lestappenologist

✶ date ──── Jul. 1, 2026

✶ a/n ──── This was originally requested by @biancathecool in December of last year, but by the time I finished writing it (what a ride, I’ll tell you that much), it had sunk somewhere towards the bottom of my inbox. Lovey, I am sooo sorry, hope this was worth the wait. For everybody else, enjoy the tragedy 🩵

📍 Monaco, April 2026

LANDO MADE SURE to disappear before any of his friends noticed.

Downstairs, some of them are singing terribly over the music, causing an eruption of laughter. A glass breaks somewhere near the kitchen and it’s followed by more laughing that only rich, very drunk young people seem capable of producing. In this world, carelessness isn’t followed by consequence because everything can be replaced.

Anyone can be replaced, if anything.

The cigarette trembles faintly between his fingers as he pushes through the balcony door upstairs. Not from the cold, since April has been kind with the weather so far, but from the exhaustion of pretending not to look over his shoulder every few minutes. He had come to the party with every intention of forgetting himself for a few hours. To drink, maybe, to have a good time with his friends, and to finally shake off the pressure that had been clinging to him for months now.

Seeing her there had not been part of the plan, but luckily, she hadn’t noticed him, which gave Lando enough time to swallow the immediate pull of old feelings before they surfaced too obviously on his face. Unfortunately, the fragile balance he’d manage to build up until then, cracked like eggshells the moment he realized she hadn’t arrived alone. Standing beside her, all lean and far too comfortable in her orbit, was his teammate, of all people.

That way, the very mood he’d come here to escape settled back over him, twice as heavy.

His teammate, of all people.

Looking somewhere far in the distance, he presses his forearms against the iron railing and inhales deeply, until the smoke scratches the back of his throat. It feels like punishment, as it should. He’s aware it is a disgusting habit and he keeps meaning to quit, but in the months since December, he has found himself collecting various, ugly little addictions: the occasional nicotine, insomnia, memories.

So many memories.

The balcony door remains slightly cracked open behind him, letting the noise spill out in tiny fragments; the bass is vibrating through the walls, there’s too much shouting, then someone calling for tequila.

He realizes it’s a terrible idea to close his eyes only when her image materializes underneath his eyelids. For the life of him, Lando can’t think of how she was at the end, sad and exhausted, with mascara smudged under her furious eyes. That’d still hurt, but it would be a favor to him, and his mind is crueler than that. It offers him the good versions instead, the ones that he should’ve hold on to more when he stormed out of the conference room, without looking back.

Her, asleep on his chest during a flight to Singapore.

Her hands fixing his crooked collar before every boring event.

Her laugh echoing through hotel hallways at two in the morning.

He takes a couple more absent drags from his cigarette, mostly habit than intention, the smoke dissolving into nothingness in the night air. The same thoughts pull him under too quickly, spiraling in places he’d rather be, until the sting of heat against his fingers jolts him back to reality. He looks down blankly at how it burned nearly to the filter but then, as he decides to go back inside, the door to the room swings open hard enough to rattle in its frame.

Someone stumbles through it in a mess of laughter and half-whispered giggles, their voices disturbing the semi-quiet he’s harvested in the past few minutes.

“Are you sure?” asks the first voice, causing Lando’s entire body to react to the Australian accent he grew to know so well.

His heart starts slamming inside his ribcage, breath caught midway in his lungs. Fuck, no.

“Yes,” her unmistakable voice answers right away. “What, are you afraid?”

“No. Should I be?” Oscar shoots back.

The corner beside the balcony wall is dark enough to hide him as long as neither of them looks too carefully. Which turns to be his only salvation since he cannot move. Although he tells himself he should just walk back in, force the door open wider or make enough noise for them to notice they’re not alone, he simply can’t move. So he stays still, while the hushed sounds land one after another like premeditated blows.

Every kiss and every murmur makes her giggle all over again. It is torturous the way Lando remembers those sounds, but how can he not, considering they once belonged to him?

A rustle of fabric, then the sound of lips meeting fills the silence that follows. Lando presses his back against the nearest wall, thinking that even now, it is still not too late to save himself. He could clear his throat and let them see him. He could step out now.

Right now.

Now!

The door is still ajar, they haven’t looked out yet, and his legs won’t. Fucking. Move.

“There’s no one else I would trust,” she tells Oscar.

Sick to his stomach, Lando stops breathing.

The confession warns him of what is to come; there is another kiss, deeper than the last, that leaves her breathless and forces him to press the heel of his palms against his eyes. Mortified, he knows that now it’s too late and there will be no version of this in which he keeps his dignity. They will look at him in horror, then pity, and that would kill him faster than anything else ever could.

Punished by timing, he remains in the shadows and, behind him, the girl he once saw spending the rest of his life with, moans softly his teammate’s name.

OSCAR INHALES HER breath like he’s a sick man and it has healing properties. He feels her lips curl against his mouth, all the desire inside him snapping loose at once. He’s already used to the soft contours of her face, the way she looks up at him, right before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a silly thought, ridiculous even, but he’s convinced that he would recognize her among billions of stars. All she has to do is stand there, just as she is, and Oscar would still be able to point at the night sky in her direction. Blindfolded.

His hands tighten around her waist as he walks her backward toward the bed, stumbling together in fits of laughter and half-finished kisses until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She falls onto it with a breathless sound, consumed by his sole presence, and he follows right away, bracing himself above.

“Are you sure?” asks Oscar.

The girl nods. “Yes,” she replies, “What, are you afraid?”

He lets out a strained chuckle, his back stiffening in anticipation at the thought. “No. Should I be?” it comes out like a joke meant to lighten the mood, but it still sounds like he’s at least somewhat concerned.

She nods again, then laughs at the way his eyes widen, his pupils so dilated that the ring of his brown irises is barely visible around them anymore.

There is a strange freedom in the way everything panned out for them. It wasn’t out of hatred, revenge, defiance, or even carelessness. The night that brought them close was a different kind of honesty that none of them knew how to handle at the time. It was stripped clean of any trace of hesitation because, for her, there was nothing left to lose. And Oscar didn’t believe there was anything to gain from it either.

After that, they have spent weeks of circling one another carefully. Restrained by timing, encouraged by a new-found friendship and oblivious to the consequences that might catch up with them, they managed to build their own rhythm.

“There’s no one else I would trust,” her words come out quietly, a little heavier than she initially expected.

With Lando in the back of her mind, she’s aware that Oscar would never risk the fracture that a reckless fling could cause, so it has to go deeper than that. It has to. Plus, it’s not in his blood to gamble people’s trust in such way.

In turn, Oscar hears it for what it is: more honesty. And acknowledgement that whatever this is, it already exists on borrowed time. At some point, they will have to speak up. Despite that, neither gives it language but the truth lingers there, always present, and even though no one dares, they both know the fall is inevitable. Tragic in its context, but beautiful in the way it feels in the moment.

With his heart racing, Oscar lowers his head, kissing slowly beneath her jawline while she tangles her fingers in the soft waves at the nape of his neck. It’s different from anything she’s ever known, but finding out how quiet he gets when he wants someone warms every cell in her already heated body. The silence that settles over him doesn’t come from uncertainty, though. It’s too intense for that. It’s rather concentration, every thought focused toward touch.

And gods, his hands.

They move over her in a brush so gentle, as if he had suddenly gone blind and now he must learn a new language through memory alone. His fingers start skimming the line of her neck, thumb caressing the rapid pulse underneath. Pushed by instinct, they curl around it just to make her breath catch, and the muffled sound she lets out through her parted lips is enough to rouse the last of his dormant senses.

“Oscar…” she breathes hot over his cheek, the name surrounded by longing from all directions.

With his hand around her neck, he hums in response but doesn’t give her more, which forces her to melt beneath him with embarrassing ease.

She catches him before his mouth drifts lower, impatient to get rid of his shirt. Quick with the buttons, Oscar shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. His chest is lean, carved from hours in the gym and the constant stress of forces that aims a driver’s core; she can’t help but run her hands over his skin, his collarbones, down to the dip of his waist.

The moment he kisses her again, minds go quiet. She reciprocates it with a whimper that only deepens the desire. His tongue slides against hers, tasting the last remnants of a classic Shirley Temple and her cherry lip balm. One of his hands moves back to her neck, forcing a gasp from her mouth, then right into his. The other one finds her blouse and the incredibly tiny buttons decide to test his patience, but Oscar allows himself to pull at it a little harder, his knuckles grazing her sternum with each attempt.

It makes her shiver because for one fleeting second, she catches another trace of his being. A sharper side, hidden right under the surface. Although it’s not supposed to be violent in any way, what makes it exciting is the fact that the danger comes from keeping that edge under control at all times. So, he must be aware of it.

Without meaning to, Oscar reveals himself to her over and over again, and she’s able to understand that if someone pushed him far enough, wherever that line truly lives, he could be aggressive with the same terrifying precision he applies to everything else. And somehow, she thinks, that might just be the most intoxicating thing about him.

The air is cool on her skin while he finally parts the fabric, exposing the white lace of her bra. Instead of removing it as she expects him to, Oscar pushes the cups aside with his thumbs, only to tease. Next thing she knows, he kisses a trail across her chest, then lower.

When his mouth closes around her nipple, her fingers go back to threading through his hair, slightly arching her back to push herself more into him. His mouth is warm and wet and sucks just as gently as his touches, tongue circling the peak until it’s tight and aching. His right hand mirrors the motion on her other breast, squeezing and rolling the sensitive flesh between his thumb and index finger. The sensation drivers her right up, lifting on her elbows in order to see what he’s doing to her.

Worship, that’s what it is. His eyes are darker than usual, heavy-lidded and secured entirely on her; she stops breathing just to observe. The defined line of his jaw is still noticeable in the poor light that comes from the balcony windows. It’s the way his shadow almost looks like it’s moving in slow motion that leaves her transfixed, and the fact that Oscar possesses the kind of beauty that is so devastatingly painful, solely because he never seems aware of it.

“What are you staring at?” he asks, studying her. His cheekbones are sprinkled with a pale shade of pink that spreads quickly up to the tip of his ears and down his neck.

She smiles, and Oscar can swear the room just got a little brighter.

“You’re very pretty like this,” the girl admits.

He makes a small noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. “Shut up,” he mumbles before adding a in a silky voice, “Please.”

She chuckles when she feels a palm suddenly plastered on her stomach, pushing her back onto the bed. She obeys him with no protest, letting herself fall into the mattress, the skirt she wears bunching around her hips. Oscar follows, crawling over her with an unexpected familiarity, as though he had done it a thousand times before and this is just muscle memory to him.

His body is complete heat and has a foreign weight to it. It’s heavy enough to make her aware of him, to grow attached to the comfort of being held down so effortlessly. When her eyes close shut, somewhere behind her eyelids, the unavoidable thought that she will miss it the moment it’s gone appears in a flash that forces her to open them back up immediately. Just to witness him.

Far too patient, Oscar kisses her neck, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear. At this rate, there won’t be a single inch of skin left that his mouth hasn’t touched. The thought gives her goosebumps that only intensify once his hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, then under the skirt.

He grips her waist and lifts her exactly how he needs in order to position himself where she wants him.

Her hands fly to the button of his jeans with a reaction that surprises Oscar. She manages to work it open, pull down the zipper and slide her hand inside in record time, finding him warmer there, semi-hard and heavy against her palm. He hisses once she wraps her fingers around his cock, letting a sharp intake of breath breaking against her neck.

It’s easy for her to learn the shape of him, allowing herself to take in the rigid length and the way he twitches when she squeezes. She does it just as patient as he kissed her earlier, finally understanding Oscar’s need to take his time. Why every touch from him feels unbearably calculated. Now, she gets to watch it happen in reverse; she sees the subtle change in his expression, notices the tension gathering along his jaw and the way pleasure begins to reshape the composure he wears so smoothly. Being at the receiving end of it only leaves her wanting more. And once she starts building a rhythm, his hips roll into her hand like they have a mind of their own.

“Fu…ck,” he sighs, the word half-swallowed at the way she runs her thumb over the head, pressing into the slit to feel the tremor that travels through his entire body.

He buries his mouth further into the crook of her neck and, next time Oscar groans, it comes out on the verge of desperation, which encourages her to do it again, sliding her thumb over the slick tip. He can’t stay passive for long, though. His hand moves between her legs to push her panties aside and, sliding his middle and ring finger through her folds, he finds her already soaked.

The girl gasps, the rhythm faltering once her senses are invaded by a new force. Luckily, Oscar pushes her hands away in order to take the lead. Unable to look away, he fucks his fist once, two times, then three, his eyes glued to hers in a moment of pure connection as he’s gently guiding himself to her entrance.

They both hold their breath while he teases her hole, letting her adjust to the pressure first. But it’s not what she needs, so she bucks her hips in instant reaction, trying to take him in.

A smirk ghosts across his lips. “Tell me,” he begins slowly, “You’re always this eager or just for me?”

Her voice cracks on his name, the only word she seems to have left in her once vast vocabulary, now reduced to just that, plus a small collection of onomatopoeic sounds.

Oscar pushes in on her next inhale, just the head to stretch her. She writhes in his arms with a silent cry caught in her throat that makes him pause. At that, he gives her body a few moments to fine-tune to him then sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside all the way.

From there on, pure bliss.

His patience starts slipping away in quiet increments once he’s finally feeling her properly around his length. She’s also aware, noticing it in the way Oscar exhales deeply, in the loss of that measured control and, ultimately, the way she feels him throb inside her, without ever moving. But even with want steadily overtaking him, he’s still able to observe a tiny shiver that runs through her.

“You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” she whispers back, snaking her arms around his neck.

Oscar smiles, then leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. A kiss so small and airy that she barely has time to feel, let alone to process. Instead, she sighs in a failed attempt to say more, the noise able to weaken the knees of the strongest of men.

“All this time…” his voice is huskier when he speaks again. There’s a hesitation in it too, as though he’s weighing the exact moment to admit something he’s already decided. A while ago, actually. “I couldn’t help but wonder how you’d sound like if you were full of me. I thought about it every time I saw your face. And every time I closed my eyes. When I was trying to sleep.”

A shaky laugh escapes through her lips. “That’s a lot of thinking.”

“Right?” he agrees, dipping his head to place more kisses all over her shoulder. She moans in return, her fingers tangling back in the hair at the back of his head. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Slowly, he begins to retreat, the head of his cock touching tiny euphoric mines inside her on its way out. The stretch is maddening, a fullness that steals her breath when she moves with it. Halfway through, she can still feel him pulsing, a solid presence that makes every cell in her body cry out for more. The slick embrace of her channel tries to cling to him, but the moment it slides out catches them both whimpering at the loss.

Oscar doesn’t waste a second after that. His hand slips down between them to tug at the lace of her panties, working them down her thighs while being careful to steal more not-so-accidental touches on the way. She lifts her hips without being asked, then in the same manner, her legs wrap around his waist, hooking at the ankles to yank him closer.

“Easy there,” he breaths deeply, followed by a satisfied chuckle.

Taking her in, he can’t help but go still: the glistening sheen of her pussy, then the way her body invites him in, promising that it’s ready. His eyes move up to search for hers, needing further reassurance that she wants this and him, specifically him. She can practically see the thoughts moving behind his gaze in real time, she can feel the restraint he’s carried for weeks cracking under relief, the disbelief that this is finally happening.

She can’t name the feeling she catches on his face, but understands how tender it is. Without breaking eye contact, Oscar grips her hip with one hand, the other guiding himself back to her opening. His lips part, a sign of absolute focus, then he drags the tip through her folds to tease her.

She whimpers, impatient to let him fill the void.

“What do you need?” he asks before moving another inch.

“This… you.”

Oscar’s eyebrows arch in a challenging manner. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Need is a curious thing. In their case, it pulls at everything that could complicate their lives, everything Oscar is trying not to acknowledge, especially the shadow of her with a particular curly-haired teammate.

“Then I need your eyes on me the entire time,” his gaze holds hers with intensity. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” she repeats, just as eager.

“Of course you can,” he nods, the hand on her thigh squeezing lightly, knowing that if he can anchor her attention for long enough, nothing else will exist in this room but the two of them.

He pushes forward in one thrust, sinking back into her welcoming heat. The tension she’s carrying is blinding, his girth stretching her as he goes, meeting new spots deep within. The girl lets out a broken whine that’s half pleasure, half relief, legs shaking around Oscar’s waist while struggling to pull him even deeper.

“That’s it,” he praises in a rich accent. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he adds more quietly, stilling for a beat.

Her brain turns to mush at his words and all she can do is clutch at him, nails raking across his back, her breath coming in short gasps. “Please, move,” she barely manages.

Oscar grunts at her sweet demand, then begins to move. Initially, his thrusts are meaning to collect as much information as possible. He uses slow strokes that grind against her walls at the same time he’s studying her face like it’s scripture, registering every reaction: her eyes rolling back when he reaches a certain angle, her mouth falling open when he picks up the pace, her hands squeezing at his shoulders when he circles his hips. Like that, he’s able to learn her body as he goes, making sure to check in with her after every change in movement.

“Right there?” he asks, hitting a spot that makes her whole body arch off the bed.

“Yes, there. Don’t stop,” she begs, bringing one of her hands to cup his cheek.

Leaning into her touch, Oscar fucks her with more life he’s ever felt. The sound of their bodies meeting is wet yet able to keep alive the flames that are threatening to swallow them both as the bedsprings creak in protest. He’s on another level aware of how far he’s sinking into her, how his entire cock disappears into her heat with each thrust, how she sucks him in, deeper with every clench of her inner muscles. She feels too good, so perfect that he knows he won’t last much longer.

But she isn’t far behind either. Her hand clenches somewhere where his jawline meets the carefully sculpted muscles of his neck, breath catching every time he drives inside. Each time with more force than before. It’s so good that she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming at him to fuck her harder.

She closes her eyes instead, so that all she feels is him.

“Stay with me,” Oscar whines, snaking a hand between them, thumb finding her clit to rub tight circles that match his thrusts. “Please,” he breaths, “Eyes on me.”

“Holy shit, Oscar…”

He shifts onto his knees, pulling her with him, and the new angle drives him deeper. In response, her orgasm builds like a wave, cresting and crashing under his relentless touch.

She shatters with a cry, body shuddering through the convulsions. Oscar watches the ecstasy twist her features, urging himself to memorize every second of it in the time that he follows her over the edge. The sensation makes him grunt, derailing his rhythm as he fills her in hot pulses.

He stays inside, collapsing on top and unwilling to break the connection until she pushes him away, if that’s what she needs. Apparently not. His lips brush her temple in a kiss that gives them more time to come back from the high. But after he finally pulls out, she turns her head, a big smile decorating her face. It’s the image of him that causes it. His skin is flushed, changing color from the exertion, from the pleasure. From the peace. She loves how open he looks, how undone and how… relieved.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she speaks quietly. “I needed to get out of my head for a sec,” the girl explains, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw.

Oscar catches her hand, pressing his lips to her palm, just to keep them there for a moment. “Did you?”

She laughs. “I’m still out, yeah.” She shifts closer to place one last kiss to his lips before she gets up; this one’s tamed, with no urgency left in it.

The absence she leaves behind in his space is immediate, making the bed feel larger without her weight beside him. Looking around, she leans over to gather her panties and Oscar’s shirt from the floor, throwing the latter lightly at his chest.

“Gotta clean up,” she informs him, smoothing her skirt back into place. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Oscar is still in a trance, a half-dazed expression still lingering in his sharp features. When he smiles, it softens his whole face. “Okay,” he says.

Her heart grows a little in size at the sight of it and how easy it is for him to simply exist like this, with messy hair falling into his eyes, resting his broad frame on the mattress, half-naked and pants still undone.

He stays seated for a moment, looking down at his shirt as his ears pick up on the sound of her steps fading down the corridor. Only then does he move, pulling the fabric over his shoulders, threading himself back into order, piece by piece. It feels a bit strange, like he has to come back to his body, returning to a version of himself that doesn’t quite fit this world anymore. There is a particularly noticeable before and after her in the air now.

Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Oscar pauses at the sound of someone sneezing outside. The noise is dull enough that he almost dismisses it entirely, until he turns on instinct and sees that the balcony door is slightly ajar. A thin slice of crisp air and lingering smoke is cutting through the room, moving the curtains back and forth.

It is almost absurd how quickly it happens, how the warmth still clinging to his skin seems to evaporate once the instant cold air meets him. It’s just posture at first, but he senses stillness where there should not be stillness. Then, the recognition comes in pieces, the outline of a man he knows too well taking shape right before his eyes.

Oscar’s mouth goes dry at the memory of what he just walked away from.

“Bless you,” he says unsure, the words coming out too polite. And wrong, in every possible way, which is why his jaw clenches at the sound of it.

Lando doesn’t answer. If anything, he looks like he doesn’t want to acknowledge his teammate’s presence yet. Awkwardly, the Aussie positions himself a few paces away, mirroring the posture unconsciously, with forearms resting on the railing, fixing his gaze on the dark horizon as though the void of the night has suddenly become the most interesting thing in existence.

“Looks like I’ve missed quite the chapter,” he finally hears Lando speaking. “Is that normal occurrence now or?”

“It’s not… like that,” replies Oscar, carefully sorting through his brain, yet no matter how hard he tries, what explanation would be appropriate in this situation?

“Aha,” the Brit seems lost in thought, “Piece of advice,” adds Lando, continuing to avoid looking anywhere near his teammate, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Oscar frowns, turning to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I know how fucking good it gets with her,” Lando admits. “You think you won’t ever need anything else. But the second it gets bad…” he trails off, but doesn’t finish his sentence. On purpose. Instead, he insists, “Because it will. Get bad, I mean.”

The Aussie listens in silence while Lando talks with infuriating certainty. Behind the warning, he believes history alone gives him permanent insight into the way she loves, breaks, then leaves. A cycle that she’s endlessly repeating, according to his insinuation.

Oscar knows they had years together. He knows their relationship started not long after he and Lando became teammates, therefore long enough for habits and scars and intimate knowledge to root deep into both of them. He understands all of that. But on the other side of the spectrum, he doesn’t think it’s fair to simply assume that whatever he has with her now is somehow lesser, simply because it’s newer.

Lando is only speaking about it like some kind of prophecy, firing his experience like it’s a loaded gun just because he once knew how to survive her worst days. Despite that, Oscar remembers what the last few months with her have looked like, especially the past few weeks. He knows about the softness that she hides from people, the trust she places carefully into his hands, and he definitely feels the way she reaches for him like she means it. And maybe he’s an idiot for believing that matters, but he refuses to let Lando reduce her to a disaster waiting to happen, only because he can’t imagine his ex becoming something entirely different with someone else.

“But maybe you’ll succeed where I failed, who fuckin’ knows, mate,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head and extending his arm to pass Oscar what seems to be a third cigarette, judging by the bits scattered on the ground.

Oscar shakes his head, politely disregarding him. “Yeah, well. She’s not a fucking mission on a video game, mate,” he makes sure to accentuate the last word, which catches Lando’s attention for a brief second. Careful, is what Oscar means with it.

“She’s not,” Lando’s jaw works as he thinks, then continues, “When you fuck up in a video game, they tell you exactly what you did wrong. You get feedback and you can adjust. With her, I was constantly supposed to guess.”

Oscar’s hand curls around the railing, an involuntary gesture he only notices when his knuckles start hurting. “What, you mean she played you?”

Lando’s expression turns shallow, the exhaustion clearly visible behind his eyes. “I’m saying, if she decided that we were going to fight, that’s what we did. She didn’t even need a reason most of the times. Not one worth sharing, at least.”

“Well, I’m not you,” says Oscar almost as if he has to remind himself that.

“Exactly,” Lando points out. “I vividly remember you saying she wasn’t your type.”

“She wasn’t,” the Aussie agrees, half-nodding. He swallows a small lump in his throat, turning his gaze back on the horizon.

Lando laughs, but there’s no amusement behind the noise that comes out. “What changed?”

A good question, that takes Oscar by surprise. He realizes he never actually stopped to ask himself that. It hadn’t feel like a single moment nor a conscious decision. It was simply a slow, apparently irreversible shift that happened while he wasn’t paying attention, until she had become threaded into his routines and thoughts.

Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but finds nothing clean enough to explain it. You fucked up, he thinks to himself.

📍England, December 2025

“DON’T BE FUCKING selfish,” Lando grunts while keeps driving into her, hips snapping forward without pause even as her walls clamp down around his cock in the aftermath of her second orgasm. “So close, come on,” he breathes roughly, tightening his jaw at the way she squeezes him.

Before hands start sliding lower, he grips her waist a little harder from behind and the simple gesture steals the air from his lungs. His wide palms settle against the curve of her hips as though they were made for that exact purpose, making him painfully aware of how naturally she fits there, full of him; the simple visual sends his heart ricing in a wild beat beneath his ribs.

His, his, his.

The girl moans into the pillows, any rational thought long gone, at the same time her body jerks with every brutal push. Her thighs started trembling minutes ago and haven’t stopped yet, overstimulation sparking in quick electric vibrations through her core. She chokes on a gasp when he reaches down to slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, then circles her swollen clit only to see if she’s got one more for him. The sensation is too much, forcing her to twist away even though her body craves that exact touch.

With a restrained whimper and enough force in one hand, Lando manages to hold her steady; it’s the familiar possessiveness that has her voicing his name, the sound breaking in breathless fragments.

“Stay right there,” he orders calm yet commanding, a tone that she could recognize anywhere. “You can take it, see?” he continues rubbing, faster, every new thrust sending a fresh gush of arousal down her thighs that manages to struck her endlessly. 

She finds comfort in being known so thoroughly because, in time, Lando has learned how to read her reactions before she fully understands them herself. With that, the same feeling starts building inside once again.

Behind her, Lando’s breathing turns heavier, grumbles punching out of his chest with each drive of his hips. Lately, he’s noticed that it takes more out of him to reach that blissful release, as though his mind insists on holding onto every thought until the very last second. He can’t tell whether he’s prolonging the moment out of greed for a few more beats of it, or whether the destination itself has drifted away because she did.

Questioning himself like that only leaves Lando exhausted in ways he can’t quite explain, wringing him out completely before finally letting him to rest.

The aftermath is worse: he spends long minutes staring at the ceiling, limbs heavy and uncooperative, while a restless energy continues to hum beneath his skin. The perception alone has him suspended somewhere between satisfaction and longing, too drain to move but too awake to truly settle.

“Come on, fuck,” he says out loud, urging himself.

He shifts his angle, dragging the head of his cock over her sensitive spots on every stroke.

“Lan…do,” she pants, voice keep breaking several times more on his name.

He leans over her back to press his lips on the curve of her shoulder. “Gonna come again?” asks Lando, punctuating the words with three hard thrusts in a row. His free hand slides up her body to palm her breast, while the other keeps teasing her clit, never letting the pressure ease.

A third orgasm erupts quickly under the assault, walls fluttering tighter this time.

“Yeah, that’s it. Show me how greedy I’ve made you.”

Lando changes the angle again, keeping her exactly where he wants her, tilting her hips so his cock drags against her front wall with every stroke. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding deep before repeating the motion, each one forcing another sweet cry from her throat. He manhandles her easily, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades as her body shakes under him, overstimulated and dripping.

“Touch yourself,” his words are followed by panting, and she obeys.

Together they work the swollen nub, and the combined pressure makes her vision blur with tears.

Lando’s thrusts get shorter, harder, more desperate once he nears the edge.

“Baby, please,” she whines in a hoarse voice, her weeping plea enough to make his pace falter.

He drives in deep one more time and stays there, cock throbbing as he spills thick inside her. His final groan is loud and long, hips twitching with each spurt.

When the last wave subsides, he stays buried, tickling the skin of her back with his sharp exhales. Now that he’s taken what he needed, one hand strokes slowly down her spine, then presses a wet kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Lan?” she calls out in a whisper, turning her head slightly.

Lando lets out a heavy sigh that seems to pull from the depths of his chest while his eyes close briefly. “Yeah, baby. Just a bit tired,” he replies, the worn-down cadence of his voice sounding more like he speaks from reflex rather than genuine reflection.

He shifts his weight off her, pulling out in a slow drag that makes her breath catch in her throat one final time. He slips free, half-softened and slick with the evidence of their release, and lets it rest above the curve of her ass before he slaps it against her skin, the wet sound ricocheting against the bedroom walls. A playful smack follows, the flat of his palm connecting with the swell of her ass cheek. It’s a gesture that might have once felt charged with mischief, an invitation for more, but tonight it lands in a strange space between habit and afterthought.

Without another word, Lando swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress moving in time with his weight. He doesn’t look at her as he reaches for the bunched-up covers, pulling them back in order to slide underneath. The sheets rustle as he settles, his back pressing against the headboard, his arm already reaching toward the nightstand.

Blindly, his fingers find his phone and the screen blazes to life in a cold glow that cuts through the obscure room like a scalpel. She watches him patiently, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile as the light from the screen paints purposeful shadows across his features. His jaw is tight, the muscle there ticking faintly as he scrolls, his thumb moving in a mechanical swipe-swipe-swipe.

Entranced by his figure, the girl pulls the covers over her chest and rolls onto her side to face him better.

The small light catches on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone and the stubborn lock of hair that keeps falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back. That always happens after he showers, when his curls are much softer than when they’re loaded with hair product. 

In the silence, she notices, she can find it deeply unfair of how fond she used to be of these quiet moments. But tonight, more than anything, she wishes he would simply give in to sleep. After all, Lando said he was tired. She can easily imagine him abandoning whatever has captured his attention, setting the phone aside with a sigh before shifting closer until his head comes to rest on her stomach. She would thread her fingers through his curls, slowly untangling it one strand at a time, feeling him grow heavier beneath her touch as exhaustion finally claimed him. It is such a small thing to think of, yet it fills her with a strange nostalgia. 

A lump forms in her throat when she realizes she actually misses him, even though Lando is sitting only a few centimeters away from her.

What happened to them?

He has never stopped calling, never stopped reaching for her hand in crowded rooms, never stopped looking for her first after a race. However, she can feel a tiny shift in the tides, almost as if the moon had moved one millimeter farther away and, over time, the distance had grown large enough to violently stir the waters. 

Lando used to orbit her naturally, bringing every single one of his thoughts, every frustration, every victory and loss back to her as though she were his true north. Now, there are moments like this when she catches him retreating in places she can’t follow, simply because he won’t invite her there.

The strange thing is that none of it feels like a lack of love or negligence. If anything, those parts remain painfully unchanged. He still looks at her with the exact same expression he wore the first time they met. The same look from the first trembling I love you. Whatever is changing between them, it is not that. She knows it with the same certainty she knows that the sky is blue. So maybe, after almost four years together, the routine of being with each other has finally caught up and this is how it looks like.

Or maybe it’s all in her head.

Lando acknowledges her again the moment the screen finally goes dark, the harsh light replaced by the softer amber glow of the streetlamp filtering shyly through the curtains. He places the phone back on the nightstand, then turns toward her with a tired smile. His hand hovers in the space between them, leaning in to lightly press his lips to her forehead — a perfunctory touch that lands and lifts in the span of a heartbeat; a goodnight kiss; a sacred ritual reduced to muscle memory — then he rolls away, settling on his stomach.

Don’t be fucking selfish, she wants to say, the memory from minutes ago invading her mind. Quietly, she moves closer instead, sliding an arm around his waist to remind herself he is there.

SHE WAKES UP to an empty bed the next day. Vaguely, she remembers that last night Lando had told her there was something he needed to take care of, but promised he’d be back in plenty of time for the Christmas party at the MTC. That’s why she doesn’t think much of it. Still, she instinctively reaches across the sheets anyway, fingertips brushing the cool fabric where his warmth should have been.

With a sleepy sigh, she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling for what it feels like a small eternity.

The morning stretches into afternoon, and the afternoon slips quietly toward evening. Much to her growing irritation, the apartment remains empty in the meantime. Each passing hour leaves behind a strange residue of unease she can’t and doesn’t want to justify yet. Her stubbornness had often disguised itself as faith whenever it came to Lando. If he’s running late, she’s convinced he has a good reason for it.

It doesn’t make the wait easier, though.

She’s standing in front of the mirror, fastening earrings with increasingly impatient fingers when he finally replies to her texts.

Even though she would have so much more to say, she eventually stops replying. Especially after noticing how her phone screen lights up every few seconds, taunting her, announcing more messages crowding her notifications. 

The temptation is there, but the quiet dissonance that settled inside her acts like a STOP sign, preventing her to potentially make things worse when, maybe, it’s not the case.

With every little misunderstanding that accumulated lately, she knows she’s prone to no longer react to the actual situation but to weeks of bottled discomfort. And resentment, she believes, is far more dangerous than anger. At least that burns fast, but resentment roots itself in spaces where love is supposed to live and, without noticing, it could poison them from the inside out. That’s why, despite the growing sense that something has drastically changed right under their noses, the last thing she wants is to become someone who looks at Lando and sees a collection of grievances instead of the man she fell for.

When he finally makes it back home, he doesn’t come in with excuses or explanations ready. He simply stands by the window, waiting, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Under different circumstances, he would have smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Would have teased her for spending too long getting ready and would have crossed the room just to steal a kiss before they left. 

Tonight, the compliments die before they manage to reach his lips, deciding at the last moment to keep them locked in the mental drawers of his brain. On the other side, she’s just as quiet, letting the silence stretch between them, expecting Lando to break it first. 

“Can you stop being so difficult?” he asks at last, but it’s not at all the sound of regret she expected to hear from him. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Oh? I’m difficult?”

“Yes, you are. I said I was sorry, alright? Can’t you just believe me? We won’t be too late if we leave now, so let’s just get this over with.”

The girl shakes her head in disbelief and, with a frustrated exhale, she pushes herself off the bed to turn toward the door, concluding that maybe the distance between them is now a blessing and it’s better than letting the discomfort break into actual anger on both sides.

She barely makes it two steps and Lando’s right there, blocking her path in a heartbeat, close enough that she has to stop. 

Letting another breath out, she chews on the inside of her cheek before lifting her gaze to his face. It’s the only way she was always able to find answers. This time is no different: his eyes are slightly unfocused in the same cloudy look he gets after a few drinks. The realization unsettles her more that anger would have because it means that, whatever that foreign feeling might be, he is aware of it too, and at least at some subconscious level, he tries to suppress it because it is just as uncomfortable.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No…” he closes his eyes, then rectifies, “Just a couple of shots, I’m fine. Stay,” Lando insists.

A humorless laugh escapes through her lips. “You’re gone the entire day, you come back late, drunk, then you expect me not to be difficult?”

“I’m not drunk. And I said I was sorry,” he repeats and, before he can continue, she cuts in.

“I genuinely don’t have to put up with any of this,” the girl scoffs, her voice growing louder, “But I’m trying to be here for you, so how about help me a little!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me,” he raises his voice in return. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

She rolls her eyes at how ridiculous the situation is, then instead of shooting more remarks, she walks back into the room with a determination that’s more instinct than a decision per se. She grabs her bag from the chair and starts throwing things inside without any real order. Realistically, she knows that finding a flight this close to Christmas will be nearly impossible, that the airport will be packed and every reasonable option has probably disappeared hours ago. When she was waiting for him.

Suddenly, the thought of staying for another night feels unbearable. 

What happened to them?

“I feel so stupid,” she murmurs to herself.

“You’re not, don’t talk like that,” he steps toward her, closing the tiny gap once again. “What are you doing?”

“Going home,” she replies simply, as if ‘home’ is right next door and not over a thousand kilometers away.

Lando’s jaw clenches. “Come on, you’re not serious.”

“I’m afraid I am,” she counters. “I really don’t have the energy to deal with this.”

“Right, me neither,” he agrees. “It’s fine if you don’t want to go, I’ll make something up. But quit this shit, alright? I’m sorry that I wasn’t back sooner. If it were the other way around, I’d be mad too. I’m sorry, baby.”

Against her better judgment, she feels herself soften. In the end, meeting Lando halfway when every instinct tells her to run has kept her exactly where she is now. Loving him has taught her that grace comes easy if it’s the right person. It is second nature to make excuses for him, to extend patience long after it has stopped being returned in equal measure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like middle ground but compromise.

He takes the opportunity immediately, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quieter, understanding that this isn’t about being late or unanswered calls but all the little moments that led them here. “I’ll do better. Let’s just go, please.”

She turns to look up at him then, frustration becoming harder to hold onto. There is so much familiarity in his face that holds her back from staying mad for too long. At the same time, she can’t bring herself to look away. Ultimately, the same person that argues with her is also the person who still looks at her like she’s the most precious thing, even when they are falling apart.

Eyes don’t lie.

Glaring back at her, she understands with painful clarity that Lando Norris is, and perhaps will always be the one weakness capable of undoing every defense she has ever built. The one person she has never learned how to protect herself from. What frightens her most is the realization that the foreign, burning feeling that lives now in the pit of her stomach is not temporary. It will not disappear with time or sleep or another difficult conversation. The one person able to put an end to it it’s him. For all her pride, stubbornness and all the promises she makes to herself in moments of anger, she knows she’s not strong enough to walk away from him first. If they were ever to end, the final page will have to be written by Lando himself. 

Hesitantly, she closes the remaining space until she’s pressed against him. The girl rises enough to reach him properly, leaving a kiss on his lips. Lando melts into it, his arms tightening around her small frame, but she pulls away before he can chase after more, since there’s no time.

“This isn’t over,” her voice sounds weird in her own ears. “Now go wash your face to sober up.”

“You sobered me up,” he shoots back, the corners of his mouth curling into a boyish smirk.

At last, they manage to leave, but not before snapping some pictures first.

In one of them, Lando stands behind her, his body close enough that she can feel his warmth. The height difference between them is comically obvious as he looks down at her while she tries to keep a straight face.

The second one is a little softer, his hand finding its way around her neck, fingers resting there naturally. She looks up at him this time, smiling.

He’s on his knees in the third one, with arms around her waist while resting his head against her hip. She catches it mid-laugh, capturing a piece of happiness to which she’ll find herself returning to, times and times again in the upcoming weeks.

She takes the last picture outside, while they wait for their car to arrive. Snow has started falling around them. Standing beneath the streetlights, little flakes catch in their hair, melting against their skin.

Everything in the near vicinity feels impossibly quiet despite the endless thoughts that are running at 300kph in her mind.

We’re fine, she tells herself as she captures the two of them kissing, then turns around to wipe the gloss that transferred to his lower lip.

Would they have held on a little longer to that kiss if they had known it was their last?

BY THE TIME they arrive at the MTC, the party is already in full swing, exactly as she expected. The enormous glass-fronted building glows like a star against the darkness outside, every floor illuminated with strings of Christmas lights reflected in the polished surfaces. 

She can already hear the hum of conversations from the door, each punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. Employees from every department are crowding the space, from engineers, mechanics and marketing staff to factory workers and executives. Role is not as important inside a team like McLaren because, at the end of each year, they either mourn or celebrate together. Always together.

Lando slips away the moment they step inside. He’s one of the main characters in pretty much every room he enters and here, more than anywhere else, it’s impossible to keep him glued to one spot; people are greeting him from all directions, lifting their hands in recognition and calling out for him.

Leaning over, he squeezes her hand briefly. “I’ll go say hello to everyone. Stay close, yeah?” he instructs her before he gets trapped in dialogues elsewhere.

She nods and, within seconds, Lando is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into a cluster of bodies eager to congratulate him for the season he’s had, joke with him, or simply claim a moment of his attention. How she’d love that for herself, too.

Left to her own devices, the girl drifts toward the buffet tables lining on one side of the room, grateful she has an excuse to occupy herself. The spread looks extravagant, laden with festive desserts, canapés and enough alcohol to ensure nobody remembers the end of the night. She picks up a drink, then adds a few snacks to a plate, determined to at least enjoy the food, since she skipped dinner. 

For a long while, she simply watches the room around her, taking in the sea of semi-familiar faces. Then, just as she’s reaching for another canapé, a voice she knows well enough to make her turn appears right beside.

“They actually outdid themselves with the food this year.”

“Yeah, they did,” she agrees.

Oscar’s mouth is already curved into a smile when she looks up. Somehow, despite the hundreds of people surrounding them, he manages to make the crowd feel a little less overwhelming with his sole presence.

“Why are you alone? Where’s Lando?” he asks, more conversational than actual interest.

She returns the smile, abandoning her plate on the table, pushing it into a corner. “He’s…” she trails off, looking around to see if she can spot her boyfriend, “Somewhere.”

The Aussie nods, understanding all too well how easily a room like this can consume someone. Being one of the main faces of the team means that a simple greeting rarely remains just that. People will always pull them from one conversation to the next, eager to share a story, to ask questions or reminisce about a particular race weekend. Before they realize, hours can pass. Still, part of him thinks it’s unfair to leave her alone at a party. In this case, the distinction between responsibility and intentionally forgetting is small, perhaps insignificant to her at the moment, but it’s enough to keep Oscar from judging his teammate too harshly.

They exchange a few words after that, falling into an effortless banter, joking and commenting about sports, until he eventually notices the way she keeps glancing around. 

“Alright,” he says, stepping back, “I’ll let you enjoy the night. Don’t want to steal you away.”

“You’re not,” she assures him, making room for him to pass. “But thanks for the company.”

Collecting a full glass from the table, Oscar lifts it in her direction. “I’ll see you around, then. And if Lando’s still lost in half an hour, maybe put him on a leash.”

She laughs, nodding. “I’m considering it.”

Later in the night, after wandering around, she finally finds Lando upstairs, tucked away in one of the quieter rooms where the noise isn’t that disturbing. He is surrounded by a small group of work friends and a couple of girls she vaguely recognizes from previous events. They’re all gathered around a table with cards spread between them, completely absorbed in their own small papaya world, arguing over rules, accusing each other of cheating and jumping from debates about golf to cars to video games.

He made space for her in the meantime, and now they’re close enough that their shoulders touch every time he shifts next to her. Somehow, though, she feels further away than she has all night. Lando laughs at something someone says, his unmistakable giggle making it impossible for her not to notice how his attention moves around the room, never quite settling on her. 

It makes her wonder: if she quietly disappeared downstairs, would the game continue?

Her mind answers that too fast for her liking, but it’s the way Lando reaches across the table to take the deck of cards, and his hand lingers for a second too long above one of the girls’ fingers that pushes her over the edge of her patience. She’s aware that it’s barely even a moment. However, she tried to overlook everything he did in the past twenty-four hours, maybe even past month, and this is simply the final thread snapping.

“I want to go, I don’t feel well,” she leans closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear.

Lando turns to face her, surprise flickering across his face. “Now?” he asks; there is no accusation in his voice, but he sounds hesitant. She already knows. “We’re in the middle of the game.”

Exactly.

She looks at him for a few seconds, waiting for something she isn’t even sure Lando can give her right now. A sign that he understands. That he notices her, and she’s not helplessly blending somewhere in the background of his busy life. 

“I want to go,” she insists.

“Baby, come on…”

Shaking her head and without stopping to explain herself, she gets up and steps away, leaving the room just as she entered it: alone. The door closes behind her, taking with it the last bit of patience she had left. But the peace doesn’t last long enough for her to gather her thoughts. A few moments later, Lando’s footsteps catch up.

The man who appears beside her is nothing like the one who had been laughing earlier, leaning back in his chair and throwing words around like it he had no worries. The warmth has vanished, his expression is tense, with jaw tight and irritation already plaguing his stance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

His question makes her stop abruptly. “Excuse me?”

Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been in a mood all day. You barely talk to me and now you leave without saying anything.”

“First of all, you were away all day, so it’s impossible for you to know how my mood has been,” she reminds him, then copies his tone, barely holding it together, “And without saying anything? Lando, I said I wanted to go.”

“Yeah, after sitting there looking miserable for like an hour.”

She scoffs. “So you do notice me, after all. Yes, I am miserable.”

Her affirmation makes the corridor suddenly feel too public for the conversation Lando knows they’re going to have in the next few minutes. 

“Can you blame me? I’ve been constantly waiting for you,” she tells him, voice shaking a little despite her effort to keep it steady. “I had to wait for you to come home, wait for you to come find me here, wait for you to finish your stupid card game!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle with disbelief. “Don’t put in on my back like that,” he says, tensing his shoulders. “I told you I could have solved this with a phone call. You insisted we come.”

She glances up at the ceiling with a sigh, avoiding to look at him. “Because I didn’t want to ruin your night, and I don’t want to fight with you either. But you’re making it really, really difficult for me right now.”

The silence that follows isn’t as easy to read as it used to be. Lando cannot understand it in a glance, and she’s just too caught up in her side of the story to explain it to him better. Arguing is the last thing he wants to be doing, but from his perspective, every word she throws at him seems to gather every disappointment from the past few weeks and lay it at his feet. As if he alone is responsible for the growing distance neither of them has been brave enough to acknowledge yet.

Perhaps that is what frightens him most: the realization that they are no longer fighting about their current situation but something much larger.

For a heartbeat, Lando looks like he might make it all better — he always do, when he tries to —, but then he steps closer so his voice won’t echo against the walls. “Can we not do this here?”

She shrugs, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why? Because your friends or bosses might hear?”

Deliberately ignoring her question, Lando’s hand reaches out, gently catching her by the elbow. “Come on,” he says.

Her eyes fall straight on the spot where they’re making contact, then back at him. It feels more like a warning, and Lando seems to decipher the message, loosening his grip.

“Please,” he gestures toward the nearby conference room.

It’s not like she has a choice but to do as he says, letting him guiding her inside. 

After closing the door behind him, Lando leans against the sleek glass table, his jaw clenched, eyes searching her with a mixture of his earlier frustration and now concern. 

“Tell me what this really is about,” he demands, massaging the back of his neck.

There is a bitter smile curling at her lips when she replies, “You’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Even though her voice drips with sarcasm, her eyes are weary, shadowed with exhaustion.

“Humor me,” argues Lando, exhaling through his nose. “Just… talk. Please, talk to me.”

Her shoulders drop. “Alright, you want the whole list?” the girl asks rhetorically before adding, “You barely look at me anymore unless you’re horny. Last night you came home, fucked me into oblivion, then went straight to your phone like I wasn’t even there. The week before, you canceled dinner twice because ‘work ran late’, but I know what work means to you when you’re with those guys. Plus, last time I checked, you were supposed to be on a break, but what the fuck do I know, right?”

Lando winces, his face draining of color. “You think I’m avoiding you on purpose?”

“I’m not done,” she talks back. “Turns out, you can find time to attend all these superficial events, but I have to beg for your attention. I mean, yeah,” she lets out a laugh, “You’re there, but not really there.”

“You’re so fucking unfair, you know I’ve been drowning in work ever since the season ended,” he explains. “I’ve got millions of deadlines stacking up, a business to run, meetings, then racing, which you know damn well it’s a nonnegotiable to me. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but I still come home to you every night. And every night I still consciously want you. It’s not like we haven’t been through all this already. You know how the pressure gets, so what exactly bothers you so much this time?”

“Pressure,” she parrots, her voice rising an octave. “Is it really pressure or is it just you getting bored? Because I see you don’t even bother lately. I orbit around you to fill a space and that’s about it. You used to text me stupid shit in the middle of the day when I knew you were busy, but you were making an effort because you wanted to. The only time you initiate anything now is when your dick’s hard, and I’m tired of pretending it’s all just in my head. Do you even remember what it’s like to be with me?”

Lando’s eyes darken, hurt flashing through his expression. “Yes, I do. But you’re not the same either. This used to be fun before you started turning every conversation into a fucking interrogation. That when you want to talk, of course. Otherwise, you shut down the second I walk through the door. How the fuck am I supposed to try to fix anything when you already decided I’m the villain?”

“I didn’t say you’re the villain.”

“Well, I’m not the hero, so I’m just assuming, yeah? If you weren’t so distant, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing you.”

Her eyes flash with surprise. “Losing me? Why would you even go there?”

“You send me there,” Lando accuses her. 

She shakes her head, pointing a finger at him. “No, you send yourself there because you feel it too,” her voice is trembling with tears she refuses to shed. “This is not… I love you, but this is not what I want. I don’t like us anymore. Not like this.”

Her admission is enough to silence the argument entirely. 

Lando stares at her, anger dissolving into a softer feeling. He never doubted her love, but hearing it now doesn’t feel like reassurance. His mind races through late-night calls, plans cancelled at the last second, conversations spent discussing logistics and how can they make it better without compromising what they have.

But what do they have, really? 

He thinks about how often he misses her and how that missing has slowly but surely become the foundation of their relationship. Sure, they knew the costs from the beginning, but loving each other was effortless, therefore inevitable. 

Was.

Across from him, she feels the weight of her own words settle like a mountain on top of her chest. It sounds cruel when spoken out loud, but she’s not sure she wants to take it back.

Lando’s breath catches, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions, feeling as though something inside him just fractured. “So… what? You want me to drop everything for you all of a sudden, just so you feel like you have a boyfriend?”

No.

“Yes,” she ends up saying with a frown, “That’s exactly what I want. I want your life to revolve around me.”

The sarcasm is very evident in her voice, yet hearing Lando reduce her feelings to something so simple and selfish forces her to dive in, head first. It hurts that, after all the years they’ve had together, he could look at their relationship and think that poorly of her.

“Tough one there, then,” he replies quickly. “You know exactly what I can and can’t do for you. And every time I feel like I’m doing enough, it turns out I’m not,” his voice looses some of its sharpness. “No matter what, I’m the bad guy. I miss a call, I don’t prioritize you. I’m exhausted after a twelve-hour day, I’m selfish.”

Her jaw tightens in frustration, not understanding how is it possible for them to keep circling around the same point without actually touching it.

“Stop making it about whether you’re a bad person,” she says. “I’m not saying you are, Lando.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She pauses for a heartbeat, then glares at him with teary eyes. “I’m saying I miss you when you’re right next to me. How fucked up is that?”

Lando stays quiet, watching her carefully. Suddenly, he can’t figure out where the line is anymore. Whenever he thinks he has finally understood what she needs, whether it’s space, reassurance, patience or simply showing up, the ground shifts beneath his feet, leaving him uncertain all over again. He isn’t sure if they are changing or if he’s only now beginning to notice all the ways he stopped paying attention. 

“I genuinely don’t know what you want from me,” he admits, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Whatever this bullshit is,” says Lando, vaguely gesticulating at the space that separates them, “It feels like you’re just looking for reasons.”

“Reasons?” she echoes. “You think I want to break up?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, you just don’t know how to ask for it. And you won’t do it because you don’t want to hurt me. So, I guess I have to be the bad guy one last time.”

She takes a small step toward him, voice filling with panic. “Don’t do this, Lando.”

He pushes himself off the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

Her face falls, a single tear finally slipping down her cheek.

“Lando,” she calls out, but he’s already at the door, closing it behind him with a force that neither of them expects.

The slam echoes through, her whole body reacting even though she cannot move. She just stares at the door, heart racing, hoping, waiting for him to walk in. In all those instances one of them has left angry before, they always found each other, in the end. But seconds turn into minutes, the hallway remains silent, and it is only then that she understands Lando isn’t coming back this time.

She exhales shakily, then presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, wiping away the tears. Turning her head, she checks herself in the darkened conference room window, pinching the skin beneath her eyes, willing the redness to fade before anyone notices.

She barely reaches the staircase when she nearly walks straight into Oscar. He slows immediately, his expression changing the moment he takes in her features.

“You alright?” he asks, a little hesitant.

Her voice isn’t as convincing when she replies, “Yeah.”

“I just saw Lando… if you’re still looking for him?”

“No, I found him,” she says, letting the words hang between them.

“Oh, okay. I thought he looked…” Oscar searches for the right one before settling on, “Upset.”

The girl forces a smile, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “We had a disagreement, it’s nothing.”

Oscar studies her as she walks past him. He has never been particularly intrusive, but he has always been observant and insanely good at noticing things people hope will go unseen. Like the slight tremble in her voice, the shine in her eyes and the way she keeps blinking rapidly, as if trying to push something back.

Instead of insisting that she tells him what’s wrong, he tilts his head toward the stairs leading back downstairs.

“My mother sent me some homemade Christmas cookies,” slightly croaky and uneven, Oscar’s voice catches her off guard.

She turns around reluctantly, finding him standing in the same spot with an expression that she would rather ignore. She considers pretending she didn’t hear, but he holds her gaze. There is no pressure in it, no expectation for her to explain herself or open up or talk about it. 

He isn’t trying to pry into a situation that clearly isn’t his to fix, but is simply giving her an option. 

Caught between wanting to disappear and a strange relief of not having to be alone, she ends up nodding. “Okay.”

Oscar offers her a quiet smile before falling into step beside her, saying nothing else as they descend the stairs together. 

Sometimes, he has learned, silence is far kinder when it is shared. Also, the cookies taste better that way too.

📍 Miami, May 2026

DROPLETS OF WATER are still tracing paths down Oscar’s chest and arms after he steps out of the steaming bathroom with a white towel slung low around his hips. His hotel room carries the scent of his body wash mixed with the evening breeze drifting through the half-open balcony door. The noise coming in is much louder than at home, but it won’t be a problem for him to fall asleep, considering what a busy Sunday he had.

He settles onto the edge of the bed with a sigh and props his phone against a pillow, waiting for the FaceTime call to connect. A couple of beeps later, her face fills the screen, all sleepy yet happy to see him.

“Hey, you,” says Oscar, reciprocating the smile. “I’m sorry it’s late, just got out of the shower. Were you asleep?”

“No,” she replies with a yawn, leaning closer to her own screen. “I was waiting for you to call. Congrats on the podium!”

He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his damp hair. “Thanks, very nice to be up there after the quali I’ve had.”

“Then what are you doing inside? Podium in Miami and you’re choosing room service instead of celebrating?”

Oscar shrugs, shifting to lie back against the headboard. The towel slips a little lower, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. “I’d rather be talking to you, I’m too tired anyway.”

He hears her hum on the other end, the sound landing right between his lungs, stealing the air from his chest.

They talk about anything but racing after that, asking what she ate for lunch and whether her meeting ran late. The screen shows her looking slightly off to the side, fingers tracing the edge of her phone.

He watches her for a long moment, unsure, then clears his throat to ask: “Was I wrong to tell you about it?” Her eyes flick back to the camera once Oscar continues, reluctant but determined to get to the bottom of it. “You’ve seemed a bit in your head when I left and if it’s me, I’d rather know.”

“No, Oscar,” she closes her eyes for a moment, “It’s not you. It’s…”

It’s Lando. Around everyone else, she knows where her boundaries begin and end. She knows when to walk away, when to protect her peace and when to choose reason over emotion — that’s exactly what she did with Oscar all this time. Of course, he told her about the conversation he had with his teammate on the balcony, two weekends ago. About the warning that Lando had fired at him about her.

He was quick to brush it aside, assuring her that nothing about it changes the way he sees her. That she has done nothing to diminish his respect for her. Still, Oscar recognizes the gray cloud that settled above her head, draining the light from moments that should be theirs. He recognizes it because he has seen it before: the same distant look, the same careful smiles that never quite reach her eyes, the same invisible weight pressing on her shoulders. She wore it for weeks after the Christmas party, convinced that if she ignored it long enough, it might eventually go away. But it never truly did.

“I know,” says Oscar at last. “I wish you found me when you weren’t still waiting for him. Would’ve been easier.”

The screen goes black without warning, the call still active, but the video feed cut. Oscar hears the muffled rustle of sheets as she sets the phone face-down on her pillow, so he stays silent for a while, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing.

Placing a palm over her chest, she can’t help but feel the shift inside.

Oscar has never asked her to sail toward him. Just like a lighthouse, he stayed in one place, casting light without demanding that she follow it. He didn’t rescue her from the sea but reminded her that there is still shore beyond it. For a short while, she was lost. Perhaps that is why she was so drawn to him in the first place. But a lighthouse doesn’t chase ships through violent waters, nor does it promise calm seas. Its purpose is not to save, but to guide. 

“I’m so sorry,” it’s all she says, picking the phone up again. 

Oscar exhales, shoulders loosening for a fraction. “Are you okay? I hate that I can’t be there.”

“I just… I wonder if I’m dragging you into something you don’t deserve.”

“This isn’t about protecting me, you know that,” he says, voice going up just a notch. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

She shifts on the bed, the camera tilting with her. 

There is nothing to dispute about that. They are both adults. She and Lando have been over for months and no lines were crossed. But it would be foolish of them to believe their lives could remain untouched forever. They do not exist in a world where relationships stay private for long and, the moment it goes public, they will become a headline.

“Maybe not, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she whispers.

Oscar doesn’t rush to fill the silence after her confession. He knows she needs him to simply exist with her in the same space, to stay. On his screen, he moves around slightly, resting his head back on the pillows.

“I think,” he begins carefully, “You’re still trying to find the exact moment where everything went wrong.”

She lays on her side, facing him. “And?”

“And maybe there isn’t one.”

“There must be,” the girl counters, “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation right now.”

Oscar sighs, suddenly looking uncertain, which is rare enough that it catches her attention. “Look, I’ll be back tomorrow night. Could I come over?”

The question is so gentle it almost breaks her heart. Even now, when she feels like she has spent weeks trying to understand where she truly belongs, Oscar is willing to give her the space she needs, regardless of whether her response might hurt him.

“You’re asking?” she teases.

“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth curve upward a little. 

A fondness she cannot hide softens her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” his smile widens.

Twenty-four hours later, Oscar is sitting on the couch in her living room. The TV plays a show on the background, its volume turned down so low that the sound is barely filling the empty spaces neither of them feels obligated to occupy. 

Dinner is simple: takeout, hastily ordered after Oscar arrived from the airport. They speak about inconsequential things like his flight, the race weekend and the last book she read. Only once the last wrapper has been folded in half does reality begin to slowly creep back into the room.

Oscar gathers everything into a neat pile before standing, carrying the empty containers into the kitchen. She picks up the sounds of the cupboard opening, the bin closing, then the tap running for a few seconds, finding an odd comfort in how ordinary all of it is.

When he returns, he doesn’t immediately sit; he feels content to linger behind the couch, one hand resting on the back of it as if deciding whether to disturb the peace they’d managed to build over the last hour. From the moment they ended the call yesterday, his mind started running. He imagined every version of the conversation they’re about to have, every time coming to the same conclusion. 

Eventually, he lowers himself beside her.

“How are you feeling?”

She exhales, fixing her eyes on the TV screen where people laugh at jokes neither of them can hear. “I’m not sure.”

She finds it very difficult to make sense of the flood of emotions that overwhelms her. There are too many feelings gathered in the same space inside her to separate one from the other; relief, guilt, love, affection, grief, hope, fear. They all exist together in a knot, so tightly woven that tugging on one only seems to tighten the rest.

Oscar’s thumb absentmindedly brushes over the seam of the cushion beneath his hand. Next time he speaks, his voice is careful which makes him sound disturbingly reserved. “I’m not saying this to put any pressure on you. It’s the last thing I want, and I know that we’re both equally involved, so it’s not that I don’t want to take any blame for it.”

The girl turns to look at him, their knees touching as she shifts.

“But I hope you know,” he pauses, searching for the right words instead of the easy ones, “Us… this only works for as long as you want it to.” Oscar smiles, but she notices the sadness tucked into its corners. “The circumstances won’t ever let me fight for you the way I’d like to,” he continues, gaze dropping to his hands. “Because I know you’ll always love him. I can’t hold that against you, I don’t think anyone could.”

She looks away before she can answer. “Yeah, but all that love… it’s just a burden if I have nowhere to put it.”

“Maybe it’s better if you try, and then you’ll know,” says Oscar, nodding. “You were together for a long time,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know this will probably come back to bite me, but I think you should start putting it somewhere else. Starting with yourself.”

The simplicity of it catches her off guard. So much that it makes her laugh through her emotion, already sensing where their night is going to end.

“Are you breaking up with me too, Piastri?”

There is nothing selfish about what he’s asking of her. Nor can she blame him for refusing to become the person she turns to every time she finds herself running from Lando. If anything, she understands that it is the kindest thing he could have done for her. For himself too, and for whatever this peaceful, unexpected, beautiful thing between them has quietly become. 

He chuckles. “It’s really fucking hard. I don’t know how Lando did it.”

It would have been easier for Oscar to ignore that gray cloud. To accept the pieces of her she was able to offer and hope that, one day, they would be enough. But choosing honesty over convenience makes her admire him more. It reminds her that Oscar has never loved by possession. He’s the type of guy that does it by presence, by giving without demanding.

With a sigh, she lets herself drift closer, until the weight of her head comes to rest against his shoulder. Her hand, lying beside on the couch, searches for his instinctively, and Oscar doesn’t hesitate before intertwining his fingers with hers as though they have always known the shape of her hand. A moment later, she feels his body relaxing, his head settling atop hers.

“He’s a good guy,” says Oscar, no bitterness in his voice. “And a constant part of my life for as long as we’re teammates. If…,” he trails off, squeezing her hand for a fraction, “If we keep doing this while you’re not completely here, then eventually every day at work becomes about avoiding each other.”

She nods, thinking back at what he told her the night before. “Maybe I did find you while I was still waiting for him, but I also found you when I needed someone beside me the most. And for that…”

The moment he looks down at her, every conviction he has spent the past twenty-four hours painstakingly assembling begins to crumble. The urge to take it all back is so strong; he wants to tell her that he doesn’t care how complicates it is, that he’ll gladly endure every awkward glance, every impossible circumstance if it means having the chance to choose her anyway. He wants to close the small distance, kiss her and spend however long it takes proving that it can work. Not perfectly, but close enough. 

The thought dies before reaching his lips, though. For the first time all night, the words that usually come so effortlessly abandon him completely. He can only look at her in silence, carrying everything he cannot bear to say in the softness of his gaze, hoping she understands that choosing this version of the story is the hardest kindness he has ever offered.

“I don’t regret you,” she adds, reaching to cup his cheek in the palm of her hand.

Gently, she presses a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, an expression of gratitude more than affection.

Oscar’s jaw tightens as a new thought starts to take root in his mind right away. Mostly because of what it reveals about him. He thought he understood the boundaries, the risks, the impossible timing of it all and, ultimately, he thought he understood himself. He knew Lando was her Achilles’ heel, but he never, for one second, expected her to become his.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Feb. 16, 2026

.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This started out as a joke, exactly 20 days ago. I stopped laughing halfway through, and now I’m crying in 284 languages because I can’t believe it’s done. Let me know if you guys want more, because I have tons of ideas for this universe, including additional drivers and racing arcs (hihihi 😈).

PLAYLIST

BANKS, Begging For Thread

DOC RAVEN, My Ride Or Die

MC MAZZIE, Saka Saka Saka

POST MALONE, Wow.

JUICY J, Payback

SICKICK, Infected

TROYE SIVAN, Talk Me Down

And I can’t be running back and forth forever

between grief and high delight.

J.D. Salinger, from Franny and Zoey

📍 Los Angeles, California | 11:04 PM.

“YOU DON’T HAVE to come tonight,” says Lando without looking at her. Freshly out of the shower, he’s facing the dresser, rifling through a half-open drawer.

For almost a month now, the house on E. Kensington Road is quiet. No more people coming over, no more late night dinners in the spatious kitchen, and no more work in the garage. Except for the room he grew up in, everything else remained pretty much untouched. Rather fast, he’s shrunk inward, confined himself to new routines and old habits, because it’s easier to pretend he’s still sixteen and his older sister is just out late. In reality, it’s like everything drained out of the walls and never quite came back ever since Letty died.

Murdered. Lando’s sister was murdered.

Even though time moves in one direction, his mind keeps replaying the memory of the day he looked over her grave from above as if it just happened. His jaw clenches automatically, the unwanted images invading his mind, forcing himself to chase them away as quickly as possible. He has yet to find the perfect formula to make them disappear without coming back, because he cannot afford giving up hope that at one point in his life, perhaps, the fact that he has no family left will not hurt as much. Somewhere deep inside, Lando knows he’s doomed to search for it his whole life though, without succeeding, just like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down just before reaching the top.

Nonetheless, better than the alternative. Giving up would mean admitting defeat. Accepting a reality where his attempts are futile and he’s all alone.

Well, maybe not completely alone.

Raelyn leans against the doorframe, cautiously following his moves, like a lioness waiting to pounce on its prey. Ironically, not to tear him apart, but to protect him from other predators, from the world and, most importantly, from himself.

“I know,” she replies with a silent sigh. “You tell me every time. Besides,” the girl continues, “I wouldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Lando finally reaches for a clean shirt, the fabric dragging smoothly over his skin. The mirror in front of him catches the dark circles under his eyes and the tension carved into his jaw, showcasing a restless anger that never leaves his gaze anymore. It’s not the first time she’s felt so helpless that it’s turned into guilt. She wants to do more for him, way more than she already does because, just like Lando, Raelyn can’t afford to give up on hope that they will get to see better days. For now, she can only be a mere spectator to how he chooses to mourn, hence she notices everything. Especially the demons he fights so hard to keep hidden from the world. And that takes a lot from him. He somehow looks way older than he did a month ago: he’s more rigid and pale, the lines of his body sharper, his eyes hollow, as if their essence was knocked loose and never put back the right way, regardless of how hard she tries to.

In the course of it, neither of them knows when exactly she moved in, but that’s because there was no conversation about it. She stayed over the night after the funeral and didn’t leave again. He never asked her to. Never asked her to stay, either. Somewhere along the way, Raelyn became the glue that’s holding together something already cracked. They slept together through it all, and he let her in during the nights he couldn’t speak, or the nights he had so much to say. It happened gradually, every single day marking a new milestone: a new toothbrush in his bathroom, a make-up bag on the counter, a change of clothes, then another. Eventually, her presence in Lando’s life stopped feeling temporary, but they’re not sure when it became as permanent as it is.

Not that they need a clear answer, anyway. They’ve been dating since high-school, and moving in together would have happened, sooner or later.

He shrugs into his jacket next, dragging his fingers through his hair in order to tame the wild curls, still slightly damp from a shower he took too fast, like he was raicing the water.

“I also know,” the girl adds carefully, “That if I stay here, you’ll push it harder. Just to prove you don’t need anyone watching out for you. That you’ve got it.”

Lando turns at last, one eyebrow arching in her direction. “You think you’re watching out for me?” he asks, eyes going a shade darker as he fixes his gaze on her; she doesn’t feel threatened in the slightest, but there’s something vicious about the way grief sits on him lately, stripping him down to instinct and teeth.

Raelyn swallows, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think someone has to.”

“I watch out for myself, yeah?” he nods once, taking a few steps toward her, until he closes the space between them and she’s backed up against the wall. “For us.” Lando cages her in without touching her yet, bracing his palms on either side of Raelyn’s head. She has to tilt her chin up in order to maintain eye contact, and he’s so close that she can count the moles dusting his cheek and feel the heat rolling off him, a gentle scent of his body wash and clean skin invading her nostrils.

Only weeks ago, his face looked soft in any light, smile lines permanently etched at the corners of his mouth like proof he laughed often and easily. In such short time, joy has become a foreign language, the creases have smoothed out, his expression changing dramatically from innocence to sudden maturity. Sometimes she’s shooting stupid jokes at him on purpose, just to see if she can coax it back, to watch his lips twitch and eyes warm briefly before the weight settles again. It never lasts, but she’s satisfied that she still has this power.

She memorized every square inch of his face and, recently, she had to learn new features that the grief has brought in. Luckily, there are things it hasn’t taken yet, like the fullness of his mouth, even when it’s set in a hard line. Maybe, if she looks long enough, she can remember him back to himself.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, hands clawing on either side of his jacket, fingers curling in the worn leather while she pulls him closer instead of pushing away.

His jaw flexes. “I know what you meant, and I’m telling you: I don’t need someone hovering like I’m about to fall apart,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “I’m fine.”

“Am I hovering, Lando?” she challenges him, noticing a knowing smirk blooming in the corner of his mouth.

One of the many things he likes about her is that she doesn’t flinch. Ever. She cuts through his bullshit like a knife through butter. Puts him in his place without clearly defining the hierarchy of their relationship, if there is one to begin with. As for Rae, she conditioned herself to find meaning in things that are on the other side of happiness, because she understood from an early age that life is more than that. Right now, for instance, is about knowing exactly how close to the edge they are and stepping forward anyway; she can’t risk getting stuck.

“You are,” he replies, matter-of-factly. There is no accusation behind his voice, maybe just a suddle tinge of frustration. “And you don’t have to be, because I don’t need anyone to watch out for me,” Lando insists.

Raelyn is aware that the source of his shortcomings lies largely in the empty rooms, missing voices, and the fact that his entire family has been reduced to a full house of ghosts. Nevertheless, his words sting just as much.

“Not even me?” she whispers, eyes searching his face.

Lando exhales, forehead dropping until it nearly touches hers. “It’s not about you.”

She can feel his heartbeat under her palm when she presses it flat on his chest. “Lan, there’s no one else left here but me.”

His eye narrow, understanding there is no way he can fight the cruel truth. All he needs to do is take a quick look around to realize Raelyn is right, and it’s not that he’d be all alone without her that wrecks him, but the fact that she must know how much pain she can cause him, if that’s what she wanted to. Love means trusting she won’t.

“You push like that,” he teases quietly, lifting his hand to cup the side of her face, “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

She holds his gaze without blinking. “With you?”

Lando shakes his head, eyes closing briefly. In spite of what she’s insinuating, he manages to smile a little and, before she can speak again, he presses his lips on hers, kissing her just like he always does: like he’s starving, with a possessive force that’s able to claim every inch of her mouth.

Raelyn melts into him, her tongue sweeping in to tangle with his. From her cheek, his hand drops to her waist, fingers splaying wide over the soft fabric of her black bodycon dress, then lower, gripping the exposed skin of her thigh. With a silky hum rumbling from his chest, Lando lifts her effortlessly off the floor and pushes her back against the wall behind, pinning her there.

A silent whimper escapes her lips right into his mouth, as needy as ever, dancing in circles on his tongue. Her legs snake his waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight around him, heels digging into the small of his back to wrench him close, then closer, until there is no physical space left. The friction of her core against his hardening cock sends an exciting jolt through him, and he takes the opportunity to savor it, grinding gently to tease both of them. Her arms loop around his neck, fingers burying into his curls, tugging with a desperation that matches his own. Then her hands slide down, nails scraping lightly over his skin until they grip the base of his neck, yanking Lando deeper into the kiss, as if she could simply fuse them together.

The kiss intensifies, turning wild and messy and sloppy. Tongues lick everywhere; hers tracing the seam of his lips before diving back in; his swirling against the roof of her mouth, tasting her greedily. He sucks at her bottom lip next, nipping only to hear her little gasp, then captures her tongue again, drawing her breath into his lungs like it’s the oxygen he can’t live without. His own comes out in ragged bursts, hot on her skin, possessive hold thightening even more, not wanting to give her the slightest occasion to break away.

One arm stays locked on her waist, supporting her weight without strain. The other hand roams lower, fumbling with the button of his jeans, the zipper rasping open in the charged air broken only by their heavy panting. The fabric parts, and he shoves it down enough to free his throbbing cock, the length springing out, already leaking from the tip. It’s embarrassing how quickly she can turn him on, but Lando lets her consume him in every possible way.

With Raelyn, every worry has a STOP button, and the buzz in his veins shifts smoothly back to a primal rhythm they both know so well. Impatiently, he rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging against the soft lace of her panties, seeping her heat through the thin barrier. A groan tears from his throat into her mouth, and she ends up swallowing it with a satisfied moan.

“Fucking hell, Rae,” he speaks against her lips, fingers digging into her thigh to hitch her leg higher.

“You can fall apart, you know,” she begins, contemplatively, “That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

“I am a little broken,” replies Lando, maybe a bit too quickly.

She arches into him, her body language screaming want with every cell, hips rolling to grind her clit on his length, chasing the sweet friction. In the moment, as her eagerness and impatient whimpers vibrate with him, Lando imagines that all that exists is her, dragging him from the edge of darkness back into the burning flames of life. Thus, in retrospect, it doesn’t matter whether he’s broken or not.

“You’re the same to me,” she exhales heavily, as if to emphasize her point.

Lando almost chokes on his next breath, losing his grip only to lower Rae back to her feet, but he doesn’t break the kiss. His mouth lingers on hers, tongues sliding in a messy dance at the same time his hands slide down her sides. Dexterous fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, peeling them off in one desperate motion, the lace leaving goosebumps all over her hips and thighs before pooling at her ankles. She kicks them aside without breaking contact, and once she’s exposed to him, Lando presses her clumsily into the wall again, the edge of the dresser digging into his hip. He manages to crowd her space, his freed cock bobbing heavy between them, brushing along her inner thigh. Rae’s palms curl around his biceps, fingers digging into the taut muscle there for support, feeling the flex as he repositions himself.

“All this time,” he mumbles impatiently, one hand wrapping around his shaft to guide the swollen head to her entrance, “And I still can’t get enough of you.”

“Promise?” she asks, voice cracking a little on the last syllable.

“Promise,” Lando exhales a shaky breath that fans over her cheek, slowly pushing forward.

Her walls part for him with ease, taking Lando in with a gush of wetness that lets him glide blissfully deep. She has to bite her lip at how good the homecoming feels like, eyes closing shut so she can fully focus on the way he splits her on his length. And the moment he starts moving, her inner muscles begin sucking at his cock like it’s second nature. Their heavy breathing fills the room, joining the guttural grunts that come out of Lando’s throat. The rhythm builds gradually, skin slapping on skin in echoing smacks that has her ass hitting the wall with each drive.

In the heat of it, Lando’s lips find the softness of her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column, biting lightly at the pulse point that beats wildly under his tongue.

“You really think I don’t need you?” he asks, frenzy evident in his voice. “How can I not? You were made for me, weren’t you?” Lando’s tone is laced with that soft-yet-aggressive edge, one of his hands dropping to her hip again to open her wider, allowing him to plunge deeper. “Fuck. Say yes, I wanna hear you.”

“Yes, baby,” agrees Rae in a high-pitched voice, the words coming out of her mouth like bullets, without being able to stop them. “I’m just scared because I sometimes feel like it’s a matter of time until you slip away” she admits, head falling back against the wall as she rocks her hips to meet him. “Faster. Please,” her voice breaks on the plea, fingers tangling in his curls once again, pulling at them to urge him on.

Processing her affirmation, Lando’s restraint snaps like a revved engine hitting redline. His pace increases with pure need, thrusts turning nearly punishing, hips snapping with a force that shakes her entire body.

“Not gonna happen,” he pants into the crook of her neck, breath breaking erratically against her skin. “With you for the long run, yeah?” his assures her, changing position so one hand braces beside her head, the other gripping her ass to angle her just right, his cock slamming home with every brutal drive.

The girl moans louder, all sounds mixing together into a cacophony that’s ricocheting off the walls. The pleasure is omnipresent, but it exponentially intensifies every time Lando cries out her name. He can’t stay silent even if he wanted to, not as he swells inside her with each thrust, his thick length pulsing, the ridged head dragging along her channel in ecstatic waves that shoot persistently from one body to the other. Her pussy flutters around him, the wetness coating his balls while they slap relentlessly with lewd sounds.

“Yeah,” her voice fades, gasping in time with her legs trembling around his waist. “Shit, I’m so close.”

At this point, Lando’s control is very limited and crumbles along with her failed attempts to speak without moaning. His movements become inconsistent, jaw working hard in order to prolong his own pleasure, while undoubtedly pushing Rae toward hers.

“Good girl, baby,” his voice is utterly wrecked, “Come on then, come on my cock,” he encourages her, the desperate grind of bodies seeking oblivion in each other. “You’re so fucking perfect, let me feel you.”

His thrusts are slowing a little, allowing himself the luxury of watching her face contort in bliss as the orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy spasms in repeated waves that suck at him without stopping, her moans turning into sweet cries that animate the bedroom. Satisfied, he grinds deep, circling his hips to elongate the sensation, feeling her wetness flood around him, coating his length and dripping down her thighs.

Only when she’s riding the peak, body shuddering in Lando’s arms, does he let go. His release hits hard and fast, praising spilling from his lips like a desperate prayer, his cock pulsing as hot spurts fill her to the brim. It’s messier than he expected, cum leaking out around where they’re joined, slicking his balls and inner thighs, the overflow dripping down as he keeps her pinned, with one palm firmly splayed on the wall for leverage and the other holding her steady through the aftershocks.

A few seconds later, he looks down at his girl with a yearning gaze that burns. For some reason, he gets the strange feeling that she’s something that should be out of his reach. Someone he shouldn’t have. Someone he doesn’t deserve. All at once, Lando realizes that her fears aren’t irrational; there were times when even he didn’t recognize himself, and only Rae knows what terrifying thoughts she didn’t share with him, just because she thought it was better not to.

The least he can do now is prove that no matter how many times the world might end around them, she won’t end up losing him.

Lando leans in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he speaks, “You have me, Rae. You’re my ride or die, don’t ever doubt that.”

The testimony is not limited to a simple promise made post-orgasm. Promises can be easily broken. The words carry a lot of weight, coming from Lando. It’s what his sister used to say about having that one person that’s yours only. Someone you can trust with your life, but also someone you would die with in a heartbeat. It means commitment that doesn’t break under pressure, not even when helplessness or fear claws at the edges of common sense, ripping it apart. He grew up watching that devotion shape the way Letty loved and the way she fought for the people she cared about. Treating it like a bravado would mean betrayal, especially knowing that she died believing loyalty was worth any cost. Even life itself.

Rae’s arms are still wrapped tight around Lando’s neck, thighs quivering still as he gently lowers her feet to the floor, supporting her weight until she’s steady enough on her own. Her body slides down his, his softening cock slipping free with a wet noise, more of their combined release smearing between them.

“Shit,” he exhales, “Are we okay?” asks Lando with a chuckle that barely leaves his throat, brushing a stray curl from her face.

For the first time in the past month, Raelyn can see vulnerability in his eyes, not just the endless void. She smiles, answering by rising on her toes to kiss him deeply; a silent declaration that they are more than okay, actually. He’s still in there, a little broken, but still hers.

“I’m coming with,” the girl presses a final kiss to his cheek before padding over to the dresser on unsteady legs to grab a fresh pair of panties.

THEY ROLL OFF Alameda Street an hour later, where the Arts District thins out into warehouse rows and dead-end stretches of chipped asphalt that no one takes responsibility for after midnight. Lando pulls in slowly, allowing the wheels to slide through the sea of people like skates on ice, letting the car announce itself through a dense, metallic purr. That makes him easy recognisable, and the shouts are then quick to follow.

His posture is loose yet nervous in an exciting way; the tone it’s always electric in places like this, and the atmosphere around sets his hands tingling with impatience already. When fast cars gather in one scene and people swarm around them like ants in their own colony, he knows he’s made it home. Not because he inherited someone else’s reputation, but because he grew up in this environment, seeking the thrill like some sort of addict.

The lot is pure chaos: lowriders bouncing on hydraulics; tattooed guys in tank tops chugging beers from glass bottles, foam occasionally spilling onto oil-stained ground because of how wildly they’re gesticulating; girls in ripped shorts climb onto hoods, dancing to the thump of hip-hop blasting from massive subwoofers strapped to truck beds; joints are passed around from hand to hand like basket balls, the skunky haze blending with the acrid bite of exhaust and rubber. This tiny bubble is a world onto itself, laughter punctuated by tons of curse words and jokes with just enough innuendo.

Above it all though, the sound of engines roaring is overwhelming. Lando eases the Skyline into a spot near the fence, killing his with a satisfied grin plastered on his face. The sudden quiet inside the car only amplifies the madness outside, and he can’t help but turn to look at Raelyn.

“Let’s make some money,” he says, leaning over the console to press a quick kiss on her lips.

She unbuckles her seatbelt quickly, pulling him back for more before he even has time to turn in his seat. “You’re enjoying this too much,” she points out soon after in a fake accusatory tone that Lando can’t argue with.

Still, “Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”

The night air carries a specific scent that Raelyn had never smelled anywhere else but at street races: sweaty men, spilled alcohol and canned energy drinks, hot metal, and motor oil. Lots of it. From where she stands, the strip stretches out like a vein, a long straight of abandoned roadway flanked by derelict warehouses and graffiti walls. In passing, she sees a guy in a bandana stumble from, most likely, too many shots of tequila, one of his arms slunging around a girl who grinds against him to the beat of the music. Over by a jacked-up Impale, a group passes around a blunt, the ember glowing in the space they share as they hype up a driver revving his turbo.

Lando’s hand finds hers once they weave through the throng, and for a moment she’s sure she can feel what he does every time he comes here: an escape.

They spot their crew somewhere near the improvised starting line. Raelyn sees Suki first, her long, glossy hair catching the light that comes from the street lights while she fiddles with the air filter on her Honda S2000, a bunch of tools scattered at her feet. Alex and George, the only mates left from the long-gone days of high-school, greet them with ear-to-ear smiles, cracking open fresh Monsters and ribbing each other about last week’s bust.

“Four, you late ass!” Suki calls out, straightening with a smile on her face at the same time she’s tilting a little to wipe the grease from her hands on her cargo pants. “What took you so long, dude?”

Lando chuckles, fighting the urge to flip her off as he pulls Rae closer to his side. “My lady,” he replies honestly, turning to look at the girl who’s a second away to go key his car for making her blush in front of their friends.

“Ignore him,” Raelyn chimes in, pinching her boyfriend’s bicep.

“Don’t worry, though,” continues Lando, “I wouldn’t miss watching you eat my dust for anything.”

Suki snorts, tossing a rag at him. “Rae, girl, tell this fool of yours to stop dreamin’. See this?” she says, tapping near the intake. “I retuned the throttle response and leaned out the air-fuel mix to sharpen the pickup. She’s breathing cleaner now, which, in simpler terms, means he’s got no chance against me tonight.”

Raelyn laughs, trying to ease the competitive tension that always simmers below the surface between them. “Play nice, you two. Save the trash talk for the line. And you,” she turns in Lando’s arms fully, throwing her hands around his neck, “You better pay more attention to that mouth, yeah?”

“Or else?” he provokes her, knowing well enough that or else she’s going to shut it for him.

And that’s what she does. Her chest presses against his, Lando’s arm tightening around her waist like an instant response. The kiss is more of a reminder that she can be assertive if the situation calls for it, so he’d better not step on her toes. Especially not when she’s wearing her favorite boots.

Their bickering flows easy after that, but it falters when several heads turn toward the same point of interest: a well-known matte black Dodge Charger that causes bodies to shift and scatter under the rich hum of its engine. Instinctively, Lando’s grasp on Raelyn’s waist tightens, jaw clenching involuntarily; just like that, the illusion of a drama-free night shatters under the sound of Dominic Toretto’s car door slamming shut.

A month ago, he would’ve clocked the big man the same way everyone else around him does, untouchable, above all. Maybe he did love Lando’s sister. Maybe he simply didn’t know how to show up for grief, preferring to do it alone. But nothing can excuse his absence when it mattered most. To Lando, the man that approaches their group now isn’t untouchable anymore. He’s human, just like everybody else, which makes him just as vulnerable. Just as flawed and exposed.

And a coward.

His worn jacket hangs open over his frame, moving with him as he closes the distance with characteristic patience, his heavy boots crunching over scattered gravel and discarded bottle caps. The overhead lights catch along the clean lines of his shaved head and the dark stretch of his T-shirt pulled tight across his frame, giving the impression that he owns the place, confident that no one’s going to stop him.

Whereas people’s eyes are glued to him, Suki’s gaze snaps past Dom, to another car that rolls off. To get better look at it, she hops up onto the hood of her car, shading her eyes against the flicker of the headlights. “Yo, Four,” she calls out, jabbing a finger toward a sleek, blacked-out Plymouth Barracuda, “Is that your sister’s old ride?”

Lando shifts his weight, already angled toward the edge of the crowd, because he would rather drag his girlfriend through it than face Dom, not trusting himself to stand in front of him without losing it. But in a fraction of a fraction, his blood starts boiling in his veins, confusion decorating his face.

“What?” he asks with an uncertain voice, mostly to himself, as his eyes lock onto the Barracuda.

The familiar lines of the body close around his throat like an invisible claw. It is, in fact, Letty’s car. The same one she’d poured her entire soul into, turbocharged and lowered. Relief punches through him and, for the shortest second, he’s as pathetic as imagining that she might step out of it. The next one, reality creeps back in, fueling him with anger so sudden it makes his hands curl into fists around Raelyn’s waist.

The car shouldn’t be here. Matter of fact, it shouldn’t exist anymore.

The raid on the Ortiz house and garage flashes in his mind like polaroid pictures thrown one by one on a table right in front of him: DEA agents swarming during the Braga investigation and badges dangling under floodlights, ripping apart their lives under the guise of justice. It makes him sick to his stomach; there was no justice. Letty’s car had been seized as evidence. Dragged away on a flatbed while she was still alive. After the case wrapped, it vanished into impound, ultimately auctioned off for pennies to some faceless bidder that was supposed to tear it apart for pieces.

Or so he’d thought.

Raelyn notices the change in Lando’s body language instantly; he’s gotten stiff beside her. Cold. First instinct is to cling to his torso, pressing her side against his like a shield, opposed to the storm brewing in his eyes. But everything stopped existing, except the scene in front of them. He can’t do anything else but stare while the mass of bodies shifts apart around the Barracuda, voices — now reduced to murmurs shooting from every direction in disbelief — rippling outward as heads keep turning.

The car looks brand new, glittering in the wash of artificial light, but no one needs to take a second look at it to recognize it’s Letty’s signature. By now, Lando’s face is completely drained of color, his hands ultimately falling at his sides.

Pushed by curiosity, or rather madness, he takes a step forward, but Rae reinforces her hold, just as pale as he is. And rightly so, this is just like seeing a ghost.

“Lan,” she speaks with worry, because she’s already deciphered the look on his face, one that just turned grief into rage. “Did you know about this?” the girl asks, careful to give the question a little room to sit bewteen them. It’s not the answer she’s after, but the pause. A tiny chance for Lando’s anger to stall long enough for him to breathe instead of react.

Still, he shakes his head, locking his jaw with such force that she can see the muscle twitch. “No…” he trails off, anchored in disbelief. “Fuck no. I thought it was gone. Scrapped or some shit,” the voice comes out drenched in sudden betrayal, eyes never leaving the car as it finally rolls to a stop.

Dom’s steps died out at a safe distance, arm crossed over his broad chest. Nothing gets through the mask of control he’s currently displaying, despite the fact that, much like Lando, his blood is currently boiling with rage. It’s Raelyn who catches the flicker in his brooding eyes and how subtly his shoulders square. The realization doesn’t surprise her in the slightest, though. Of course he knew. He must have, but decided to keep his mouth shut, probably figuring Lando would go nuclear on whoever had the balls to claim it. And, when the door swings open, the last piece of puzzle falls into place.

Marco Delano, the last idiot alive Lando would want behind Letty’s wheel. He grew up running the same streets as the Ortiz siblings, and their feud is old as time, a result of crossing lines that can’t be erased, envy and selfishness. Letty trusted him once, but she had a gift of seeing through people’s bullshit.

All his life, Marco wanted everything Lando had: his ability to make himself widely liked, the way he didn’t have to earn a seat at the table because he was born at it, his friends, his cars, even his girlfriend. Years ago, when Raelyn chose Lando, that happened to be his last straw. For a guy with a huge ego it was biblical humiliation, so he’s been silently waiting for the perfect moment to strike back. And now, the guy knows exactly what he’s doing, parading the car like a trophy, bragging in front of his best-friend-turned-lifelong-enemy, daring him to look at it without breaking.

As expected, Lando sees red, and Rae’s arms aren’t nearly enough to hold him back anymore.

“Lando, don’t,” she tries to stop him, but he wrenches free, stalking toward Dom with his fists still clenched at his sides.

Suki slides off the hood, coming to hold Raelyn from behind; a small gesture, designed to remind her that someone’s got her back in case things go terribly south.

“What the fuck is this?” Lando snarls, stopping inches from Dom. He’s shorter than the big man, but the anger makes him tower in the moment, his blue eyes blazing. “That’s why you’re here? You fucking knew and you didn’t say a word?”

“I heard about it, yeah,” says Dom, exhaling through his nose, occasionally glancing at the car he knows so well.

Lando squints. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” his voice is almost conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. “You simply let that piece of shit snatch it up like it was nothing?”

“I was gonna handle it.”

That earns a laugh from the youngest Ortiz, but he’s not amused in the slightest. “Handle it?” he points a finger at Dom’s chest, stopping short of contact, body trembling with the effort to hold back a swing. “Are you fucking serious right now? You were gonna handle my sister’s car like it’s some oil change appointment?”

Across the strip, Manny Cruz, known as Ledger, climbs onto the hood of a rusted Tacoma, holding a megaphone close to his mouth, “Alright, people. Before shit hits the fan, listen up!” the man shouts, his deep voice cracking through the air. “We go racing tonight, pink slips only,” he informs the people who are gatherig closer, already discussing among themselves whom to bet on. “You lose, I keep you title. You win, you take theirs. It’s that simple,” adds Ledger, hopping down and starting to walk through the racers with his palm out, collecting folded titles and money like a landlord collecting rent on the first of the month.

In the meantime, Lando doesn’t take his eyes off Dom. “I’m familiar with the fate of the things you care about,” he barks, clearly referring to his sister’s death. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“We’re still on the same team, kid,” says Dom with no inflexion in his voice. “I was gonna win it back. Bring it home.”

“You mean your garage?”

“That was family’s car.”

“My family’s car,” Lando corrects him in a heartbeat. “If you think I’m sitting this out while you play hero for my sake, you’re dead wrong, Toretto. I am going to bring it home, so you better stay out of my way.”

By the time Ledger gets to Marco, the guy leans against his freshly polished car with a smirk on his face. He doesn’t even glance around to check what other racers will compete tonight, because there’s only one he wants to beat. The way he sees it, he’s not gambling a car. Rather, he’s using it as a weapon, wagering on Lando’s weaknesses, on the reckless way he’s been driving since his sister died, and on the unshakeable belief that a broken man makes catastrophic errors the moment it gets personal. Finally beating the Ortiz would put Marco way up there, demonstrating once and for all in front of everybody that the name means absolutely nothing without Letty behind the wheel.

Keeping the same annoying grin intact, Marco stands back after dropping the title into Ledger’s hand, watching his rival turn on Dominic in public outrage, satisfied with the knowledge that he’s already turned family against itself before the engines even start.

“This is your fault,” hisses Lando, directing every ounce of indignation towards the man in front of him.

If the accusation affects him, Dom doesn’t let it show. “You don’t want to do this here, kid.”

“What I want is you out of my way,” Lando repeats, shaking his head. “You have the fucking nerve to show up here and tell me you knew that the scumbag had my car. You,” he almost chokes on the words that seem to pile up outside his mouth, “You have the fucking nerve to show up at all, one month after I buried the last member of my family. Where were you then? And where were you when she was murdered?” he keeps shooting, bullet after bullet striking Dom’s chest. “Where the fuck were you, man? Fixing cars in Panama?”

Although Dom exudes quiet command, a facial muscle twitches under his eye. “I took care of the motherfucker, didn’t I?” he pauses, going stiff at the memory. “Everything I did out there was for her, you know that.”

Lando’s face twists. “Alright then, where’s my sister? Row D, Section 4, East Lost Angeles Cemetery, plot 27,” he answers his own question, the exact location tumbling out like a missile. “You didn’t take care of shit, Dom,” says Lando at last. “You were too late then, and you are too late now, so stop walking around like you’re some sort of Good Samaritan.”

Dom’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains steady once he speaks again, “Like it or not, you’re family, Ortiz, not a stranger. And right now, you’re only untouchable because of what we, your sister and I, did in order to protect you,” he states, not in arrogance but naked truth. Where they live, loyalty is armor, nobody has to be lectured about it.

“How about this?” Lando smiles defiantly, leaning in so he makes sure he’s well heard. “Quit acting like I’m your responsibility. I never was, so you better learn to fuck off.”

“You were Letty’s,” Dom reminds him, a flicker of old pain surfacing behind his words. “And she was mine.”

“Fuck off,” Lando says again, louder, shrugging past the hand Dom extends once more in order to stop him. He pivots, storming through the gawking crowd, intentionally shouldering Marco Delano with brutal force. Marco reels, his laugh ending up choking into a grunt.

“Lando!” Rae yells after him one more time, but her voice is barely audible from a distance. Plus, Lando is too overcome with anger to hear anything other than the sound of his own vengeful thoughts anyway.

Blinded by it, he thrusts his own title into Ledger’s waiting palm. “I’m in,” he snarls decisively.

THERE IS NO room for errors on Alameda Street. This is a driver’s strip that demands speed, split-second decisions, and big balls. For more than half the night, Suki burned with impatience to get behind the wheel, but after the earlier drama, she knows better than to get involved in family blood. Plus, she’d rather not compete at all than to do so against the midfield. Like most racers here, she wants Four. Bullet. Toretto. The big names of street racing that could actually challenge her.

“Couple more things,” Ledger’s voice gets lost in the night as he crosses the street from one side to the other, “Jump the start, you’re out. Crash, you’re out.” He lowers the megaphone, pointing down the stretch of Alameda, where the streetlights flicker like they’re about to go out any minute now. “Drag race, quarter a mile ‘till the third intersection past the cold storage plant. You miss it,” he says, lifting the megaphone for the crowd to finish his sentence, you’re out, the words echo from every possible direction. “First to get back here wins. May the fastest motherfucker win.”

Minutes later, Lando’s jaw flexes in anticipation. He stands at the edge of the fray, his silhouette rigid against the chain-link fence. In order to keep himself from punching the concrete walls, he crossed his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more than to hold himself together. At least until his turn comes.

Raelyn sits nearby, avoiding to shower him in too much attention. That’s not what Lando needs right now. He just needs to know she’s there, which is always the case, and her hand brushing against his arm absent-mindedly is enough to remind him that.

His gaze is locked on the starting line, where Marco’s — Letty’s — Barracuda squats low. The supercharged V8 growls teasingly, minimal tweaks to the body keeping its lines familiar enough to taunt Lando. To add more to it, Marco leans out the window to flash a cocky grin, revving once to let the sound of the engine echo off the warehouses.

“Stupid idiot,” murmurs Lando.

Angel Morales alias Crow is right next to him. He finds himself into a gloss-blue Toyota Supra MK4, an iconic Japanese jewel, known for its aerodynamic design and the 3.0-liter 2JZ inline-six engine. The aftermarket modification is built for a relentless top-end speed that can swallow straights like Alameda whole, reaching performance within 4.6 seconds. The minimal decals give it a discreet yet striking appearance for those with eyes to see, Crow’s tattooed hands tapping nervously on the steering wheel.

Trying to capture as much information as possible, Lando chews on his bottom lip, a habit that Rae has teased him about ever since they met. His white Nissan Skyline GT-R R32 waits in the rotation. He put his blood, sweat, and tears into it, from reinforcing internals beneath the hood to a custom ECU tune sharpening its edge, and an all-wheel-drive system dialed for that perfect late bite of traction that launches without sacrificing the chase for top speed. The interior is stripped bare, designed for no distractions and less weight. It is the closest to perfection he has ever driven, and if he loses control, it won’t be the car’s fault.

Across the strip, Dom leans against his Charger with his arms folded across his chest. For Lando’s sake, he’s not competing tonight either, but that doesn’t mean he’s not prepared for the worst case scenario. Bottom line, they’ll get Letty’s car back at any cost.

The flag girl drops her arms and, for half a heartbeat, everybody holds their breath. One heartbeat later, the entire strip erupts, tires biting the asphalt, itching for it.

Lando shifts his weight nervously, feet planted wide like he’s preparing to brace for impact. He’s heard various voices mentioning earlier that Marco’s got a 500-horsepower Hemi under the hood, lightweight chassis tweaks, and sticky slicks for the quarter-mile. His Skyline is a corner-carver at heart, but in a dead sprint, doubt easily finds a way to gnaw deeper. Losing has never crossed his mind before, but losing here would mean capitulating the last piece of his family he can actually fight for.

Rae’s hand drops to curl around his bicep, squeezing gently.

The Supra edges ahead off the line, its lighter weight and clear-cut launch giving it the jump. Crow shifts gears with precision, the transmission whining through its ratios. Marco reacts, not that easily intimidated. The Barracuda surges, its massive torque overwhelming the Supra’s initial lead. By the 100-foot mark, the Plymouth’s nose draws even, exhaust spitting flames from tunes headers. Marco flirts with the throttle, keeping the rear end planted, the car’s wide stance devouring the strip. It pushes Crow to fight back, turbos screaming as he mashes the pedal, but ultimately, there’s no real competition here: Marco knows what he’s got his hands on, suspensions compressing under the G-forces.

He’s toying with it, Lando thinks, a chill racing down his spine. His stomach drops, figuring that Marco Delano came to perform and it’s just a matter of time until he does so, the nitrous bottle untouched, saving the blue flame for later.

Consistent with popular predictions, the Barracuda crosses the line first, clocks flashing a blistering 10.2-second quarter-mile. At last, Crow’s Supra coasts defeated to a stop, the man slamming the wheel in frustration.

Marco’s eyes find Lando’s once he steps out to cheers and backslaps. His smirk widens into challenge, rubbing salt into a wound that has been open for years. He gestures lazily toward his car, as if to say, yours is next.

The night drags on, two more races unfolding in rotation, shadowy figures in souped-up Civics and a Mustang trading pink slips in furious bursts of acceleration. Eventually, the lineup converges and Marco slinks to the starting line again.

Lando feels the inexorable draw that Raelyn makes sure to keep under control, eyes locking onto his with unshakable faith, piercing his fog of doubt. She closes the small space left between them, bringing a hand to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing the firm edge packed with tension. On her toes, she leans in to meet his lips in a tender kiss, an anchoring gesture amid the chaos. It deepens quickly, cherry gloss combining with the salt of his skin. Lando’s palm settles at her waist and just as she eases back to give him a smile, he decides that he won’t lose anything ever again.

“Smoke him,” she says with finality.

Lando nods, the ghost of a smile cracking his facade while walking backwards towards his car. He drops into the bucket seat, strapping himself in. The twin-turbo inline-six rumbles to life once he twists the key, its vibrations coursing through the chassis and settling into his core. He blips the throttle once, then again, only to feel all the systems awakening, so he can finally roll it nose-to-nose with Marco’s at the starting line. Refusing to look anywhere else but ahead, Lando’s kuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. In record time, all his senses refine, causing him to hear everything, from the noise outside the car to his own heartbeat.

The flags raise again, and the moment they slash downward, each second seems to pass in slow motion.

ONE. The launch detonates in a haze of fury, and it isn’t clean. Lando slams the clutch, floors the throttle, the car rushing with impatience. The tires rebel against him, spinning wildly on the oil-slicked strip scarred around from the earlier battles. A thick smoke chokes the air with the sharp tang of scorched rubber, the car fishtailing as the ATTESA system fights to redistribute torque across all four wheels in the shortest time.

Marco’s Barracuda rockets uninhibited ahead, its engine propelling the heavy muscle car forward in a flash. Lando’s eyes widen in the cockpit, irritation spreading like ivy in his chest.

“Not now,” he spits under his breath, the rearview mirror framing Marco’s vanishing taillights.

TWO. The Skyline manages to scrape for purchase, the rear settling as the turbos begin to spool with a mounting whine that vibrates through the roll cage, but the deficit looms. Marco’s eyes shrink in the distance, and Lando has to close his briefly, sweat prickling his brow. His right foot modulates the throttle, drowning the crowd’s enthusiasm, the entire universe suddenly condensing into a singular point. He bangs into second gear, the transmission engaging with a mechanical snap; he’s gone by now, vision tunneling, any trace of fear and doubt remaining deeply rooted in the past.

THREE. Marco’s car cleaves the air, its broad hood dominating the lane. There are short bursts of flame spitting from the exhaust with every upshift, as if emphasizing his desperate need to choke Lando. But in Lando’s current state, he’s impossible to reach. It looks like he is able to urge the car onward through sheer will, even though his fingers ache around the wheel. The instant inertia hurls him back into the seat with a jolt of G-forces that compresses his spine. He’s not even blinking anymore as he calculates the chasm, twenty feet and closing, agonizingly slow. He pre-shifts into third, a surge of heat taking over any other kind of emotion that might surface.

FOUR. His rival toys with a nitrous feint, azure flickers dancing unused from the tailpipes, baiting the rhythm. Lando’s frustration crests, pulse hammering in his temple as he counters with the subtle pedal work, the Skyline’s sleeker profile and lighter curb weight beginning to assert itself on the straightaway. The speedometer blurs past 80 mph, wind shrieking through the vents like a banshee.

“Fucking fight me!” he wills the machine, the night sky blurring into a cinematic rush outside the windows.

FIVE. The Skyline creeps alongside between one breath and the next, with tires singing at 100 mph over the grooved pavement. Midway down the strip, Marco muscles into third, the V8’s torque cresting in a thunderous peak which Lando forsees, his foot dancing on the pedals to sustain boost without spin.

SIX. That’s when Marco finally commits to the nitrous, a violent hiss unleashing the oxide in a blaze of compressed outrage. Flames erupt in blue hues from the Barracuda’s rear, rocketing it ahead and widening the breach once more. Lando responds promptly, triggering his own system, the bottle venting with a sizzle that feeds the turbos pure fire.

SEVEN. The cars draw closer in a cacophony of noise, clouds of exhaust fumes merging into a thick veil beneath the lights. Lando’s instinct peaks there, encouraging him to tuck into the Barracuda’s slipstream, managing to steal efficiency from the turbulent air. Then darts left to claim clean flow. Marco fumbles a shift, the heavier chassis balking under the strain; Lando seizes it, holding redline before slamming fourth, the gear meshing perfectly thanks to his experience on the streets and, mostly, his sister’s driving lessons.

EIGHT. The 450-horsepower turbos are at full cry, the strip appearing like it’s going to vortex into oblivion. The Barracuda tries to counter aggressively, swerving to steal the lane, but Lando anticipates, easing off the throttle at the same time the tires object with a high-pitched keen yet adhering to the tacky surface.

NINE. Marco’s car weavers, its nitrous ebbing as the early rush melts away. Lando’s aero savvy and unflinching boost control propels him past, the front bumper inching clear.

TEN. Reality crashes back in the moment Lando’s Skyline arrives at the line first, its brakes flaring crimson-red against the night.

He spends the next ten seconds clutching the steering wheel tightly, pure ecstasy washing over him, while the cheers outside are so loud that they seem like they’re gonna break the windows. When he finally steps out of the car, he does it on steady legs and dilated pupils from the adrenaline haze, searching the sea of faces for hers.

After everything, Raelyn launches herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist as her arms lock behind his neck for support. She crashes her lips against his, tongues tangling in a kiss that has the power to kill the chaos around them. Lando’s hands grip her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer. They don’t break apart, not even when hurrahs and whistles erupt louder from the sidelines.

Rae’s fingers thread through his damp hair, tugging at it just to make him groan into her mouth. “That’s my racer boy!” she smiles against his lips, nipping at his bottom one.

It only makes him kiss her harder, one hand sliding up her back, in that same possessive way he does, no matter who’s watching.

Humbled once again, Marco lumbers to a stop in arrears. The moment shatters as the familiar voice infiltrates through, fully dripped in venom.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Ortiz,” he says, fumbling in his pocket and hurling the keys on the ground, where they skitter across the gravel like discarded trash. “And let me tell you,” he adds, a devilish smirk blooming on his face, “Letty’s ghost in that ‘Cuda…” the boy trails off, pursing his lips before continuing, “Got me jerking off so fast.”

The entire area hushes in an instant, and the only sound in Lando’s ears is the sound of his blood rushing to his cheeks. He gently puts Rae back on her feet, then dives headfirst at Marco with an animalistic roar, slamming into him like a freight train. They crash to the asphalt in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring Lando’s teeth as concrete bites into his elbows. He rears back and drives his fist into Marco’s face multiple times, knuckles splitting open on the ridge of his cheekbone, blood blooming hot from the gash. As a result, Marco’s head snaps sideways, a spray of bright red arcing under the neon glow of the street lamps. He doesn’t go down easy, though. Twisting like a viper, he hooks a leg around Lando’s and bucks hard, flipping them so he’s straddling Lando’s chest.

People are surging closer, gasps of surprise quickly turning to chanting: “Fight! Fight!” a woman’s voice shrieks in excitement, fists pumping the air, while others shout encouragements.

Marco’s weight pins Lando, his bloodied grin turning demonic as he cocks back and slams a punch into Lando’s jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot and causing instant fireworks exploding behind Lando’s eyelids. Pain flares underneath his now bruised skin, copper flooding his mouth from a busted lip. It only makes him angrier, and he bolts upright, headbutting Marco square in the nose with a wet crunch, cartilage giving way under the force. More blood gushes from Marco’s nostrils, dripping onto Lando’s shirt as they roll again, grappling in a frenzy of years of repressed wrath.

Lando’s rage unleashes in every swing, his boot stomping down on Marco’s thigh while he claws at his shirt, tearing fabric and skin alike. Marco retaliates with a vicious uppercut to Lando’s ribs, the blow landing with a thud that steals his breath, cracking bone maybe, sending agony lancing through his side.

“That all you got, motherfucker?” Marco spits, blood flecking his teeth, but Lando’s already on him, kneeing his gut and following with a new wave of punches.

“Shut up!”

One glancing off Marco’s ear.

Another smashing into his eye, swelling it shut in seconds.

Then another, sending his head flying backwards.

They trade blows in the dirt, no more words, just grunts and the meaty sound of impact. Unmasked, Lando’s violence overflows through his fists like a dam breaking. It awakens painful memories for Dom who, after the initial shock, finally barrels in like a force of nature, his massive arms wrapping around Lando’s torso from behind.

“Enough, kid!” he thunders, muscles straining as he hauls him off Marco, prying them apart with sheer power despite Lando’s wild trashing.

“Get the fuck off me!” Lando protests. “I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

“That’s enough!” the man repeats, louder, throwing Lando at the side like he weights nothing, pointing at him before turning back to Delano. He pulls his unstable body back on his feet by the jacket, only one hand clawing at the bloody material. “You’re done here,” says Dom, infernal eyes piercing into his soul. “Walk away before I put your head into the asphalt.”

Lando looks like he could lunge again at any second, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes burn while darting around, scanning the ground. Every fiber of him buzzes with the leftover punch of adrenaline, like the storm hasn’t finished raging yet. Once he finds the keys to the Barracuda, he bends to snatch them, the metal biting cold into his skin, making him fist his palm around it until it hurts.

It only takes a glance at Raelyn, and she’s immediately by his side, worry etching fine lines around her eyes.

“Take my car and go home,” says Lando with an evident rasp in his voice.

Clenching her jaw, Rae doesn’t argue this time. She just nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek, refusing to look around and make eye contact with another person. As for Lando, he doesn’t wait for more. Sliding into Letty’s car, the engine starts purring smoothly beneath him, and he peels out, leaving the lot behind in a cloud of dust.

The city blurs past in shadowed alleys, but there’s no final destination this time. He presses the pedal harder, racing the wind, hoping the speed will do its thing and numb the ache. Unfortunately, even the fastest driver can’t outrun his own thoughts. He spends hours trying to, but when the sky finally hints at the pale edge of dawn, Lando turns onto the quiet suburban street, the driveway materializing in front of him in sweet familiarity. He kills the engine, allowing himself to just exist in his sister’s space without breaking all over again. Sitting there, he’s gripping the wheel until his hands cramp and the skin around his knuckles breaks anew, painting them in a brighter shade of red.

Another half hour stretches into what feels like eternity before he forces himself out.

Inside, the house is still, even if he already knows Rae is probably awake. Their bedroom door stands ajar, a silver of light coming from the lamp in the corner of the room, spilling into the hallway. She looks up from the edge of the bed as he enters, her eyes scanning Lando instinctively: his lip is busted open, bruises are glowing in faint purple shades along his jaw, and his clothes are streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. It hurts her to even look at the crimson crust at the corner of his eye, a shallow cut that Marco’s ring left behind.

Her heart shrinks to a painful knot in her chest, remembering that it’s only been a month of this. A whole month of holding him together while pieces of him, without a doubt, fractured. It’s physically impossible not to question herself, if this is what their life will look like from now on — a vicious circle of mourning the things that could’ve been.

It would be very easy for her to kick and scream, to demand why he keeps throwing himself into the fire, but she understands the why. For this reason, the what and the how long until no longer make any sense. Instead, she rises silently to brush past Lando in the narrow hallway. Her shoulder grazes his arm in a ghost of a contact that sends a jolt through both of them. But they both ignore it.

Just as serene, she rummages for the first aid kit in the bathroom, the plastic clattering against the sink. She allows her hands to shake for a few seconds before she steels them and by the time she’s back, Lando has stripped off his shirt, the dirty fabric discarded in a heap on the floor along with his jeans and jacket, where smoke clings to them still. He perches on the edge of the bed, the same spot where he found her, his bare torso marked with fresh welts and old scars from races that ended badly.

Although it’s the early morning, Raelyn switches the flip on in order to fully see him, the new wave of light flooding over the taut lines of his muscles, highlighting the tension coiled there.

“Move over,” she points at a chair, sounding detached of it all. “I don’t want all that mess in bed.”

Lando doesn’t complain. Sliding off the mattress, he settles into the chair by the window, watching Raelyn setting the kit on the windowsill with a small tap. He can feel the chemical scent the moment she uncaps the antiseptic, already anticipating its sting.

Stillness settles over them for the umpteenth time.

Raelyn starts with his face, tilting his chin up, vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. Despite the fact that she feels his gaze imploring her to look at him, even just once, she cannot do so without being overcome by the urge to punch him herself for the show he put on in front of everybody. She dabs the cotton swab at his busted lip first, the alcohol stinging enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. At least for now, Rae considers that’s enough of a punishment. However, she doesn’t soften her touch.

Lando keeps his eyes on her, tracking the precise movement of her hands. It’s not the first time she’s patching him up, but this time around, the tension that hums between them is heated with something more brittle. Her breath comes shallow while she wipes away the dried blood from his chin, his skin turning warm under her touch.

The girl moves to his knuckles after that, a flash of surprise crossing her expression. The cuts are deeper than she expected, the flesh around torn and swollen. Skillful, a quality acquired as a result of the many times he had to fix Lando, Rae soaks a fresh cloth in saline, pressing it firmly against the wounds. The liquid trickles down his fingers, pink-tanged, dripping onto the towel she’s laid across his lap. Lando keeps wincing occasionally, his jaw working like he’s stopping himself every time he’s about to say something — to point out how cold and clinical she is, perhaps. But he chooses to swallow his words, thinking now is not the time.

Raelyn wishes she were stronger than that. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her mind from racing at the speed of light. Powerless, she replays the fight over and over again, the anger in Lando’s eyes catching her attention every time. Marco shouldn’t be able to get under his skin anymore. Yet somehow he did, and he still won, in the end. At least on a mental level, considering that Lando is now battling new demons.

For all that, she can’t let Lando know how much it actually bothers her. If she lets emotion out, she’ll end up sobbing into his chest. Or worse: begging him to stop chasing ghosts. She can’t ask that of him. Not yet, anyway. So she stays cold, her touch efficient as she applies antibiotic ointment, the cool gel melting immediately on his heated skin.

Careful not to disturb her, Lando repositions himself, the chair creaking underneath. For the first time since he sat down, their eyes finally meet, gentle gaze colliding with the strain she’s hiding in hers. He itches to reach out, to pull her close and sit in silence together, just like they did times on end for the past month. Yet, he’s powerless too.

After she’s done with his eye, Raelyn sticks on a pink butterfly bandage, sealing the ring cut in a way that makes the corners of her mouth lift for the shortest moment.

“Come here?” Lando dares to speak, but the girl steps back instead.

She keeps avoiding him, focusing on packing away the supplies, her fingers lingering on the lid, like she can delay the inevitable confrontation forever.

Lando shifts again, rubbing a hand over his freshly bandaged knuckles. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, making an effort to bridge the chasm with levity in order to defuse the tension that surrounds them. “Did you see the other guy? He’s gonna be picking his teeth out of the gutter for a week.”

She freezes with her back to him, shoulders tensing more, ironically. His attempt of a joke lands flat, and Raelyn can’t acknowledge it even with a scoff. All she can think of is how utterly helpless she feels, not being able to absorb the rage that’s become his second skin. Without having much of a choice, frigidity settles in her even though she wants to bridge the gap, to meet him in this fractured life where any win still comes with a loss. Where entourages of gearheads and dealers orbit them like satelits in a doomed orbit.

Part of her aches to wrap him up and carry the weight of his vengeance so he doesn’t have to, while the other part screams at her to collapse. To let the tears finally break through and drown them both in the reality of it all.

“I saw him,” she replies in the end, eyes fixing on the floor where his boots lie kicked off, all caked in dirt. “And it makes me sick that you think this is funny. Any of it.”

Lando’s grin fades, his slightly healthier hand flexing. “Rae, come on. I’m trying to get to you, that’s all. It was bullshit, yeah, but I handled it. We’re good,” his words sound somewhat desperate, still clinging to the adrenaline.

The girl whips around, feeling her nails digging deeper into her palms. “You came home bleeding, Lando. Again. And I’m the one cleaning it up. Again,” her voice cracks on the last word, not loud but intense enough to give him chills. “How can we be good?”

He sits up straighter, wincing once more. “What do you want me to say, hm?” Lando’s eyes search hers, pleading.

Raelyn sinks onto the bed across from him, the space between them fogging with accusations that are waiting in line to be fired like arrows at a moving target. Her hands tremble in her lap, and she clenches them again, fighting the urge to reach out or push away entirely.

Paradoxically, both versions feel wrong.

“I know you miss her,” she whispers, not trusting her voice. “I miss her, too. But can’t you see this life is eating us alive?”

“Baby, hey,” his tone softens into insistence. The confusion on his face morphs into concern as he stands fully, his chest rising with a deeper breath. “What’s wrong?” asks Lando, figuring that whatever it is, it is much more than he thinks. He steps closer so he can drop to his knees in front of her, head lifting to see her tired eyes.

“What’s wrong,” she echoes thoughtfully, close to snapping while gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night that swallowed them whole hours ago. “What you did out there,” the girl continues, closing her eyes briefly, “That’s not… I haven’t seen you like that. Ever.”

Lando’s expression hardens, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his beaten up features. “Are you seriously worried about Delano? That piece of shit deserved it,” his words come out as if they don’t need justifying.

She analyzes his face, gaze sliding across the cuts, then the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m not,” Raelyn shakes her head, “I’m worried about you.”

Next time he speaks, it seems like a reflex he’s clung to for weeks. “You shouldn’t. I’m fine.”

“Clearly,” her laugh is short. “You keep saying that. For a month now, you keep saying that. But I think this,” she cups his cheek in her palm, tracing her thumb across his busted lip, “This is far from fine. You kept it all inside, Lando, and now it’s going to come out in ways I’m not sure I can fix.”

“Fix me, you mean?” his eyes lock onto hers, demanding answers.

They’ve always been equals in their mess, no one fixing the other, just surviving the crash together. Now it feels more like an attack, impaling into the nerve of his grief, the same way Marco’s taunts still burn under his skin. He knows he shouldn’t turn everything into personal matters, but honor is the only thing he has left. He failed to be a protector when it mattered the most. It’s only fair he does everything in his power to be one from now on.

“No,” she dismisses his inquiry with a decisive tone, meeting his upward gaze even though her heart hammers like pistons overheating in her chest. “Ironically enough, it’s not just about you.”

Lando shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “Then what is it? You’ve been looking at me like I’m a thicking bomb since I walked in here,” his voice rises a notch, taking even himself by surprise.

Raelyn exhales, shifting her gaze back at the window. “I’m trying to save what we have left. Because I feel like you’re lying, and I’m not sure when we started doing that, but I don’t like it,” she admits.

“I don’t lie,” he affirms with finality.

“Keeping things for yourself or not saying the whole truth is just as bad,” the girl concedes, cracking open a fear that she’s tried to keep buried for the past couple of weeks: that without complete honesty, they’re just two people careening toward another crash. “You’re not fine, Lando. Downplaying it makes me believe you don’t trust me anymore.”

His eyes soften, hands peacefully landing on each side of her thighs. “Baby, I’m sorry if I scared you, alright? I’m sorry,” he repeats, blue eyes contemplating her face.

“If Dom wouldn’t have pulled you off him…” her words taper off, heavy with the horror of what she witnessed from the sidelines.

“You heard what he said, yeah? I couldn’t let that slide, you know how he is,” Lando frowns, disbelief sharpening his tone.

“That’s not an excuse,” counters Raelyn. “I saw the look on your face, Lando. I believed you when you said you’d kill him.”

Life as she used to know it flashes before her eyes in an instant: stolen moments in the garage, Lando’s high-pitched laugh, the way he’d pull her close after a close call, whispering promises. Suddenly, a jigsaw of moments is flooding her mind, refusing to stay in order: high-school Lando in her bedroom, scribbling schematics for his dream car in the margins of a notebook; late-night drives around the city; take-out dinners on the couch, her legs thrown over his, arguing about a silly TV show; his first race; his first race win; their first kiss when they were only 17. It’d be fascinating to observe how easily it all gets shadowed by a mistake he keeps repeating. If only it didn’t hurt so bad for making her question the man she’s shared her time with up until this point.

Lando’s expression pales under the bruises. “I—” he tries, but the protest dies, replaced by a haunted stare. In the moment, he can’t even admit that he said it just because of the adrenaline and anger. Hours later, he still feels the same way.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Raelyn finally breaks, tears welling up. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand once they spill over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.

“Why are you even going there, Raelyn?” the full name slips out like a slap, and she freezes above him, her body going stiff at the unfamiliar formality. “You know everything is fucked up, and it’s going to stay that way, regardless of whether you interfere or not.”

“No, it doesn’t have to,” the girl insists, her hands moving to cover his.

His posture slumps, the exhaustion etching deeper lines around his mouth. “Look around, baby. You said it,” Lando reminds her, “There’s no one else here but us. We’ve got nothing else but each other, so let’s not lose ourselves too. Because if that happens, Rae… if I lose you…”

In his head, Lando knows that losing her isn’t an abstract thought. Of course it crossed his mind before, perhaps more often than he would like to admit. He’s already memorized the sound of grief. It’s like a hollow echo with no response, but Rae is the last place he feels safe, the last person who can pull him back. Without her, he has no reason to slow down. No reason to step off the gas at the last second.

Most people are terrified of pain, but that doesn’t scare him. It’s the certainty that he wouldn’t survive what he would become afterward that keeps him frozen in fear.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she jumps on his unfinished sentence.

“What do you mean?” asks Lando, confusion knitting his brows, one hand reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

“This place,” explains Rae, cautious. “What if we leve for a while?” she asks, gauging his reaction, her heart pounding in the silence that follows.

Lando doesn’t dismiss it outright, but he does pause. “What do you mean?” he repeats a little softer. “Leave where?”

Running her hand gently through his tousled curls, Raelyn takes a small breath before asking, “How do you feel about Monaco?”

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