That's one way to put it."
Your brother shoved his plate away, the china screeching. "What do you want us to say? That we're assholes? Fine. We're assholes." He threw his hands up. "Happy?"
"No." Oscar's gaze flicked to the hallway where you stood, unseen. "I want you to mean it."
Aunt Carol's pearls clicked as she straightened. "This is absurd. We're family—we tease each other. It's what families do."
"Teasing?" Oscar's voice dropped an octave. "Teasing is when she steals your fries and you pretend to be mad. Teasing isn't systematically dismantling someone's self-worth for entertainment."
His thumb tapped the table again—once, twice. "And if that's what your family does? You're worse than I thought."
Your mother's chair scraped back as she stood, her palms pressed flat against the table. "Oscar's right." The words seemed to cost her something. "I've watched you chip away at her for years and I… I laughed along." Her voice wavered. "God help me, I even encouraged it."
The admission hung in the air like a struck bell. Your father reached for her hand, but she pulled away, turning toward the hallway. Toward you. "Sweetheart?" Her voice cracked. "Can you come here?"
Your knees locked. Every instinct screamed to run—to let Oscar handle this, to let him be the shield he'd always been. But then he turned, just slightly, and the look he gave you wasn't pity or frustration. It was pride. Like he knew you could face this. Like he'd stand beside you, but not for you.
The hardwood floor creaked as you stepped forward, your socked feet suddenly too loud in the silence. Twenty-three years of swallowed comebacks pressed against the back of your teeth, threatening to spill over.
Oscar met you halfway, his fingers brushing yours—not holding, just anchoring. "They have something to say," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. His thumb stroked your knuckles once. "You don't have to accept it."
Your brother cleared his throat. "Look, we—" He stopped when Oscar's head snapped toward him, the warning in his glare unmistakable.
Your mother's hands fluttered like wounded birds before settling on the tablecloth. "I'm sorry," she said, the words frayed at the edges. "Not just for tonight. For every time I didn't stop them."
Her gaze flicked to your father, who stared resolutely at his wineglass. "For every time I laughed."
Liam rolled his eyes, but his fingers tightened around his beer bottle. "Christ, it's not that deep—"
"It is." Oscar didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The quiet certainty in those two syllables made Liam's jaw snap shut. "You don't get to decide how deep it goes."
Your brother shoved his chair back, the legs screeching. "Fine! You want a fucking apology? Here." He flung a hand toward you. "Sorry we hurt your fragile little feelings—"
Oscar moved so fast the table rattled. Not toward your brother—no, he stepped between you both, his back to you, blocking their view like a human shield. His shoulders were taut under his shirt, the fabric straining as he braced his hands on the table. "Try again," he said, voice dangerously soft. "And this time? Pretend you're talking to someone you actually give a shit about."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Your mother's pearls clicked as she exhaled sharply. Your father finally looked up from his wineglass, his brow furrowed. Aunt Carol opened her mouth—then closed it at Oscar's glacial glare.
You watched your brother's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. His fingers twitched toward his fork before abandoning it. "I…" He glanced at Liam, who suddenly found his beer label fascinating. "I'm sorry. For… the charity comments. And the spreadsheet thing."
The words came out stilted, like he was reading from a script he didn't understand.
Oscar didn't move. "And?"
"And…" Your brother's shoulders slumped. "And for all the other times." His voice dropped to a mumble. "It wasn't funny."
Liam snorted—a reflexive, defensive sound—but choked it off when Oscar's head snapped toward him. "You're next," Oscar said pleasantly. The contrast between his tone and the murder in his eyes made Liam pale.
The grandfather clock ticked seven times before Liam muttered, "Yeah, whatever. Sorry." He didn't look at you.
Oscar's knuckles whitened against the tablecloth. "That's the best you can do?" His voice was lethally soft. "After twenty-three years?"
The fridge hummed louder in the silence. Your mother twisted her wedding ring around her finger—a nervous habit you'd inherited. Outside, a car door slammed, the sound startling in the heavy quiet.
Then your father stood abruptly, his chair legs shrieking against the hardwood. "Enough." He rubbed his temples, his signet ring glinting under the chandelier light. "We've been… unkind."
The word seemed to cost him. "More than unkind." His gaze flicked to you, then away just as fast. "And I'm sorry for that."
Oscar exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Better." His fingers finally unclenched from the tablecloth. "Not good. But better."
Your brother opened his mouth—probably to argue—but your mother pinched his arm sharply. "Don't," she hissed.
Liam scoffed, pushing his plate away. "Christ, this is pathetic. It was a joke—"
"A joke everyone laughs at." Oscar's voice was razor-edged. "Except the person it's about." He straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the tension. "Tell me, Liam—how many times have you laughed at yourself today?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought." Oscar turned slightly, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder. His expression softened infinitesimally—just for you. "You okay?"
You nodded, curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt. The fabric was warm from his skin, slightly damp where he'd braced against the table. The scent of his cologne—something crisp and clean, like winter air—anchored you as the room spun slightly at the edges.
Your father sighed, rubbing his thumb over his wedding band. "Oscar—"
"No." Oscar didn't raise his voice, but the quiet authority in it made your father's mouth snap shut. "This isn't about me. It's about her." His fingers found yours, squeezing once. "And whether any of you actually care enough to change."
The grandfather clock ticked eight times—you counted—before your mother stood abruptly, her chair legs shrieking. "Right." She smoothed her skirt with trembling hands. "We're leaving."
Your brother gaped at her. "Mum—"
"No." Her voice cracked like thin ice. "We've done enough damage for one night." She reached for her purse, her pearl necklace catching the light as she turned to you.
The apology in her eyes was real, but raw—the kind that came too late to heal cleanly. "We'll… give you space."
Liam scoffed, shoving his chair back. "Unbelievable." He threw his napkin onto his half-eaten chicken. "Ruined a perfectly good dinner over—"
Oscar moved so fast Liam flinched. Not toward him—just a single, deliberate step forward that made the entire table tense. "Finish that sentence," Oscar invited softly. "I dare you."
Liam's mouth snapped shut. Your brother grabbed his arm, hauling him toward the foyer with a muttered curse. Silverware clattered as your family scattered like startled birds—Aunt Carol fussing with her shawl, your father draining his wine in one go, your mother hesitating at the threshold like she wanted to say more.
Oscar's hand found the small of your back, grounding you as the front door clicked shut behind them.
The silence that followed was thicker than the tablecloth. You stared at the abandoned plates—your brother's fork still embedded in his mashed potatoes, Liam's beer sweating a ring onto the wood. Oscar's thumb traced idle circles over your spine. "Breathe," he murmured.
You sucked in a shaky breath. The air smelled like rosemary and red wine and something sour underneath—regret, maybe. Or guilt. "I should feel better," you admitted. Your voice sounded alien in the quiet. "Why don't I feel better?"
Oscar's exhale ruffled your hair. "Because apologies don't erase years of shit." His fingers curled tighter around your waist. "But it's a start."
The grandfather clock chimed nine times, the sound reverberating through the empty dining room. You focused on the way Oscar's pulse jumped under your fingertips where they rested against his wrist.
Steady, but not calm. "You didn't have to do that," you whispered.
His laugh was a quiet puff of air against your temple. "Yeah, I did." His lips brushed your hairline—quick, barely there. "You're my favorite person. Protecting you isn't optional."
The words curled warm in your chest. You pressed closer, forehead resting against his collarbone. His shirt smelled like starch and the faintest trace of motor oil from the garage earlier. "They're still my family," you mumbled into the fabric.
Oscar's arms tightened. "Doesn't give them the right to hurt you." A beat. His fingers flexed against your back. "You're not their punching bag."
You closed your eyes, counting the beats of his heart through his shirt. One. Two. Three. "They're going to hate you now," you murmured, half into his chest.
Oscar snorted, his chest vibrating under your cheek. "They already did." His fingers traced idle patterns between your shoulder blades. "Difference is, now they'll be quiet about it."
You pulled back just enough to see his face—the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows under the dim hallway light. "You really don't care what they think of you?"
"Not even a little." His thumb brushed your chin, tilting your face up. "Only person whose opinion matters is right here." His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up—deliberate, unhurried. "And right now, she's looking at me like I kicked her puppy."
You snorted despite yourself. "You kinda did. That was my family dinner."
Oscar grinned—sharp, unrepentant. "And now it's ours." He nodded toward the abandoned feast. "Better food, better company, no shitty jokes." His fingers traced the curve of your ear. "Unless you count my puns."
"You're insufferable."
The first thing Oscar did after your family left was pour you a glass of wine—the expensive one your father had been saving for his birthday.
He handed it to you with a smirk, the crystal catching the light as he clinked his own glass against it. "To shitty relatives," he toasted, taking a deliberate sip.
You stared at the ruby liquid, watching it swirl against the sides. "You just declared war on my entire bloodline over chicken wings."
"And?" Oscar plucked a roll from the breadbasket, tearing it in half with his teeth. "Worth it." Crumbs dusted his lower lip as he chewed, unbothered.
The second thing he did was steal your brother's untouched steak—the perfectly medium-rare one Liam had been eyeing all night—and slide it onto your plate with a flourish.
"Eat," he ordered, nudging the fork toward you. "Before it gets cold."
You stared at the steak Oscar had commandeered—still pink in the center, just the way you liked it—and something in your chest cracked open.
Not the jagged, painful kind of breaking, but the quiet release of a dam you hadn’t realized was holding back everything. The knife trembled in your hand as you cut into the meat, the juices pooling like an accusation.
Oscar didn’t say anything. Just watched you with those unsettlingly perceptive eyes, his own fork hovering mid-air.
The silence between you wasn’t empty; it was full of everything unspoken—the years of backhanded compliments, the holidays spent biting your tongue, the way your laughter had always been a half-beat too late at family gatherings.
The third bite was when the tears came. Not the dramatic, heaving kind. Just a single hot trail down your cheek that you swiped away with the back of your hand, pretending it was the horseradish. Oscar’s fork clinked against his plate as he set it down with deliberate care.
"You’re allowed to be angry," he said finally, swirling his wine. The ruby liquid caught the chandelier light, casting fractured crimson across the tablecloth. "You’re allowed to hate them a little."
The wineglass trembled in your grip, the crimson liquid shivering against the crystal. You stared at the reflection warily—your own red-rimmed eyes blinking back at you from the distorted surface.
Oscar's hand settled over yours, steadying the glass before it could spill. His fingers were warm, his grip firm but gentle, like he was anchoring you to the present.
"You're allowed to hate them a little," he repeated, softer this time. His thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You don't have to forgive them just because they muttered a half-assed apology."
The steak knife glinted where you'd left it embedded in the meat. You focused on the way the juices had seeped into the mashed potatoes, staining them pink.
"I don't hate them," you murmured. It wasn't entirely true—but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. The feeling was more complicated than hate. It was the ache of loving people who kept choosing to hurt you.
Oscar exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Yeah, well. I hate them enough for both of us." He said it lightly, but there was steel beneath the words.
His free hand plucked a dinner roll from the basket, tearing it apart with more force than necessary. Crumbs scattered across the tablecloth like shrapnel.
"I love you, you know," you murmured into the space between his collarbones, the words muffled against his skin. Oscar stilled, his fingers freezing mid-motion where they'd been tracing nonsense patterns along your spine.
The grandfather clock ticked twice before his arms tightened around you, his chin resting heavy on the crown of your head.
"I know," he said finally, voice rough. His heartbeat stuttered under your ear—just once—before steadying. "But say it again anyway."
You tilted your head back just enough to see the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw catching the dim kitchen light.
"I love you," you repeated, quieter this time. The admission curled warm in your chest, familiar yet still terrifying in its weight.
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against your hip. "Even when I ruin your family dinners?" His tone was light, but his grip betrayed him—too tight, like he was bracing for impact.
"Especially then." You pressed your palm flat over his heart, counting each steady beat. His shirt smelled like starch and the faintest hint of motor oil from the garage earlier—comforting in its mundanity.
"No one's ever…" The words tangled in your throat. No one had ever looked at you like you were worth defending before.
Oscar's thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up. His eyes were dark in the low light, the usual sharp green muted to something softer.
"No one's ever what?" he prompted, voice dropping to that quiet rasp that always unraveled you.
"Protected me like that," you finished, the words barely audible. Oscar's thumb stilled against your jaw. The kitchen faucet dripped once—a slow, metronomic sound—as his expression shifted into something unbearably tender.
Oscar’s exhale was warm against your lips, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around your waist. "You’re easy to protect," he murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, catching a stray tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "You’re worth it."
Oscar's hands were still framing your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. His touch was gentle, but there was steel beneath it—the kind of quiet certainty that made your knees weak.
"I love you too," Oscar muttered, the words rough against your temple, his breath warming the damp trail your tears had left.
His fingers curled tighter around your hips, pulling you flush against him—close enough that you could feel the hitch in his breathing, the way his pulse jumped under your palm where it rested against his chest.
The admission wasn’t new—he’d said it before, in stolen moments and sleepy murmurs—but this time, it landed differently. Raw-edged, like he’d dragged it up from somewhere deeper than his ribs.
Oscar’s hands slid down to your wrists, his grip firm but not tight—just enough to ground you without trapping. The contrast was everything.
Previous boyfriends had either clutched too hard, leaving bruises they'd later kiss with performative guilt, or let go entirely when things got messy. Oscar did neither.
He held you like you were something precious, but never fragile. Like he trusted you to stand on your own, but would never make you do it alone. . . .
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Summary: It was the first night of you and Lando sleeping in your new house and he slept like a baby
Song: Latch · Sam Smith
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The air inside the house smells like cedarwood, fresh paint, and the faint, lingering scent of the cardboard boxes that had dominated your lives for the better part of a week.
It is a quiet, heavy, expensive sort of silence—the kind that only exists in a space that hasn’t yet been filled with enough memories to feel lived-in.
You stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your bedroom, watching the moonlight pool across the hardwood floors of your new life.
Outside, the Monaco coastline is a jagged shadow against the ink-black Mediterranean, but you aren’t looking at the view. You are looking at the reflection in the glass: the silhouette of the man currently sprawled across your king-sized bed.
Lando is motionless. That is the first thing that strikes you. Usually, his energy is kinetic—a constant buzzing of limbs, a nervous tapping of fingers against a steering wheel, a restless shifting during meetings or dinners.
But here, in the sanctuary you’ve built together, he is anchored.
You turn away from the window, your footsteps silent on the plush rug. You move toward the bed, feeling the weight of the day settle into your shoulders.
Moving is a monumental task, a brutal orchestration of logistics and stress, but tonight, the adrenaline has finally curdled into exhaustion.
You climb onto the mattress, the high-thread-count sheets cool against your skin. You shift, trying to find a comfortable position, a little wary of encroaching on his space.
But Lando, even in his deepest oblivion, seems to sense the displacement of air. One of his arms snakes out, heavy and warm, hooking around your waist with instinctive precision.
He pulls you back against his chest without opening his eyes, his breathing so rhythmic and deep that it feels like a lullaby.
He is sleeping like a baby.
It is a jarring sight, given the life he leads. You think about the man the world sees—the Lando Norris who is constantly scrutinized by cameras, the one who carries the weight of a racing team on his shoulders, the one who spends his Sundays balancing on the razor-thin edge of disaster at two hundred miles per hour.
That man is perpetually alert, muscles coiled, eyes scanning for the next turn, for the next gap, for the next critique.
But here, under the soft glow of the minimalist bedside lamp, that version of him has completely dissolved. His mouth is slightly parted, his hair a chaotic, soft nest against the pillow. His face, usually defined by the intense focus of a competitor, is slackened, innocent, and profoundly peaceful.
You turn your head slightly, pressing your cheek against the crook of his shoulder. His skin is warm, radiating a soft, steady heat that chases away the lingering chill of the night.
You close your eyes, listening to the cadence of his heart—a steady thump-thump, thump-thump—that serves as the metronome for your new reality.
This is it. This is the "after."
For months, you had talked about this. You had spent hours on FaceTime calls while he was in different time zones, scrolling through real estate listings, arguing over paint swatches, and dreaming of a place that didn’t belong to a hotel franchise or a team hospitality suite.
You had dreamt of a place where the door locked behind you and the world stayed on the other side.
And now, here it is.
The silence of the house feels like a blanket. You realize, with a sudden, sharp pang of affection, that he hasn’t moved an inch since he hit the pillow. There is no tossing, no turning, no murmuring about qualifying laps or telemetry data.
He is simply here. He is surrendered to the exhaustion, trusting the space around him enough to let his guard drop entirely.
It is the highest compliment he could ever pay you—the fact that in your presence, in this home, his brain finally stops racing.
You reach up, tracing the line of his forearm with your fingertips. His skin is smooth, marked only by the faint, sun-drenched tan he’s acquired over the season.
You move your hand to his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. His grip is loose, his muscles limp, yet he holds on to you with a subconscious certainty.
You start to think about the journey that brought you to this bed. You think of the early days, the tentative glances in the paddock, the way you had to guard your private moments like fragile treasures.
You think of the compromises—the long-distance, the missed birthdays, the anxiety of watching him race, the way you’d hold your breath every time he rounded a corner on a wet track. It had been worth it, all of it, just for this moment of domestic stillness.
A soft, contented sigh escapes Lando’s lips, and he nuzzles closer into the nape of your neck. The stubble on his cheek grazes your skin, a rough, grounding texture that makes you smile.
He smells like the expensive, clean scent of the sheets and the lingering notes of the cologne he wore to dinner—something citrusy and sharp that has softened into something intimate and sweet.
You find yourself drifting, the boundaries between your thoughts and your dreams starting to blur. The house, which had felt so unfamiliar a few hours ago, now feels like an extension of the two of you.
Every corner, every box yet to be unpacked in the garage, every light switch—it’s all a promise of the future.
You wonder if he’s dreaming of racing. Do drivers dream of the track? Or does he dream of this? Of the simplicity of waking up and finding you there?
You hope it’s the latter. You hope he knows that, win or lose, pole position or back of the grid, this house is the only place that truly matters.
His arm tightens slightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s so warm, so solid. You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, a synchronization that makes you feel invincible. For the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel the need to be anywhere else.
You don’t need to plan the next trip, check the itinerary, or worry about the logistics of his schedule. You just need to be exactly where you are.
The moonlight shifts across the room, tracing the contours of the furniture you picked together. Everything here is a compromise, a blend of his sterile, modern tastes and your desire for warmth. It’s a perfect home.
Lando mumurs something in his sleep, a low, incomprehensible sound that borders on a chuckle. Perhaps he’s winning in his dreams. Or perhaps he’s just happy. The thought brings a warmth to your chest that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
You finally let your eyes drift shut, succumbing to the heavy, velvet pull of sleep. You realize that this is the best part of the relationship—the mundane, the quiet, the boring, the settled. The world is loud, and Lando’s life is a whirlwind of noise and motion, but this room is the eye of the storm.
As you drift off, the last thing you feel is his hand squeezing yours, a silent promise made in the deepest part of the night. He is sleeping like a baby, and for the first time in your lives, you are sleeping like one, too.
The sun finds you first.
It leaks through the gap in the heavy curtains, painting a sharp, golden line across the floor. You wake up before him, as always. For a moment, you stay perfectly still, afraid that even a muscle twitch might break the spell.
He is still there. He has shifted slightly, his face now buried in the pillow next to yours, his breath still steady and deep. He looks younger in the sunrise, the shadows pulling back to reveal the soft vulnerability he hides behind his racing helmet.
You carefully extract yourself from his arm, moving with the grace of someone who doesn't want to wake a sleeping giant. Lando reacts only by shifting his head, his brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing out again.
You slip out of bed, grabbing a silk robe from the chair you’d haphazardly tossed it over the night before. The floorboards creak—a sound that, in a few years, will be a nostalgic marker of this exact moment.
You walk into the kitchen, the sunlight hitting the marble countertops and turning the new space into a cathedral of morning light.
You make coffee. The ritual is the same, no matter the house, no matter the country. The sound of the machine whirring, the smell of the dark roast—it’s the grounding agent of your day.
You lean against the counter, looking out at the terrace. The Mediterranean is a brilliant, shimmering peridot under the morning sun. It’s a beautiful view, but you’re already looking toward the bedroom door, wondering when he’ll wake up.
A few minutes later, you hear it—the soft rustle of sheets, the thud of feet hitting the floor, the groggy, confused shuffle of someone experiencing the first morning in a new home.
Lando appears in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair standing up in every direction, his eyes struggling to focus against the brightness of the morning. He looks like a boy, not the man who commands thousands of horsepower.
He stops when he sees you. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, letting the reality of the room sink in.
"Morning," you say softly, holding out the mug of coffee.
He takes it, his fingers brushing yours. He doesn't drink it immediately; he just holds the warmth of the mug, looking at you with a look of profound disbelief. "We’re really here, aren't we?" he asks, his voice raspy with sleep.
"We’re really here."
He walks over to you, wrapping his free arm around your waist and burying his face into your shoulder. He stays there for a long time, the silence of the house stretching between you, filled with the promise of a thousand mornings to come.
"I slept," he mumbles into your robe. "I haven't slept that well in… I don't even know how long."
"I noticed."
He pulls back to look at you, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. It’s the look he gives you when he’s truly happy—no cameras, no press, no fans. Just Lando. "It’s the quiet," he says, gesturing to the house. "It’s just us."
You lean into him, the smell of coffee and his skin wrapping around you like a cocoon. "It’s our home, Lando."
He nods, his expression sobering into something intense and sincere. He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a beat. "Our home," he repeats, testing the words as if they were a new gear he’s just starting to get the feel of.
The world outside is waiting. There are practice sessions to attend, media obligations to fulfill, flights to catch, and thousands of miles to cover. But for this morning, in this slice of time, the world is locked out.
You spend the next few hours doing nothing. It’s a luxury neither of you is used to.
You unpack a few boxes, finding things you’d forgotten you’d even packed—framed photos from your first trip to Japan, a random assortment of books, the oversized mugs you bought at a seaside shop in Italy.
Each object is a shard of memory, and as you place them on the shelves, you are anchoring yourselves to this place. Lando helps, though "helps" is a loose term.
He mostly ends up sitting on the floor, distracted by a model car he found in a box, or coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist while you’re trying to find a home for the kitchenware.
"We need to buy new curtains," he says at one point, looking up at the ones you’ve temporarily hung.
"You hate curtains," you remind him.
"I hate these curtains," he corrects, grinning. "They’re too thin. We need ones that block out the world. I want to sleep until noon on my days off."
"Maybe we should get ones that let the light in, so you don't turn into a vampire."
He laughs, a loud, genuine sound that echoes off the high, bare walls of the living room. It’s a sound that makes the house feel like it’s finally breathing.
By the afternoon, the initial rush of movement has faded into a comfortable rhythm. You’ve moved from the chaos of unpacking to the intimacy of simply existing in the same space. You find yourself watching him more than you realize.
You watch the way he moves through the rooms, the way he tilts his head when he’s thinking, the way he constantly seeks you out, needing the reassurance of your presence.
It strikes you, again, how much he needs this. The life he lives is one of extreme highs and crushing lows, a life of constant external validation and scrutiny.
But here, the only validation he needs is the sight of you in the kitchen, or the feeling of your hand in his as you sit on the terrace.
As evening approaches, the sky begins to bruise with shades of violet and orange. You move out to the terrace, two glasses of wine in hand.
The breeze is cooler now, carrying the scent of salt and blooming jasmine from the gardens below.
Lando leans against the glass railing, looking out over the water. He isn't wearing his usual armor—the team gear, the sponsor logos, the carefully curated public image. He is just a man in a t-shirt and jeans, watching the sunset.
"Do you think we can handle it?" he asks suddenly, his voice quiet.
"Handle what?"
"This," he gestures to the house, to the life you’ve built away from the track. "Being 'us' without the racing. Can we be this… normal?"
You step up beside him, resting your hand on his arm. "Normal is what we make it, Lando. We don't have to be anything other than what we are right now."
He turns to look at you, his eyes reflecting the dying light of the sun. He looks searchingly at your face, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this specific light. The intensity of it—the raw, unfiltered affection—makes your heart ache.
"I like 'us,'" he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I like this version of us."
"Me too."
He leans down, and his lips find yours. It isn't a racing-driver kiss—urgent, desperate, fueled by the adrenaline of a win or the frustration of a loss. It’s slow, deliberate, and deeply grounded. It’s a kiss that tastes like wine and the future.
When you pull away, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. You can feel his heart beating—not the frantic rhythm of the starting grid, but the slow, grounded pace of a man who is finally home.
"I think I could get used to this," he says, a small, shy smile touching his lips.
"You're going to have to," you tease. "You're stuck with me now."
He laughs, and the sound is carried away by the Mediterranean breeze. He pulls you against him, his arms strong and protective. You look out over the water, the darkness beginning to fall, feeling the absolute, unshakable certainty that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
The house behind you is quiet, filled with the promise of the lives you’ll lead within its walls. There will be bad days, of course.
There will be races where he finishes at the back, days when the pressure is too much, days when the world feels too big and too loud. But you know now that no matter how hard the storm blows, there is a harbor.
There is this house. There is this bed. There is the way he sleeps like a baby when he knows you’re within reach.
The stars begin to prick through the velvet canopy of the sky, one by one. Lando points to a distant light, a ship moving slowly across the horizon. "Where's that going?" he asks.
"Anywhere it wants," you reply.
He smiles, and his thumb brushes the side of your face. "I think I'm already where I want to be."
You stay there for a long time, watching the night take hold. The house behind you is dark, save for the soft glow of the kitchen light, a beacon in the twilight. Everything is soft. Everything is right.
When you finally head back inside, the house feels even more like a sanctuary. You move through the rooms, turning off the lights one by one, leaving the house in a state of quiet grace.
In the bedroom, the moonlight has shifted again, casting long, silver fingers across the bed. You undress in the dim light, the silence of the house pressing in, not as a weight, but as a comfort.
Lando is already lying in bed, watching you. He’s propped up on one elbow, his expression one of quiet adoration. He doesn't say anything, but as you approach the bed, he lifts the duvet, a silent invitation that you accept without hesitation.
You slide under the covers, the fabric cool and crisp against your skin. You curl into him, feeling the familiar, grounding weight of his arm as he pulls you closer. He’s warm, his body like a furnace against yours, and his breathing is already beginning to deepen.
"You okay?" he murmurs, his voice thick with the onset of sleep.
"I'm perfect," you whisper back.
He hums, a satisfied little sound, and kisses the top of your head. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't reach for his phone to check the news, or the standings, or the social media feeds. He just lets himself go.
He is asleep in seconds. His breathing rhythm takes over, slow and steady, a lullaby that pulls you under with it.
You lie there for a while, listening to the house settle. The wood expands and contracts in the cooling air, the wind whistles softly against the glass, and in the distance, the faint, rhythmic sound of the ocean hitting the cliffs provides a constant, gentle pulse.
You look at him, his face peaceful, his muscles relaxed, his brow smooth. He is a man who carries the world on his shoulders, but tonight, he has laid it down.
You feel a swell of pride in your chest—pride in him, pride in the life you’ve built, pride in the sanctuary you’ve created together.
You close your eyes, the last of the day’s tension evaporating. You know that tomorrow morning, the sun will rise and the world will start spinning again.
There will be meetings, and travel, and pressure, and the relentless, demanding tempo of his life. But for tonight, the clock has stopped.
You drift off, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady, reliable thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You are safe. You are home. And as you fall into the deep, dreamless void of sleep, you know that when you wake up, he will be right there, and you will be with him.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
The house is quiet, the night is deep, and he sleeps like a baby, tucked into the arms of the life he chose, in the arms of the person who chose it with him.
The following weeks are a blur of unpacking, decorating, and finding the rhythm of a life that is truly yours.
There are moments of chaos, of course—the stray boxes that seem to multiply in the corners of the office, the arguments over where to hang a piece of art, the frantic scrambles to find a passport before a flight. But through it all, there is the house.
It becomes a living thing, a third member of your relationship. You find your favorite spots—the reading nook by the window, the terrace for morning coffee, the kitchen island where you talk for hours into the night. And then there is the bedroom.
The bedroom is sacred. No work allowed. No phones allowed. Just the two of you, the quiet, and the moonlight.
One night, after a particularly grueling stretch of races, he comes home exhausted. You can see it in the way he walks, the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes lose their focus. He doesn't say a word, just walks through the front door, kicks off his shoes, and collapses onto the living room sofa.
You don't pressure him. You just bring him a glass of water, sit beside him, and start to rub his temples. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing, a low groan escaping his throat.
"It was a long one," he says, his voice barely audible.
"I know. But you're home now."
He opens his eyes, looking at you with a look of such raw, unfiltered gratitude that it makes your chest tighten. "I missed this. I missed you."
"I was right here."
"I know. But it’s not the same when I'm away. When I'm away, I feel like I'm drifting. Like I'm losing my anchor."
You look at him, the man who is known for his lightning-fast reflexes and his ability to hold a line through the most treacherous corners, and you realize how much he needs the stability of what you’ve built.
"You're not drifting," you promise him. "You're just traveling. And the anchor is always here, waiting for you."
He smiles, a slow, tired, genuine smile. "I know. That's what keeps me going. Knowing I have this. Knowing I have you."
He pulls you down onto the sofa, curling around you, his head resting in your lap. The living room is bathed in the soft glow of the table lamps, the rest of the house silent and welcoming.
He stays there for a long time, his breathing regulated, his body slowly shedding the weight of the track.
Eventually, you carry him to bed. He’s half-asleep by the time you reach the room, letting you guide him, letting you take the lead. You help him get settled, tuck the duvet around him, and climb in beside him.
He’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow. And again, he is still. He is peaceful. He is sound.
You lie there, watching him, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. You realize that you’ve done it. You’ve created a space where the most energized, high-pressure, non-stop person you know can actually find peace. You’ve created a space where he can be just Lando.
And as you drift off to sleep, feeling his hand move to yours in the dark, you know that this is the best part of the relationship. It’s not the cameras, or the crowds, or the roar of the engines. It’s the silence.
It’s the way he sleeps like a baby. It’s the way, no matter how fast he drives when the lights go out on Sunday, he always finds his way back here.
He is home. And so are you.
The bedroom is dark, the house is still, and outside, the moon continues its slow, silent transit across the sky. You fall asleep, content in the knowledge that tomorrow, the world will start again, but tonight, you have everything you need.
Everything is perfect. Everything is peace. And he is sleeping, deeply and soundly, in the quiet of the home you built together, the man who drives the world, finally at rest. . . .
Summary: Lando took his wisdom tooth out and is still not over anaesthetic when he asks you out
Song: Belong To The City · PARTYNEXTDOOR
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The fluorescent lights of the private surgical suite hum with a sterile, clinical indifference that makes your skin crawl. You are sitting in a stiff, uncomfortable leather chair in the corner of the recovery room, a stack of racing magazines you didn’t read resting on your lap.
Your phone buzzed thirty minutes ago—a notification from the team’s press officer asking where the hell Lando was—but you silenced it, keeping your eyes trained on the man currently slumped in the clinical bed.
Lando Norris, the man who navigates the tight, unforgiving corners of Monaco at two hundred miles per hour with the precision of a surgeon, currently looks like a chipmunk who has been hit by a wrecking ball.
His cheeks are packed with gauze, his face swollen into a soft, puffy caricature of his usual sharp-jawed self.
The surgeon exits, offering you a weary smile and a packet of instructions about ice packs and pain management.
"He'll be groggy for a while," the doctor says, his voice hushed. "The sedation was quite strong. He might be… talkative. Or he might sleep for the next six hours. Just keep an eye on his breathing."
You nod, standing up as the doctor leaves. You walk over to the bedside, your heart pulling in a way that feels dangerously like a confession.
You’ve been Lando’s assistant, his confidante, and his best friend for three years. You’ve held his helmet, managed his media, and wiped the sweat from his brow after grueling podium finishes. But you have never seen him this vulnerable. This exposed.
Lando’s eyelashes flutter. They are long, dark, and currently trembling. With a groan that sounds like a rusted hinge, he cracks one blue eye open. It’s unfocused, glassy, and swimming in a haze of propofol.
"Lando?" you whisper, leaning closer. "Hey. You’re done. It’s over."
He blinks, his head lolling to the side. He stares at you for a long, agonizing moment before his pupils dilate. A slow, lopsided, and entirely ridiculous grin spreads across his face, hindered by the gauze.
"You," he slurs, his voice a thick, gravelly mess. "You’re… you’re the angel."
You laugh, a soft, nervous sound. "I’m not an angel, Lando. I’m just Y/N. You’re just loopy from the drugs."
He tries to lift a hand, but his arm wavers and drops back onto the starched sheets. "No," he insists, his words tripping over each other. "You’re the… the sky. The whole sky. Why are you so bright? Did you eat the sun? You shouldn’t eat the sun, Y/N. It’s too crunchy."
You bite your lip to stop from giggling, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. His skin is warm, flushed from the anesthesia. "I didn't eat the sun, Lando. Drink some water."
He ignores the water, his gaze locked intensely onto yours. His expression shifts from confused whimsy to something startlingly earnest. The anesthesia takes away the filter, the British reserve, the carefully curated media personality. It leaves only the raw impulse.
"I have a secret," he whispers, leaning his head toward your hand.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." He pauses, struggling to form the consonants. "My mouth feels like a balloon. A big, sad balloon. But my heart…" He taps a finger clumsily against his chest. "My heart is doing flips. Like a car in a wall. Ker-choo."
"Ker-choo?" you repeat, your heart hammering against your own ribs.
"It’s because of you," he says. The seriousness in his voice is jarring, even through the slurring. "I drive really fast. I’m fast, right? Everyone says I’m fast."
"You’re very fast, Lando."
"But I’m slow at this," he mutters, furrowing his brows. "I’m so slow at telling you. It’s been three years. Three whole racing seasons of me being a complete… a complete… what’s the word? A total pillock."
You feel your breath hitch. You knew he loved you—you hoped it, at least—but hearing it while he was under the influence of heavy sedatives felt like opening a letter you were never meant to read.
"Lando, maybe you should rest," you say gently, your voice trembling.
"No, wait," he grabs at your sleeve, his grip weak but persistent. "I have to ask. My brain is all fog, but the truth is… it’s glowing in the fog. Like a neon sign in the rain."
He looks at you, his eyes searching your face with a desperation that makes your chest ache. "Go out with me."
The room goes silent. You can hear the distant hum of the hospital’s HVAC system and the muffled sounds of the hallway. You stare at him, stunned.
"Lando, you’re high on anesthesia," you whisper, though your hand stays in his.
"I’m high on you," he counters, trying to look suave and failing miserably as his mouth hangs slightly open. "Is that a pickup line? It sounds like a pickup line. I’m a professional athlete, I should have better lines. But you’re the only thing that makes sense when everything hurts. The dentist—he was mean. He took my tooth. But he can’t take… he can’t take this."
"Take what?"
"Us," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. "Please. Just say yes before I forget how to speak English entirely."
You look down at him. Even with the gauze, even with the drool beginning to dampen the collar of his hospital gown, he is the only person you have ever wanted. You’ve spent years suppressing this, keeping the line sharp and defined between assistant and driver. But looking at him now—so unguarded, so painfully honest—the line doesn’t just blur; it vanishes.
"Lando," you say, leaning down until your forehead rests against his. "You’re asking me out while you’re recovering from oral surgery."
"Best time to ask," he mumbles, his voice fading into sleep. "Can’t say no… when I’m this… this cute…"
He drifts off, his breathing evening out into a deep, rhythmic slumber. You stay there for a long time, sitting in the silence of the room, your hand still laced with his. Outside, the world goes on—the press wants their statements, the engineers want to debrief, the fans want their updates. But in here, under the hum of the lights, everything is quiet.
You know that when he wakes up, the fog will lift. The inhibition will return. He might be embarrassed. He might pretend it was the drugs talking.
But as you look at his sleeping face, you decide that you’re not going to let him forget. You’re going to hold him to it. You’re going to be his sky, and his neon sign in the rain, and everything else he needs.
You squeeze his hand, leaning in to whisper against his ear, "Ask me again when you're sober, Norris. And I’ll say yes then, too."
The next morning, the sunlight streaming into Lando’s home studio is blinding. You’re sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching him gingerly sip a smoothie through a straw.
His cheeks are still bruised and swollen, and he looks like he’s been through a war, but the manic, glassy look is gone. He looks human again. He looks like Lando.
He stops drinking, his eyes meeting yours. He looks down, a flush creeping up his neck.
"So," he starts, then winces as the movement pulls at his stitches. He clears his throat, his ears turning bright red. "I remember…"
You don't let him finish. You stand up, walking over to the coffee table, and pick up the notebook where you’d jotted down some notes for his next press appearance. You close it and set it aside, facing him fully.
"You remember the part about being a pillock?" you ask, a small smile playing on your lips.
He groans, burying his face in his hands. "Oh god. It was exactly that bad, wasn't it? I think I called you a piece of the sky or something? I’m mortified. I’m going to retire. I’m retiring from everything."
"You called me the sky," you confirm, stepping closer. "And then you told me that your heart felt like a car in a wall."
He lowers his hands, his blue eyes wide with panic. "I am so sorry. The drugs—they make you say the weirdest things. I just—I didn't mean to make things awkward. I know the professional boundary is important, and—"
"Lando," you interrupt, placing a hand on his knee. He freezes, his breath hitching. "Are you retracting it?"
He looks at you, his gaze searching your face for a sign of mockery, but finding only the same quiet, steady hope he’s carried for years. His expression softens, the panic fading into something more familiar, more grounded.
"Retracting it?" he repeats, his voice low. "No. I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you for two years. I just didn't expect the catalyst to be a dental drill and some heavy-duty sedation."
"It was effective," you tease, feeling your pulse jump.
"Was it?" He leans forward, wincing slightly but not pulling away. "If I were to ask you again—properly, this time, without the drool and the anesthesia—would the answer stay the same?"
You look at him, really look at him. You see the man who worries about his lap times, the man who loves video games, the man who cares for his team, and the man who has spent three years looking at you like you’re the only thing in the paddock that matters.
"If you ask me properly," you say, your voice steady despite the nervousness fluttering in your stomach, "I’ll say yes. Over and over again."
Lando lets out a breath he seems to have been holding since the hospital. A slow, genuine smile breaks across his face—the one he saves for when he’s truly happy, away from the cameras and the noise.
"Okay," he says, reaching out to take your hand. His grip is warm, firm, and fully conscious. "Let’s start over then. Properly."
He doesn't ask right then, though. He just pulls your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s a promise, written in the quiet space between you.
"I’m still on painkillers," he mutters, a mischievous glint back in his eyes. "Does that mean I get a sympathy kiss?"
You roll your eyes, but you lean down anyway, brushing your lips against his. It’s light, careful of his mouth, and tastes like the start of something you’ve been writing in your head for years.
"You're a menace, Norris," you whisper.
"Yeah," he agrees, pulling you closer until you’re sitting on the edge of the sofa beside him. "But I’m your menace now."
The silence in the room is no longer heavy with what wasn't said; it's filled with the quiet, electric hum of what is finally beginning. You rest your head on his shoulder, his arm coming around to pull you against his side.
The racing season is coming up, the pressure will be immense, and the cameras will be everywhere. But for now, in the stillness of the afternoon, there is only the two of you—and the realization that sometimes, the best way to move forward is to let the anesthesia wear off and finally speak the truth.
"You really did eat the sun, didn't you?" he murmurs, his voice sleepy and content.
"Shut up, Lando."
"Make me."
You smile, closing your eyes and leaning into him. The race, for the first time, feels like it can wait. You’ve already won. . . .
Summary: Crashing your boyfriends twitch live was not how you wanted to hard launch. . . .
Song: 22 · JayO
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 2.7k
MASTERLIST - F1
The hum of the high-end gaming PC in Lando’s Monaco apartment was a sound you had grown accustomed to over the last six months.
It was a low, rhythmic vibration that usually signaled quiet nights in, takeaway boxes on the coffee table, and the two of you curled up on the oversized white sectional while he finished his post-race analysis or idled in a lobby with his friends.
But tonight, the air felt different. Thicker.
You were in the kitchen, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea and wearing nothing more than one of Lando’s oversized, charcoal-gray team hoodies and a pair of fuzzy socks.
You’d spent the last hour trying to finish a book, but the faint, rapid-fire sound of Lando’s voice drifting from his office had caught your ear. He was live.
You knew he’d mentioned a stream, but you’d assumed it was a solo session—something lighthearted before the Grand Prix weekend in Silverstone.
You stood up, intending to head to the bedroom to give him privacy, but a sudden jolt of hunger—the kind only a 2:00 AM snack could cure—sent you veering toward the fridge instead.
Mistake number one.
You grabbed a carton of orange juice, forgetting to check if the office door was closed. It was ajar, a sliver of blue LED light cutting through the dim hallway.
You walked past, thinking nothing of it, until you heard the distinct, sharp click-clack of his mechanical keyboard cease.
"Wait, guys, hold on," Lando said. His voice was bright, full of the effortless charm he reserved for his fans.
You stopped, frozen in the doorway. You were mid-sip, the carton pressed to your lips, hair messy from a nap, wearing his hoodie that swallowed your frame.
Mistake number two.
You didn’t just walk past. You stumbled. You had tripped over your own fuzzy-socked feet, letting out a sharp "Oof!" as you pitched forward, instinctively reaching out to steady yourself.
Your hand landed squarely on the doorframe, swinging it wide open with a creak that sounded like a gunshot in the silent apartment.
In your disorientation, you didn't look at the screen. You looked at Lando. He was sitting there in his headset, his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, his mouth slightly agape.
"Lando, I—" you started, your voice raspy.
"Oh, shit," he breathed, but it wasn't an angry sound. It was the sound of a man watching his entire carefully constructed private life implode in four-K resolution.
He didn't move to hide the screen. He didn't slam the door. He just sat there, frozen, staring at you, while the chat on his second monitor began to scroll so fast it looked like a flickering waterfall of white light.
Even from the doorway, your eyes caught a few phrases: 'WHO IS THAT?', 'LANDO??', 'IS THAT A GIRL?', 'WAIT, NO WAY.'
"You're live," you whispered, the realization dawning on you with the cold dread of a thousand icy needles.
Lando finally blinked, his gaze darting from you to the camera, then back to you. A slow, panicked grin began to spread across his face—the kind he usually reserved for when he’d locked up his tires on the final lap.
"Yeah," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I am. I, uh… I think the whole world knows, actually."
You felt your face go hot, a deep, burning crimson that surely went all the way to your ears. You tried to retreat, to back out of the room like a ghost, but your socks betrayed you again, slipping on the hardwood floor.
You let out a squeak of embarrassment, clutching the orange juice to your chest like a shield.
Lando let out a laugh—a genuine, breathless sound that didn't belong in a professional stream. He pulled his headset down around his neck, looking at his chat for a split second before ignoring it entirely to look at you.
"Don't run away," he said, his tone softening, losing the performative edge.
"Lando, I’m wearing your hoodie," you hissed, gesturing wildly at your attire. "I look like a swamp creature. People are going to—everyone is going to—"
"Everyone is going to see that you’re perfect?" he countered, standing up from his chair.
The chat was a riot. You could hear the faint dings of donations coming in, each one tagged with increasingly frantic messages. Lando didn't care. He walked toward you, his movements fluid and calm.
When he reached you, he didn't try to hide you from the camera's line of sight. Instead, he reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
"They've been asking me for months if I'm seeing anyone," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "I think you just did the hard launch for me. Saved me the effort of a press release."
"I am going to kill you," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs, a mixture of adrenaline and terrifying affection.
"Come here," he said.
He didn't pull you into the frame, but he turned slightly, shielding you from the direct angle of the lens while remaining visible himself. He looked into the camera, his expression shifting from panic to a sort of defiant, boyish pride.
The boy who usually kept his cards close to his chest, who warded off tabloid rumors with jokes and deflections, was suddenly dropping the act.
"Right," Lando said to the stream, his voice steadying. "So. That happened."
He looked back at you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Guys, I’d introduce you properly, but I have a feeling she’s going to make me sleep on the couch if I do. So, let’s just call this the most chaotic stream of the year and move on, yeah?"
He looked at you, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous light. "You want orange juice?"
You let out a laugh, the tension finally snapping. You looked at him—really looked at him—the man who belonged to the world, the man who was currently trying to navigate the biggest social media dumpster fire of his career just to make you feel comfortable.
"I want to go back to bed," you said, stepping back and tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands.
"Fair," he said. He glanced at the camera one last time, gave a quick, sheepish wave, and reached for his mouse. "Stream’s over, guys. Seriously. Go get some sleep. I’ve clearly got a situation to handle."
With a swift motion, he clicked End Stream.
The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening. The blue light died, replaced by the warm, amber glow of the hallway lamp. You stood there, the orange juice carton still clutched in your hand, watching him as he turned back to you.
"Well," he said, stepping into your personal space and wrapping his arms around your waist. "That was definitely a way to do it."
"I am so sorry," you laughed, leaning your forehead against his chest. "I didn't mean to destroy your reputation."
Lando hummed, pulling you tighter until the scent of his cologne filled your senses, masking the smell of the room. "My reputation is fine. If anything, it’s improved. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, and frankly, I was getting tired of pretending I wasn't the luckiest guy in the paddock."
He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hands rubbing circles into your back.
"Besides," he whispered against your skin, "the internet is going to go crazy for twenty-four hours, and then they'll move on to the next thing. But you? You’re staying right here."
You looked up at him, seeing the genuine relief in his eyes—not just that the stream was over, but that the secret was out. The hard launch hadn't been a red-carpet event or a staged paparazzi shot. It had been messy, loud, and entirely you.
"You're not mad?" you asked.
"Mad?" He tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "I’m relieved. Now I don’t have to keep checking the locks on the doors when I want to order dinner for two."
He took the orange juice from your hand and set it on the nearby side table. "Come on. Let’s go watch something mindless until the sun comes up. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night."
As he guided you out of the office, you caught a glimpse of his monitor, frozen on the chat window. A final, stray message caught your eye before the screen went black: 'Okay, they're actually cute. I'll allow it.'
You smiled, burying your face in his shirt. The world might have just found out, but in the quiet of the apartment, it felt like nothing had changed at all—except that the secret was finally yours to share.
The next morning, the world didn't just move on. It exploded.
You woke up to the soft, rhythmic buzzing of your phone on the bedside table. Lando was still fast asleep, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his breathing steady and rhythmic. You reached out, your movements sluggish, and tapped the screen.
Twitter, Instagram, TikTok.
The notifications were endless. Someone had screen-recorded the moment of your 'arrival.' It was being remixed with dramatic music, slowed down, zoomed in, and analyzed pixel by pixel.
'Lando Girlfriend was trending number one in the UK, Italy, and half of Europe.'
You sat up, the duvet pooling around your waist, and scrolls through the madness. There were memes of you tripping, memes of Lando’s face, and, surprisingly, a sea of comments that were… kind?
“He looks so happy, though,” one comment read. “Look at his eyes when he turns around.”
“The hoodie! It’s the team-issued one from 2022. They’ve been together for ages!”
“I’m just glad he has someone to look after him after a race.”
You felt a strange, warm sensation in your chest. You’d always feared this—the scrutiny, the comparison to the glamour of the paddock, the inevitable judgment.
But looking at the clips, seeing the way Lando hadn’t hesitated, hadn't tried to distance himself or make a joke of your appearance, you felt a new layer of security settle into your bones.
Lando stirred, his hand sliding across the sheets to find you. He groaned, eyes still squeezed shut, and pulled you back down toward him.
"What time is it?" he mumbled against your neck, his voice thick with sleep.
"Late," you whispered. "And the internet has officially lost its mind."
Lando let out a short, sleepy laugh, his arms tightening around you. "Let them. They have nothing better to do." He opened one eye, peering at your phone screen before swatting it away onto the rug. "Stop reading it. I told you, they don’t matter."
"People want to know who I am," you said, resting your chin on his chest.
"And I’m going to tell them," he said, finally opening both eyes. He looked at you with such intensity that the noise of the internet seemed to vanish. "When I’m ready. And when you’re ready. But for now, they can just keep guessing."
He pulled the duvet up over both of your heads, creating a small, dark sanctuary away from the light of the bedroom.
"Does this mean I have to hide if you go on stream again?" you asked, leaning in closer.
Lando chuckled, a vibration you could feel through his chest. "No. It means next time, I’m going to make sure you’re sitting right next to me."
You spent the rest of the morning in the cocoon of his room, the world clamoring for a piece of the story, while you stayed tucked away in the reality of it.
You watched him struggle to navigate his messages, his phone buzzing incessantly until he finally threw it into the bathroom.
"Turn it off," he commanded, pulling you into his arms. "Today is for us. Silverstone is tomorrow, and the media pen is going to be a nightmare. I’m claiming today as a neutral ground."
You laughed, the sound muffled by his hoodie—the same one you’d worn the night before, still smelling faintly of his laundry detergent.
As the afternoon light began to shift, casting long shadows across the room, the reality of the weekend started to sink in. Silverstone. The home race.
The pressure of the fans, the intensity of the team, the sheer scale of the event you were about to walk into, now with the world watching through a different lens.
Lando seemed to sense your hesitation. He shifted, lifting your chin with his fingers so you were forced to look at him.
"Hey," he said softly. "Whatever happens at the track, you stick with me. You know how the garage works. Stay in the hospitality, stay behind the scenes if you want. Nobody touches you. If anyone asks, you’re my guest, you’re my world, and they can deal with it."
"I'm not scared," you lied, though your heart was doing a frantic dance. "I'm just…"
"Overwhelmed?" he finished for you, his gaze compassionate.
You nodded. "Yeah. That."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "We’ll take it one corner at a time. Like I do. Just keep your eyes on me, and don't listen to the grandstands."
That night, you didn't go out. You ordered food—two pizzas, extra cheese, just like he liked—and spent hours talking about everything except racing.
You talked about the books you were reading, the places you wanted to travel to when the season finally ended, and the mundane, boring things that make a relationship real.
It was during one of these moments, while you were arguing over the best way to slice the pizza, that he stopped. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the playfulness in his eyes faded into something deeper, something permanent.
"You know," he started, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’ve been waiting for a reason to stop trying to be the 'Lando' everyone expects. You’re the only person who sees the guy behind the helmet. And I’m so glad you’re here."
"I’m not going anywhere," you promised, feeling the weight of the last twenty-four hours lift. "Even if I accidentally crash every stream you ever do."
Lando laughed, a loud, unbridled sound that echoed in the quiet living room. "If you do, I’ll just make sure the camera is pointed at us next time."
He leaned over and kissed you, slow and deliberate, a grounding force in the middle of a world that had suddenly decided to rotate around the two of you.
The next morning, the reality of Silverstone began. The drive to the track was a blur of security and fast cars, but as you stepped out of the SUV and saw the sea of orange jerseys stretching toward the horizon, you realized something.
Lando was right. The fans weren't there to judge you. They were there for him. And as he reached out, taking your hand in front of the team principals and the assembled media, he didn't look at them. He looked at you.
He squeezed your hand, a silent message that traveled from his palm to yours, a promise you had made in the dark of his apartment.
One corner at a time.
As he walked you toward the paddock, the flashing of cameras began—a rhythmic, blinding strobe light that would have terrified you yesterday.
But Lando didn't flinch. He walked with his head held high, his grip on your hand firm and unapologetic.
He didn't make a speech. He didn't issue a statement. He simply existed, with you by his side, proving that the 'hard launch' wasn't the end of the world. It was just the beginning of a life you’d get to live together, right in the middle of the noise.
And as you passed the final turn, heading into the heart of the paddock, you realized that the most important thing wasn't the cameras, or the fans, or the headlines.
It was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching—with a pride that made you feel like you were the only person in the entire world.
He slowed down near his garage, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.
"Ready?" he asked, his eyes dancing.
You looked at the crowd, then back at him, and smiled.
