Crying So Hard Right Now WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME

misfortune 😭😭🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

Formula One's royal couple, Prince Charles Leclerc and Prince Max Verstappen, greeting their fans minutes before the misfortune (Charles suffering again at the hands of Ferrari) and the fortune (Max winning the Imola GP).

I'm totally so feral about them.

🎥: McLaren (Instagram)

I’m totally so normal about them.

pete said. porsche your boyfriend choked you to save your life. mine does it for fun. for my fun

i am VERY obsessed with top gun try and stop me mfs

✨Icemav Supremacy✨

ethan hunt is actually a perfect protagonist because he’s a huge bitch, distractingly pretty, and divorced—which are all essential—but also he kind of wants to end it all but god won’t let him die, is in a situationship with his best friend who definitely would, is a rebecca ferguson simp, can never decide if he likes his hair to be long or short so he’s always growing it out and cutting it again, has more trauma packed into his tight little frame than should be possible, and is obsessed with always wearing a cute little jacket

Max Verstappen has three kids; Penelope, Lily and Kimi Antonelli

gotta respect verstappism of kimi antonelli bc when he was told that max got 10s penalty for their collision, his response was "WHAT ABOUT PIASTRI?!"

last christmas.

ln x fem!reader

hello. i got whamageddoned early this year and i’m okay with it bc ‘last christmas’ is a bop. felt inspired to write some sad shit. mixed feelings on this one but we move - no smut for once (who am i?). not much else to say really. lemme know what you think and happy holidays <3

warnings: ANGST! language, alcohol, bad boyfriend behaviour

3.8k words

based loosely on ‘last christmas’ by wham! (normal text = present) (bold & italics = song lyrics) (italics = flashback)

a crowded room, friends with tired eyes

i’m hiding from you and your soul of ice

it had to be one of the coldest winters to date, utterly freezing. the chill had sunk into your bones in early november and you hadn’t been able to shake it since. it was bitter, bordering on painful, left you shaking, but it didn’t compare to the plummeting temperature in the room when he walked in.

it was christmas eve and old traditions were dying hard. the norris household had always been decorated beautifully, warm and cosy and inviting, a highlight of your childhood. cisca and adam knew how to throw a party, your parents and your brothers attending their annual christmas parties since the very first one. your parents were close with the norris’s, as were you, sort of. well, you used to be.

you’d known lando since you were seven years old, when you’d weakly kicked his kart with all the strength you had. he’d beaten you in a race and his smug little face had pissed you off more than the loss. he’d just stood there, grimacing and narrowing his eyes in search of damage. there wasn’t any.

disdain grew into a close friendship as you both continued to compete, weekends spent dotted about the english countryside, moving from track to track. you gave it up, losing interest and seeing a different path for yourself. he never gave up and that’s why he was where he was now, sitting pretty in f1, and not with you.

things used to be fine. you stopped karting and he didn’t, but nothing changed. he was still your best friend and you were still his, but you were just kids. what did you know? nothing, apparently, because as the years went on and life got more complicated, the worst happened. feelings.

it was hard to judge who fell first, but you both fell, tumbling uncontrollably off the cliff and into the rocks below. it was torturous, your late teenage years spent wallowing in internalised angst and self pity, sharing longing glances that you both ignored afterwards.

looking back, it was better that way. the pain had been worth it, because at least you had him in your life. now, you had nothing, while the whole world and the prettiest woman you’d ever seen seemed to rest in the palm of his hand.

it felt a bit silly to be stood there watching him walk in, tugging the sleeve of your tight red dress anxiously. he looked so good that you felt a bit sick, suddenly flushed. the crisp, white dress shirt he wore seemed to wrap around his lean body perfectly, his tanned skin glowing. and her. god, her. she was perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world, or that’s how it felt in the moment, her hand wrapped around his bicep. they were the centre of attention, the happy couple, perfect together. you’d seen her on instagram, shamelessly stalking her page, pictures of them together in dubai, on yachts, in the paddock, making you cry alone in your apartment a million miles away. what the fuck were you doing here?

you turned your back to them quickly, the glass of red wine in your hand being quickly raised to your lips. it had been made for sipping, and so you gagged as you gulped it down in mouthfuls. you ignored the way your eyes stung and took a deep breath, searching for anyone in the crowd that would be able to distract you.

your parents were chatting away with lando’s and the last thing you needed was a grilling on romantic partners and your job from that group, especially since they all knew what you’d turned down last year. your brothers were talking animatedly with oli and savannah, little mila perched on your brothers hip. you wondered why no one could ever focus on his love life instead, he was clearly better suited to having one, the little girl taking to him so naturally. you quickly realised you were out of lifelines, not fancying striking up conversation with a stranger. you knew that you shouldn’t have come, avidly against attending until your mother practically dragged you kicking and screaming. you should have stayed in london, cold and alone and wallowing, because nothing could have been worse than this.

between shaky breaths, you made it to the drinks table, abandoning the stained wineglass in exchange of some far too expensive champagne, seeking comfort in the fact that it would do the job. you felt a familiar presence beside you, tensing up as you said a prayer. anyone but him, you begged. i’ll take her over him, anything. just not him. your shoulders slumped as you relaxed, the sight of max fewtrell doing everything to ease you. as soon as you clocked the sympathy in his eyes, you wondered if his arrival was the worst of them all.

“hey, you.” he spoke fondly, ruffling your hair.

“don’t be a prick, max.” you mumbled, smoothing out the mess he’d made. it didn’t matter really, there was no one here to look good for.

“someone’s in a mood.” he teased, opening his arms for a hug. you glared at him for a second before succumbing, having missed your friend.

max looked tired, the drive from london wearing him out. he was busy these days, everyone seemed to be. you were too, but it was different; you were miserable. you asked him how he’d been, watching as he spoke happily. new opportunities, new girlfriend, new scenery. you couldn’t even be jealous of him, because you knew that he deserved a bit of happiness.

“what about you? how’s it, uh, going?” his head tilted, the returns of that stupid sympathetic look dimming the spark in his eyes. you shrugged in response.

“oh, you know me. i’m muddling through.” you brushed the question off. “being back home is-“

“awful?” he cut you off, deadpan. you scoffed out a laugh. max always knew.

“you know how it is.” you smiled sadly, breaking eye contact.

“have you spoken to him?” max’s voice was gentle, but inquisitive nonetheless. you shook your head so strongly that you could practically feel your brain rattling around. “you should, you know. he misses you.”

you almost fell off your high heels at the laugh you let out, full body shaking with incredulity at max’s statement. he looked borderline uncomfortable as he plastered on a fake smile, as to not make you look quite so peculiar when people turned to see what was so funny.

“are you having a fucking laugh?” you gasped out, voice laced with the unhinged rage that you tried so hard to hide from everyone else.

“you and i both know i’m not.” max was firm, eyebrow raised. “you know how bad last year hurt him. it didn’t need to be like this.” max murmured, and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. it felt like you were being told off. maybe you deserved it.

“i did what i had to do. for both our sakes.” you reasoned, hating how desperate you sounded. desperate to prove that you’d made the right decision, to prove everyone else wrong.

max turned his back, opting to stand beside you instead of before you, the both of you now looking out across the room, instead of at each other. there they were, her pressed against his chest, laughing together as they danced. you felt bile rising in the back of your throat.

“and how’s that working out for you?” max’s question sent you straight back to hell.

-

a face on a lover with a fire in his heart

a man under cover, but you tore me apart

lando couldn’t help but stare, the gorgeous green dress you were wearing doing nothing to ease his heart rate as he watched you from across the room. you’d been driving him insane since he was fifteen, and at twenty one, the man could barely breathe in your presence.

you’d been there in abu dhabi, watched him finish off his best season yet, wrapping him a hug when the race didn’t exactly go his way and affirming that you’d never been so proud of him. he knew he was in love with you, but in that moment, he knew he had to tell you, because your pride in him was what made it all seem real. the years fighting for a place, the blood, sweat and tears, the different countries that kept you both apart. you made every accomplishment seem real, because your affection was what he craved more than anything at all.

he gave you as much of himself as he could when he was home, often failing to coax you out to attend races, so when christmas eve rolled around, he knew he had to take the biggest risk of his life so far. liquid courage seemed effective, so the champagne in his glass quickly disappeared, even though the taste made him ill. it was a small price to pay to be able to finally, finally tell you that all of his lucky stars resided in your eyes.

the first problem arose when he couldn’t stop throwing back glasses of champagne. his palms were sweating, anxiety wracking him and all his nerves, the glass being raised to his lips all too easily. the second problem arose when he couldn’t actually see you anymore, eyes scanning the room in panic. the panic overtook any other sense of fear that he felt; he had to find you. the third problem arose when he eventually did.

you were sat in the back garden on the patio, giggling to yourself, as wasted as he was. you smiled goofily when you saw him watching, arms outstretched. he moved to sit beside you in the cold air, and you leaned into him instantly. he froze, thawing out as soon as you looked up at him. all too easily, his arm was around your shoulder, keeping you close, warm.

“what are you laughing about, hmm?” lando asked, words sloshing together, subtlety enough that you didn’t notice. you let out another giggle in response.

“max gave me this. said we should,” you paused briefly, as if you were trying to carefully consider your words, your inebriation getting in the way. “said we should use it.” you pursed your lips, doe eyes boring into his. lando gulped.

twirling between your fingers was a sprig of mistletoe. max is a fucking bastard, lando thought. he stared down at your hands, watching the way you dropped the plant into your lap.

“and what did you tell him?” lando murmured, meeting your eyes again. his eyes were glossy, just like yours were, and he found himself strangely comfortable, at ease. more at ease than he’d been in years.

“told him that you probably don’t want to kiss me underneath the mistletoe.” your smile faltered ever so slightly but you kept up your teasing facade. he knew he had to go for it, now or never.

“you’re right, i don’t.” lando started, watching your eyebrows narrow, a flash of hurt striking your features that was invisible to the untrained eye. way to be blunt. “i don’t want our first kiss to be part of some tacky christmas tradition.”

he dipped his forehead down against yours, the alcohol leading the way as he waited for you to process his words, your lips parting in an ‘oh’ as it dawned on you.

“lando-“ you sounded panicked. he ignored it.

“can i?” he whispered, begging.

you broke free from under his arm, standing to your feet, wobbling as you scurried across the patio to create some distance.

“you can’t just- lando, we can’t. you can’t do that to me.” you were flustered, genuinely distraught.

“do what? let you know how i feel about you?” he tried to mask his the hurt in his voice but it was impossible.

“no. no! you can’t do that.”

“and why not? why can’t i?”

“because it’s not fair!”

-

once bitten, and twice shy

i keep my distance, but you still catch my eye

“because it’s not fair!”

your words from last year stabbed him through the heart as he walked in the room. her tight grip on his arm did nothing to stop his eyes from finding you instantly in the crowded room. he told himself that he hated you, sometimes, just to make it easier. it wasn’t true, no matter how much he wished it was, a fact made glaringly clear by the way his eyes hooked onto you in that dangerous red dress. how dare you turn up here like that? how dare you make him think about you when he was here with her?

lando was certain that you didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘fair’.

it was like a sickness, the way he constantly had an eye on you all evening. it was bittersweet, having you here. he was furious that you’d dare to come, but also the sight of you, a whole year on, seemed to take the weight off of his chest.

he watched you talk to max, curiosity taking over, but he barely had time to process the sight, a hand slipping into his.

“dance with me, baby.” he couldn’t say no to her, so he pulled her close and went along with it. he didn’t let you out of his sight, watching you from the corner of his eye as he swayed with her.

lando could feel your eyes on him, burning holes in his relationship. he felt undeniably uncomfortable, fake smile on his face while she whispered in his ear. the guilt wracked him. she’d been a distraction, a welcome one, and now it was serious. too serious. but at least it was easy, and he felt like he deserved easy, after what you’d put him through.

he didn’t get to watch you for long, your red dress trailing behind you as you stormed away from max, disappearing from lando’s view, empty glass discarded.

lando dropped her hands.

-

you hunched over the sink, letting the sobs ricochet off the walls. you’d tried to be quiet, breathe your way through it, but that seemed futile and you just let the tears take over, numbing you.

max was right. how was this working out for you? it wasn’t, not one bit. you had nothing, no one, and lando had it all, with someone that wasn’t you. you couldn’t blame him for moving on from you, you couldn’t blame him for your unhappiness, not when it was your own doing. you could have had everything with him that she did, and you’d thrown it down the drain.

a long, hard look in the mirror told you that your makeup was somewhat still in tact, the tears finally agreeing to a ceasefire. you were smart to have worn waterproof mascara, you knew it would come in handy. you ran your fingers through your hair, tidying yourself up, hands dragging down your sides to smooth out your dress. once you were sure you didn’t look like a train wreck, you took a deep breath, unlocking the door and peering into the hallway. you wished you’d stayed weeping in the small room.

there she fucking was. her.

her eyes locked on yours in the empty corridor, anxiety pooling in the pit of your stomach. her face softened, an audible gulp signalling from the other woman. except she wasn’t the other woman, she was his only woman.

“i’m sorry, i can find another bathroom.” she murmured, her voice sugar and spice, angelic. she seemed nice. for fuck sake.

there was no way she didn’t know who you were, the way she seemed on edge, fiddling with the silver bracelet on her wrist. i bet he gave her that. you shook your head of the thought, stepping out into the hallway.

“oh, no, no. that’s fine, uh, sorry, here, um, i’ll just go.” you rambled, heels clacking awkwardly on the hardwood floor as you floundered your escape.

“wait! um, i hope that this isn’t hard for you.” she was sincere, so, so sincere, and it made you sick. why couldn’t she be the bitch you’d painted her out to be in your head?

“does he make you happy? is he happy?” you rushed the words out, embarrassed. say no. say no!

she just looked at you, head tilted. more fucking sympathy. it told you everything you needed to know. you nodded your head in forced understanding and turned on your heel.

-

now i know what a fool i’ve been,

but if you kiss me now i know you’d fool me again

“thought i might find you here.” he sounded the same. his voice warmed you up, but the deja vu hit and suddenly you were ice cold again. you were back on that damn patio and he’d found you once again.

“well, here i am.” you replied, sinking into the silence. you wrung your hands nervously, avoiding eye contact.

“didn’t think you’d come.” he was blunt, straightforward. it was better like that.

“you and me, both.” you laughed humourlessly, watching the way his shoulders slumped.

“how are you?” he asked softly, awkwardly. “you look beautiful.” he blurted.

“oh, just fantastic. heard you tried to grow a beard.” you bit back, as sarcastic as ever, hoping that he couldn’t see the blush spreading across your cheeks. it was nostalgic for him, and he would have smiled if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

he couldn’t help but scoff, and you finally met his eyes at the sound, your own narrowing.

“if you’ve got something to say, then say it, lando.”

“it didn’t need to be like this.”

“don’t say that when your girlfriends on the other side of that wall.” you stood from the bench, gesturing at the house.

“it’s true, though. you know it is.” he didn’t take his eyes off of you, his entire focus honed in on you. you deserved it, this onslaught from him. the wound you’d caused clearly hadn’t healed.

“of course i do. it’s all my fault, i know it is.” you spoke desperately, voice breaking, laced with shame.

“do you miss me?” he stepped towards you, closing in.

“do you miss me?” you echoed. both questions were equally as unfair.

“i try not to. every day. but i know i shouldn’t, it’s pathetic.” his voice was raw with emotion, the very same way it had been last year, and your heart thudded inside its cage.

“why is it pathetic?” you whispered. he was close enough to hear you perfectly, now. your breath hitched.

“because you didn’t want me.”

-

“it’s not fair?” lando felt his eyebrows furrow, confused. what wasn’t fair?

“no it’s not.” you said quietly, voice wavering.

“what? what’s not fair?” he was confused, the alcohol and your caginess being a deadly combination.

“you being gone, me being here. c’mon, lando, it wouldn’t work.” you explained, eyes welling up with tears as you spoke. he had never imagined this conversation going so horribly wrong. he’d replayed what this moment would be like over and over and over again, and now that it was here, it was gut wrenching. it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“yes it could. if you want me, this, it could work.” he reasoned. he was firm, this was his only chance. he had to get you to listen to him.

you were quiet, unmoving in your spot across from him. he took another risk. what more was there to lose at this point? he closed the gap between you both slowly, inching closer and closer until your toes touched, and your chests bumped with every breath.

“stop me. if you don’t want me to do this, then stop me.” lando was clear, searching your eyes for any hesitation. your soft nod was enough to convince him to close the gap.

kissing you was relief. it was getting out of the car after a long race, coming home, winning a round of golf. it was sunshine, ethereal, something he’d happily do for the rest of his life. you kissed him back with the same enthusiasm, your hands in his hair, raking through the soft strands. one of his cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss, while the other rested comfortably on your waist.

your hands slid from his hair down his neck and to his chest. he sighed in content, lost in you, until a soft force pressed against his chest. you’d broken away, stumbling backwards, away from him.

“lando…”

“don’t do it.” he looked down, feeling his own eyes begin to water. he’d blame it on the bitter, bitter cold.

“it won’t work. i don’t,” you inhaled shakily. “i don’t want this.”

“you don’t want me?” lando practically whimpered, the same way a puppy would if you kicked it.

“i don’t want this.”

-

now I've found a real love

you'll never fool me again

“go back inside. go on. go back to her.” it had started to snow, frozen rain falling in chilling globs.

“is that what you really want?”

“god, lando. no. are you happy now? no, i don’t want that. i don’t want to watch you walk away. it fucking hurts.” you were crying now, the tears flowing freely.

“then don’t let me.” he looked like he would cry too, and you wouldn’t blame him. your entire relationship had built up to this moment.

“this is ridiculous. you’re with her. and i can’t watch you leave me every week. call me selfish but i can’t. i won’t.”

“then come with me. you could have always just come with me!” his voice was raised now, getting progressively higher in his aggravation.

“and uproot everything, my whole life, to follow you? lando, you don’t get it. i’ll hate you if i have to leave my life behind, and i can’t face that.”

“what do you want from me? i’ve given you options, i’ve told you what i want, something i know you want too, and yet you continue with this deflective bullshit.”

“just go back inside.” you were prepared to get on your hands and knees and beg him to go.

“i’m not doing this again. i’m not having this conversation with you ever again.” his eyes began to water and you squeezed your eyes shut. he looked broken, disheveled, pristine shirt wrinkled.

“good.” it came out emotionless.

“do us both a favour and don’t come next year.”

and with that, he left, just like you’d begged him to, your body turning into ice, veins burning as you froze. you couldn’t take your eyes off of him as he walked away, forever, as the snow buried you in his back garden.

you grieved him, right there, stood in the very spot that he’d kissed you the year prior. you’d never really be gone and neither would he, too intertwined and hopeless. you gasped out a sob, a cry of heartbreak, your very own christmas carol ringing out into the darkness.

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @turningxstrange @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @yeolsbubbles @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @organasith @micks-afterglow @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg

(i’ve removed any tags that weren’t working! let me know if you wanna be added or removed for my taglist <3)

biblically accurate representation of post-race interview charles

no tags tumblr, this will find its people 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

Charles Leclerc at any given point in time: I don't WANT Max to do bad EVER because racing is most enjoyable when he's doing WELL and I still end up BEATING HIM. I will snatch that wdc from his cold WORLD CHAMPION hands and then I will SUCK HIS DI-

Jealous biker lando being over protective of waitress reader 👀

Dangerous Territory ── biker!lando x waitress!reader ✧.*

The diner hums with its usual late-night rhythm. The faint clatter of cutlery, the buzz of conversation, and the smell of frying bacon and coffee fill the air. You’re moving from table to table, a practiced smile on your lips as you top off mugs and serve plates. It’s late, and your shift is dragging, but it’s familiar, comforting in a way. The neon lights from the diner’s sign outside cast a soft glow over the checkered floors, painting everything in a warm, nostalgic light.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Lando in his usual booth, sitting with his back to the wall, one arm slung casually over the back of the seat. He’s always there at the end of your shifts, watching you, not in an overbearing way but in a protective, silent kind of presence. His leather jacket creaks as he leans back, his dark eyes tracking your movements with a kind of lazy interest. The dim lighting throws shadows across his sharp jawline, making him look even more dangerous than usual. He doesn’t need to say much; just his being there is enough to let everyone know you’re not alone.

You try not to focus on him too much, knowing that whenever your eyes meet, something sparks in the air between you. But it’s hard not to notice him, sitting there like a storm waiting to break, his motorcycle parked just outside, ready to whisk you away once you’ve clocked out.

As you move back to the counter, you feel someone’s eyes on you—a different kind of stare. A guy at the counter, someone you haven’t seen before, grins at you as you set a plate of food down in front of him. His smile is too wide, his eyes lingering on you a little longer than you’d like as you bring him his food. “Another burger and chips,” you say politely, sliding the plate in front of him, already moving to step back when he decides to lean in.

“You work here every night, darling?” His words are slurred but sharp enough to make your stomach turn. His eyes rake over you, from your waist up to your face, and the sleazy grin spreading across his lips sends a chill through you.

You force a smile, trying to keep things professional. “Most nights,” you reply curtly, turning away to tend to the next table, but his voice follows you, dripping with entitlement.

“You’re too pretty for a place like this,” he says, louder now, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. “How about you finish up here and I take you somewhere nice, eh? Bet you’ve never been treated right.” His voice greasy, oozing with an unwanted familiarity.

You freeze, fingers tightening around the coffee pot in your hand, trying to keep calm. “I’m fine, thanks,” you say through gritted teeth, praying he’ll get the hint and leave you alone.

But, of course, he doesn’t. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to be friendly. How about I get your number?” He leans further over the counter, and now you can feel his breath on your skin, the stench of beer making your stomach churn.

You’re about to respond when you feel a shift in the air, a prickle of tension that’s unmistakable. Lando’s watching. And this time, he’s not staying in his booth.

From where you stand, you can see the change in everyone else—the way conversations pause, forks freeze mid-bite, and even the jukebox seems to fade into the background.

Lando’s not rushing. He never does. He walks with purpose, slow and steady, his boots thudding against the tiled floor with a deliberate weight. His leather jacket is half-zipped, the collar up, his eyes locked on the bloke at the counter with a look that could kill.

You’re caught between wanting to stop him and knowing better. Lando’s never been one to start trouble, but he doesn’t shy away from it either, especially not when it comes to you.

The guy at the counter seems blissfully unaware of the impending storm, too caught up in his own delusions of charm. “What d’you say, love? You can do better than this place, yeah?”

Before you can open your mouth, Lando steps up behind you, his chest almost brushing your back as he positions himself between you and the counter. His presence feels like a shield, his hand lightly grazing your waist, a silent gesture that says, I’ve got this.

“You’ve got about three seconds to leave,” Lando says quietly, his voice low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that sends a shiver down your spine. The kind of tone that promises hell if the bloke doesn’t listen.

The man’s smile falters for the first time, but he tries to laugh it off. “Oi, mate, no need to get all worked up. We’re just having a bit of fun, yeah?” His eyes flick between you and Lando, clearly trying to assess if this is worth pushing.

Lando doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “I’m not your mate,” he growls, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “And she’s not interested. So, unless you want to be picking up your teeth from the floor, I suggest you leave.”

There’s a pause, thick with tension. Lando’s arm brushes against yours, a small but significant reminder that you’re not alone in this. His fingers twitch slightly, as if resisting the urge to do more, but his presence alone is enough to make the guy back down, finally clocking just how dangerous Lando is. He mutters something under his breath—something about not wanting trouble—and then fumbles to grab his jacket, to throw some money on the counter before practically tripping over his stool in his haste to leave. The bell jingles as it swings shut behind him, and the quiet that follows is almost deafening.

You exhale slowly, the knot in your stomach finally loosening. Lando’s hand lingers on your waist for a moment longer before he turns slightly, looking down at you. His jaw is still tight, his eyes softer now but still flickering with the remnants of protective rage.

“You alright?” His voice is gentler now, his thumb brushing your side.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah, thanks”

Lando’s gaze softens as he looks at you, the intensity melting away now that the guy is gone. His hand moves to your waist, fingers brushing gently over your hip in a way that feels more like a reassurance than anything else. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with protectiveness. “Bloke’s lucky I didn’t deck him.”

You laugh softly, though there’s a hint of truth in his words that makes you shiver. “You didn’t have to get up, I could’ve handled it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, but why let you when I’m right here?” he teases lightly, though there’s no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

You roll your eyes playfully, but you can’t deny the flutter in your chest at how easily he steps in when you need him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he says with a grin, tugging you just a little closer before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His hand lingers on your waist as if he can’t bring himself to let go, even as you pull away to get back to work.

As you return to your shift, you can still feel Lando’s eyes on you, that quiet, protective presence watching over you from his booth. And though the diner’s back to its usual buzz, you feel safer, knowing Lando’s never far, ready to step in the moment you need him.

—

read After Hours here

I cried. So much. Curses and cheers

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.