#protectivelove

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ)

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ/ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴏʀʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀʟᴏᴀᴅ (ɴᴏɪꜱᴇ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ)

ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴇᴛᴀʀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴛʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ)

The sky above Monaco burned a pale orange by the time Sunday rolled around, painting the Grand Prix weekend with a postcard-perfect glow. Crowds thickened along the barricades. Helicopters hovered like lazy flies overhead. The air reeked of octane, sunscreen, and champagne dreams.

(Y/n) hadn’t planned to go anywhere near the race. But Amara had dragged her out of bed with a coffee bribe and a VIP paddock pass, something Carla had scored last-minute through a friend in PR. She couldn’t refuse, not without raising suspicion.

Besides, part of her was tired of hiding.

Still, standing near the paddock now, tucked behind sunglasses and her loose jacket, she felt like an intruder. Mechanics buzzed like bees around the cars. Pit crews shouted numbers and tire pressures. Celebrities posed near hospitality suites.

And there, like gravity pulling her gaze, was Lando Norris.

He hadn’t seen her yet. He was busy, head down, listening to his engineer, laughing at something Oscar Piastri muttered. He looked lighter, more focused than the version of him from that alley. But she could see it in his shoulders: the tension, the pressure.

A tug on her arm.

"Come on," Amara whispered. "Carla says they’re doing a quick meet-and-greet by the McLaren truck. We’ll just peek. I swear."

(Y/n) followed, her stomach twisting.

Luca was already there. Tall and sharply dressed in a black button-up tucked neatly into tailored slacks, he stood near a group of journalists, his dark hair pushed back with deliberate ease and a pair of sunglasses resting casually atop his head. He held a clear plastic cup of iced coffee in one hand, the condensation dripping slowly down his fingers. His presence was effortlessly confident, the kind that didn’t need attention but always drew it anyway. His eyes found hers quickly. He raised a brow in silent question.

She nodded once. Just observing, she mouthed.

"Ms. (L/n)?" a voice said behind her.

She turned, too fast, and found herself face-to-face with someone from the PR tent, a clipboard in hand. "We had your name down as one of the boutique partners for styling this week, right? McLaren wants a quick photo with the designers."

(Y/n)'s heart stopped. "I—what?"

"It'll be thirty seconds. Just by the garage. Promise."

Before she could decline, Amara was pushing her forward with a grin that said you’ve got this.

She stepped past the gate.

Lando looked up. Their eyes locked.

The change in him was immediate. His shoulders straightened. His smirk vanished. He blinked as if she’d caught him mid-dream.

And then, as if the universe wanted to toy with her one more time—

Boom.

A tire jack slipped from one of the pit stations, clanging onto the concrete with a deafening crash. She flinched. Lando instinctively stepped forward, catching her by the elbow.

"You okay?"

(Y/n) stared at him. Too close. Too fast.

Luca appeared a second later, placing a firm hand on her back. "She’s fine. Just startled."

Lando's gaze flicked to Luca, then back to her. "Are you sure?"

(Y/n) nodded. “I’m good.”

The PR woman waved them over. “Just one photo. Smile!”

Lando hesitated, but she was already moving to stand beside him.

The camera flashed. Once. Twice.

Then she was gone.

Retreating before anyone else could say her name. Before Lando could ask the questions that sat so dangerously close to the truth.

Back in the boutique’s staff lounge, she sat down heavily, peeling off her jacket. Her body felt heavy, not just from the heat and tension, but from the decisions she still hadn’t made.

She reached for her water bottle, taking slow sips of the filtered cucumber water she kept on hand now. Hydration was crucial, her doctor had said. So were small, consistent meals. Nothing too greasy. Lots of leafy greens. She had a small stash of almonds and crackers in her bag, and ginger chews for when the nausea came in waves.

She avoided cold cuts now, and soft cheeses. No more tuna sandwiches or over-sugared bubble tea. Sushi was off the table. She had switched her morning coffee to decaf, though she missed the jolt. Fruit smoothies with oat milk were her new lifeline. Her meals had gone from careless to cautious overnight.

Everything she ate now had to think twice for two.

Amara walked in, flopping down beside her with a sigh. “You did great back there. Didn’t even faint.”

(Y/n) gave a tight smile. “Barely.”

Amara opened a protein bar, took a bite, then looked over. “I saw you dodging the prosciutto skewers earlier.”

(Y/n) shrugged, casually. “Not in the mood for cold meats.”

Amara raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. “I packed your almond crackers and that oat smoothie just in case.”

(Y/n)’s expression softened. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

Before Amara could say more, Carla burst through the door. “They’re replaying the photo on the big screen outside! You and Lando looked like a promo for a Netflix show.”

Amara laughed and stood. “Come on, you’re gonna want to see this.”

(Y/n) exhaled in relief, grabbing her jacket.

She still hadn’t told him.

But soon.

Maybe too soon.

To be continued... 🧡 🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ꜱʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Good morning from my side of the world ☀️ I’m finally awake, so here’s a fresh update for you to enjoy while I prep the next two chapters in the lineup. Thank you for being patient and staying with me through all the drama, tension, and tender moments 🧡

I’ll be working on the upcoming chapters next, so stay tuned, it's only going to get more intense from here 👀

Until then, enjoy this one and feel free to scream in the comments. You know I live for that.

Pairing: Jackson Avery x Female Reader

Genre: Fluff, comfort, emotional softness

POV: You

You don’t cry often.

Not at work, not in public, and definitely not in the middle of a stairwell at Grey Sloan Memorial with your scrub top stained and your chest tight from holding everything in all day.

But today broke you a little.

Too many bad calls. Too many helpless moments. Too much pretending you were okay when all you wanted was for someone to see through it.

You lean against the wall, head tilted back, eyes shut. Just breathing. Just trying not to fall apart.

And then you hear his voice.

“Hey. I’ve been looking for you.”

Jackson.

The sound of it—smooth, low, so familiar—cuts through the noise in your head like sunlight through clouds. Your eyes open slowly, and there he is. Hair a little messy, stethoscope around his neck, concern written all over his ridiculously handsome face.

You try to speak, to shrug it off, to say something like “I’m fine.”

But the moment he steps closer and really looks at you, that wall you’ve built all day cracks just a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just reaches for your hand—gently, like he knows what this moment is. Like he’s been here before.

And you let him take it.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Or don’t. Just… let me be here.”

You don’t say much. Just a whisper: “Rough day.”

He nods, eyes steady. “Yeah. I figured.”

And then, like he’s done it a thousand times before, he pulls you into his arms.

You melt into him almost instantly, face pressed against the soft cotton of his scrub top, hands fisting the fabric like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

And he talks—low and slow, like a quiet lullaby just for you.

“You did everything you could today. You always do. And if anyone gets to fall apart sometimes, it’s you. You don’t have to be the strong one right now, okay? You’ve got me.”

His voice wraps around you, grounding and familiar, like warm blankets and soft lights and every little thing that’s ever made you feel safe.

You close your eyes. Just breathe. Just listen.

Because it’s true—there’s something about the way Jackson speaks to you. Something in the way his voice dips when he’s trying to comfort you, or softens when he says your name. Something that pulls you back when your world feels like it’s spinning out.

You stay like that for a while. No one else around. Just you, and him, and the echo of his voice reminding you that you’re not alone.

That you never were.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪꜱᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ, ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏꜱꜱ

ᴄᴀʀᴇɢɪᴠɪɴɢ/ɢᴜᴀʀᴅɪᴀɴ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴɢ-ᴛᴇʀᴍ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ

It began with a missed call.

Then a day passed without a reply. Then two. Then four.

At first, Lando didn’t think much of it. (Y/n) had mentioned her schedule tightening, something about fittings and fabric shipments arriving earlier than expected. It wasn’t unlike her to go silent during peak stress—when the work piled high, when deadlines pressed too close to breathe. She was meticulous, tireless, deeply woven into every detail of the clothes she helped bring to life. He understood that. He respected it.

But when the fifth day slipped past with no word—not a text, not a voice note, not even a like on the meme he sent at three in the morning—he began to wonder.

By the seventh day, concern rooted deeper.

He scrolled through their message thread, looking for signs, anything she might’ve said that he’d missed. Had she hinted at a trip? A campaign? A creative retreat? No, nothing. The last message was his: a blurry photo of a dog he saw in Monaco with eyes as wide as dinner plates. Looks like me when DRS fails, he’d written.

No response. Just read. Or maybe not even that.

Oscar noticed.

“Mate,” he said, throwing a towel over his shoulder after debrief. “You’ve been weird all week. You keep checking your phone like it owes you money.”

Lando brushed it off with a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was good at being casual, at hiding nerves beneath sarcasm. But inside, a quiet panic was taking root.

Was she okay?

Did she… lose interest?

The thought tasted bitter.

He knew what it was like to be forgotten, left behind. F1 was a world that demanded your soul and offered little in return unless you won. He’d built walls to protect what little of himself existed outside the sport. But (Y/n) had slipped past them. With her soft laughs and clever comebacks. With her sketches and silly piano videos. With her stubborn refusal to treat him like a superstar.

And now, she was gone.

Unreachable.

Across the continent, in a quiet hospital tucked behind the hills of Provence, (Y/n) Hwang lay still beneath sterile sheets.

The machines around her blinked and hummed in rhythm with her heart—irregular, strained. The doctors said it was a flare, that her heart had been quietly struggling for months. The long hours, the caffeine-fueled nights, the endless deadlines—her body had warned her. She didn’t listen.

Madam Cho had.

She noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the tremble in her fingers, the way she clutched her chest on bad mornings. Cho had seen her collapse once—years ago, back when (Y/n) was still a student barely surviving on instant school and ambition. She’d sworn then that she would protect the girl like her own blood ever since she adopted her when she was still little.

So, when (Y/n) failed to show up for the Monday meeting without a word, Cho didn’t call. She drove. And when she found her unconscious in her flat, pale as porcelain, lips tinged blue, she didn’t scream.

She carried her. Wrapped her in wool and fury.

In the hospital, the doctors told her the truth she already feared: (Y/n)’s heart was faltering again. It needed rest, recovery, and quiet. No screens. No stress. No overwork. Not even a phone. Complete digital silence.

“She’s not going to like this,” Cho muttered, crossing her arms.

“She’ll be fine,” the nurse assured. “If she stays off her feet and follows the plan.”

So, the days passed slowly. The windows bathed the room in soft sunlight. The nurses played classical music in the mornings. Cho brought her magazines, peeled oranges, and spoon-fed soup like a mother hen.

But (Y/n)?

She hated it.

Not the food. Not the quiet.

But the not-knowing. The not-telling.

She tried, the first day, to ask for her phone. Just a few minutes. Just to send one message. Just to let him know she hadn’t disappeared. That she wasn’t ignoring him. That she hadn’t forgotten him.

But the nurses refused. Firmly. Sweetly. “No, dear. You’ll thank us later.”

So, she lay in bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling, guilt a stone pressing against her ribcage.

She could picture him, Lando, wherever he was. Sitting in a hotel room, maybe. Drinking bad coffee before a briefing. Looking at his phone. Waiting.

She missed him.

More than she wanted to admit.

But she had to rest. Had to live. The doctors said this wasn’t just a pause, it was a warning. One more episode like this, and her heart might not forgive her again.

Back in Monaco, Lando sat alone on a balcony, the city glittering below, his phone cold in his palm.

He thought about texting one last time. Just something simple. Not demanding. Just a check-in.

Hope everything’s alright. No pressure. Just thinking of you.

But he didn’t send it.

Instead, he sighed. Put the phone down.

Maybe she was just busy.

Maybe she was tired.

Maybe she forgot.

And maybe, just maybe, she was gone.

To be continued...🧡

🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴏ🛏️

You’re never alone… someone’s hand is over you 💫