#reconciliation

"So we're having another sleepover tonight, bud," He tells his son excitedly over his own kiddie-sized cup of chocolate chip ice cream. Isaac cheers from your lap.

"Garett, he's got school in the morning, and I'm running out of clean underwear."

"Just take a pair of mine, I know you prefer them," he winks at you, and you roll your eyes at his antics. Isaac’s face is covered at this point in moose tracks. Before you can even shuffle your son off your lap, Garrett is standing up to grab a hefty handful of napkins (how you forgot this crucial step is beyond you) and dampen a few with water. He sits down and places the remaining dry ones under his cup of ice cream before saying

“Alright, look at me real fast, bud,” and wiping down his face. The toddler squirms in defiance, but Graham doesn’t give up. “So did Phil find you?”

“Yeah, we talked with Grandpa, he was.” You trail off a moment, “Maybe he could make like every other fallen athlete and take up acting. Cindy seems nice, the poor thing.” Graham rolls his eyes, not at you but in anger. It’s all very normal between the two of you, and it makes you both ache. When you became pregnant, you knew this would put Graham's career in jeopardy, so you decided to keep your life private.

A select few knew the whole story, and hockey fans could recognize the last name on any day care form you filled out. So it was decided that while Garrett was in school, Phil would set you up with an apartment and hand you a credit card with your name on it “for any expenses the baby might have,” and when Garrett graduated and joined the NHL, you could choose to go back to school or get a job. But at a certain point, you and Graham decided not to stay together. Something about wanting to allow him a more normal college experience. He tried desperately to talk you out of it. At 18, he didn’t want to admit he was ecstatic that you would be a permanent part of his life.

Eventually, he agreed to seeing other people, and he slept around, although this time he was much more cautious about birth control. He knew you had a boyfriend for a few months when you were 19, but that he dumped you when he realized how difficult raising Isaac was, and that you weren’t as uninhibited as any other girl he could be dating. It took everything in him not to pummel that man.

The drive home from the parlor was quiet except for the sounds of wind against the windows and the engine rumbling. Periodically, Isaac would babble in his sleep after suffering a minor sugar coma. But all Garrett could do was watch you stressfully comb your fingers through your hair in his peripheral vision. Your life must be so difficult. The house was a wreck with a post-win party, so he drove you to your apartment, which was now dish-free and spotless.

“Gare,”

“I don’t wanna hear it. It’s all for Isaac.”

“Thank you.” You smiled as he walked his son to his bedroom and helped him into his pajamas. Teeth were brushed, stories read, and prayers said. The toddler was out for the night. Garret rejoined to see you absolutely melted into your couch and suddenly felt stiff in his cargo pants.

“Hey, Garrett.” You asked as he crossed the threshold. He hummed in response, “Can you get me a glass of wine? There should be some in the fridge.”

“Course,” he responded. When he returned, he had left his jacket by your door and set down the bottle and two of your glasses. Something fancy your aunt gifted you from Pottery Barn. He sat down and fought the smile when you dug your ever-freezing feet under his hamstring despite the giant knitted blanket cocooning you.

“Drinking tonight, Graham?”

“I won, and one won’t kill me.”

“Morning lift tomorrow?”

“Seven a.m.” He confirms

“Jesus, have mercy,” you laugh as he hands you your glass. He sips it, and you watch his face contort. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been into these really crispy, almost tart whites lately. Hope I’m not pregnant and this is some craving.”

“Oh, have you been hooking up with someone?”

“No, no,” you trail off, sipping the glass, “just ever since I gave birth, I get so scared it’s going to happen again. Isaac is my whole world, but I’m not looking to make a solar system any time soon.”

“ I get that,” he tries another sip before putting the glass down in disgust. “he seems like a lot and like you have a lot to deal with.”

“Oh, I make do.”

“What if you didn’t have to?”

“Why is Phil going to hire me a nanny? I swear the debt keeps growing.”

“No, nothing like that. I was thinking that you know, once I graduate. Maybe we can move in together. Give Isaac a better shot at a real family.”

“Garrett,”

“You don’t have to answer me tonight. Just think about it.” A silence falls over the living room. Even the murmur of the TV, which seemed to be permanently set to level 7, turned into a dull hum. You twiddled your toes under his leg and then curled them so they crack. You finish your glass, and Garrett hands you his rejected one.

"Thank you," you laugh, "Gare?" There's such an innocence to the way your voice pitches up. Once again, he hums in response. "When was the last time you had sex?" Oh, that's not innocent. He pretends to think about it. Pretends to count the days. After a beat he clears his throat.

"Last week, it was Friday."

"Really? What's his name?" he snorts at your quip

"Yeah, right, asshole. Her name was Jenna."

"Ugh, Jenna, I would kill to have had sex last Friday "

"When was the last time for you?" You take a glug of your glass

"Just you know, 8 months ago."

"Eight months!"

"Shhhhh!" you reprimand

"Sorry,” he curls his lips, "eight months?"

"Hey, I don't want to talk about it

"You're the one who brought it up

"I know, I know. But I don't wanna know what to do, Gare. I can't handle the apps, I don't have time for bars, and I swear to god my vibrator will burst into flames if I pick it up again." Finally, he turned around and faced you. His face was hard and concentrated, the way you imagine it was under his helmet. He begins to say something and then stops himself, licks his lips, and starts again.

"You're probably tired. Why don't I run you a shower and get you in bed?"

"No," you trail off again, a lilt in your voice, "I want a bath."

“Ok, I’ll set you up a bath.” He says so in an informational tone. Almonds like he’s trying to convince you that he can draw you a bath even if he doesn’t believe a tub actually exists. Down the hall, Isaac’s bathroom only has a shower, sink, and toilet. But when he snoops in your bedroom, he sees two doors. One for your closet, the second for an en suite. First step, he fills the tubs with the hottest water he can, remembering the time the two of you tried showering together and he felt himself get cooked alive. Then he located a few tea lights you had and a Bic lighter before setting out the small lit candles. He finds a bag of bath mix, hangs it around the faucet, and the water starts forming aromatic bubbles. It’s around this point that he turns around and finds you watching him from the doorway with this serene expression.

“Baths are almost ready.”

“I can see that,” you set your glass and the bottle of wine on the edge of your bath. Then you peel off the top layers of your outfit. Socks, jeans, sweater, and toss them on top of your hamper. You turn on the shower and resume stripping, having found a claw clip to put your hair in. It’s at this point that Garrett turns fully around and covers his eyes. “Come on, I’m just running off.”

“And I’m just being polite.” He hears the shower stream cut off, and you step out towards your tub

“Gare, I gave birth to your baby.”

“Doesn’t matter, you haven’t told me you want me to see you naked.” You step into the bath with a plop and release a big sigh as the hot water envelopes you

“Ahh, you got it just right.” You pick up your refreshed glass

“What scalding hot,”

“Just preparing for hell.” You laugh, “You don’t want in on this?” Garrett cocks an eyebrow at you before stalking over and dunking half his fingers into the water. As expected, it feels like a double boil. He responds no, no, but stays leaning on the ledge of the bath so he can watch you sip your wine. “In that case, can you rub my feet?” One of yours sprouts from the water.

“Sure, kid,” he says as he stands across from you and works his hands into the knots in the fascia of one foot. You are able in the same way as Isaac does. When one is down, you hide that foot under the bubble and lift the opposite. He can’t stop smiling to himself. You look so relaxed, you might actually begin to melt. When both feet have been properly relaxed, you make a bit of a guilty face.

“Gare, can you rub my shoulders?”

“Of course, (Y/n).”

The air is exceptionally misty in your bathroom, and Garrett has to navigate the mess of hair and the space between your porcelain tub and your bare shoulders to reach you. The first contact with them sets goose bumps on both his arms. He tries to ignore them. Concentrate on your pleasure. But he is further distracted by you sighing once again. A couple of directions are exchanged, lowers before you sigh again. “That’s the spot.”

He couldn’t locate reasons to change a thing. The water makes trickling noises as you shift in tandem with his ministrations. “You don’t need me to do this, you know.” Your eyes have been shut for the last few minutes, but you still raise an eyebrow. “I mean, you could always drop him off at daycare and get a massage. At a real spa. From a professional.”

“You know how I feel about daycares.”

“Or hire someone to come here. Phil’s money is a sea one massage won’t drain his savings.”

“I don’t like having a stranger's hands all over me. You-you’re familiar. It’s comfortable.” He doesn’t respond with real words, just kind of grunts somewhere in the back of his throat. “Alright, this water is getting cold, and I’m gonna get pruny.” Garrett removes his hands and immediately misses the feeling of your shoulders between his fingers and thumbs.

“Let me go get you some pajamas.” He dries his hands on one of your towels on the way out, and you roll your eyes at his utter aversion to your nudity. Or the immense respect he’s shown for constantly protecting your naked form. He knocks on the door, and when you quietly ’yell’ I’m decent, he just places some folded up PJs on the bathroom counter. After you’ve dressed, you find him, disgruntledly separating and putting laundry into your washing machine.

“When was the last time you did your laundry, young lady?”

“I was getting to it,” you defend, “it’s really hard to keep up with everything that Isaac dirties.”

“Well, the best care you can take of him is to take good care of yourself.” He shuts the washing machine, pours some soap into the little drawer, and sets it to cold and delicates. “This preserves the color.” He winks at you as if a giant, burly hockey player lecturing you about your laundry wouldn’t turn you on. He had already drawn your curtains and flicked on your nightlight.

“This is all too much, Gare.”

“I’m a dad taking care of my kid. Now go to bed.” He peels back your comforter.

“Only if you can give me more cuddles.”

“I’m not getting in your bed in day clothes.”

“Then put your jeans on the laundry chair.” You point to the seat in the corner of your room where you rarely had the chance to read. He rolls his eyes and juts his chin in the direction of your bed. As you tuck in, you watch him peel out of his pants and lay them over your chair. Shamelessly, you admire the view.

“Coping a peak?” He teases

"You know it." Before he can even attempt to settle you are sprawling across his chest and digging your body into the mattress. The contact sets his body alight. He tries to relax but he feels every muscle tense up the way they did when he drove you to the hospital. "Gare," you say after a beat "your hearts pounding."

"Yeah I can feel that."

"Are you okay?"

"Just peachy keen. Try to get some sleep."

"Please," you sigh and roll over. Immediately garrett rolls with you to spoon you. You immediately pull his hand up by the wrist. "Are you comfortable, Gare?'

"Never been better." He plays it cool. You're halfway between tipsy and drunk and fall asleep for the first time since the lines turned pink in a blissful mist. The story is not the same for Garrett. He's having a complete moral dilemma. The boner he's sporting could cut diamonds, but he is way too comfortable to get up and jerk off. Your hair smells like your expensive bergamot-and-mint shampoo. Every inch of your body feels softer than the blankets that you rub your hands on in the store. He decides that no sexual relief is worth waking you up or disturbing you. It's a few minutes later when he feels a contact high from bergamot and mint, and finally feels himself pulled under by slumber.

His sleep lasts only a brief wink because he wakes to the sensation of a warm writhing something. You're murmuring something in your sleep and grinding against him. It takes him a few groggy moments to put all of this together. By the time he has rubbed the sleep from his eyes, your babbles have become coherent.

"Gare," you sigh. Oh, oh, he snaps into game mode. But as soon as he is conscious, he is thrown back into his moral dilemma. Wake you up, potentially embarrass you, and piss you off. Or stay still and fight himself while you wet dream against him. he opts for the potentially more dangerous option and gently shakes you awake. You awake slowly, similar to him, still reeling from the change of scenery.

"Why did you wake me?"

"Uh, I think you were-you were squirming. I did n't-I felt like a cat post." It appears that the content of your dreams comes back to you.

"Oh my god, Garrett, I'm so sorry." You immediately try to jump out of your bed, but are stopped by a gentle hand on your wrist

"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm not mad, I'm just. I'd like to be a part of whatever fantasy you were having." You're tucked into his chest, and your hands fly up to cover your eyes. "What?" he laughs

"It wasn't a fantasy." You remove your hands from your eyes. "I was dreaming of prom night, in the hotel, when we accidentally conceived Isaac."

"The sex was," he trails off, finding the right words

"It wasn't good-I know we figured it out later. But from what I hear, Mr. Last Friday, you've learned some tricks."

"I have," He licks his lips, feeling his heart just pound in his chest. "Do you want me to show you them?" You nod like an embarrassed little kid. "Okay," His smile is infectious, but is once again replaced by a studying look. "I can kiss you, right?" You don't give him a chance to feel doubt. You leap across his chest and take his head in both your hands, and kiss as much of your love for him. He makes quick work to pull both of your knees around his waist.

He traces up and down the back of your thigh as you move your mouth against his, only surfacing for a moment to demand, "Take your clothes off, now." You sit up in his lap so he can sit up and peel his shirt off. He barely has the time to throw it to the side before your mouth latches onto the side of his neck. You feel his hand on the drawstring of your sweatpants

"Your turn," He smiles and helps you pull them down your hips. The flimsy fabric joins his shirt in the somewhere else that all clothes end up in during sex. He leans back to admire the view. Despite grabbing the first clean pair of underwear he could find, he finds the hip-hugging apricot panties you’re wearing far sexier than any overpriced strappy lingerie.

“Stop, it’s really nothing special.”

“It’s you, everything is special.” He squeezes your hips before kissing you again. This time, he begins trailing his lips down your neck. As your posture melts, he feels you lean into his touch. Slowly, his right hand slides down your body as his left stays supporting your neck. He pauses for a moment before rubbing your clit over your cotton underwear. And the sounds you make, he might as well quit school and hockey and spend the rest of his life pleasing you. Finding the straddle awkward, he positions you on his left thigh and slowly slides your legs down before you kick them away.

“Is this okay?” He slowly slides his index finger inside you

“Yes, gare fuck-another.” Whoa, he rarely heard you swear, but from the feel of it, you were fucking soaked. He obeys, adding his middle finger, and you look like a woman possessed. The sounds pouring out of your mouth are incessant and unabashed. He works you out on his fingers until you're brought to the brink, and right as you're about to finish, he pulls his hand out. "What's not fair?"

"You really thought I was going to fuck you without eating you out?" Your face flushes at his tone. So assertive. so confident. "You're out of your mind." You flip over and place a pillow under your lower back. The moment his lips attach to your clit, you're brought right back to the edge. "Gare-Garrett that f-feels really good."

"Yeah?" He comes up a moment only for you to shove his head right back in

"Yeah," you're nearly groaning with relief as he takes his time, "Was starting to th-think that I was becoming numb to orgasms." He slides his fingers back into you, and once again, your back forms an arch like those in Missouri. The orgasm arrives like an assassin. A silent killer. One moment you're stuttering, the next a 'fuck!' flies out of your mouth with a Garrett's name not that far behind. He comes up, wiping his mouth with an infectious smile on his face.

"Oh my god,"

"I thought you weren't supposed to take the Lord's name in vain."

"You shut up and fuck me." You pull him down and kiss him again. Even the taste of your own cum on his lips doesn't deter you. Even as you kiss him, you strip from the big old band tee he'd given you. He stands up, and you watch unashamedly, savoring the view. Even in his boxers, you're taking perverted eyefulls of his sculpted body. He pulls his boxers down and slowly climbs at you. One more kiss before he lines himself up.

You want to pretend like this is super easy. Like you were made to fit together. But at 8 months out of practice, there is some serious discomfort. He pulls back and slows down, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just been a while.'

"We can stop-"

"No!" you cut him off. "Please keep going," you pull him back so you're chest to chest. I just need you to go slower, that's all."

"Okay," He licks his lips in concentration. He lines himself up again and takes it even slower. You feel every inch and contour as he slides himself in. That delicious burn. Finally, after what feels like years, he bottoms out. "I'm in, but I'll wait until you say."

"Thank you, Garrett, just give me a minute."

"You know," He tucks some hair behind your ear, "I don't mind it here. I could get comfortable." You slide your hands down his bare waist and feel the soft skin wrapped over contoured muscle. The pain subsides, and you give him verbal confirmation that he's in the clear. He moves slowly, painstakingly slow.

"Alright, Gare, I'm not made of sugar."

"You can just tell me to speed up."

"Fine, pick up the pace, Garrett." He obeys, once again pulling his hips back with a testing swing. As you moan, he gradually raises the speed. It's like this positive feedback loop where the more you moan, the faster he goes. "Yes," you whimper. "Yes!" Finally, Garrett allows himself to be vocal, letting pleasured grunt after groan tumble through his nose.

"Oh fuck, you feel so good."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do so so fucking good, ah, please tell me you're close."

"Yeah, I'm." He puts his lips back on your throat. Anyone else would be embarrassed. Anyone else would be embarrassed, but the sex lasts very short before you're both tumbling over the edge. And you're not embarrassed. You feel the best you ever have. Garrett looks like he could probably sympathize. Your ears are ringing with joy. You don't remember the in between of the obligatory clean up and post sex cuddles. Maybe it's because with Garrett, you don't have to think; he just understands you. You fall asleep wrapped in his arms.

………..

The morning greets you with a kind of warmth you were unaccustomed to. Not because you were wrapped in the hundred-pound arms of the love of your life. In fact, you wake up to an empty bed and his clothes gone. You would sit and sulk, but there's a text waiting for you on your phone. I had to run out and get a toothbrush and some proper clothes for church.'

"I told you to rent the SUV."

“And I said, we don’t need one!” Lando protested, his voice cracking slightly as he gestured wildly at the frosted window.

“Clearly, we do because your dysfunctional car drifted into a pine tree that is now blocking the very exit we need. Lando, we are fucking stuck here."

You stood by the window of the cabin, arms crossed, staring out at the disaster in the driveway. The McLaren Artura—a vehicle worth more than most houses and designed exclusively for dry asphalt—was buried up to its wheel arches in a Finnish snowdrift and a huge pine tree just mocking both of you. It looked ridiculous.

You stared at the car, a bitter laugh bubbling in your chest. It was so typical. Lando Norris: the boy who lives life like a game. He never planned for the bad weather. He never planned for the hard days. He just assumed everything would work out if he went fast enough.

That was exactly why you were leaving him. You were tired of being the passenger in a life that was moving too fast to actually be lived.

Inside, the air was already turning stale and cold. The "smart heating system" Lando had insisted on installing two years ago was currently flashing a red error code that probably meant Game Over in Finnish, and the WiFi router was dead.

Lando was pacing the length of the living room rug. He was wearing a bright neon green Quadrant beanie that clashed violently with the rustic timber walls, looking less like a Formula 1 driver and more like a glow stick experiencing an existential crisis.

"My stream," he muttered, tapping his phone screen aggressively. "I was supposed to be live in a few hours. The chat is going to think I died."

"Priorities, Lando," you sighed, turning away from the window to face the room. "We are trapped in a blizzard with no heat, no internet, and..." You gestured to the coffee table.

There, the reason why you both are here in the first place, sitting in the center of the room like a radioactive device, was the thick manila envelope. The divorce papers.

Lando’s eyes flicked to the envelope, then immediately away, bouncing to the ceiling, the floor, the window—anywhere but the evidence of your failing marriage. He pulled his beanie down lower. "I’m going to check the fuse box again."

"You don't know what a fuse box looks like.”

“I can be an engineer if I wanted to!" he yelled over his shoulder, fleeing into the kitchen.

—————————

Two hours later, the engineering attempt had failed, and the silence was louder than the wind howling outside. You were both huddled on opposite ends of the oversized leather sofa, wrapped in whatever blankets you could find.

Since talking about why you were divorcing was too painful, and talking about the weather was too depressing, you had resorted to arguing about the assets, specifically the things in the last house that you were unable to sell. It was petty, it was stupid, and it was the only thing keeping you from crying.

"I don't want the deer," Lando said, pointing a gloved hand at the terrifying taxidermy head mounted above the fireplace. "It looks like it’s judging me… kind of reminds me of you, actually.”

"Well, I don't want it!" you snapped, pulling your blanket tighter. "You bought it! You said it gave the place 'scandi-vibes'!"

"I was drunk! That shouldn't be legally binding!"

You looked at the deer, and a memory hit you so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of you. You remembered that day. It was two years ago, during the winter break. You were stumbling through the Helsinki Christmas market, Lando laughing so hard his nose was bright red, holding that stupid deer head like a trophy. He had kissed you right there in the snow, promising that this cabin would be your escape—a place where cameras couldn't follow.

Now, the cabin was just another asset to liquidate, and the deer was just a dusty witness to the end.

He huffed, sinking lower into his hoodie. He looked ridiculous and looked exhausted. But also, annoyingly, he looked cold. He hadn't brought a proper coat because Lando lived life on the edge, and now he has to suffer through it, and clearly, you don’t give a fuck if he freezes for the next 48 hours. His teeth were chattering, a soft click-click-click sound that was chipping away at your resolve.

Don't do it, you told yourself. Do not offer him your scarf. He is a grown man. He is a millionaire. He can buy a scarf factory. But god, he looks like a shivering puppy.

"What about the Nespresso machine?" you asked, trying to distract yourself from the urge to choke him with your scarf.

"You take it," he said quickly.

"But you love that machine. You named it 'Brew-is Hamilton'."

"Yeah, well," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, refusing to meet your eyes. "I don't know how to use the milk frother properly. You were the one who made the good foam. 

"It’s useless to me. It doesn't taste right if... if you don't make the foam."

The next blow. He was basically saying, It’s useless to me without you. This house is just bringing up past memories that you would like buried with the snow.

You looked away, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Fine. I take the machine.”

—————————

Night fell, and the temperature plummeted. The generator gave a final, dying wheeze and cut out, plunging the cabin into darkness save for the dying embers in the fireplace.

"Dinner," you announced, trying to keep your voice steady. You rummaged through the pantry with your phone flashlight. It was a grim selection of non-perishables left over from your last visit. "Okay. We have pickled beets, a jar of sardines... or plain crackers."

"I am not eating a fish from a jar," Lando said from the floor, where he had moved to be closer to the fire. "That is a crime against humanity. That is worse than Oscar’s dry sense of humor."

"It’s that or starvation, Norris."

“Fine…Crackers, please.”

You joined him on the rug, the only warm spot left in the house. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, not touching, sharing the box of dry crackers and the bottle of expensive red wine that was supposed to be for the 'Closing Sale' toast.

You took a sip, trying to stop your own shivering. The cold was seeping through your socks, biting at your toes. You shifted your legs, tucking them under you, but it didn't help.

Lando paused mid-chew. He didn't turn his head, but his gaze dropped to your socks, tracking the subtle, involuntary tremor of your knees. He knew that fidget. He knew exactly at what temperature you stopped functioning. Without a word, without even looking up from the cracker he was inspecting, Lando reached out.

His hand clamped around your ankle. He tugged your legs straight, then lifted your feet and tucked them securely under his thighs, sandwiching them between the warmth of his legs and the rug.

You froze.

It was muscle memory. A habit from three years of marriage. Your feet were cold; he warmed them. It was a reflex attested through a shared life you once both knew.

You looked down at his hand resting on your shin. The gold wedding band was gone; he’d taken it off for the legal proceedings, but the skin on his ring finger was still pale, a stark of white against his tan. A ghost of the promise he claimed he couldn't keep.

He chewed his cracker, and he paused. The realization hit him a second later that you.

He went rigid, his hand hovering over your shin. But he didn't let go, and you didn't pull away, either. The heat from his legs was seeping into your frozen toes, a painful, wonderful reminder of the intimacy you were throwing away.

"Jesus," he hissed, his hands tightening around your ankles to generate more friction. "Are you actually part of the undead, now? "

"Rich," you mumbled, eyeing the sad, half-eaten cracker in his other hand. "Coming from the man trying to survive a blizzard on a dry biscuit."

But neither of you moved. The air between you was charged, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and the vanilla perfume you hadn't changed in years.

The fire popped, a loud crack that broke the trance. You looked at the coffee table. The manila envelope was barely visible in the firelight, but its presence felt heavy, suffocating.

"Just sign it, Lando," you said, your voice trembling. You pulled your feet out from under him. The loss of warmth was immediate and brutal. "The pen is right there. It’s been six months of you dodging the lawyers. Just finish it."

Lando flinched. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The neon beanie slipped back, revealing messy curls. The mask of the "Cool F1 Driver," the streamer, and the joker dropped completely. He just looked like a boy who was lost.

"I can't," he said quietly.

"Why?" You grabbed the envelope and tossed it toward him. It landed on the rug with a soft slap. "It’s just paper, Norris. You drive at 200 miles per hour, but you can't hold a pen?"

"I opened it, okay! The papers you sent me the first time… I held it over and over again!" he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking, eyes flashing with sudden, wet anger. "I had the pen in my hand! I sat there for hours!"

"Then why didn't you?"

He looked at you, his eyes swimming with tears, his chest heaving.

"Because it felt like signing your name out of my life," he choked out. "Once I put the ink on the paper, I can't undo it. I can fix a bad lap. I can apologize to the team. I can fix a crash… But, I can’t fix this."

He wiped his face aggressively with his sleeve, sniffing loudly.

"I didn't want this," he whispered, the fight draining out of him. "I didn't know how to carry the weight of the title and the weight of your heart at the same time, so I dropped you. I dropped us. I thought if I focused on the car, you’d still be there when I got out, and fuck, Y/N, I was wrong.” He stepped closer, hands twitching as if he wanted to reach for you but was terrified to touch.  “I let you slip through my fingers, lap by lap, race by race. I was so obsessed with the car that I didn't see I was driving our marriage off a cliff. And the worst part? You stayed. You sat in the stands and cheered for me while I was letting you rot in silence. I want to get on my knees and beg you to start over, to tell you I’ll change—but how can I ask you to forgive a man who watched you drown for a year and did nothing but smile for the cameras?" He looked at you dead in the eyes now. “I’m sorry, Y/N, for everything I've done to us. But believe me when I say, Fuck the championship. Fuck the legacy. It’s all just noise. I thought if I won, I’d be enough for you, but all I did was ensure I’ll never be enough again. I let you down in the worst way possible. I left you alone when I was right there beside you. I’d give it back. I swear to God, I’d give every point, every podium, every second of it back if it meant you wouldn't look at me with those dead eyes. Please... just tell me it isn't too late."

The silence that followed his confession was louder than any cheering crowds that had drowned you out during your entire marriage.

Fuck the championship.

Three words. Three words that would have saved you six months ago. If he had said them when you were crying on the bathroom floor in Monaco, or when you were staring at the ceiling in an empty hotel room in Vegas, you would have stayed. You would have fought.

But now? Those words just felt like a eulogy.

You looked at him. The desperation in his eyes was raw and terrifyingly real. This wasn't Lando the Superstar; this was your Lando, stripped down to the bone. He was offering to burn down his empire just to keep you. God, it hurt. It hurt because you believed him. You knew he meant it. He would give every trophy back.

But he couldn't give back the time. He couldn't undo the loneliness.

But the love? The love was always right there between the two of you, terrified and freezing. It hadn't left. That was the cruelest joke of all. You didn't want to leave him because you stopped loving him; you were leaving him because loving him had started to kill you.

But looking at him now, shattered and breathless, the horrific truth finally hit you: He hadn't neglected you because he didn't care. He had neglected you because he thought he had to be a god to be worthy of you.

He was just a boy who had convinced himself that the only way to keep you was to be the best in the world. He had driven himself into the ground, chased every point and every win, not for his ego, but because he was terrified that if he was just Lando, he wouldn't be enough. He had broken your heart trying to protect it with trophies and glory when all you ever wanted was him.

If you walked away now, you weren't just leaving a bad marriage. You were leaving a man who had finally woken up. You were pulling the trigger right when he was ready to lay down his armor.

Is asking for a divorce really the right call?

You made a choice.

You reached over and picked up the thick manila envelope.

Lando flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, turning his head away as if expecting you to force the pen into his hand.

Riiiiiiiiip.

The sound was tearing and loud in the quiet cabin.

Lando’s head snapped up. He stared, mouth slightly open, as you tore the document down the middle, then stacked the halves and tore them again.

"My lawyer is going to kill me," he whispered, staring at the confetti in your hands. "That was the original copy."

"Let him sue us," you said, your voice trembling but firm. You tossed the shredded paper onto the floor. "We’re snowed in. We have at least twenty-four hours before a tow truck can get here. Maybe forty-eight."

You crawled across the small space on the rug and he followed you. You didn't kiss him. It was too soon for that. But he sat next to you, shoulder to shoulder, pressing your side against his.

"We don't sign today," you said softly. "We talk about us, about the schedules, about everything.”

Lando let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He leaned his head sideways until it rested heavily on your shoulder. His hand found yours in the dark, his fingers tangling with yours, holding on tight.

"Okay," he murmured, the tension finally leaving his body. "We talk."

He paused, sniffing loudly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

"But can we also talk about getting better snacks for this cabin? Because if we get back together, I am banning the sardines."

You let out a wet laugh, leaning your head on top of his neon beanie. “Deal."

—————————

The next morning, the sun rose over a brilliantly white, frozen landscape. The Finnish tow truck driver arrived at 9 AM, shaking his head as he winched the flashy McLaren out of the snowdrift. He walked up to the cabin to get a signature, knocking loudly on the thick timber door.

Nobody answered.

Inside, the fire had long burned out, but the room was warm. Buried under the single faux-fur throw, two figures slept tangled together, limbs knotted in a desperate seek for warmth, surrounded by the torn remnants of a divorce decree scattered like snow. They didn't hear the knock. They were too busy making up for lost time.