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✶ 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!

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𝗦𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚; a direct reference to the infamous slow and hard.

On this occasion, he starts with feather-light kisses along your inner thighs, allowing his breath to ghost over heated spots without touching right away; you can clearly see his cheeky side surfacing here. Soon enough, he drags the flat of his tongue in one long stroke from your entrance up to your clit, then pulls back to blow cool air across the wet trail he left. He repeats the motion again and again, never increasing speed, content to stay buried between your legs until your thighs tremble and your hips lift in silent pleading. This one demands a lot on his part because he’s not physically made for slow things. But every time your hips twitch, he eases off, kissing your clit instead, just to watch you squirm. Only when you’re dripping and whiny does he finally seal his lips to suck at you, still keeping the same rhythm, drawing out every flick until your orgasm crashes through you from tongue alone.

𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗘; since he loves cleaning up the plates with his tongue.

When it’s purely for his own hunger, Lando treats your pussy like his favorite meal. He moans against your slick skin as he laps at you, tongue pushing inside to feel every clench and flutter. He licks you clean after every pulse, chasing the taste of your arousal with greedy strokes, refusing to lift his head even when your fingers tug at his curls. And the more you try to push him away, the deeper he buries his face, tongue thrusting and curling to draw out another gush he can swallow. Each squeeze around the muscle makes his cock throb untouched yet he stays locked there, savoring your tremors until you’re shaking and oversensitive.

𝗗𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗥’𝗦 𝗥𝗢𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗘𝗖𝗛𝗡𝗜𝗤𝗨𝗘; his pole position award.

This works better after a strong quali session, and you already know to keep it quiet when he grips your hips to firmly dive in without preamble. He needs immediate hydration, so he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, tongue thrusting inside first, using a combination between quick and shallow strokes before he shifts upward to suck on your clit. His fingers slide inside easily, stretching you as his free hand grabs your ass to tilt you higher for deeper access; it’s ruthless but efficient. He opens you quickly, mouth and hand moving in sync until your walls clamp down and you have to bite on your lip to keep from crying out for everyone to hear.

𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗘𝗣𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬; lazy and drawn-out in the morning.

The morning after a rough night in the sheets, Lando wakes you with kisses that trail lower, settling in for a long recovery session. He presses warm kisses to your tender folds, soothing the ache with careful licks, then uses the tip of his tongue to trace random patterns around your clit in order to find out which is able to numb all your other senses faster. I’m talking small circles, figure-eights, slow side-to-side flutters and, dare I say, the letters of his name he’s sooo pathetic oh my gods. He’s extra affectionate though, tasting the lingering mess he left inside you and letting the heat of his mouth ease the soreness while he savors how soft and puffy you feel after he’s used you thoroughly. He sometimes uses his fingers too, but keeps them just barely inside, stroking gently, layering sensation until you can’t do anything else but gasping and/or begging for more.

𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗘; when you need to shut your brain off.

When your mind won’t stop spinning, he drops straight to his knees, looking up with tongue already out and waiting. It’s one of those rare moments when he doesn’t speak, just simply presses it flat against your clit and holds it there, letting you grind on it. Once you start moving he follows your rhythm, licking in broad passes while his hands grip your hips to keep you in place. He stays exactly where you need him, occasionally praising you for knowing what you want, working you tirelessly until the frantic thoughts dissolve into the wet sounds of his mouth and your own broken moans.

𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗖 𝗦𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚; living for the thrill.

With little time, he’s still able to make every second count. He keeps your panties pulled to the side, using just his mouth for quick, targeted sucks on your clit followed by a single finger sliding in and out. He likes to watch your face the whole time, adjusting speed and pressure based on every silent gasp. When you get close, he pulls back, kissing your thigh instead. It’s a calculated move, letting the denied orgasm make the next wave stronger. He’s obsessed with how soft you get while he waits for the edge to blur, then returns with renewed focus until you shatter all over his tongue.

𝗜𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗱

✦ Loves pinning and sloppy kissing while his hands roam everywhere at once, grinding against you until you’re both equally desperate.

✦ Starts with a slow fuck, whispering filthy praise about how tight and perfect you feel around him every time, then switches to pounding when you least expect it.

✦ Has relentless stamina and it takes a lot to tire him out. When you eventually do tire him out, remember he’s also big on falling asleep pronto, so don’t take it personally if he starts catching Z’s while he’s still inside you.

✦ And yes. He’s not pulling out without rocking gently a few more times first, obsessed with the feeling of you stuffed full as he keeps kissing anywhere he reaches.

✦ Flipping you over mid-thrust for sport. No warnings when he smacks your ass either.

✦ He’s always aiming for absolute performance and gets off on making you cum multiple times; fingers & tongue in every combination until you start begging for his cock.

✦ Turns into a human weighted blanket post-orgasm. Although he’s heavy and spent, his hands never stop teasing.

✦ Two words: morning sex. He’s likely to wake up with a boner 99% of the times, because mornings wrapped up in your warmth before the world wants anything from him are the highlight of his day.

𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗻-𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Starting with the smallest things, like seeing you blushing or maintaining eye contact.

✦ Hearing you confess your dirtiest thoughts during foreplay.

✦ When you wear his racing number => the simplest, most effective way to make him hard. Bonus points if it’s the only thing you’re wearing ;)

✦ Moaning his name in a needy voice and begging for more when he’s already balls-deep into wrecking you.

✦ Feeling your pussy throbbing when he’s eating you out.

✦ When you get a little possessive and start marking him in places only he can see. On the same note, the line between possessive and territorial is very thin with him, so crossing it will often end up with him dragging you somewhere to fuck you senseless and remind you he’s yours.

✦ Your post-fuck glow.

𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀

✦ Overstimulation and edging that goes both ways. He loves pushing past the limits, but wants (and needs) to be pushed just as much. Hearing you beg is one thing. But the moment he starts begging... 👅

✦ Public teasing *gasp*, act surprised. He will hint and speak with double meaning in front of any camera like it’s the very AND ONLY thing that fuels him. He also runs at 100% knowing he can get caught, and fingering or eating you out in risky places gets him ten times more excited.

✦ Cum play. He can’t get enough of it, actually. Watching his load drip out of you, pushing it back inside with his fingers or making you taste it off his cock. Freak 🤪

𝗙𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀

✦ Mating press as his go-to, because it’s allowing him to sink deep while locking eyes and yapping about how perfectly you take every inch.

✦ Reverse cowgirl (I) on the edge of the bed. It’s the control he has for this one, gripping your hips as you bounce on it and yanking you back against his chest afterwards, only to thrust from below with more force.

✦ Reverse cowgirl (II) on his face, when he’s craving your taste. Has the perfect mouth to devour you with slurping tongue thrusts, and is his favorite way to make him stfu.

✦ Spooning from behind, usually in the mornings. Lazy, deep thrusts that turn intense the moment he hooks your leg over his waist and reaches to rub your clit until you’re shaking.

𝗘𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗰𝗲

✦ He has a secret talent for edging himself without anyone noticing. Will also keep you on the brink for ages, just because he can be mean like that.

✦ The type to sneak vibrators into public dates; remote in his pocket, buzzing your clit during dinner with friends until you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom. He’s conveniently following you minutes later, only to fuck you over the sink because, again, dealing with the thrill of almost getting caught has him in a chokehold.

✦ One of his favorite power moves is sliding a finger into your mouth to watch you suck at it on instinct. During sex, right? Um, yeah, that too 😁🤞🏻