✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ: ʜᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ✒️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ & ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ & ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ
ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘꜱᴇ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ
The private jet descended through cotton-candy clouds into the airport near the Grand Prix venue, wheels kissing the runway with quiet urgency. Lando’s fingers danced on the armrest in rhythm with his heartbeat; (Y/n) sat beside him, rife with calm anticipation. Behind them, Zak and a few McLaren staff watched in pleased silence, the cabin humming with subtle triumph, not just of a return, but of a fragile healing.
As they collected their belongings, McLaren’s logistics team whisked (Y/n) to the suite before Lando even stepped onto European soil. The suite sat high above the paddock, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pit lane and grandstands, sleek and suffused with light. A welcome note lay on the marble table:
“For (Y/n): A place to remember. Love, M.”
Hearts flipped by the gesture, she found herself wanting to cry again, but these were tears polished with hope, not pain.
Friday: FP1—A Quiet Beginning
That afternoon, the air along the paddock shimmered with the low hum of tension, taut with expectation. Mechanics moved with precise urgency, radios crackled with clipped commands, and somewhere in the distance, an engine revved, a thunderous prelude to what was coming. The atmosphere was charged, electric.
Lando walked hand in hand with (Y/n), their fingers intertwined in quiet defiance of the chaos around them. She was nestled between Zak and Oscar at the edge of the McLaren hospitality stand, surrounded by a sea of orange and steel, but his world had narrowed to just her.
His grip tightened slightly, not possessive, but anchoring. Reassuring.
As if the moment itself might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
When it was time, he broke away with a final squeeze, striding toward the car as engineers opened the garage like gates to a battlefield. He slid into the cockpit, the carbon shell familiar yet always a little colder on high-pressure weekends. As the HANS device clicked around his neck and the mechanics tightened his belts, he found her again.
Eyes locked across the distance.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply mouthed three words, almost like a vow:
And she, steady as ever, nodded back. Her smile was soft, but unshakable, anchored in a kind of trust that made the earth feel less prone to collapse.
The car jolted forward, engines roaring into life around him, a mechanical symphony of velocity and control. He shifted through the gears with instinctive ease, each downshift smooth, every apex kissed with precision. To the telemetry team, his laps would later read as “measured,” even “restrained.”
This wasn’t restraint born of caution.
This was restraint born of devotion—
To something greater than a scoreboard.
Every lap was a vow. Every braking zone a conversation.
His heart didn’t race for the podium. It raced for what waited behind the garage doors.
When the session ended and he returned to the pit lane, his breath was steady but his hands trembled just slightly with adrenaline. Helmet off, curls damp against his forehead, he searched the garage, and there she was.
Her smile met him like sunrise after storm.
“You did great,” she said softly, as if anything louder might shatter the sacred stillness between them. Then, gently, “Just keep going.”
And for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could.
Not for points. Not for legacy.
For the quiet kind of love that steadied his pulse even at 300 kilometers an hour.
Friday: FP2—Slip and Regain
The second session carried sharper teeth. The sun hung higher now, casting harsh shadows across the tarmac, and the asphalt simmered beneath the weight of hotter tyres, heavier fuel loads, and tighter margins. Engineers buzzed over radios, tension stacking with every lap.
Lando knew the tempo had changed the moment he crossed the pit exit line. There was less grace here, more grit. This session demanded more of him. And he offered it willingly.
But midway through the run, just as he carved into turn seven, a long, tightening left-hander, he felt it: a lurch in the chassis, subtle but sharp. Understeer. Unexpected. He adjusted quickly, instinct flaring. The steering wheel jerked beneath his hands, and the tyres screamed in protest, rubber cooking against the heat-glazed track.
He missed the apex by inches. A whisper of rubber flirted with the barrier, close enough to feel it, not enough to leave a scar.
For a split second, everything narrowed: engine tone, pulse, breath. His heart slammed against his ribs.
He coasted back into the pit lane, visor cracked open, the roar of the engine tapering into a low growl as he slowed in front of the garage. When the crew waved him to a stop and lifted the nose cone, his gloved hands hovered on the wheel for a beat longer than usual.
Only when the belts were undone did he exhale, deep, controlled, like he was emptying out the fear before it could settle.
Helmet off, balaclava pulled down to his chin, he stepped out of the car and immediately scanned the edge of the paddock.
(Y/n) stood just behind the barrier, arms crossed, her expression unreadable at first, but her eyes gave her away. Worry clung to them like fog, even as she tried to stay calm for him.
Without a word, he crossed to her. The crowd buzzed, a few heads turned, but none of it reached him.
He reached over the barrier, fingers brushing her skin, and pressed one finger gently to her temple.
She closed her eyes at the touch, something in her chest loosening. Then she opened them again, brighter this time, and exhaled.
A small smile lifted the corner of her mouth. Not relief.
Saturday: FP3—Turning the Corner
Practice three arrived with the soft hush of dawn. The circuit shimmered beneath the golden wash of morning light, the grandstands slowly waking with scattered movement and yawning murmurs. It was the kind of sunrise that felt almost forgiving, like the world might just be kind today.
Lando rolled out onto the track with purpose. There was no bravado in his driving, just clarity. Each gearshift felt smoother, more deliberate. Each turn-in came with instinct instead of doubt. The car responded to him like a living thing, agile, eager, aligned.
The kind that came from focus, yes, but also from faith.
And with every clean lap, every perfectly clipped apex, he felt it: the shift. A quiet turning. Something inside him settling, as if the weight he’d been carrying all season had finally started to lift.
When he returned to the paddock, the sun had fully broken through the cloud line, casting long shadows across the hospitality tents. (Y/n) was there, waiting near the barriers, a coffee in one hand, her other tucked beneath the sleeve of her jacket.
Her eyes found his, and in them, a gleam of quiet pride.
Not loud. Not performative.
He walked straight to her and didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped into hers, calloused palm to palm, a grounding touch he hadn’t realized he needed until it was there.
He didn’t speak at first. Neither did she.
And then, in a voice low and resolute, Lando murmured, “Let’s do this.”
No pep talk. No fuss. No fragile optimism.
Just shared certainty, weathered, wordless, whole.
The kind of moment forged not from fairy tales, but from pain endured, reconciliations earned, and love rebuilt in the quiet aftermath.
Her presence steadied him more than any telemetry data or last-minute setup tweak. She was his map, his margin for error, the only variable he could trust completely.
And as he stepped away toward qualifying preparations, the grip of her hand still lingered in his own.
Saturday Evening: Qualifying—Champions Made of Steel
By the time evening blanketed the circuit, the paddock thrummed with anticipation. The heat of the day had broken, leaving behind a velvet tension, cool air crackling with possibility, engines humming like caged thunder.
Lando strapped in for qualifying. Q1. Then Q2. Then Q3.
Each session carved out a version of him that was unrelenting, composed, almost surgical in precision. His lines were fearless, entry points kissed by instinct, apexes sliced like threads in a seamstress’s hand. Throttle feathered where it needed to be, and unleashed when the corners begged for speed.
The telemetry lit up green, sector after sector. The engineers on the pit wall barely breathed. Even the crowd, usually deafening, seemed to hold their collective exhale between turns.
In Q3, as the shadows of the grandstands stretched across the track like ink spills, Lando crossed the line.
Oscar’s voice crackled over the team radio, controlled, but layered with a joy he couldn’t mask.
“Amazing lap, mate. Pole.”
The pit lane erupted. Mechanics threw arms in the air. Cameras swung to capture his every move.
But Lando didn’t soak in the celebration. Not yet.
Helmet off, curls tousled, sweat lining his brow, he moved like a man only half-present. Not with the moment. But with someone else.
His eyes swept past the paddock chaos, past the media hounds, the flashes of orange and silver.
She stood alone, framed between fans and the crush of flashing bulbs. (Y/n)’s expression was unreadable at first, until he came closer.
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, not yet fallen. Her shoulders rose and fell with slow, purposeful breaths, as if she was trying to contain it all. He hadn’t just won a lap, he’d earned back something far greater.
He didn’t pause to soak up the crowd or bask in the limelight.
He walked straight to her.
When he reached her, he lifted his hand to her cheek, gently, reverently, as if even now he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch her. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, catching a tear before it could fall.
“We did it,” he murmured, voice hoarse with exhaustion and reverence.
Her breath caught, just slightly.
Then she leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second like she could still hardly believe it.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Together.”
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the world quieted. Not because the cameras stopped flashing or the crowd stopped shouting, but because they stopped needing the world to notice.
And that, finally, was enough.
Girl Squad: Support and Solidarity
Earlier that morning, before the engines stirred, before the cameras began their hunt and the tension of qualifying rippled across the paddock, the suite was filled with something far gentler, laughter, the clink of tea cups, the rustle of fabric and affection.
Lily Z., Kelly, Lily M., Alexandra, Carmen, and Rebecca had all gathered in (Y/n)’s suite just after sunrise. The air was thick with chamomile and the scent of rosewater from the glass cooler humming softly in the corner. Light poured through the sheer curtains like liquid gold, casting warmth over skin and soft edges.
They spoke in murmurs, not because there were secrets, but because the moment asked for softness.
The conversation drifted easily, from the strange summer weather in Monza, to the silly things the children had said over FaceTime, to a half-joking plan about sneaking out after the race for pancakes and wine.
But beneath it all, woven through every glance and shared breath, was something quieter.
A pact.
A promise.
Living love.
Lily handed (Y/n) a leather-bound notebook, the spine already worn with thumbprints and memory.
“For the next chapter,” she said simply. No pressure. Just belief.
Kelly reached into her tote bag and pulled out a care package wrapped in brown parchment string: a handful of polaroids from their slow walks in Forks, wildflowers pressed between pages, her favorite chamomile tea blend tucked in a glass vial.
“To remind you,” she said, with that rare tenderness only found in people who’ve learned to love after losing.
Alexandra, grinning like mischief in a designer scarf, leaned in with a wink.
“The Norris heir needs a soft landing, yeah?”
They all laughed, and in that laughter, something shifted.
(Y/n) brought her hands to her face, hiding her smile behind the tips of her fingers.
“I’m okay,” she told them, voice steady, words careful.
But they knew her too well.
They heard the translation beneath it.
I’m standing because you hold me.
I can be strong because you are here.
They didn’t push.
Didn’t try to stitch her back together.
They let her cry, just a little, when the silence grew heavy enough to crack her breath.
And when the tears faded, they let her laugh again, tentative at first, then brighter. A laughter that could only be born in the presence of women who had loved deeply, survived worse, and still chose gentleness.
In a world spinning fast and ruthless, they were her stillness.
Not spectators. Not accessories.
They were soft. Fierce. Love in motion.
And that morning, before the chaos of the track reclaimed her, they wrapped her in it completely.
Saturday Night: Promises by Lamplight
That night the suite glowed with lamps low and amber. (Y/n) typed by laptop, tapping new superiors to her next novel whose working title was simply Healing, inspired by all this: rain, warmth, silence, triumph.
The bathroom door sighed as Lando emerged, droplets beading hairspray-gone-wrong from his damp scalp.
He slipped behind her, chest warm. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other brushed her hair tenderly.
“Why now?” she asked softly, not resentful—curious.
He took a breath. “Because I love you. Because you’re here. And I finally know I can’t live a life without you.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her temple: an apology, a promise.
Tears shimmered where they caught the light.
“I vow,” he said, voice solemn, “I will never hurt you again. I’ll spend every breath proving it.”
They cried until the world dissolved, until the weight of all they hadn’t said was drained through the salt of shared tears. The room held them in quiet reverence, its golden lamplight casting soft shadows on the walls as if even time had paused to let them breathe.
Each sob stripped away another layer of pain. There were no accusations left, no defenses. Only honesty. Only aching.
Grief curled between them like a third presence, heavy but no longer suffocating. Forgiveness moved quietly in its place, not loud, not dramatic, just real. It lived in the way her fingers gripped his shirt, and how he cradled her like she was something he couldn’t lose twice.
Hope stirred, not with fireworks, but with a single breath they took together. A fragile, resurrected thing.
Soon enough, they lay on the suite’s couch, wrapped in the oversized throw blanket someone had carelessly tossed aside hours ago. Her cheek rested against his chest, their hands loosely intertwined between them. Above, the ceiling light dimmed to a soft glow. Outside, the city buzzed with nightlife and noise, but here, in this room, was stillness.
Not peace, not yet.
But something like it.
And as the minutes passed, the night seemed to bend around them, quiet, protective, holding them like the pages of a story still being written.
Sunday: Race Day—Victory of the Heart
Race day dawned not with sun, but with intention.
The air was taut, charged with a kind of electricity only the grid knew how to summon. Engines growled awake. Mechanics flew through final checks with practiced precision. The scent of rubber, fuel, and tension blanketed the paddock.
Fans chanted names like hymns. Cameras snapped. The asphalt shimmered beneath the weight of expectation.
Lando crouched beside (Y/n), one gloved hand grazing her knee, the other still clutching his helmet. His visor was up, eyes bloodshot from sleep and something more vulnerable.
His voice came low, reverent.
“This is for us.”
Her breath caught. Tears threatened again, not from sorrow, but from the swell of everything they’d survived to stand here now.
She nodded, lips trembling. He didn’t linger. There wasn’t time. Just the promise in her gaze, and the fire in his.
And then he was gone, climbing into the cockpit, shoulders square, jaw set. The car came alive around him, a symphony of engineering and nerve.
The lights blinked red.
Red.
Red.
Out.
P1 off the line. Clean through turn one. He flowed like instinct through every apex, each gear shift sewn together with mechanical grace. Cadence like poetry.
In his ears:
“Gap 1.2 seconds.”
He responded without hesitation. “Copy. I’ve got it.”
“Push pace, conserve tires.”
“Understood.”
Laps blurred, time distorted. Every corner became a ritual. Not just racing, but remembering: her hand in his, the nights he almost gave up, the morning she said I’ll go with you.
Final lap. Still the leader.
His pulse drummed in time with the engine’s rhythm. Not panic, focus. Precision. Presence.
The chequered flag waved.
Triumph didn’t hit all at once, it bloomed in waves. Relief. Exhaustion. A strange, surreal elation.
He slowed the car, pulled into parc fermé, pulled off his helmet, eyes already scanning the crowd. Searching.
Finding.
There she was.
(Y/n), standing on tiptoes behind the McLaren crew barrier, holding her phone up to record, face streaked with tears and joy so bright it stunned him.
He didn’t think, he ran.
Through pit lane. Through noise. Through history.
She barely had time to brace before he scooped her into his arms, her laugh catching against his shoulder. He held her close, so close, like letting go was no longer an option.
And then he kissed her.
Hard, honest, desperate.
Loud and proud, in front of cameras, crew, the roaring world.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. He was breathless and damp with sweat, but smiling wider than he had in months.
“We won,” he said, voice raw.
(Y/n)’s eyes sparkled, her hands still gripping the sides of his fire suit.
She nodded, smiling through tears that didn’t try to hide.
“Yes,” she whispered. “We did.”
Final Farewell: Love Sealed in Speed and Silence
Back in the suite later that night, the world had quieted.
The medals, cool, gleaming reminders of glory, rested on the glass table, catching fragments of city light filtering through the windows. Roses, half-wilted from celebration, lay scattered across the carpet and coffee table, the petals soft and fragrant like the hours they’d just lived through.
Laughter had echoed here earlier, his teammates had come and gone in a steady stream of elation and relief. Oscar had hugged him too hard. Zak raised a toast with a hand on (Y/n)’s shoulder. Even the engineers had offered soft congratulations, their smiles stitched with something close to pride.
But now, the door was locked. The music silenced. The world narrowed.
He stood in the middle of the room, peeling off his race suit piece by piece, exhaustion tugging at each limb. The water ran in the ensuite, hot, steady, but he paused by the window instead. His gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Just lights. Just breath.
The adrenaline was gone. But the clarity remained.
Not as someone to hold the camera. Not as someone to smile beside him when the champagne sprayed. Not as a trophy for public affection or a placeholder for loneliness.
He needed her because without her, all of it, every lap, every win, every cheering crowd, meant nothing.
She stepped quietly behind him, fingers brushing the base of his spine, anchoring him.
His voice, when it came, was low. Stripped of ego. Bare.
“Stay.”
No speech. No performance. Just a single, fragile word that held the weight of a thousand unsent apologies.
(Y/n) didn’t hesitate. She stepped into him, letting her forehead rest against his sternum, arms winding around his waist like she’d been there all along.
She lay her head on his chest, his warmth grounding her, their breath syncing in the stillness.
“I’m trying to.” she said.
No promises spoken, no wounds picked at. Only presence. Only forgiveness wrapped in quiet contact. Only the rhythm of his heart, steady under her cheek, telling her what he couldn’t say again without shattering.
And so they remained, in the hush after the storm, in the afterglow of both a race won and a love restored. The greatest victory: not speed. Not silver. Not spectacle. But this, being here. Being seen. Being chosen again.
𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥.
𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥,
𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥.
📝 Note from the Author:
Can you believe it’s my 20th day on Tumblr? Twenty days of headcanons, hurt/comfort, romantic tension you could slice with a racing knife, and yes, serving the Alarwynnites like it's a full-time job (with emotional damage benefits). 😌
I owe you guys an apology, I didn’t post yesterday 😭
Before you fire me from my own blog, hear me out:
I touched runway. With friends. In broad daylight. I know, shocking.
I watched the British Grand Prix Free Practices like a woman possessed. Yes, all of them. FP1, FP2—live, screaming, holding back tears every time Lando turned a corner. I was there. Spiritually parked in the McLaren garage.
I enjoyed my time out too, and honestly... I think (Y/n) would’ve wanted that for me 😌✨
Now…
To my beloved Alarwynnites: this is where I leave you. 🥺
I know, I know, "Bitin author!! Nasaan yung pag-uusap after the GP?"
Trust me, I hear you loud and clear 😭 BUT—
You can imagine what happens next, right?
The post-race talk… the real closure… maybe more soft moments and healing behind closed doors… iyakan sa hallway, sabay yakapan sa balcony, ganon vibes.
For now, this is where the curtain falls.
I’m ending it here, at 11 chapters. I know it's short, compressed, maybe a bit bitin for some, but this felt like the right place to stop.
Thank you for reading, for crying, laughing, and spiraling with me.
Let’s meet again in the next story. 😉
