Lost And Found
Lost and Found
Lando Norris x Reader
Summary: one minute Lando Norris is speeding through the streets of New York City — the world at his fingertips in the days leading up to the United States Grand Prix — and the next his world is spinning out of control, leaving him with nothing except for blank memories and the concerned attention of a stranger who takes him in when he has no one and nothing else
Warnings: descriptions of a car crash and memory loss
The night is cold, and the sharp October wind slips under your jacket as you tug it tighter around you. Your boots slap against the pavement, the rhythm a steady beat on the nearly deserted street. Columbia’s library closed an hour ago, but you stayed later than you should have. Deadlines don’t wait. Law school doesn't wait. Life doesn’t wait.
You tuck your phone into your pocket, your eyes fixed on the glowing windows of the apartment building a few blocks ahead. Almost home. Almost there.
And then-
A car rips past, tires screeching loud enough to make you flinch. It’s moving too fast, way too fast, the engine growling like an animal barely kept on a leash. You freeze for a second as it flies down the street, headlights smearing into long streaks of white. Your breath catches-
It spins. A brutal, violent twist as the car skids into a corner it shouldn’t be taking. The rear fishtails wildly. For a heartbeat, it looks like it might recover. Then it slams straight into a lamp post with a sickening crunch. Metal screams. Glass explodes. The lamp shudders, flickers, and dies.
For a moment, everything is still. Silent, even.
“Shit,” you whisper, your pulse spiking hard and fast.
You stand there, frozen in the chilly air, your brain catching up to what you just saw. The street is deserted — of course it is. This isn’t exactly rush hour. There’s no one around. No witnesses. No help.
Without thinking, you yank your phone out of your pocket and dial. The ringing in your ear seems to go on forever.
“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asks briskly.
“A car crash,” you say, already moving toward the wreck. Your feet hit the pavement harder now, the soles of your boots slapping in quick bursts. “Corner of … uh, 116th and Riverside. It’s bad — the car’s totaled. I think someone’s still inside.”
“Are you with the driver now?”
“Not yet. I’m — I’m crossing the street.” You dodge between two parked cars and jog to the other side. The car sits under the broken streetlamp, its front end wrapped around the post like it lost a fight it never stood a chance of winning. The glossy surface is crumpled and shattered, shards of glass glittering on the asphalt like broken stars.
“Ma’am, do not approach the vehicle if it’s unsafe.”
You ignore that. “I think the guy’s still in there,” you mutter, holding the phone tight between your ear and shoulder. You grip the door handle and pull hard, but it’s jammed. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your weight into it until it finally groans open.
The first thing you notice is the smell — leather, gasoline, and the acrid tang of burned rubber. Your heart pounds in your throat. You glance at the man slumped in the driver’s seat, and the breath catches in your chest.
“Hello?” You ask, bending down, peering closer. “Can you hear me?”
He groans, shifting a little, but his eyes remain half-closed. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, carving a red path down the side of his face.
“Hey! Are you okay?” You try again, louder this time. No answer — just a sluggish movement of his head, like he's fighting to stay conscious.
“What's your name?” You keep your voice firm but gentle, the way you imagine an EMT might sound.
The man mumbles something, his voice thick and slurred. You lean closer, your pulse hammering in your ears.
“What? I need your name.”
“Lando,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible, more breath than word.
You frown. The name sounds familiar, but that’s not important right now. “Okay, Lando. Do you know where you are?”
His eyelids flutter, and for a second, it looks like he might pass out entirely. Then he forces them open again, just barely.
“Crash,” he mutters. “Crashed the car.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. You glance around the street again, hoping for flashing lights in the distance. Nothing. Just you, him, and the wreckage.
“Can you tell me what hurts?” You ask, trying to keep him talking. Concussions are dangerous — keeping him conscious feels important.
Lando’s head lolls against the seat. “Feels like … everything.”
His voice is thick, heavy with exhaustion. He sounds like someone who’s been through the wringer, someone who desperately needs sleep but can’t afford to close their eyes.
“You hit your head pretty hard,” you say, scanning him for any other obvious injuries. Blood stains the collar of his jacket, but nothing looks life-threatening. Yet.
“Race car driver,” Lando slurs suddenly, like the thought just stumbled out of his brain without permission.
You blink. “What?”
“Race … car driver,” he repeats, slower this time. His accent drags on the vowels, a little British, a little something else.
You raise an eyebrow, convinced now that he’s concussed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
He gives a small, incoherent laugh, like your joke made perfect sense in his scrambled mind.
“You're not supposed to be funny,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You glance back at the wreck, taking in the sleek lines and bright logo on the hood — McLaren. Expensive. Stupidly expensive. You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Jesus, you’re one of those guys,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. Rich kid, fast car, bad decisions. You’ve seen this movie before, and it usually ends with someone like him getting bailed out by daddy’s lawyer.
Lando stirs again, his head rolling toward you. “Not … like that,” he mumbles. “I am a race car driver.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. He’s barely coherent — humoring him feels kinder than arguing. “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are.”
He squints at you, his expression dazed but oddly sincere, like he’s genuinely offended you don’t believe him. “I am,” he insists, as if that settles the matter.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s absurd — this whole situation is absurd. You crouch lower, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Just stay awake, okay? Ambulance is on the way.”
Lando hums something that might be agreement, though it sounds more like a sigh. His eyes droop again, dangerously close to shutting.
“Hey.” You give his arm a small shake. “No sleeping. Talk to me.”
“‘Bout what?” He murmurs, his head lolling to the side.
“Anything. Tell me …“ You scramble for something. “What’s your favorite color?”
He blinks slowly, like it’s the most confusing question anyone’s ever asked him. “Blue. No, wait … orange.”
You snort. “Make up your mind, race car driver.”
Lando makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Can’t.”
“That concussion is doing wonders for your decision-making skills,” you say dryly, glancing toward the street again. Still no lights. You tap your foot anxiously.
Lando shifts in his seat, his hand twitching like he’s trying to move but can’t quite manage it. “You’re … bossy,” he mumbles, his accent thicker now.
“Yeah, well, you crashed your car, so you don’t get to complain.”
There’s a beat of silence, then he murmurs, “… Thanks for stopping.”
Something about the way he says it catches you off guard — soft, almost vulnerable. You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze his arm gently.
“Don’t mention it, Lando.”
And then, finally, in the distance — a flash of red and blue lights.
***
The wail of sirens grows louder, slicing through the quiet night like a razor. Red and blue lights bounce off the buildings, streaking across shattered glass and twisted metal. Relief washes over you, making your knees feel a little shaky.
Finally.
Two ambulances come to a screeching halt. EMTs spill out, moving with practiced urgency. One of them, a tall woman with her hair yanked into a messy bun, jogs toward you.
“Are you hurt?” She asks, already looking you up and down for signs of injury.
You shake your head. “No, I’m fine — it’s the driver. He’s … he’s pretty out of it.” You glance back at Lando, slumped in his seat. “I think he hit his head. He’s not making much sense.”
The EMT follows your gaze, nodding sharply. “Okay, step back for me.” She waves another EMT over. “We’ve got one male, early twenties, possible head trauma.”
You move back as instructed, but not far — just enough to give them space to work while still close enough to watch. One of the EMTs wedges a tool into the doorframe to force it open wider, and the crunch of metal makes you wince.
“Hey, buddy,” the EMT says, leaning in toward Lando. “Can you hear me?”
Lando stirs slightly, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and the EMT exchanges a look with his partner.
“Pupils look uneven,” the first EMT mutters, shining a small flashlight into Lando’s eyes. “Definitely concussed.”
The other EMT secures a neck brace around Lando’s head, locking it into place with quick, efficient movements. Lando groans at the pressure, his face twisted in confusion.
“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” The EMT says in a loud, clear voice. “Just stay still for me, mate. We’re gonna lift you.”
They maneuver him onto a backboard with a series of coordinated moves, careful to keep his neck stabilized. Lando lets out a soft groan but doesn’t resist — it’s like his body is on autopilot.
You cross your arms against the cold, biting your lower lip. They make it look so smooth, so clinical, but there’s something unsettling about watching someone get hauled out of a wreck like that, limp and helpless.
“Is he your boyfriend?” The EMT asks you, not looking up as they strap Lando to the board.
You blink, caught off guard. “What? No. I-I just saw the crash happen. I came over to help.”
The EMT nods once, focused on the task at hand. “All right. Appreciate you staying with him.”
They lift Lando, sliding the backboard onto a waiting gurney. He lets out a weak noise of discomfort, but his eyes remain half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness.
As they wheel him toward the ambulance, you follow instinctively, your heart thrumming with worry. You can’t just leave now — not when he looks like that.
“Hey,” you call after them, your voice tight. “Can I … can I ride with him?”
One of the EMTs looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Are you family?”
“No. I just-“ You pause, unsure how to explain it. “I don’t feel right leaving him alone.”
The EMTs exchange glances. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse, but the woman in charge sighs and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “Fine. Get in. Just stay out of the way.”
“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you.
You climb into the back of the ambulance as they lift Lando’s gurney inside. The doors slam shut behind you, sealing you in with the hum of medical equipment and the faint smell of antiseptic.
The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.
The EMT sitting across from you pulls on a pair of gloves, leaning over Lando. “Let’s see how we’re doing, champ.”
Lando’s eyes flicker, heavy and unfocused. The EMT checks his pulse, then takes a penlight and shines it directly into Lando’s pupils. He winces, groaning low in his throat.
“Sir, can you hear me?” The EMT asks loudly, as if trying to shake him awake with sound alone.
Lando blinks sluggishly, his brow furrowing. “… Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. His accent makes the word sound more like yeh.
The EMT hums, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Good. Do you know where you are?”
Lando’s face twists in confusion. “Uh … car … crash?”
“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”
Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.
The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.
“Can you tell me your full name?”
“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.
“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”
Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.
“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”
You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.
“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”
He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”
“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”
Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”
“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.
“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”
The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”
Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.
The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”
You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.
“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”
The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.
You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.
The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.
You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.
“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”
Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.
The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.
The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.
You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”
The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.
The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.
***
The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.
You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.
It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.
A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.
You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.
“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.
You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”
The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”
You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”
The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”
You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”
Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”
The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”
You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”
“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”
You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was … it’s on the tip of my tongue.”
The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”
“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”
The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”
You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”
The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”
You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”
The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”
Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”
You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.
The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.
You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.
“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”
He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”
“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”
Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”
“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”
You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”
Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”
The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”
“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.
You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”
Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.
“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”
Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”
You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”
He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.
For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.
“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.
You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”
You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.
“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”
Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.
You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.
***
You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.
You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.
“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.
You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”
The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”
You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.
The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”
You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”
The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”
Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.
“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”
Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.
“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”
He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”
“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”
Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”
The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”
Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.
The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”
Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”
The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”
Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”
The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”
You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.
And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.
Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.
“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.
You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”
The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”
You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”
Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”
You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”
Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”
He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”
“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.
The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”
Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.
The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”
You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”
The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”
You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”
Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”
“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.
He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”
Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”
There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”
You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”
He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.
***
The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.
“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.
He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”
“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”
Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”
You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”
He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.
When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”
Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.
You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.
“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”
Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”
The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.
When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.
“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.
Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.
“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”
He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.
“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.
You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”
He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”
“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”
Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”
“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”
Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”
You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”
He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”
You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”
Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”
You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”
He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”
“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”
Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”
“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”
He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”
He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”
“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”
Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”
“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”
He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”
You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”
Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”
“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”
He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”
You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.
“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”
Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”
“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.
As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.
And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.
***
Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.
Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”
He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.
“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”
The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.
You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.
“Lando?” You say softly.
He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.
“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”
Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.
“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”
You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“
“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”
Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”
The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.
You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”
Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”
“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”
He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”
The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.
You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.
“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”
Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.
“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”
You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”
Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”
“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”
He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”
“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”
Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”
You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”
He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”
“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”
Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”
The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.
You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.
“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”
You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”
Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”
“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”
He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”
You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”
Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”
You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”
And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.
***
In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.
Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.
“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”
Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.
Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”
Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Apparently, the worst did happen.
Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”
Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”
Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.
“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.
“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”
“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.
“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”
Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”
The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.
***
In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.
“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”
“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”
Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”
Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”
“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”
Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”
Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”
There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.
Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”
“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.
But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”
Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.
Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”
“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”
Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”
Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”
Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.
“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”
“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.
Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”
Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.
They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.
***
The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.
“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”
You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”
Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”
“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”
Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”
You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”
Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”
He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”
You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”
“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”
You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”
He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”
“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”
You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?
“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”
Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”
You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.
“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.
“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.
But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.
Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”
You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.
“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”
Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”
“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”
Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”
You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”
He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”
You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”
Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”
***
The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.
Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.
You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.
“Yes, you are.”
Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.
“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.
You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”
“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”
You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”
Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.
You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.
The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”
“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.
But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”
Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.
“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”
A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.
The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.
“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”
You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.
Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”
A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.
The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”
Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”
The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”
“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.
You feel the blood drain from your face.
“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.
“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”
More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”
“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”
The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”
You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.
“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”
Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.
The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”
You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.
“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”
Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.
“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”
“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.
Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.
Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”
“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”
“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”
You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”
“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.
“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.
“Absolutely not.”
“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”
You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”
But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”
You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.
Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”
You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”
Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.
***
The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.
“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.
“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”
“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.
“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”
When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.
“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.
You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”
He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.
As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”
You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”
He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”
You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”
Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.
Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”
“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”
Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”
You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”
For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.
“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.
He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”
You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”
Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”
He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”
You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.
“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”
He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”
You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.
When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”
Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”
You arch a brow. “Always?”
He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”
You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”
Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”
You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”
With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.
***
The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.
“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”
You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”
Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”
“Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”
For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.
And then it happens.
“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”
The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.
Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”
The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”
Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”
“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”
Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.
You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?
“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”
The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.
“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”
You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.
The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.
You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”
Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”
You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”
Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”
You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”
Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”
The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.
“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”
Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”
You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”
Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”
You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”
Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”
You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”
Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”
You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.
“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”
Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“
You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”
He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”
You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”
But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.
And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.
***
The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.
In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.
“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”
“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”
The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”
Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”
“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”
Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”
The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-
“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”
Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”
You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”
There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”
“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.
“Hi.”
The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.
“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”
“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”
“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”
“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.
“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”
“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”
Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”
“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”
A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.
“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”
You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”
“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”
There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”
Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”
You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”
Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.
“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”
Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”
“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”
Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”
Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”
You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.
“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”
There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”
“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”
Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.
“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.
The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.
You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”
“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”
You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”
Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”
You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”
And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.
***
It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.
You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”
Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”
You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”
There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.
Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.
“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”
Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.
“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.
Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”
Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”
Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”
You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”
Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”
Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”
Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”
Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”
Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”
Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”
Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”
Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.
You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.
“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”
“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.
Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.
Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”
Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.
Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”
You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”
Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”
You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.
“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.
Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”
Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.
“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.
Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”
Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”
The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.
Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.
When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.
Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.
You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”
Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.
He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”
Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.
***
The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.
“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.
Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”
“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”
The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”
Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”
Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.
When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.
There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.
Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.
Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”
Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.
Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”
Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”
He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.
“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”
But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.
Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.
“Lando?”
A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.
Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.
“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.
The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”
Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.
“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.
Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.
“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”
Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.
Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.
Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”
Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”
Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.
Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”
Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.
“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.
You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.
When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”
Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”
Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”
Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”
Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.
***
Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.
In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.
“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.
Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.
But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”
“Lando.”
He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”
He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”
“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”
Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”
He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”
Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”
Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.
The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.
“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”
Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.
And just like that, something shifts.
The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.
The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.
Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”
Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”
Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.
You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”
He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”
“Details,” you say with a grin.
One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”
Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.
It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.
The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.
“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”
Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.
“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”
For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.
“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.
You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.
“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.
You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.
“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”
You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”
As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.
***
Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.
Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.
But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.
“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”
“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.
The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.
The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.
“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”
He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.
And then, it happens.
The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.
He remembers everything.
“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”
There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”
“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”
“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”
And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.
The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.
“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”
Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”
The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.
He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.
“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.
Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.
You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”
When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”
You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”
His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.
“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”
Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”
He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.
All that matters is that Lando is back.
***
The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.
The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.
When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.
“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”
“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”
Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”
“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.
You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”
Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.
Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”
You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”
“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”
You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”
Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”
“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”
His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”
“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”
Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”
“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”
Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”
“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”
There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”
You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.
Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”
You snort. “Good luck? You didn’t even get a podium today.”
He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”
His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.
But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”
You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”
Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”
You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”
***
The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.
Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.
He wins.
The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.
“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.
In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.
He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.
Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-
He’s moving toward you.
The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.
It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.
You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.
And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.
Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“
You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.
“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.
Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.
His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.
It’s just you and Lando.
When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”
He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”
“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.
“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”
Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”
You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.
And, as you watch him climb onto the top step of the podium, spraying champagne over everyone, you realize that the whirlwind you’ve been caught in with Lando Norris isn’t slowing down anytime soon. And honestly? You’re okay with that.
More Posts from Biblioteca-da-meia-noite and Others
♡ come home with me - LN 4 ♡
Summary: what will happen when lando is finally in the same room as his crush? Will he play his cards right as a mastermind or will he fumble the deck?
Authors Note: this is my first fic in a month so bear with the shit as I try to relearn lol
WC: 1840
CW: Lando being tipsy, lando slightly panicking, fluff, I think that’s it
Everyone knew who Lando's crush was. The boy couldn’t make it any more obvious. Anywhere he went, all he could do was talk about you. He was always praising you for the work you did and how down to earth you were. Lando would also be caught practically drooling over any picture of you whether it was you on a billboard in the middle of the city or a photo on his feed.
Oscar is pretty sure there’s footage from a Mclaren video shoot where Lando spotted a poster of you on a wall and asked Oscar to take a photo of him next to it. The boy had the cheesiest smile on his face as crinkles appeared near his eyes.
Lando was often teased for being so down bad for you. A lot of the guys in the garage would joke about how he would probably faint if he ever got to meet you, or even be in the same room as you. However, the boy always insisted that he would remain calm and collected if that day ever came, claiming that he would pretend to not know you and play the role of the dark and mysterious guy that would intrigue you to the point where he would be all you thought about.
One day, Zak Brown got the idea to make a bet with Lando. There was an event coming up soon where all the F1 drivers and their teams would be in attendance to raise money for a few charities. Many celebrities were invited to bolster the event, you being one of them.
Zak had bet Lando that if you ended up making an appearance, that Lando would be a fumbling mess and would not be able to get your number. Lando being Lando took on the bet. With a firm handshake and $1,000 on the line, the deal was set.
The day of the event comes up and Lando is absolutely shitting bricks. He’s getting ready in the hotel room and losing his mind about the rumors that you’ll actually be at the event.
“Mate, they’re saying she’s actually coming. Even this fan account said it and whenever they post something, it’s true! Oh my god, Max. I might meet her today!” Lando all but yells as he drops his phone in disbelief.
“Listen, mate. Breathe. You assigned me the role of wingman for tonight so it’ll be okay. Right?” Max states calmly, trying to get his best friend to tone it down for a second.
“Right. How does my hair look? Is it okay? Does it look shit? Fuck, I knew I should’ve had it cut ages ago. What if she thinks I don’t clean up?! What if she thinks I’m a mess?! Fuuuuuck! It’s over. I’ve already fucked it.”
“You haven’t fucked it…yet.”
Lando scoffs and pulls a face at Max’s words.
“I’m kidding you muppet. Your hair is fine-”
“Fine?! Just fine?! This is Y/n we’re talking about. Not just some random person. Y/n deserves the best. I have to be the best.”
“Okay… Your hair is amazing. Literally the best it’s ever looked. She is goin-”
“I don't appreciate your sarcasm…”
“I’m no-” Max tries to argue but quickly gives up. Instead opting to pinch the bridge of his nose and take some breaths himself, “Just put your shoes on. We’re leaving in 5 minutes.” he says as he turns his back to Lando and walks towards the bathroom.
“Wait but-”
“5 minutes!” Max says with his back still towards Lando, raising 5 fingers above his head just to give Lando a visual representation of how long he has.
-=+=-
The boys hadn’t even been at the event for an hour and Lando was already quite tipsy. To calm his nerves, Lando decided to have a drink… or 4… This whole time, Lando stood in a corner with a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, constantly checking his feed to see if you’d arrived yet. As time passed, he began to wonder if you were really gonna show.
Lando was about to give up and leave the event when an echo of screams could be heard from a distance. The boy immediately pulled out his phone and checked social media, refreshing the page over and over again until he saw it. At the top of his feed was a blurry video of you walking through the doors of the building he was currently standing in.
“Max! Max! MAX!” Lando yelled, trying to get his friends' attention.
“What? What? WHAT?!” Max yelled back.
“Y/n just walked into the building!”
“Oh yeah. I know.”
“... You know?”
“Yeah. I was talking to Zak earlier and he said that she was on her way.”
“You knew and you didn’t tell me?!”
Max giggled “Yeah. Wanted to see your reaction when she walked through the doors after you moped around for an hour.”
“I was not moping.” Lando frowned.
“You were and you-” Max’s voice drifted into silence as Lando’s gaze shifted to the main entrance. He watched as you walked through the doors and it was like time stopped. You were enchanting. Lando watched your beauty in real time, breath slowing as he tried to process.
You were wearing a blush pink dress that hugged your figure perfectly, flowing down to your feet with a slit on the side. Your skin glowed in the dim light, sparkles appearing in your eyes as you smiled at everyone around you. It was like you were the only girl in the world, at least that’s how it seemed to Lando. It was like you took all the air in the room and replaced it with a feeling that was so overwhelming yet so gratifying.
Lando was stuck in place as you elegantly wandered through the room, sharing smiles with strangers as Lando wished he was one of them. Just for a moment. He wished that he could be one of those strangers, even if it meant he only got a small moment with you, knowing it may never lead to anything more.
He was only able to escape your enchantment when he watched your silhouette make its way towards him. Lando shook his head and panicked, quickly chugging the rest of his drink and turning to place it on the table behind him.
“Don’t come on too strong.” Max had leaned over and whispered into Lando’s ear as you approached.
In the blink of an eye, you were standing in front of Lando and it was as if he had the air knocked out of him. He couldn’t believe that you were in front of him. That you had walked over to him… on purpose.
You smiled with rosy cheeks as you opened your mouth to speak “Hi, I’m-”
“Come home with me.” Lando had blurted out.
“Sorry?” you asked, confusion spread across your face.
“I’m the man who’s gonna marry you.” Lando gulped, “I’m Lando.”
Your eyes moved to look at Max as you asked “Is he always like this?”
With a tight smile, Max replied “Yes”
“I’m Y/n.”
Lando smiled “Your name is like a melody.”
“Are you a musician or?” you asked. You had known of Lando. People often tagged you in videos or photos of him and your friends loved to send you any video of him where he fawned over you. You weren’t gonna lie, you did think he was cute. To be completely honest, he was the main reason you even came to this event. You always tried to avoid attending events like this to avoid unnecessary headlines of “who was y/n with at this party?!”. But, you made an exception tonight.
“I drive cars… and I like to play video games.”
“Oh a driver and a player. I’ve met a lot of guys like you.” you tease.
“No, wait. I’m not like that.” Lando says, panic lacing his face as he fears he’s already messed up his chance.
Max watches as Lando begins to throw himself in the deep end and decides to butt in for a moment, “He’s not like any man you’ve met.”
“How so?” you question, raising an eyebrow at Lando.
“I’m not perfect by any means. And I can’t promise that, if given the chance, being with me will be easy and happy all the time. I mess up a lot. But I can promise to do everything in my power to make all the time with me worth it. I’ll take any broken pieces and make them whole, well, as whole as they can be. We could be something and make something so beautiful that the world seems in tune.” he smiles before it drops and he panics again, “I’M NOT SAYING ANYTHING LIKE BABIES. I MEAN I WANT THEM ONE DAY BUT NOT SOON. I DON’T WANNA PRESSURE YOU. FUCK! Okay, just- All I’ll say is all the flowers will bloom when you become my wife.”
“Oh! He’s crazy.” you joke and spare a look at Max, “Why would I become his wife?”
“Maybe because he’ll make you feel alive.” Max states matter of factly.
“Alive? That’s worth a lot, ya know. What else ya got?” you excitingly ask Lando.
“Uhm, I won’t make you relate to ‘All Too Well’ by Taylor Swift?”
“That sounds good, Mr. Norris. I’ll be in touch.” you say whilst trying to stifle a laugh, turning your back to the two boys and making your way to mingle with some of your colleagues and friends.
Watching you walk away, Lando lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding and basks in the fact that he shot his shot and now he’s one step closer to achieving his dream. Also not to mention that Zak now owes him $1,000. Maybe Zak will tattoo today’s date as well.
After a moment, Lando felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He goes to grab it and stills when he sees the most recent notification.
“HOLY FUCK!!” you heard from a distance, “SHE JUST FOLLOWED ME BACK! HOLY FUCK! OH MY GOD! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!.... FUCK WINNING MIAMI! THIS IS MY GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT!... wait… how did she-”
“She probably gave the go ahead to her social media manager.” Max mentions.
All of a sudden, Lando felt a hard smack land on the back of his head, turning to look at Max.
“What the hell?!”
“You’re lucky you’re rich and handsome. Who the fuck says “come home with me” to someone they’ve never spoken to?! If you were just a random man, you would’ve ended up with a restraining order and not an instagram follow.”
“Well, I never said I was smart.”
“Yeah. We know.” Max says as he pats Lando on the back and drapes his arm over the boys shoulders, “Let’s get you back to the hotel, mate. Before you’re too drunk to walk and I have to carry you.”
“Drunk off joy.” Lando smiles.
#Oscarpiastrifanfic
Wildflower (OP81 x fem!reader x LN4)
Chapter 3
CHAPTER SUMMARY: You’ve reached your breaking point with Oscar, but an unfortunate grand prix changes everything you thought you wanted.
WORD COUNT: 10.3k
WARNINGS: Conversations about sex and but no actual smut, degradation, angst. Mentions of cheating. Oscar is literally horrible. Mention of unhealthy family dynamics. Lots of cursing. Pain, so much pain. Mention of injury. I’m so sorry for all the emotional suffering this chapter will cause.
TAGLIST: @at-a-rax-ia @henna006 @linnygirl09 @cassielikereading @judelina @supertrashbread @fastandcurious16 @widow-cevans @czennieszn @irisesinthegarden @wierdflowerpower @sweetwh0re @reginalaufeyson-holmes @honethatty12 @suns3treading @obxstiles @mimiastroos @mrs-reeves-17 @milkysoop @amalialeclerc @starksztony @llando4norris @ginsengi @angxlzinthesky
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Accept message request from Lando_Norris?
Your fingers hovered over the “accept” button, nervous but curious. What would Lando ever want to talk to you about?
He had avoided you like the plague since that night in Italy, and you hardly blamed him. But as far as you knew, no one except you and Nicole knew that Lily was no longer in the picture; still, what would have changed to cause Lando Norris, of all people, to be messaging you at night?
“Who are you texting?”
You jumped, not having noticed that Oscar had turned over to face you, seemingly unable to sleep.
“No one,” you said. “Just scrolling.”
Oscar confirmed your suspicions. “I can’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” you said, short and annoyed.
Oscar didn’t respond, instead just moving on top of you, holding your chin in his hands to force you to look at him.
“You can’t even sleep until I fuck you like the little whore you are, huh?” He leaned down to kiss your neck, lips grazing over where only hours before he had left dark marks in the supple skin.
“Get off me, Oscar,” you said, and he immediately pulled back.
“You okay?” he asked.
You weren’t okay. In fact, you were furious. “You realize that you never even asked me if I was okay with you talking to me like that?”
The look in his eyes said only two words: Oh shit.
“YN, I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think of it like that. Shit, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you to treat me with respect.”
“I thought you liked it?” he said, running his fingers through his hair out of nervousness.
You sat up, the anger burning within you. You hadn’t planned to confront Oscar so soon after what you had overheard, but now that you’d gotten started, there was no stopping you.
“That’s not the point. Maybe I’m tired of feeling like your personal sex toy, Oscar. Oh, but I forgot. My feelings aren’t your problem.”
Oscar exhaled angrily. “Is that really what this is about?”
You just looked at him, bewildered. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked.
He began, “Look, I don’t know what you think you heard—”
“I heard you talking shit about me on the phone to your own mother.”
“It wasn’t like that, YN.”
“Then what was it like? What’s your excuse now?”
Oscar tried to begin, his mouth opening with no words coming out. He truly didn’t know what to say. “It’s been a hard time.”
“I know. I’m well aware, Oscar. Because I made your feelings my problem for years.”
“I know, and I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore.”
“I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to explain it to you.”
“Of course, you want to talk now that I won’t give you sex anymore,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“Oh my God,” Oscar huffed, and it took every ounce of your strength not to curse him out then and there. “You act like I’m some fucking villian. You can’t get mad at me for fucking you when you wanted this too.”
“But how do you know that, Oscar? How do you know what I want? Have you ever asked me what I want?” Tears began prickling at the edge of your eyes. “You haven’t, because you don’t care.”
Oscar looked at the wall, his jaw tense. “I’m not doing this right now.”
“Am I not even deserving of an honest conversation?” you said, the tears now flowing down your cheeks. It had been years since he’d seen you cry, but Oscar wouldn’t even look at you.
You got up from the bed and started changing from your pajamas to your regular clothes. “If you don’t want to talk, fine. I can’t make you. But I’m going home.”
“YN—”
“Leave me alone,” you said, grabbing your purse and exiting the bedroom. You heard him call for you again, but you ignored his pleas, walking ahead out of the apartment and to your car.
When you slid into the driver’s seat, you finally broke down, resting your head against the steering wheel. No thoughts went through your head. You weren’t much of a crier, so when you finally gave in, it was more of an act of your body giving up.
So you took a few minutes to compose yourself before driving the short distance home through the streets of Monaco, a place you’d grown to love. But his presence was everywhere. The car. The streets. Your apartment. Oscar was inescapable.
And when you felt your phone buzz as you sat with a cup of tea on the balcony an hour or so later, this reality was confirmed. He was calling.
You didn’t answer the first call, or the second. But by the third you knew that your only options were to turn your phone off, block him, or answer.
Well, what did you have to lose?
“What do you want?” you asked upon picking up the call.
“I’m sorry, YN. Can we talk?”
“Say whatever you’re going to say.”
He paused. “In person? I’m in the hallway.”
“I don’t know…”
“Please?” he asked. You sighed. Why could you never say no to this man?
“Fine. Give me a sec.” You hung up the call, took another deep breath, and opened the front door before immediately turning around to go back to your balcony. You couldn’t bear to look at him, and you welcomed the sound of the soft waves lapping at the harbor as a buffer.
He sat down beside you, and even before any words were said, you felt the tears returning. Something about this felt…final. And your intuition had hardly ever been wrong before.
“YN, I’m so sorry. When I get frustrated I say things I don’t mean. I was really out of line earlier.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, unable to truly accept his apology.
He continued, “And you’re right. I shouldn’t have just assumed that all the rough stuff was okay. And I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
You waited a moment for him to continue speaking, but he didn’t. “Is that all you have to say?”
“I just…don’t know what else you want me to say.” You looked over to him. His head was hung low, like a child in trouble at school. Not like a man who was taking accountability for his actions.
“You really don’t get it, do you?”
“What?” he asked.
You just stared at him for a moment, gathering the courage to ask your question.
“Did you talk to Lily like that?”
“Huh?” he echoed.
“Did you call her all those names? Degrade her?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s…personal. I don’t think Lily would appreciate me talking about it.”
“She didn’t appreciate me being in your life, either. But look how that turned out,” you said, the malice lingering on every word.
Your statement cut a little too deep for comfort. But Oscar finally relented, answering, “...I would, sometimes. She didn’t care for it. But I just…get frustrated a lot. It helps me get all that pent up energy out. Half the time I don’t even think about what I’m saying.”
You hummed. The implication of his words hung in the air; you were a relief for his frustration, a thoughtless passtime.
When you didn’t respond, he got nervous. “Did I…hurt you?”
“Not physically, no,” you answered, your eyes never moving from the sight of the harbor in the distance. “But I don’t think you really care.”
“Of course I care.”
“No, you don’t.” Your lip quivered. You tried to swallow the tears that came up, but you couldn’t.
“No, don’t cry,” Oscar said, reaching out to embrace you, but you avoided him, getting up to lean on the railing. He followed you, this time not offering any comforting touch.
“What the fuck are we doing, Oscar?” you said, barely able to get the words out. He grasped for words but wasn’t able to find them before the flood of emotions spilled from you.
You began, “I used to think that the fabric of our lives was…like, sewn together. Like we were destined to always be in each other's lives. But ever since the breakup I’m so afraid that everyone who ever warned me about you was right. I feel like all these years you’ve just been using me, stringing me along so you could have someone there when things don’t work out. Like I’m just your backup plan. Like I’m not even good enough for you to treat me like a human being.”
“You really feel like I’m using you?” Oscar asked, his surprise horrifically genuine. “Was I just using you when I went out of my way to call you every week for 4 years when I was away in school, even during exams and races? When I got you this place because I wanted to live close to my best friend?” His tone went from gentle to frenzied—not angry, but desperate, like he couldn’t even fathom it. “I mean, YN, what, did you want me to cheat on my girlfriend with you?”
You looked up at him, and he realized again that he had messed up again.
“No, that’s not what I wanted. I’d never do that to Lily because you know it’s been done to me.”
“I know, and was I not there for you when you needed me?” In a way, Oscar was right. When you had broken things off with your unfaithful ex, Oscar was the first to your rescue, staying with you for days while you could barely even function. “YN, what else do you want from me?”
“I want you to be honest about what’s going on between us.”
“We’re…. hooking up, I don’t know.”
“Is that all I am to you, a hookup? A friend with benefits?” Your soft tears became full on sobs now. “Oscar, I am in love with you! You are the love of my life. And you can’t tell me that you haven’t known exactly how I felt, for years now.”
“Of course I knew,” he whispered.
“Then why would you do this to me? Why would you take advantage of me like this?”
Oscar had started crying now, too.
“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“This isn’t fair, Oscar.”
“I’m sorry.”
A thick silence fell over the balcony. You knew that the conversation should be over now. There was nothing else you needed to say. But you couldn’t stop yourself from continuing the pointless hurt.
“Do you even love me?”
“Don’t—”
“Can you even look me in the fucking eyes and tell me that you don’t love me?”
“YN—”
You didn’t even let him complete his sentence, instead walking back into your apartment and slamming our now cold mug into the sink. “Just go,” you said, your voice stern.
“YN, please—” Oscar said, following you inside the apartment.
“Go!”
“You want the truth?” Oscar said, raising his voice to you for the first time since you’d ever known him. His eyes now flooded with tears, staining his cheeks. His hair was tousled, his under eye bags puffy and pronounced. He looked like a mess.
“All I’ve ever wanted is the truth.”
“The truth,” he began, swallowing, his voice cracking as he spoke. “The truth is that I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”
“No—”
“Yes, YN,” he said, his voice raising again.
“No, fuck you, Oscar, that’s not true!” You were both sobbing messes now.
“Yes it is,” he begged, his voice ragged.
“Then why would you do this?”
“Because…” he paused, taking a deep breath and sniffling, trying to regain his composure. “Because we were best friends, and you lived with us, and I was so scared of fucking things up.”
“So you went and just found a girlfriend instead?”
“No, it…” he looked away from you and took a sharp exhale. “It wasn’t as simple as that. You…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “It was just…complicated. You were the girl who lived with us, like another sister, I mean, I couldn’t have feelings for you of all people. So I was so scared.”
He looked at the wall, scarating his neck, and continued. “And when I met Lily, it was all just…simple. Everyone liked her, she was nice, she’s smart. When I brought her home she fit right in, the fans loved her. She was everything I needed her to be, y’know?” He exhaled.
His gaze fell to the floor and lingered as he continued. “I didn’t love her at first. I mean, I liked her, she was great, but it was more about just…filling a need, I guess. But I did fall in love with her later. I tried to love her with my whole heart, I really did. I thought that what I felt for you would just go away but obviously it didn’t. And then she fucking left me. As she should, honestly.”
Oscar nervously looked around the room until he could no longer avoid your piercing gaze, face frozen in disbelief.
“You’re horrible, Oscar.”
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“You used me. You used Lily. And all of this from the very beginning was about… my family? I’m sorry you all had to take me in because no one else would. I’m sorry I didn’t go to a fancy boarding school in London. I’m sorry that my parents are two pieces of shit that didn't want to take care of me when I was a literal child.”
“It’s not that—”
“But it is. That’s what you said.”
“It’s not you, YN. I mean, it was, but we’re not kids anymore. I love you. It was just… awful circumstances.”
“And now? What’s your excuse? I cut off my parents. And Lily fucking left you. So why are you just using me now?”
“It’s just too much right now. The breakup, the championship…I know if I try, I’ll just fuck it up. I lost Lily, I can’t lose you too.”
“Why? Because then you’ll have no one to warm your bed when you’re sad?”
“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone that you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with!”
“You’re right, I don’t. Because the person I want to spend the rest of my life with is you, Oscar. But you don’t want me. You never have. I’m your backup plan until something better comes along. That’s all I’ve ever been. I’m not good enough for you, you don’t love me. I don’t even know who you are any more.”
“You said I was the love of your life,” Oscar said, his voice lowered now.
“You are. But I’m not yours. I don’t care what you say you feel. If you really love someone, you don’t treat them like that.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s all I can say.”
You let out a shaky breath, exhausted of all energy from the fighting. You didn’t even have it in you to be angry anymore.
“We shouldn’t do this. We should just go our separate ways and be done with it.”
“No, YN—”
“You have a championship to focus on, don’t you?” you said.
“You’re my best friend,” he said through his tears. “I need you.”
“I’ll finish out my employment contract through the end of the season. You can sell the apartment. I’ll pay back Mum for anything she had to spend on me when we were younger.”
“YN, please,” he begged.
“Don’t, Oscar,” you said, your voice soft now. “Just let me go.”
“Can I kiss you?”
The correct answer should be no. You should have told him to get the fuck out of your apartment and never come back. But it was Oscar.
You didn’t answer him, instead just walking up to him and embracing him, letting him hold you in his strong arms as his lips met yours one last time. His lips were salty with tears, but for once his touch was soft and gentle.
When you pulled away, he stayed close to you, pressing his forehead down to yours. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Go home. You’ve got a flight to catch in the morning.”
You could call in sick to the United States Grand Prix in Miami; Oscar could not.
Well, theoretically, he could. God knows the reserve drivers would be happy to take his place and show off in front of the teams that were always scouring for new blood. But he couldn’t back down now. Not with a trophy looming so ominously over his head.
And especially not in Miami. Everyone hated Miami. Everyone except Lando, that is.
And as Oscar mindlessly paced the paddock back and forth, praying to God that no journalists would pester him for an interview, he couldn’t escape the reminder of his teammate’s victory.
“Well, things seem to be heating up here in Miami! The race continues between McLaren teammates Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris in this early battle for the World Driver’s Championship. Piastri is putting in a valiant effort, but who can forget Lando Norris’ first victory here last year? It’s incredible to see how far he has come in such a short amount of time—”
He really needed to stop walking past the commentator’s box.
This is usually when Oscar would try to find you in the paddock, or send you a text from halfway across the world. But he couldn’t do that anymore; you hadn’t quite barred him from communication, but what could he say?
He just needed to focus. Perform. Drown himself in the work. That’s what he told himself as he made his way back to the McLaren garage, away from the prying eyes of the media and the haunting words of the commentators. That’s what he told himself as he slipped on a set of headphones and nodded along as his race engineer spoke, acting as if he was paying attention.
That’s what he told himself as he climbed into the car, took a deep breath, and pressed his foot to the gas.
Thousands of miles away, in Monaco, you were supposed to be having dinner. Actually, you were supposed to be in Miami, taking photos of Oscar in all his glory.
But you couldn’t face him. You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t even sleep.
In the corner of your living room sat a box with Oscar’s old stuff in it. You stared at it as if it had the eyes to stare back. Your hand mindlessly swirled your fork around your remaining food, now cold and mostly uneaten.
Why did this feel like a breakup?
You wanted to scream, but you’d already gotten noise complaints from the fight days prior. So instead, your apartment was deadly quiet.
You sighed, moving to your bedroom and collapsing in the soft covers, having decided to give up and indulge yourself with a night of bed rotting. But even your bed felt empty. The sheets held a faint trace of Oscar’s scent. It would come out with a simple wash, but laundry was the furthest thing from your mind right now.
You needed a distraction. You grabbed your phone and immediately went to social media to mindlessly scroll.
But in your notifications was one you had nearly forgotten about: that message request from Lando.
You opened it without even thinking, unfortunately sending the read receipt even though you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now.
Hey, not to be weird but do you know if anything’s going on with Oscar? He’s been acting odd recently.
You groaned in frustration. You couldn’t escape your best friend.
The message was sent a while ago—when the pair were in Bahrain, actually. You should have just deleted it and acted as if you never saw it. But you felt horribly awkward leaving Lando on read.
Yeah, he and Lily broke up :(
Was the frown really necessary? Should you say more? You didn’t have the energy to think, sending the message without much fanfare. You locked your phone and put it back on your nightstand.
But only a few moments later, it buzzed. Another message from Lando.
But…Lando was in Miami? At the circuit? He should be driving, not texting you. You opened your phone and clicked on the notification.
Damn, that’s rough. I thought they were endgame. You in the paddock?
You raised an eyebrow. Why would Lando Norris, of all people, want to know where you are?
No, I’m back in Monaco.
Another nearly instant reply. Ah, I was hoping to make a cameo on Oscar’s Instagram haha. You’ll be at Imola though?
This whole interaction felt…weird.
I will! I’ll be sure to get some good team shots lol
You tried to match his energy with your reply, but you couldn’t shake the odd feeling that this wasn’t right. But as you finally did put your phone down and retire for the night, your mind kept racing, coming to wildly different conclusions.
Maybe Lando did want to be friends. Maybe, now that Lily was out of the picture, he felt more comfortable around you. Maybe he was just trying to smooth things over with Oscar in the championship battle. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Or maybe you were so used to Oscar’s lying and manipulation that you couldn’t imagine someone talking to you just for the sake of friendship.
You huffed to yourself as the thought crossed your mind. You pulled your blanket up and buried yourself in it, as if the thoughts were something physical you could hide from. You fell into a tense sleep.
Oscar couldn’t sleep, though. He could barely sleep back when he had you at his beck and call, let alone when you all weren’t speaking to each other.
How had he fucked up so badly? He brought his hands to his face and roughly exhaled. Like you, he had resigned himself to spend his night scrolling, until he too noticed an unanswered message.
Except it wasn’t from Lando. It was from Lily. As if things couldn’t get any worse.
She was brief and to the point.
I just wanted to let you know I’ll be at Imola for a company event. I doubt we’ll run into each other. Hope you and YN are well.
Her words stung. The professionalism where there once was warmth and love. The perfectly petty dig at him and you, assuming that he had already moved on (though, she wasn’t exactly wrong).
He wanted to throw his phone off his hotel room balcony. From the slight crack in the blinds, he could see palm trees, and the ocean far off in the distance. And he knew that back in Monaco, you’d be staring at the same moon, hearing the water in the distance as it lulled you to sleep. The miles between you during race weekends had always been numerous, but the distance wasn't—not until now, at least.
He slammed his phone on the nightstand and took yet another sleeping pill.
It was going to be a horrible week.
And, unfortunately, the morning wasn’t much better. Another oh so friendly interaction with his teammate.
“Hey, Oscar, wait up,” the Brit called, jogging to catch Oscar as they both entered the paddock. Oscar slowed his pace but didn’t stop, hopeful that this would be a clear sign that he wasn’t here for conversation.
When he did catch up, Oscar just gave Lando a small nod as a greeting.
“Hey, I, uh, heard about you and Lily. I’m so sorry, mate.”
Oscar turned, making a confused and irritated face. “Who told you?”
“YN. Well, I asked her if you were okay.”
The Aussie made a small grumbling noise.
“I was just worried, you know. You just seemed like you were going through some stuff. You know I’m always here if you need me, right?”
“I need to beat you,” Oscar said, but his words had no bite to them. There was no snappy anger anymore, just exhaustion.
“Of course,” Lando said, smiling, as if he thought his teammate’s championship ambitions were nothing more than comic relief. “But for real, man, I’m sorry and I’m here for you.”
“Thanks,” Oscar said, though he didn’t really mean it. He just wanted to be alone.
In Monaco, you were breaking your first cardinal rule of a breakup (even a friendship breakup) and turning on your TV to watch Oscar drive.
You had managed to go without watching the free practices and even quali, but you couldn’t bring yourself to not watch the Grand Prix.
And it was good that you tuned in, because he won.
You nearly threw your phone across the room when he finally passed the checkered flag. You had been practically holding your breath since he secured the lead in a masterfully timed pit stop mid race, beating out Max Verstappen to bring home his second win of the season.
So, maybe he wouldn’t hate Miami as much anymore.
Your phone—secured now on your nightstand to prevent any race-related breakage—loomed in the distance as you debated sending him a congrats text. It wasn’t like you all had gone through a true breakup; you weren’t even together. But you knew you couldn’t let yourself end up in his bed again. You knew that he was a broken man, and you couldn’t fix him.
So your friendship had come to occupy this odd liminal space in which neither of you knew exactly where you stood. At some point, this would have to be discussed, but clearly neither of you had learned your lesson on healthy communication.
You wanted to tell your best friend that you were proud of him. Was that such a bad thing?
It wouldn’t be, if you could ignore that voice now echoing in your mind.
Since when are her feelings my problem?
You nearly gagged at the thought. Yeah, you weren’t texting him.
And back in Miami, Oscar anxiously awaited a text that would never come.
“Oscar, mate, quit staring at your phone and let’s celebrate!” Lando teased, patting his teammate on the back.
Oscar just sighed, opening his phone again to find no messages from you.
“She’s not coming back,” Lando said. “So either you get drunk enough to call her, or you get drunk enough to find someone to replace her. Either way, you’re getting drunk tonight.”
“Really, Lando?”
“She destroyed a five year relationship over some stupid shit, and you just won another grand prix. So yes, I think you should get fucked up with me tonight!”
“Don’t talk about Lily like that, mate. And besides, I’m not even waiting on her.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “Then who are you waiting on?”
Oscar’s defenses were wearing down, even while sober. “You know who.”
“And you still want me to believe that you two aren’t hooking up?”
“It’s…complicated.”
“Spill.”
Under normal circumstances, Oscar was never the type to discuss his personal life at work, much less with his rival for the championship. But as the plan of going out was abandoned in favor of a nice bottle of Cuban rum ordered to the room, Oscar found himself spilling his secrets like a teenage girl at a sleepover.
“And then I just…” he hiccuped, “I told her everything. And she didn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her, but it fucking hurt, you know? And we were just screaming at each other, she said we should go our separate ways. What am I supposed to say to that? And I still haven’t heard from her, but her and Lily are gonna be at Imola. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”
“Mate,” Lando said, slurring his words, “You fucked this up worse than I fucked up the championship last year.”
The two drivers laughed—otherwise, they’d have to cry at the peril poor Oscar had put himself in.
But the time flew by, and soon enough Oscar found himself on a flight to Italy, which he secretly prayed would crash so that he could avoid this entire charade.
Of course, on all your respective flights, the feeling was mutual; neither you, Oscar, nor Lily really wanted to be there. But duty called, and you were nothing if not professional.
It was an odd place to be; on one hand, you loved this job. It was fun getting to explore the world with your best friend and get paid to take pictures and make silly videos. The electric atmosphere of the paddock was one that had always felt like home, like you belonged there.
On the other hand, every time you thought about seeing Oscar again, you wanted to puke.
Thankfully, when you did inevitably see him again, your lunch did not resurface. You operated like a robot; no banter, no friendliness, just stark professionalism.
And Oscar didn’t know what was worse; not having you there, or seeing you act like a stranger.
The one silver lining, at least, was that Lily was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t handle those emotions too.
So, again and again throughout the weekend, he repeated that manta to himself: Just focus on work. Just focus on work.
He said it to himself one last time before he hopped in the car for qualifying. Just focus.
But he just couldn't. From the seat of his car, the chaos of the pit lane and the gaggles of photographers were just blurs, unidentifiable blobs. I had always comforted him to think that one of those was you, watching him. Now it was haunting.
And somewhere, buried away in the paddock, Lily was there. Oscar could imagine it; her polished and professional demeanor, almost perfect, as she schmoozed up to that one executive from the company that he swore always had a thing for her.
He wanted to scream. Instead, he had to pull the car into the garage as the session was stopped due to an accident. It was raining heavily. Extra caution was advised, his engineer explained, but Oscar couldn’t focus. Not because of his thoughts—although, those certainly didn’t help—but rather because of what he saw across the garage.
You were chatting with Lando.
“Hey, YN!” Lando greeted as he hopped out of his car, seeing you in the back of the garage taking photos. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too,” you said, though it wasn’t particularly true.
“Looks like we’re going to be a while,” he said looking over his shoulder at the storm brewing in the distance, “want to walk the paddock with me and get some candids?”
“Sure,” you agreed, though the request confused you.
The two of you left the garage and Oscar felt like punching the wall.
At first you walked in silence, your only emitted sound being the soft click of your camera. It was kind of pointless, though, since you were supposed to be getting shots of Oscar. You knew this. Lando knew this too.
“Can I ask you something, Lando?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there any reason that you’ve been pretty…friendly lately?” you asked, controlling your tone so it came off as genuinely curious rather than suspicious.
“Honestly,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck with nervousness, “I felt really bad about everything that happened on the trip. I was afraid I might’ve scared you off.”
Well, that didn’t make much sense. Lando was the one who had been avoiding you since the trip. But, after dealing with Oscar, you had simply accepted that men in general made no sense.
“You didn’t,” you said. “And, I mean, the only reason we ended up like that is because Lily was trying to get rid of me. But, you see how that worked out.”
“Really? She didn’t have the balls to tell you to leave her man alone?”
“Not until after you left,” you said, exhaling in exhaustion.
“Damn,” he said, looking away from you. You snapped a few photos of his candid side profile, admiring how the light hit his curls just right. “You know, the only reason I ran off in the club that night like that was because I didn’t want to get involved in all that? I mean, I wasn’t about to steal Oscar’s side chick.” He laughed. “But from what I hear, things have changed?”
You laughed. “Oscar’s side chick?”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t sleeping together?”
“Why do you want to know?” you laughed. Was Lando…flirting with you? No. He couldn’t be. He was Lando Norris, the most notorious playboy of the 2025 grid.
“Aw, c’mon. I want to know the drama!” he teased, flashing his boyish smile.
“Well, what if I want to know your drama?” you teased back, taking the opportunity to snap a few photos of him as you continued walking.
“Psh, I’ve got no drama. Just keeping to myself, trying to win.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“You’re avoiding the question, YN,” he said, smirking. Holy shit, he was flirting with you. But did you really mind? It felt nice to have that playful banter, to see a man who wanted that back and forth more than he just wanted your body. What was wrong with having a little fun?
You sighed and told him the most technical version of the truth. “Oscar never cheated. But you really thought I was sleeping with Oscar and you didn’t say anything to Lily?”
“Wasn’t my business. Besides, I thought it was pretty obvious.” His comment left a bit of a sour taste in your mouth, especially knowing the fears that Lily had confessed to you so long ago.
“No, I wouldn’t do that to Lily,” you said, and it was true. After all, you were both women.
“And what about Oscar?”
You rolled your eyes. Having a nice conversation with Lando helped you remember how not nice your time with Oscar had been recently. “Oh, fuck him,” you said weakly.
“Well, did you?”
You paused, unsure of whether or not to confess. “I already told you that he didn’t cheat. Is what, or who, I do in my spare time really any of your business?” you playfully teased.
His lips curled upwards. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
The double entendre wasn't missed on you. You glanced over your shoulder, scanning the crowds to ensure that no one was paying too close attention. “You don’t have to worry about me and Oscar. But you know I run his social media, right? So I see all the gossip pages, all the shit you get yourself into. It’s a bold claim to say you’ve got no drama.”
“Oh, darling, they don’t even know the half of it,” he smirked. You all had turned around by now, walking back in the direction of the paddock. The crows were thinner now.
He continued, “But what about you, huh? You’re all bored with Oscar and now you want some real fun?” He let out a small laugh. “No, you’re not like that. Too much of a good girl.”
“You think I’m too good? I’m here flirting with my best friend’s rival for the championship.”
“Are we flirting, is that was this is?” he asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. “I thought we were just having a pleasant conversation, catching up on the gossip.” Unbeknownst to you, Lando had gotten all the gossip from Oscar after their drunken celebration in Miami. But he wanted to see exactly how much you’d reveal to him.
“Well, sure then. I’m sure you get tired of race talk all day, anyway.”
“You say that like you think race talk is boring. But I’ve seen you at enough races to know better. Don’t play coy, you love it, don’t you? You know more about racing than most of the drivers’ girlfriends.”
It kind of unnerved you, the way Lando knew exactly how to push your buttons. The subtle you’re not like the other girls implication; both you knew it wasn’t a compliment, but rather a statement meant to rile you up and see how you’d react. And it worked.
Your voice lowered, steady yet quieter. “It’s a bit sexist to assume that women don’t know anything about racing. And knowing more about racing doesn’t make me any better than anyone else.”
“I never said that, love.”
“Hmm, but you thought it.”
“Are you in my head now?” You playfully rolled your eyes. “So tell me about all the race talk between you and Oscar.”
“Is that a euphemism for something?” you chuckled.
“D’you want it to be?” he smirked. “No, no, really. Tell me what groundbreaking F1 opinions are inside that pretty little head of yours.” Yeah, he was definitely flirting with you.
“I’ve got nothing groundbreaking,” you said as your smile loosened, contemplating how you wanted to arrange your words. “I think Oscar has a good shot at winning the WDC this year, if he can get out of his own head.”
“And what about me?”
“I think you’ll give him a run for his money. But you care too much about what random people on the internet think,” you said, ending the statement with that on the nose jest.
“You’re probably right,” he smiled. “God, you sounded like my PR manager for a sec there.”
“Not exactly dirty talk, is it?” you joked.
You arrived back at the McLaren garage. Lando walked in first, seeing that Oscar’s back was to you, and positioned himself so that when Oscar looked around, he’d see him instead of you. You were none the wiser.
He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “You still haven’t answered my question. How was he?” Lando’s face was plastered with a mischievous grin.
You playfully hit his shoulder. “Don’t ask me that!” you cooed, though you didn’t mind his closeness, the warmth of his breath on your ear.
Oscar didn’t like it, though. And when he turned around and saw your back to him, Lando leaned down next to you, and smirking, he wanted to run him over with his car.
Lando looked up for only a split second, but his eyes met Oscar’s, as if to acknowledge what he was doing. Or, as if to say, yes, I’m doing this, and you can’t stop me.
Oscar couldn’t handle the audacity of watching Lando flirt with you in front of his own eyes. Thankfully, you were tapped on the shoulder by none other than the new guy, who had broken his extremely expensive camera, and you were called away to help him figure it out.
Oscar crossed the garage to face Lando, never breaking his line of sight.
“Oh hey, mate, what’s up?” Lando asked, innocently.
“Why are you talking to YN?”
“Oh, she wanted to take some photos—”
“Don’t talk to YN,” Oscar said, his voice plain but stern.
“Mate, we were just having a chat. It wasn’t like that. Don’t be so paranoid.”
“I’m serious,” Oscar reiterated. “Don’t cross that line, Lando.”
“Okay, my bad,” Lando said, nervously laughing and carelessly throwing his hands in the air. Oscar still wouldn’t shift his gaze, even as both drivers were called to get back in their cars to resume the qualifying session.
There was something up about Lando, he could tell. But it’d have to wait. Now, he had a pole to get.
Well, he tried, but only managed to come in fourth. Lando got pole. Of fucking course.
Another sleepless night passed with no messages from you.
And the next morning, there you were as usual, staring at him only through the eye of your camera lens.
But then, across the garage, you had no problem chatting it up with Lando. He threw you a glimpse of his award winning smirk and Oscar felt violent. He didn’t like this. Not one bit.
You were doing it to spite him, that was obvious. You’d never be interested in a guy like Lando; too much of a playboy. And honestly, Oscar knew deep down that he deserved this. But it still made him sick to his stomach.
The feeling only dissipated when it was replaced by that primitive need within him to win. The lights before him went out and reason gave way to instinct.
Lando bottled the pole, losing the lead to Max after the first corner. Oscar fell back one place, narrowly avoiding a collision between Charles and Lewis, before overtaking them as they struggled to reorient their cars.
So it was just him, Max, and Lando. He could do this.
His body moved automatically. He could hear the roar of the engines, the chattering of the radio, and the screaming of the fans in the distance, but in his mind all was quiet. Laps blurred as he sped along the track, pushing inch by inch closer to overtaking Max.
Eventually he did, getting DRS and flying past the Redbull driver, pushing hard to get a good lead over him.
All that was left now was his own teammate.
“Okay Oscar, you’ve got enough space between you and Verstappen,” his race engineer said.
“I want to overtake.”
“A 1-2 is our goal right now—”
“Then he can be 2nd. I want to win.”
Silence befell the radio channel for a moment.
His engineer returned. “Okay. Papaya rules.”
Papaya rules. The phrase that haunted his dreams.
There was really no need to use the coded language anymore. The world knew what it meant—race, but keep it clean. Put the team above yourself. Don’t do anything reckless.
But Oscar was sick of being the good teammate, the one who always let Lando win for the sake of the team. He was tired of being gifted wins. Team orders were bullshit. This wasn’t about McLaren anymore. This was about his pride. This was everything.
So he pushed harder than he should have. He was wearing his tires out, he knew, but Lando just coasted along, as if nothing was amiss. As if his teammate wasn’t out for blood and gaining on him with every lap.
Lando glanced in his mirrors and saw Oscar behind him.
“Oscar’s getting close,” he said to his engineer.
“We told him papaya rules. Remember, our goal here is a 1-2.”
“He’s gonna wear out his tires.”
“Let’s just focus on keeping P1.”
But Lando knew it wasn’t that simple. This was no longer impersonal racing, just the best of the best competing against each other because it was in their nature to do so.
No, this was personal now.
Lando rounded the corner, feeling Oscar hot on his heels, but managed to defend his position. He knew that with DRS enabled at the next stretch, he wouldn’t be able to hold him off.
But in front of him, he was already close to lapping the backmarkers of the grid.
Oscar could see them in the distance; the familiar teal of Lance Stroll’s Aston Martin, and an even more familiar fumble as he drove erratically due to some mechanical issue with the car.
Lando slowed down, but Oscar couldn’t react. He swerved, hitting the barrier.
Back in the garage, the breath left your lungs.
You couldn’t resist the temptation of watching. You’d slid the headset on after Oscar had driven off, and you’d planned to leave before he got back to the garage and discovered that you’d ever been there. No harm, no foul. The allure of the purring engines and adrenaline-fueled racing was just too much to resist.
But now, hearing the violent scrape of carbon fiber against metal as Oscar’s car screeched along the barriers, your heart sunk into your chest.
“Are you alright, Oscar?” you heard his race engineer ask, his voice filling your ears.
But the silence afterwards was deafening.
“Oscar, can you hear us? Are you alright?”
All that came through was a metallic gargle of noise, a sign that the radio had been damaged in the impact. There was no way to know if Oscar was hurt or not.
A hush fell on the track as the safety car was brought out. Lando had effectively secured his win, with so few laps remaining.
Your eyes were glued to the screen, praying to whatever God would listen that Oscar would be okay. You watched as the marshalls rushed to the site of the car, huddling around the lump of broken parts that stood still on the sidelines.
Because of the force of the crash, the medical car had been deployed as well. You were frozen in place.
You had never been much of a believer in God, but all you could do now was beg.
Please, God. Please let him be okay. If he’s okay I can forgive everything he’s ever done. If he’s okay I will never let him out of my life ever again. Please, God, please let him be safe.
You chanted the prayer over and over again to yourself as the seconds ticked by like hours.
Finally, after an agonizingly long wait, you saw the marshalls carrying along an orange-clad form into the medical car.
You didn’t even think. You just reacted, taking off your headset and booking it towards the medical tent.
You weren’t the only one there, though. The tent was already swarmed with media, all craning their necks to see Oscar. You pushed your way through to the front, only to be stopped by security, since you had your media pass instead of your usual VIP pass as one of Oscar’s friends.
You panicked—to the eyes of security, you were just another reporter who was rudely trying to cut through the crowd to get to the injured driver.
“Please let me by,” you pleaded. “I know Oscar—”
“You can wait at the media tent.”
“C’mon—”
“Ma’am, we need you to leave.” You groaned, and you were about to leave before you heard the voice of your savior from out of nowhere.
“Hey!” he called. You turned your head to see who it was—the familiar, friendly face of Zak Brown.
He was on the other side of the barrier, but Oscar was still nowhere to be found.
“Oh, YN, am I glad to see you!” He turned to the security officer. “Let her in.”
“Sir, media personnel are not authorized—”
“She’s VIP, not media.”
“Sir—”
“Do you know who I am?” he said, an unusual sternness in his tone. The security officer glanced down at his pass and silently let you through.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Zak said, his boyish grin returning as he patted you on the back and led you along to the private area where they’d be bringing Oscar any second now.
You sighed as he pulled the medical curtain closed.
“Boy, was that a nasty crash,” he said.
“Is he okay?”
“Well, he’s alive. That’s as far as I know.”
Your heart sank again. But as if on cue, you heard the rumble of camera shutters and reporters chattering outside the tent as the marshals escorted Oscar into the tent. When he came up, the room was flooded with medical personnel, pushing you and Zak back to the edge of the curtained-off room.
A nurse rushed in. “Who’s his emergency contact?” she asked Zak.
“Her,” he said, gesturing to you. You were confused. Since when had Oscar made you his emergency contact?
“Stay here,” the nurse instructed, but even if you wanted to, you couldn’t move an inch. You resumed your prayers as Zak blabbered on and on, mainly to himself. One thing that you’d learned very quickly about Zak Brown once Oscar had gotten to McLaren is that he really liked to yap.
As the doctors and nurses filtered in and out of the room, you caught a brief glimpse of Oscar in the hospital bed, his eyes rolled back into his head, slumped over into his shoulder.
You wanted to wail.
But it was only a few minutes before everyone began to filter out of the room, creating enough space for you to finally see your friend. And when you did lay eyes on him, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you feared.
His eyes were closed; an attempt to rest, rather than a state of unconsciousness.
A nurse at his bedside turned to you. “Don’t worry. He’s going to be fine. We’re going to sedate him and transport him to a hospital, but he’s not gravely injured. He just needs some tests done that we can’t do here.”
You nodded along, not once taking your eyes off Oscar.
“And, yes, you are his emergency contact, so we’ll need you to come with us. He’s authorized you to make decisions in the event that he's unable to. But that is unlikely, of course.”
“Is he…?” you asked, gesturing towards him.
“He’s still a little shaken up. The best thing right now is to get him into a calmer environment.”
You nodded. “I’ll make sure that new guy doesn’t lose all your stuff,” Zak quipped, and you threw a smile out towards him. “I’ll meet you all there when we’ve wrapped up here.”
Ah yes, the grand prix was likely still going on outside, and Lando would have to climb the podium and take his P1 trophy home.
But as you sat in a hospital room in Italy next to your best friend, the podium was the last thing on your mind.
Oscar was still completely out of it. The doctors had come and gone, confirming that all of his tests had come back normal. No broken bones, no concussion, nothing major. Just a shit ton of bruises and a shock to the system that left him too exhausted to stay awake for more than 15 minutes at a time.
Outside, the sun was setting, but you couldn’t sit still. You held Oscar’s limp hand in your own, tracing patterns into the cold skin. You hadn’t held his hand since you were kids—no, Oscar had held your hands above your head as he pinned you to the wall only weeks ago.
You flung the memory away. Now wasn’t the time. Besides, you promise you’d forgive all that.
Either way, you couldn’t focus on that now. Oscar’s eyelashes were fluttering open, his eyes squinting at the fluorescent light above him.
“Osc!” you said, truthfully too energetic for the occasion. You dropped his hand, got up, and turned off the overhead light, leaving only the swiftly fading daylight from outside the window to illuminate the room.
He groaned as you sat back down, but still mumbled a small thanks.
“Where am I?” he asked, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes.
“A hospital in Imola.”
“Shit,” he sighed.
“Yeah. You had a pretty bad crash.”
“I remember that,” he said, his throat dry and cracked. He took a sip of water. “Lando brake checked me.”
“Is that what happened? I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Yeah. Fucker,” he cursed, his voice dripping with contempt. You didn’t know what to say.
“How are you feeling?” you finally said, tired of the lingering tension.
“Awful. Everything hurts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, reaching for his call button to request painkillers. “I’ve missed you.”
It was bold, doing this when he knew you couldn’t exactly be cruel to him. So, instead, you were honest.
“I’ve missed you too. I’m just glad you’re okay,” you said, reaching forward to smooth his hair away from his sweat-stained forehead. Your touch felt better than any painkiller. “We were really scared.”
“Nah, you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon,” he joked as the nurse arrived and wordlessly administered his meds. He let out a sigh as he felt the painkillers enter his system. “I run on pure spite. A little wall isn’t gonna take me out.”
You gave him a small smile. “You didn’t say anything after the crash,” you said, your voice just a quivering whisper, giving away the true depths of your fear.
“I had the wind knocked out of me. And then, everything just went black, I was fading in and out.”
“I was praying you’d be okay. It was so scary.”
“Hey, I’m okay. A little busted up, but I wasn't exactly a looker anyway, huh?” he joked, a feeble attempt to make you laugh. You sniffled and smiled.
He continued, “Can I use my near-death experience as an excuse for us to make up?”
Your smile dropped and you bit your lip. “Osc…”
“I just want my friend back,” he said, cutting you off. “Look, I can’t be the boyfriend you deserve. Not right now, at least. And I think, after all the shit I did, you wouldn’t want me to anyway. But I miss my friend.”
“I miss my friend, too.”
Your heart to heart was interrupted by a knock at the door. The same nurse from before poked her head in. “Excuse me?” she asked in an Italian accent, and you looked up. “There is a visitor asking to be let in. She said her name is Lily?”
You couldn’t help the face you made. What on God’s green Earth was Lily doing in Imola?
“Um, yeah, let her in,” Oscar said. He didn’t react, though you scooted away and sat at the edge of your seat, ready to leave at any second. “Stay,” he whispered to you, and you did.
A few moments later, you saw her walk in, and the atmosphere was thick.
“Hi Oscar,” she exhaled, grateful to see him okay. He greeted her back, but she didn’t even look at you. You got up to give them a moment, but Oscar reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Don’t go,” he said, and the look in his eyes was impossible to refuse. You tentatively sat back down.
“How are you feeling?” Lily asked, and the two exchanged pleasant conversation back and forth. You wanted nothing more than to jump out of the window that now showed the sunset over the trees. Normal visiting hours would be ending soon.
“Well, I just wanted to make sure that you were okay,” she said, getting up to leave. “I’m glad you’re doing well. You too, YN,” she added on the end, but you didn’t believe it. You gave her a flat but polite smile.
“Actually, YN, could we have a word?” she asked, cocking her head in the direction of the hallway.
The look on Oscar’s face told you that this was a horrible idea. But one of you was confined to a hospital bed, and the other wasn’t. You ignored him and followed Lily into the deserted hallway.
She turned to you, voice full of venom. “How long have you been sleeping with Oscar?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” she said, plain as day.
“I’ve told you before, Oscar never cheated on you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You turned your head in confusion. “What are you getting at?”
Lily angrily sighed. “You think that you can just waltz around the paddock talking shit about me with Lando, and that I’m not going to hear about it?”
Had Lily been at the paddock? Or even worse: had she somehow heard you?
“Well, if you actually heard my conversation with Lando, you’ll know that I stood up for you.”
“I thought you were a girl’s girl,” she said, deflecting from your defense.
“I am.”
“Then why were you in bed with my boyfriend 4 days after we broke up?”
“Your ex boyfriend,” you said, meeting her level of venom. “You left him.”
“I just thought, after all that talk, you’d have the decency not to prove me right.”
“Lily, I was honest with you. If you’re mad at Oscar, don’t take it out on me. He’s the one who suggested it. I told him it was a bad idea.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“And I felt horrible about it. So I stopped.” Your voice was sharp. “Who told you any of this?”
“It doesn't matter. I hope you’re happy.”
“I hope you are, too. Genuinely.” You lacked the words to say what you really wanted to. He treats both of us like shit. He used us. I am not your enemy. She wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. She wordlessly walked away, scoffing and mumbling to herself.
You didn’t say anything either as you walked back into the hospital room and slumped in the chair.
“I’m guessing that didn’t go well?” Oscar said.
“Nope.”
“Well, we were in the middle of something…”
Oh, right. The conversation where Oscar was trying to get back in your pants.
“I’m not going to fuck you, Oscar.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“We can let anything lead to that. Not again.”
“I understand,” he said. “I just want my friend back in my life. Like all of that never happened.”
“Could we even do that?” you asked. It felt like a line had been crossed, moving your friendship in a way that couldn’t be undone.
“I promise. And I know my word doesn’t mean much, but really, I promise. Never again.”
Haven't you promised that you’d forgive him?
“Okay,” you said, “Okay.”
Oscar smiled at you, showing off his bunny teeth. You still loved him. You couldn’t help it. But true to form, you could never stay away.
“Oh, and by the way, congrats on Miami.”
You fell asleep in the chair, having refused to leave Oscar’s side. He’d be discharged in the morning to make his flight back to Monaco, though it was questionable whether or not he’d be able to race in the iconic Grand Prix.
True to his word, though, Oscar got one final set of visitors in the dead of night.
The first was Zak Brown.
“Oscar!” Zak yelled, before Oscar shushed and pointed to your sleeping form. You stirred but didn’t fully wake, and Zak placed his hand over his mouth and raised his eyebrows as Oscar let out a quiet laugh.
“Hey Zak,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Glad to see you’re doing better.”
“Yeah, I made it,” he mused. “Hey, what did the FIA say?” Oscar’s phone had died since you had fallen asleep, and his charger had been left at the track.
Thankfully, Zak had brought his (and your) belongings, and he placed the bag at the foot of the hospital bed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the penalty, from the crash?”
“No one got a penalty.”
“But, Lando brake checked me.”
“Lando barely avoided a crash with Stroll.”
“I know, but he didn’t swerve, he slowed down. He had room to swerve, I didn’t. How did no one get a penalty?”
“That's just racing.”
“He intentionally slowed down to stop me!”
“Oscar, I highly doubt that that’s what happened. It was a crowded track, and you all had to react in a split second. These things happen, you know this.”
Oscar wasn’t at all pleased with this answer, and it was worsened by the appearance of his second visitor: Lando himself.
“Ah, there’s our grand prix winner!” Zak said, giving him a hearty pat on the back.
Lando smiled, and Oscar wanted to throw up.
“Had to bring it home for the team,” he said, smiling at Zak. “You doing alright, mate?” he asked.
Oscar was already tired of people asking him how he was feeling. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Lando gave Stroll an earful after the race.”
“Oh yeah, probably getting fined for that one…”
“Why? I didn’t crash because of Stroll. You brake checked me.” The pain was making Oscar more irritable. He’d need another dose of meds soon.
“No, Stroll was driving like an idiot out there, I had to slow down.”
“No, you had to move. You’re not stupid. You just didn’t want me to overtake, didn’t you?”
“Okay, boys, let’s save this for the track,” Zak interjected. Oscar just grumbled. “I’ll meet you outside, yeah?” he said to Lando, who nodded but stayed behind.
The Brit glanced at you, still fast asleep in the chair by Oscar’s bedside. “D’you tire out your babysitter?” he smiled.
But Oscar was relentless. “Don’t talk about her.”
“I thought you all weren’t on speaking terms?”
“Lando, mind your business.”
“I don’t know what your problem is, mate.”
“You think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
“I’m not up to anything. I’m just trying to be a good teammate. Jesus, Osc, they should check that you didn’t hit your head too hard, you’re so paranoid.”
Truthfully, Oscar was bluffing. He had a horrible feeling about his teammate, but no evidence to back it up. But his intuition was hardly ever wrong.
“I ran into Lily after you left,” Lando said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told her you were here.” His tone of voice was so gentle that Oscar began to wonder if maybe he was being too paranoid.
“Yeah, she came by earlier.”
Lando’s eyes glanced back to your sleeping form, and Oscar felt his anger rise again. He didn’t even want Lando to look in your direction, let alone be speaking to you.
“Your heart rate is up,” Lando said, gesturing to the monitor that now showed the physical effects of Oscar’s anger.
“Look, Lando,” Oscar said, shifting to sit up in bed. “Stop acting like we’re friends. Stop talking to YN, stop trying to play this buddy-buddy game. We’re here to beat each other.”
“I was just trying to be kind, but I guess if you really don’t want to be friends, I can’t make you.”
“I’m serious. Leave YN alone. Don’t even go there.”
“She’s an adult.”
“And she’s mine.”
Lando laughed. “Seriously? That’s not exactly what she told me.”
The monitor beeped again as Oscar’s heart rate continued to rise. “I don’t care what she told you.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Try it. See what happens.”
A nurse gently knocked on the door, and Oscar was grateful for the distraction and relief of pain meds.
“Well,” Lando said, leaning on the door, “I guess I’ll see you all in Monaco.”
m & s | sebastian vettel
like my dirty diana jenson fic, the reader will have a name and last name and faceclaim, but you are more than welcome to use any other faceclaim!! or name if you want <3 this is just for fanfic purposes :) part 2 coming soon <3
fcaeclaim elizabeth olsen
2018
MESSAGES
s
hi, i heard you’re taking a break. just wanted to let you know that our house in monaco is still available if you want to stay there.
m
oh, you never sold it?
s
selling it didn’t feel right. you still have your key?
m
yes. i’ll think about it. i might stay here in LA though
S
oh. sounds fine too. i figured you would want to get out of america, but where ever you feel comfortable :) you deserve to take a break
m
thank you, sebastian. so do you..
s
eventually
𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄 - 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 - Lando Norris really messed up on the first time meeting one of Hollywood's newest and hottest stars, Y/N L/N. But when his reputation gets too bad, she might be the only one who can save his career from being completely doomed
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Lando Norris x Actress!Reader (Enemies to Lovers & Fake Dating AU)
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 - Ongoing - Last updated on April 29th
𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝐓𝐖𝐎 - 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 & 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 - 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 - 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍* 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 - 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝐒𝐈𝐗 - 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 - 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 - {𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍}
*contains smut
⤳ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
⤳ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
BLOG MASTERLIST
works by cate :) hope you like it 💌 feedback is always welcome.
FORMULA 1
Charles Leclerc
“You knew all too well I was right where you left me” [on the making] -> It’s the story of a woman frozen in the moment her world fell apart. A perfect dinner ended with, “I met someone else,” and while everyone moved on, she remained stuck in that instant, unable to let go of the past. A poignant tale of heartbreak, grief, and the weight of being trapped in a “forever” that never was.
“Am i too much for you? Maybe I’m too much for everyone” -> Reader feels insecure but Charles makes sure she knows how important she is to the world (specially his world).
“Tender is the night for a broken heart” -> You been feeling very sad lately. Your emotional stress is taking you places you didn’t want to back in ever again. And Charles knows it - just wanna make sure you know you are loved despite it all.
“You think you won ‘cause you got the man. But honey, you’ll always be a fan” -> Charles has a new girl and she’s obsessed with you.
“If I define her I limit her” -> You go together to the Gladiator || premier because your best friend Paul Mescal invited you. You didn’t expect Charles being so sweet talking about you on interviews.
“26” -> the world didn’t know you and Charles broke up a few months ago. it was until you haven’t been to any gp people started speculating. he finds some one new. Makes his dream com true. And you write an album about him reveling how you broke up and why.
Lando Norris
part 1: “opposite”, part 2: “sue me” -> Reader and Lando broke up a few months ago. You both assist a mutual friend’s birthday party and Lando has a new girl. Then reader has a girlfriend and thinks she’s all right. But did she really move on?
part 1: “so long, London”, part 2: “L’AMOUR DE MA VIE” -> You and Lando have been engaged for a while. You thought you were end game but he didn’t love you anymore. Then, you moved on. But Lando didn’t.
“If you were my boyfriend. And I was your girlfriend. Probably wouldn’t see nobody else” -> you are just ‘friends’.
“If nothing else get you through. Then darling, I’ll cry with you” -> Lando was fighting the championship until the Brazil GP happens. Max wins and Lando pretends it’s not a big deal. But you know, it is.
“Him” -> oblivious idiots to lovers. That’s what Max said.
“I would set the world on fire for you” -> after the Brazil GP, lando comes home to the worst week of his year. Also, it was his birthday. So even though the world hates him, you wanna make sure he is loved and he did nothing wrong. And that if you could you would set the world on fire for him.
Oscar Piastri
“I’ll pay the price I guess” -> the world hates you’re dating Oscar.
“This is how you fall in love” -> Oscar is truly, madly, deeply in love with you.
"Maybe i should've told you i miss you. But i don't know if you feel the same" -> your insecurities lead to lose the love of your life, but destiny always play its worst (or best) cards for you. in the aftermath of it all, two souls become one (again). or that's what you'd like.
Franco Colapinto
“But we were something, don’t you think so? And if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you” -> You and franco broke out a year ago. You are now Williams Racing social media manager and he’s an F1 driver. Your job just got a bit harder because of him. Is possible a second chance?
"Modales" -> You had a brief yet beautifully intense romance with F1 driver Franco Colapinto a few years ago when he was driving for F3. When he decided to end your relationship, you didn’t expect he would move on that quickly.
“Pueden más que el amor y son más fuertes que el Olimpo” -> how is like to date Franco since your teenage years. And how is for you as a student to balance your world and his world to make the relationship work.
Lewis Hamilton
“Can’t believe you’ve noticed me” -> Reader and Leiws are on vacation. One day under the golden hour he decides to sing you a song he wrote for you.
Made in Argentina : The series
Reader is argentine and Franco Colapinto's bestie.
Lando’s Version -> part 1
Oscar’s version -> part 1
Franco Colapinto
coming soon.
Like , reblog & comment if you like! Support your fave writers!
formula one masterlist
masterlist of masterlists // character list
updated: September 6th, 2023
Note: All fics with fem!reader are indicted in the warnings, otherwise it’s gender neutral:)
S = smut // F = fluff // A = angst
header by @nagelsball
Continuar lendo
SYNOPSIS Lando Norris is notorious for being a party boy—a fuck boy, even—with his numerous entanglements, fleeting thrills, and reckless nights. He's never expected to find anyone who could make him want more. But then he spots you—grounded, responsible, and effortlessly captivating—and he realizes he might be in trouble. All it took was one conversation, one exchanged number, and suddenly, the life he’s always known doesn’t seem as fulfilling anymore.
CHAPTERS ᡣ𐭩 One: I Thought I Had Everything, I Was Lonely ᡣ𐭩 Two: Got My Head In The Clouds, Counting All My Stars ᡣ𐭩 Three: Could You Tell Where My Head Was At When You Found Me? ᡣ𐭩 Four: Me And You Went To Hell And Back Just To Find Peace ᡣ𐭩 Epilogue: In My Ears, Said The World Was Ours
Streamer Lando Masterlist
Just bc I'm extra gonna make an official master list for streamer Lando fics
She's Pretty Cute
Fan Favourite
Sore Loser
Kill It
Please Never Change
No More Sad Songs for Mr Norris
Never Going Out In Public Again
A Sweetheart Pt 2
Back from Dinner (Date)
Interruptions
Caught In It
It's Autumn Sunset
Yeah That's My Girl
He Knows He's Won
It's Like I Don't Know You Anymore - Max Verstappen (& Lewis Hamilton)
Words: 4,816 Summary: Y/N Rosberg, Nico Rosberg’s little sister, returns to the world of F1 after six years away. And she returns in the most unexpected garage. Warning(s)/Note(s): Takes place in 2022, Past Relationship with Lewis Hamilton that involves an age difference of about 11 years. Secret/Private Relationship(s), Smut in the Imola 2022 part
Masterlist | Support Me! | It's Like I Don't Know You Anymore Verse
Jeddah 2022
Lewis scoffs as he reads the trash article. It was anything but substantial and from a site that was more known for just recirculating already known things in their own words and for the occasional lie to stir up drama.
He had only seen it because he had alerts on his personal phone for her name and he couldn’t help but click on it seeing that it was popping up on an F1 related site. He expected it to be one of those top ten outfit things, he hadn’t expected utter garbage.
He’d know if she was returning to the paddock, he would’ve been told, especially during one of the first few weekends of the new season. The first season since he had won that he won’t have the number one on his car and his jaw clenched at the reminder that he was no longer the current world champion, that he had to stay longer, needed to stay longer. He wanted that eighth championship, and until he got it he was staying, needed to. And this year could be the year, would be the year.
“Have you seen this rubbish?” Lewis asks Toto when he steps out of his driver’s room and into the garage. It’s filled with life as everyone gets ready for the first free practice session. Shouts being heard back and forth. The whirring of tools as mechanics make sure they’re all working and where they should be.
“What rubbish?” His Austrian accent is thick as it wraps around the words.
He glances around, looking for cameras, spotting none, he still lowers his voice. “Y/N,” the name is awkward off his tongue and it makes Toto flinch, no one had called her that, not unless it was for something important, like life or death. “Some blog reported that she’s in Red Bull’s garage.” He laughs.
The taller man stills.
Toto after all these years still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened between Mouse and Lewis. He knew what had happened between Nico and Lewis, had tried to fix it, to patch it up, to stay neutral, but his preference for Lewis had been obvious to Nico and the brotherhood that had been so strong, had spanned so many years, ended quicker than it began as the season drew on and the tension got tighter.
And while he hadn’t managed to play middle man without one of them getting mad, shouting, screaming, storming away like a toddler. Mouse had. She had easily gone between the two men as they both threw fits. He still wasn’t sure how the girl had done it, barely an adult, but dealing with two grown men, but she had and handled it like a champ. Toto had never been allowed to hold Nico’s trophy like Lewis had allowed him to when he had won before, but he knew and had seen how Nico let her hold. As if it was not just his but hers as well.
Toto had expected when the 2017 season started even with Nico, leaving, retiring, for her to come anyways. Had set aside passes for her, made sure that she was in the system to be allowed in despite knowing that she would show up with Lewis, because that’s how it had always been. If she wasn’t showing up with her brother, she was showing up with Lewis. But she was a no show and when he tried to reach out, he was blocked.
She went full no contact with everyone in the racing world and at first Toto had thought that maybe something serious had happened, but she was still posting on her blog, though there was a distinct lack of F1, she just wasn’t talking to him. He could still remember the swell of anger that came over and then the shame that had quickly followed. How he had gone to Lewis to ask if she was alright, if she was mad at him, mad at Mercedes, only for Lewis to flinch, to shake his head. Telling him that he hadn’t heard from her or seen since the day after Nico won his championship. He could still feel the bitterness that rolled off of Lewis’ tongue as he said that none of the Rosberg’s were talking to him.
“It’s not rubbish.” Toto manages to say after a moment, trying to push back the memories, the grief of no longer getting to see Mouse grow up, because god she had just turned twenty-six and the last time he had seen her, she was twenty, still a child in many ways. “She is at Red Bull’s garage.”
“What?”
“She showed up after all the drivers did, waited I think, and made her appearance. Went straight to Red Bull. She had passes.”
“She’s never liked Red Bull.”
“You’ve never liked Red Bull.” Toto corrects.
It was a thing that had frustrated much of the Mercedes team, how despite himself, Nico, and Lewis despising Red Bull, she still liked them, would pop into their garage, chat with their drivers, mechanics, engineers, and such. Toto nearly had an aneurysm the first time he saw her and Horner talking.
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“No it doesn’t.”
—
“Red Bull, huh? Naughty, naughty girl.” He clicks his tongue.
She rolls her eyes, “You already knew that I was going there.”
He laughs, “Doesn’t mean I can’t tease you about it.”
“Was there a reason you called, Nico?”
“What? I can’t check in on my sister?”
She rolls her eyes again, but grins.
“I just wanted to make sure that nothing happened.”
“Lewis didn’t try to talk to me or at least not that I know of.” It was easy to read between the lines with Nico. “I stayed at Red Bull, in their garage, no one but Red Bull personnel came close to me.”
“And you still want to do this?”
“Yes.” Her voice is soft and she sits on the hotel bed, crossing her ankles. “I’ve missed it, the sport, the paddock, it’s nice to be back.”
“And Mercedes?”
“I have no interest in talking to anyone at Mercedes, past or present. They don’t matter, not anymore.”
“Mouse. You will be careful, yes? I’m not there anymore.”
“Careful as can be.”
Australia 2022
He expects her to be at the next race in Australia and he doesn’t know why. It had been one of the races she was always willing to miss as she hated flying there. Not feeling it was worth it.
So he pretends not to be disappointed when no photos of her arriving popping up, not even whispers of rumors of her sneaking in which he wouldn’t believe in the first place. The idea of her sneaking into a race made him scoff. It wasn’t her, that wasn’t how she operated. He knew her, knew she liked the attention of arriving at the races just like he did. He also pretends that it doesn’t hurt to think about how they used to show up together to races.
Imola 2022
“You’re going to win.” She soothes, rubbing his shoulders and he can’t help but let them drop, let her loosen the tension in them.
“I retired from the last race.”
“And that was the last race.”
He wants to deny it, there’s still that feeling that settles at the bottom of his stomach when he doesn’t win, when he isn’t on the podium, in the points. But it’s lessened as he’s been with her. “And tell me, schat.” He grabs at her hand, gently pulling her until she’s in front of him, standing between his legs. “Will I just win the GP or also the sprint?”
She smiles and he can feel his heartbeat quicken. “Both.” She tells him, resting her hands on his face and letting their lips brush together. “You’ll win both, Max.”
He wins the sprint and then the GP and he’s thankful that she isn’t out with the rest of the team when he’s on the podium, that she stayed in his drivers room, waiting for him. Because he knows that if she had, he would’ve ruined their plans of staying private, secret. He would have kissed her, told her that she did it, she told him he was going to win, so he did. He won both of them for her.
Max does tell her that. He tells her that in between champagne flavored kisses, along with thanks and murmurs of his love against her skin as she sighs and tugs at his nomex.
“I could win every race this season with you supporting me, schat.” His breathing is heavy, he’s in between her thighs, racesuit and nomex just tugged down enough for his dick to be free, ass exposed.
She hadn’t protested, but moaned when he ripped through her tights that she was wearing underneath her skirt, and moaned again when he moved her underwear to the side. Rubbing at her clit to get her wet as he quickly prepped her before sinking into her. He repeats it as he thrusts inside her, high on not the two wins, but on her, on her support, her belief. “You’re my lucky charm.”
She freezes around him, her moans tapering off and he curses as he realizes what he said.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips against her forehead. “I did not mean.”
“I know.”
She sounds sure, truthful, but her legs that had been tight around him, heels digging into him, have loosened.
“If I don’t win a race that is my fault or the teams. It is not yours.” He tells her.
She nods but doesn’t look at him.
“Schat.” He holds her chin between two fingers, holding eye contact with her. “You are my lucky charm. Not because I think I will win races because of you and your support. Because you make even the races I don’t win feel okay, like I haven’t failed.”
“You haven’t failed.” She immediately says frowning and her legs are tightening back up around him. “You can’t win every race no matter how good luck it looks on you.”
He flushes at her words.
“I know you are different from him. You have shown that already.” She struggles with the next words. “I just don’t think I can handle being called a lucky charm yet.”
“Then I won’t.” He tells her.
She blinks at him, at how easy he said, at simple he’s making it. “But you said.”
“Yes.” He shrugs, shifting his weight and they both hiss at how his body moves from it, both having forgotten that he was still inside her. But he pushes his building arousal away. “But I won’t say it any more. Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”
She stares at him for a few seconds before smiling. “Ik houd van je, Max.”
He smiles back at her, kissing her. “Ik houd van je, schat.”
He goes to pull out, unable to ignore the arousal building in him anymore, but not wanting her to feel like they need to have sex, but her heels are pressing into him, thighs tightening around him.
“Fuck me, Max.”
He says her name, quiet and with wide eyes.
She moves her hips and he follows them with a snap of his own. “You won two races.” She murmurs, breathing tickling his lips before she’s placing her lips on his jaw, moving them down to his neck. “Fuck me, Max. I want you to. Want to celebrate with you like this.”
She’s sucking a mark into his skin and he’s choking down a groan. “Just us two, our own quick celebration before you have to go with your team. Before I’m left all alone in our hotel room.”
He starts to thrust again, pressing his lips against hers before she can say anything else, before he really leaves any earlier than he was already planning to at the dinner celebration the team was holding.
As he continues to thrust into her, his lips stay against hers, muffling both of their sounds, but as he feels his balls tightening, he breaks them apart, pressing her face into his neck, encouraging her to bite at him as his other hand goes between their bodies, to her clit.
The bite of hers against his collarbone when she clenches around him, cumming, has him hissing. He stills his hips as she comes down from her orgasm, still rubbing at her clit, but more gently.
“Where do you want it?” He asks, when she bats his hand away from her and presses for him to continue to rock into her body. His orgasm is quickly approaching and really he should be pulling out, just finish in his own hand in case he finishes inside her before she says it’s okay. But she’s tight and warm and feels too good. “Do you want it in your mouth? Want me to pull out? Finish in my hand, feed it to you?”
She moans at his words, at the thing they’ve done once before.
“Or do you want me to leave you something? Cum inside you and have you feel it drip out, go back to the hotel with just your underwear stopping it from dripping down your leg and ruining your tights.”
“Inside Max. Please, inside me.”
He groans at her words, hips speeding up. He only manages a few solid thrusts before he’s shuddering, pressing as close as he can as cums inside her, muffling a moan against her shoulder.
His hips twitch a little in the aftershocks of his orgasm as he pants against her shoulder.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“With what?” She laughs. “Orgasms?”
“With your dirty little mind.” He tells her, slowly pulling out, rubbing at her thighs as he does.
She laughs again and he smiles at how her whole face lights up.
Miami 2023
It’s Miami. It’s extravagant. It’s the first race at the new circuit. It’s her.
She’s dressed in a soft color, bringing out her eyes. She’s wearing the bracelet he gave her when she turned fourteen, the ring her father gave her that once belonged to her grandmother. She’s not wearing the necklace he gave her when she turned eighteen. It’s back in Monaco, still sitting on the nightstand of what’s still her side of the bed.
She has new bracelets, rings, and a new necklace. The necklace makes his jaw clench, fists tighten. He had never thought to consider that maybe she’d be with someone else after all these years. He hadn’t, not for anything more than one night.
Lewis stares at the clasp of her necklace. Wonders if it’s worth anywhere near what he gave her. Wonders who gave it to her. Some boy with a trust fund? Some guy that managed to make it to the top not because of hard work but because of connections?
He doesn’t know and it burns alongside the anger. He used to know nearly everything about her and he still knows her, he just doesn’t know the new things and that hurts worse than not knowing her at all anymore.
He watches as Geri fixes the necklace for her and wonders when exactly she got so close to Horner’s wife. “Where exactly did you get this darling?”
She glows at the name, “From a jeweler that Nico loves. I can never remember the name.”
The burning inside him vanishes at his name. Something had changed, he knew something new about her. Necklaces were no longer just things she wore from significant others.
Spain 2022
He cocks an eyebrow as George comes up to him nervously, messing with his hands. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I just heard a weird rumor.” His eyes dart away and George hates that Toto is making him do this but doesn’t want to think about why, can feel the headache from just imagining thinking about the why.
“What did you hear?”
“Apparently, Y/N Rosberg,” Lewis stills at her name and curiosity clutches at George before he pushes down and away. “got snuck into the Red Bull garage.”
The older man immediately scoffs. “Yeah, right. She likes arriving at the races.”
He raises his hands, “that’s just what I heard.”
“Well, it’s wrong. A shit rumor. Anyone who knows Mouse,” the nickname leaves his mouth before he can think, can stop it, “knows that she loves arriving on a race weekend, all the cameras, getting to show off whatever outfit she put together.”
“Just what I heard, mate.” George repeats, before quickly retreating, cursing Toto out underneath his breath as soon as he rounds the corner and is far away from Lewis.
Monaco 2022
She’s not at Monaco. She’s not at Monaco.
The words are on repeat in his head. He doesn’t understand it. She lived here or maybe had lived here. Monaco was small, it was hard to imagine that he had never run into her since the end of 2016 but then again he managed to dodge him. So it was possible.
He just didn’t like the idea of it. That if she still lived here that she had made sure to dodge him, to make sure they never ran into each other.
Austria 2022
She doesn’t show up at Baku, her favorite circuit, Montreal, or Silverstone, but she’s here at Austria. He can’t make sense of why she’s showing up at the races she is. Can’t make sense of why it’s only Red Bull’s garage that she visits.
It’s driving him insane trying to make sense of it. Just like he can’t make sense of another rumor that she sneaked into watch the race in Baku. This one hadn’t been quiet though from George. It had made its run on twitter and instagram, though most fans of hers just like him, knew that they were false. Her blog was still full of talking about how much she loved showing up at race weekends, feeling the energy, interacting with fans, even if they were years old. It was telling that she never deleted them. And he knew that she’d never sneak into a race.
July 2015
“Lew?” Her voice is quiet, barely a whisper, as if she’s afraid he fell asleep.
He makes a humming noise, keeping his eyes closed but pressing his fingers a bit more into her back as they dance along her spine.
“When do you stop?”
He frowns at the vague question, eyes blinking open. “Stop what?”
“When did you stop seeing me as Nico’s sister? As a kid?”
His fingers pause as he thinks about her questions, wonders if he really wants to tell her, really wants her to know. He takes a deep breath, in and out of the nose before letting his fingers continue to dance. “As Nico’s sister? Probably around 2011 and Nico wasn’t hiding you away from everyone as much. I still see you a bit as his sister, don’t know if that will ever change.”
She nods, “and as a kid?”
“December 2013.” He’s just happy that he doesn’t remember the day. “Nicole and I joined Nico, Viv and you on that yacht.”
She makes a humming noise, curling closer to him.
“Nicole noticed actually.” And he has to chuckle remembering his then girlfriend’s reaction. “She hadn’t seen you for a few months and had never seen you like that. Told me that I’d have to help Nico out with keeping guys like us away from you.”
She huffs out a laugh, but doesn’t say anything, sensing that he’s not done.
“She said that and I looked and suddenly you weren’t five years old content only in Nico’s arms, or ten crying because Keke and Nico were leaving without you again. You had grown and you were fucking gorgeous.”
She stares at him, unsure of what to make of what he just told her. Not sure how she felt that it was Nicole that had made him realize that she wasn’t a little girl anymore. “You know,” she starts. “I had boobs way before I was seventeen.”
Lewis sputters out a laugh and she laughs as well. “Well, I wasn’t looking.”
She shakes her head, before tucking it into the crook of his neck. “No, just waited until I was a month away from being legal.”
“Yeah and I waited longer to do anything about it.”
“Not that much longer.” She mumbles, grinning against his skin when he pinches at her.
Spa 2022
They’re making a statement, not one that says much, her prior years coming to so many races and being friendly with drivers preventing that, but it’s still a statement.
It’s the second race since she’s returned instead of arriving before all the drivers or after when making an appearance in front of the cameras that she arrives when they are. More importantly she’s arrived with Max. She’s not on his arm or holding his hand, there’s a well kept distance between them. One that reads friendly, close, but not intimate. She wasn’t quite ready to go public with him, but she was willing to make it known that she and Max were friendly with each other.
“It’s nice having you here.”
She smiles at Sophie, taking her eyes briefly off the little boy in her arms. “It’s nice being here.”
The couch sinks next to her and she leans into Max as he wraps an arm around her shoulder, dropping a kiss to her temple. “Looks good on you.” He murmurs, smiling at his nephew in her arms.
“A baby? Or a baby that looks identical to you?”
“Well I’d much prefer one that looks like both of us.”
She sends him a look, but can’t not smile at his words. “Sap.”
“Just for you.”
Two days later she sits in a garage for the first time in years during a race and she remembers how much she loves it. There was nothing better than watching a race from the garage.
She watches as Max manages to recover from his grid penalty, making his way through the field and winning the race and she cheers with the rest of the garage, hugs everyone she can reach. As everyone runs out to greet Max, to watch as he celebrates his win, she stays.
Max didn’t have any impulse control when high on adrenaline, she knew exactly what would happen if she went out there with him, so she went back to his driver’s room and waits for him.
Dutch 2023
“Mouse!” Lewis calls and he watches as she stills while Horner stiffens at the name. It makes him itch. Horner and the rest of Red Bull had always been the odd ones out, never calling her Mouse, but rather her name or girly, the last she took a shining to.
He could still remember the first time they had heard Horner call her that. He had been ready to punch him, but she had beamed at the team principal, jumping up to give him a hug and asking him about his wife.
“Lewis.” Her voice is cool and he nearly flinches at her calling him Lewis. He had never been Lewis to her, always Lew.
“How have you been? It’s been awhile.” Nearly six years, he thinks but doesn’t say.
“Good. So has Nico.”
He flinches at his name. “Good.” His voice is quiet. “That’s good.”
Horner wraps an arm around her shoulders, “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”
She nods and doesn’t even glance at him as she and Horner walk away, leaving him looking after her with despair and grief threatening to swallow him whole.
Japan 2022
He watches as she looks at Max with tears in her eyes as the Red Bull crew cheer as Max gives his post race interview, smiling as he thanks the fans, smiling because he won his second championship.
As soon as the interview is done, he’s launching himself back into the arms of the Red Bull crew, they all easily take his weight, patting him on the back, cheering for him. And then he watches when as soon as they release him, Max sees her. His eyes going wide with surprise at seeing her.
Lewis watches as she leans as far over the barrier as she can, wrapping her arms around his neck as his go around her waist to hold her. He watches but nothing prepares him for what happens next, the pain that strikes his heart. Because suddenly she’s kissing him, tears running down her face and Max is kissing her back like he’s done it a hundred times.
He doesn’t hear it or see it, but one of Red Bull’s cameras does and it makes it into their video to celebrate Max winning his second championship. Her saying that she’s so proud of him, never been prouder, and that she loves him and the easy way Max says it back, no hesitation.
It’s that, not her kissing Max in front of seemingly the whole world, that makes him realize that the future he had imagined, the image of her that was still the nineteen year old girl he fell in love with, is gone and has been since the night that Nico won his championship and when she came to comfort him, he only had harsh and degrading words for her.
They never could have been together again after his accusations of her feeding Nico information, blaming her for his lack of winning because she wasn’t supportive enough, his accusation of the lucky charm she was supposed to be was nothing but bad luck just like she was and always had been.
He had deluded himself into thinking that they still would end up together, that her being the love of his life, meant that he was also hers. He’s deluded himself for almost six years and now it’s not just heartbreak that fills him but shame and guilt. Because how could he have ever thought she’d want to be with him again when he never even tried to offer her an apology or to tell anyone about her.
White Horse - Chapter 4: June 2023
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)
Summary:
Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.
She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.
But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.
Warnings and Notes:
we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
The kitchen was a mess—takeout boxes stacked on the counter, two wine glasses half full, and Max barefoot, leaning against the fridge like he didn’t want the night to end.
Isabelle stood a few steps away, curled into the oversized sweater he’d lent her after she complained she was cold, even though they both knew it was just an excuse to steal something that smelled like him.
They’d eaten on the floor. Talked for hours. Laughed until she’d nearly dropped her chopsticks on Sassy, who had decided that Isabelle was her favourite human. It was one of those nights—unguarded and easy, where everything just fit.
Isabelle didn’t know what she’d said to make him go quiet—some small, unremarkable comment about how being with him made her feel like she could finally take a breath—but when she glanced up, Max was looking at her like she’d cracked open the sky.
“What?” she asked, smiling, suddenly self-conscious under his stare.
He shook his head slightly, still watching her.
And then he said it.
Quiet. Unflinching. Certain.
“I love you.”
Isabelle blinked.
The words landed so gently they didn’t make a sound—just settled between them, warm and heavy and real.
She hadn’t been expecting it. Not now, not tonight, not when she had rice stuck to her sweater.
But Max—Max looked like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting to say it. Like it had been there all along.
Her heart stuttered.
“You…” she started, then stopped.
Max didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence. Just let her have it.
“I didn’t think—” she tried again. “I didn’t think you’d be the first to say it.”
He smiled softly. “Didn’t plan to. Just felt it.”
And that broke something open in her chest.
Because it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t grand or dramatic or wrapped in perfect timing.
It was just him. And her. And the quiet truth sitting between them.
She took a breath. “Say it again?”
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you.”
And this time, she didn’t hesitate.
“I love you too.”
The smile that spread across Max’s face made her dizzy.
Then his arms were around her, lifting her off the ground just enough to make her squeal and laugh and cling to him tighter.
She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then finally his mouth.
“I love you,” she whispered again, just to see the way he looked at her when she said it.
And it was everything.
***
Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: Max said “I love you” tonight
Emilie: WAIT
Emilie: WHAT
Emilie: WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAX SAID “I LOVE YOU”
Emilie: LIKE CASUALLY???
Emilie: OR DRAMATICALLY???
Isabelle: casually
Isabelle: quietly
Isabelle: Like it was the most obvious thing in the world
Isabelle: I think I forgot how to speak for a full five seconds
Emilie: ISABELLE
Emilie: Did you say it back???????
Isabelle: yes
Isabelle: After I made him say it again because I needed to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating
Isabelle: And then I said it
Isabelle: And then he looked at me like I hung the stars
Isabelle: And now I’m sitting in his hoodie trying not to lose my mind
Emilie: OH MY GOD
Emilie: YOU’RE IN LOVE
Emilie: HE’S IN LOVE
Emilie: YOU’RE BOTH IN LOVE
Emilie: I’M GOING TO THROW FLOWERS AT YOU NEXT TIME I SEE YOU
Isabelle: Please don’t.
Isabelle: You’ll wrinkle my outfit
Emilie: I love you
Emilie: I’m crying
Emilie: Also you saying “I love you” for the first time and then texting ME immediately after is everything
Isabelle: Of course I did
Isabelle: You are my emergency emotional processing hotline
Emilie: I’m framing this whole conversation
Emilie: I hope Max knows he’s never allowed to break your heart because if he does, I will learn how to operate a pit stop jack and throw it at him.
***
Isabelle sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her thighs, her phone propped up beside her with a pronunciation guide open. She had told herself for weeks that she was going to do this. If Max was learning French for her, then she could at least try to learn some Dutch for him.
The problem was… Dutch was hard.
“De kat… zit op de stoel,” she murmured, trying to match the robotic voice coming from her phone.
Her brow furrowed. Did she sound anything like that? She hit the playback button again and repeated it, slower this time.
“De kat zit op de stoel.”
The voice app chirped happily, but she was fairly certain it was lying to her. She scribbled down the phrase in her notebook, along with the ten others she had attempted today. A lot of them had been completely useless sentences. Something about elephants drinking water. Another about red dresses.
And yet, she was determined.
She flipped to another tab, a list of common Dutch phrases. Her eyes scanned down to one she recognized immediately.
“Ik hou van jou.”
Her stomach flipped just reading it.
She already knew those words. Max had said them to her before—quietly, softly, in the safety of their world away from everyone else. She had understood them then, even without knowing the direct translation.
Still, she traced the words in her notebook, mouthing them to herself.
“Ik hou van jou.”
She barely noticed the front door opening until she heard Max’s voice calling her name. She scrambled to close the tabs, slamming her notebook shut just as he walked into the living room.
“Hey,” he said, his voice warm. He glanced at her suspiciously. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
His brows lifted. “That was very fast.”
She kept her face neutral. “Just… reading.”
Max clearly didn’t believe her, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and murmured, “Ik hou van jou.”
And even though she wasn’t ready to say it back in Dutch just yet, she smiled.
“I love you too.”
***
Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen
Max: Hey, can I ask you something?
Sophie: Of course, sweetheart. What is it?
Max: It’s about Isabelle.
Sophie: Oh?
Max: Her family. The way they treat her.
Sophie: What do you mean?
Max: They don’t listen to her. They don’t take her seriously. She plans things for them, does so much, and they just… don’t acknowledge it. Like it’s expected.
Sophie: That must hurt her.
Max: It does. But she never complains. Just brushes it off like it doesn’t matter.
Sophie: Because she’s used to it.
Max: Yeah. And that’s what makes me so angry. She deserves better.
Sophie: She does.
Max: I just don’t know how to help.
Sophie: You already are.
Max: How?
Sophie: By noticing. By making sure she knows she’s valued. That’s more than they’ve ever done.
Max: But it doesn’t change them.
Sophie: No. But it changes her world. And that’s what matters.
Max: I just want her to feel like someone actually sees her.
Sophie: And she does. Because of you.
Max: I hope so.
Sophie: I know so.
Sophie: You love her, don’t you?
Max: Yeah. I really do.
Sophie: Then keep loving her the way she deserves. That’s all she needs.
Max: I will. But it still frustrates me.
Sophie: Of course it does. You care about her.
Max: Yeah, and I don’t understand how they don’t.
Sophie: I think they do, in their own way. But they’ve taken her for granted for so long that they don’t even realize it.
Max: That’s not an excuse.
Sophie: No, it’s not. But it helps you understand why she doesn’t expect anything different.
Max: I want her to expect more.
Sophie: And she will. Because you’re showing her what it’s like to be loved properly.
Max: I don’t know if it’s enough.
Sophie: It is. Trust me.
Max: I just want to protect her from all of it.
Sophie: I know, Maxie. But you can’t change them. You can only make sure she always has a place where she feels safe and valued.
Max: She does. With me.
Sophie: Then that’s all that matters.
Max: I hate seeing her hurt.
Sophie: And that’s why she’s with the right person. Because you see her.
Max: Always.
Sophie: Good. Then just keep doing what you’re doing. She deserves someone who fights for her, even if it’s just in the quiet moments.
Max: I will.
***
Max hadn’t really thought about saying it out loud until the words were already out of his mouth.
“I think I want to learn how to ride.”
Isabelle, who had been adjusting the saddle on the horse, froze. Then, very slowly, she turned to look at him like he had just announced he was retiring from racing to become a ballet dancer.
“You what?”
Max shrugged, trying to look casual. “I want to learn how to ride.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious. “Since when?”
He hesitated. Since the first time he watched her ride, probably. Since he realized how her entire posture relaxed when she was around the horses, how she spoke to them with quiet affection, how they seemed to understand her without needing words.
Instead, he just said, “A while.”
Isabelle crossed her arms, still watching him like he might be joking. “Max, you don’t have to do this just because of me.”
“I know that,” he said simply. “But I want to.”
She was still studying him, like she was trying to make sense of it. Then, after a long pause, she let out a quiet breath. “Horses used to be the most important thing in my life,” she admitted, almost absently. “Until one day, they weren’t anymore.”
Max leaned against the stable door, waiting. Letting her take her time.
“I had a horse,” Isabelle continued, voice soft. “Blanche. I loved her more than anything.” She smiled faintly, but there was sadness beneath it. “She was stubborn but kind. She was mine.”
“She was a dapple grey,” Isabelle continued. “Not pure white, but close. Tall, strong, stubborn. The first horse I ever loved.”
Max didn’t say anything, just nodded, encouraging her to go on.
“She was mine for 6 years,” Isabelle continued, her voice steady, almost detached. “We grew up together. She was there for every fall, every scraped knee, every bad day. I thought we’d be together forever.”
Max shifted beside her. “What happened?”
“My parents sold her.”
Max stiffened. “What?”
What the absolute fuck was he listening to right now?!
“To pay for Charles’ karting,” she said plainly. “One day she was there, and the next she was gone.”
He could just stare at her.
He knew that Isabelle loved horses. She had mentioned that during their very first date. He had known that she still went to that stable outside Monaco at least 2 or 3 times a week for riding lessons.
But he hadn’t known…he hadn’t known that.
“They didn’t even tell you?” Max asked, fury burning deep in his gut.
They had taken away something that… something precious from her?!?
“Not until it was done.” Isabelle let out a short, humorless laugh. “They told me it was for the best. That Charles had a future in racing, and I could always ride again someday.”
Max swore under his breath. “That’s—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not okay.”
“It was practical.”
“I don’t care if it was practical,” Max shot back. “They took something that mattered to you and acted like it didn’t.”
She swallowed. “It wasn’t just that they sold her. It was that they didn’t think I’d care enough for it to matter.”
Max’s hand curled into a fist, his knuckles white. “Did you ever find out where she went?”
“No.” Isabelle shook her head. “I tried asking, but they didn’t have answers. Or maybe they just didn’t want to tell me.”
Max was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer, “Did you stop riding?”
She hesitated. “At least, for a while. We didn’t have the money,” she said simply. “And later… I thought—what was the point, if it could all just be taken away?” She swallowed. “But when I went to university, I found a stable near campus. I worked there, just to be around the horses again.”
“You never told anyone?” Max asked.
She shrugged. “Emilie knows. You know,” she said simply. “I never told my family. It wasn’t…It was mine. For once, it wasn’t about Charles or Arthur or what my family needed. It’s just… mine.”
Max reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. She let him. “You should have never had to give that up.”
Isabelle just reached out for her lesson horse, a dark brown gelding that obviously adored her. “It was just how things were,” she said simply.
No anger. Not really. Just simple acceptance in her words.
Max didn’t think that he would ever have gotten to that point if the same thing had happened to him. If he had needed to give up racing for an older brother and didn’t get to go back for it for years.
He would still be utterly furious.
“That doesn’t mean it was right,” Max said sharply.
She just shrugged, going back to closing the girth on the horse.
He swallowed.
“I know I can’t change the past,” he said quietly. “But if this is something you love, I want to understand it.”
Isabelle’s expression softened. “Okay.”
Max smiled. “Okay.”
She smirked slightly. “Just don’t expect to be good at it.”
Max huffed a laugh. “I drive a car for a living. How hard can a horse be?”
Her laughter was warm, and it lingered even as she shook her head. “Oh, you are going to regret saying that.”
***
Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: …Max told me he wants to learn how to ride.
Emilie: LIKE A HORSE???
Isabelle: Yes, Emilie. Like a horse.
Emilie: OH MY GOD.
Emilie: wait.
Emilie: wait wait wait.
Emilie: He’s going to take LESSONS??? voluntarily??
Isabelle: He literally said, “If it’s important to you, I want to understand it.”
Emilie: Girl. GIIIIIRL. Do you understand what you have here?
Emilie: Men don’t do this. Men don’t do activities that don’t revolve around them unless they are deeply, hopelessly in love.
Isabelle: I mean… I thought it was sweet.
Emilie: Sweet? SWEET?
Emilie: This man is a two-time world champion and he is willingly signing up to be humbled by a horse just because you like them. Max Verstappen, the control freak, is about to have his entire ego destroyed by a pony.
Isabelle: I did warn him that it’s not easy.
Emilie: please tell me you’re taking him to the stable soon. I need this. The world needs this.
Isabelle: He’s already asked when we can go.
Emilie: Max Verstappen riding a horse. Max Verstappen falling off a horse. Max Verstappen developing a rivalry with a horse.
Isabelle: You’re getting way too much joy out of this.
Emilie: I’M RIGHT AND YOU KNOW IT.
***
Max Verstappen had done a lot of things in his life that required balance, control, and sheer nerve.
Driving a Formula 1 car at over 300 km/h? No problem. Threading the needle between two cars on a soaking wet track? Easy. Taming a thousand-pound animal with a mind of its own?
Apparently, impossible.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shifting awkwardly in the saddle.
Isabelle, who was standing beside the horse and very obviously trying not to laugh, gave him an innocent look. “What’s ridiculous?”
Max shot her a glare. “This. Everything. All of it.”
Her lips twitched. “You’ve only been on for five minutes.”
“Feels like an hour,” he grumbled, adjusting his grip on the reins.
He had expected this to be easier. It was just riding a horse, right? He was an athlete, for god’s sake. His coordination was elite. His balance was second nature. How hard could it be?
Answer: very hard.
He had barely gotten onto the horse without embarrassing himself, and now that he was sitting in the saddle, he felt bizarrely out of control. The horse—an old, patient gelding Isabelle had assured him was "perfect for beginners"—shifted slightly, and Max tensed like it was about to take off at full gallop.
Isabelle sighed, reaching up to adjust his posture. “Relax. You’re sitting like you’re bracing for a crash.”
“I would rather be in a crash,” Max muttered.
Isabelle ignored him. “Loosen your grip on the reins. He’s not going to run away.”
Max loosened his grip. Immediately, the horse flicked an ear back and took a step forward. Max panicked.
“What is he doing?”
“Walking.” Isabelle’s voice was far too amused.
“Make him stop.”
“You make him stop,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Use your seat, not just the reins.”
Max had no idea what that meant. His instinct was to lean back and pull. The horse stopped, but not before giving an exaggerated huff, like it was exasperated with him.
Isabelle patted the horse’s neck. “Good boy. He’s trying his best, unlike someone.”
Max scowled at her. “I am trying.”
“Try harder.”
He glared but adjusted his posture again. Isabelle instructed him to nudge the horse forward, and when he hesitated, she rolled her eyes and demonstrated on the ground.
It took a few attempts, but eventually, Max managed to get the horse moving in a slow, steady walk.
“This is good,” Isabelle said encouragingly. “Now just—”
The horse sneezed. Loudly.
Max, unprepared for the movement, nearly lost his balance. “What the—”
Isabelle was laughing now, actually laughing. “He just sneezed, Max.”
“He tried to throw me off.”
“Right, of course.”
Max muttered something in Dutch that his mother would have washed his mouth out with soap for.
She walked alongside him, giving him small instructions, but every time the horse did something unexpected—took a deeper breath, flicked its ears, shifted its weight—Max tensed like it was about to bolt.
After what felt like a lifetime, Isabelle finally called an end to the lesson. When Max slid off the horse, his legs wobbled slightly. Isabelle definitely noticed.
She patted his arm, barely holding back a grin. “Not bad for your first time.”
Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance.”
He groaned. “Fine. When’s the next lesson?”
Isabelle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re actually going to keep going?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t like losing.”
She grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
***
Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1
Comments:
@/charles_leclerc: ????? @/landonorris: mate, blink twice if you need help @/gridgirlgossip: There is absolutely no way Max Verstappen woke up one day and said, “Yeah, I think I’ll ride a horse today.” @/danielricciardo: Is this a cry for help? Be honest. @/carlossainz55: This is the most unexpected thing I’ve ever seen. @/F1: Should we be concerned? @/redbullracing: Is this an challenge we weren’t aware of? @/monacopaddockqueen: Imagine driving at 300 km/h every weekend and then deciding… horse. @/hannahshelmetcam: Somewhere, a woman is responsible for this, and I respect her immensely. @/speedyspice33: He’s been spending time with a horse girl. I just know it. @/verstappenthirst: Can’t wait for Drive to Survive to ignore this completely. @/hornersburner: Red Bull gives you wings, but it also apparently gives you hooves now. @/landoandchaos: This is what happens when you let Max make his own life choices. Absolute madness. @/girlsonpolepod: Max Verstappen Horse Girl Era: a crossover episode we didn’t see coming. @/queenoftheredbullring: Bro saw a Ferrari and went, “Yeah but what if: REAL HORSE?” @/paddocktea4u: The real mystery is why he looks good doing it. @/theDR3effect: So uh… when’s the cowboy hat debut? @/sainzismo: I’m begging for a video. Just imagine the commentary. @/maxymaxmaxxed: If you told me this morning that Max Verstappen would post a horse-riding pic, I would have laughed in your face. @/paddockclown: I need Christian Horner to explain this in an interview immediately. @/hotgirlpitwall: MAX VERSTAPPEN. ON A HORSE. WHAT IS HAPPENING. @/chaoticenergy33: At least he didn’t caption it ‘Yeehaw’… small mercies.
***
Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner
Christian: Max.
Christian: Please, for the love of everything holy, do not fall off that horse and break any bones.
Max: …Good morning to you too, Christian.
Christian: You are a Formula 1 driver. You are worth millions in contracts and sponsorships.
Christian: And now you are willingly climbing onto a large, unpredictable animal that could throw you off and break something.
Christian: WHY are you on a horse?
Max: Because I wanted to learn.
Christian: You do not need additional risks in your life.
Max: I’m being careful.
Christian: That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you doing this?!
Max: You ride.
Christian: Yes, but I’ve been around horses for years. You, on the other hand, decided this completely out of nowhere.
Max: Not really.
Christian: Not really?
Christian: What am I missing here?
Max: …
Christian: Max.
Max: Hypothetically speaking, if you loved someone and they had a passion, wouldn’t it be nice to learn about it too?
Christian: I don’t need you breaking an arm trying to impress your girlfriend.
Max: I’m not trying to impress her. I just… wanted to learn.
Christian: Max.
Max: I already have good balance, fast reflexes, and control over my body. It’s just… a different skill set.
Christian: You drive for a living.
Max: And now I ride for fun.
Christian: …You really like this girl, don’t you?
Max: More than anything.
Christian: Fine. Just—helmet, body protector, don’t be an idiot.
Max: I already wear a helmet for a living.
Christian: Yes, and yet you still manage to make my blood pressure spike on a regular basis.
Max: My girlfriend says I’m improving.
Christian: You know what? Fine. Whatever.
Christian: But I swear, if you turn up to a race weekend with a limp and I have to explain to Helmut that you got bucked off a horse, I’m going to lose my mind.
Max: …So that means if I do fall, I just shouldn’t tell you?
Christian: MAX.
Christian: So, how long have you been seeing her?
Max: A while.
Christian: A WHILE?!
Christian: Max, you’ve had a girlfriend this whole time, and I’m only now finding out because of horses?
Max: You never asked.
Christian: That is not how this works.
Christian: But… you’re happy?
Max: Yeah.
Christian: And she’s good to you?
Max: Very.
Christian: …Okay. That’s all I need to know.
Max: Just like that?
Christian: Max, I’ve spent years watching you put everything into racing. You’ve never let yourself slow down. If you’ve finally found someone who makes you want to do that—even just a little—I’m happy for you.
***
Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc
Comments:
@/emilie_abadie: this is giving “peaceful main character energy” and I approve
@/paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???
@/victoriaverstappen: Can’t blame you. The light hits different there ❤️
@/sunsetseasondaily: Every time you post from Monaco I want to sell everything I own and move there immediately
***
Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen
Isabelle: Max.
Max: That’s my name.
Isabelle: Why did Victoria just follow me on Instagram???
Max: Oh. Yeah. I told her about us.
Isabelle: YOU WHAT???
Max: Relax. I told her a month ago.
Isabelle: AND YOU’RE JUST TELLING ME NOW???
Max: I didn’t think it was a big deal?
Isabelle: Max, your sister just randomly following me is a big deal!!
Max: She said she wanted to, but she didn’t want to freak you out. I guess she finally decided to do it.
Isabelle: …She didn’t want to freak me out?
Max: Yeah. She said you were always a little quiet at karting races, so she wasn’t sure if you’d be weird about it.
Isabelle: She remembers me?
Max: Of course she does. She likes you. Said you were nice.
Isabelle: …
Max: So are you going to follow her back, or should I tell her you’re ignoring her?
Isabelle: MAX.
Max: I’ll tell her you’re playing hard to get.
Isabelle: MAX EMILIAN.
Max: She’ll think it’s funny.
***
Instagram DM – @/isabelleleclerc → @/victoriaverstappen
Isabelle: Hi, uhh… this is Isabelle. Leclerc.
Isabelle: this might be the weirdest message I’ve ever sent someone, but I figured… if anyone would understand, it’s probably you.
Victoria: Hi!! I want to meet the girl who makes my brother this happy, but Max has been keeping you all to himself!
Isabelle: …He talks about me?
Victoria: Constantly. But in a Max way, so it’s more like, “She’s incredible, but she doesn’t believe it”.
Victoria: Oh, and my favorite: “I don’t know how I got this lucky.”
Isabelle: …He actually said that?
Victoria: He actually said that.
Victoria: What do you need? Blackmail material? I have plenty. I imagine that there is a good reason why you are sliding into my Instagram dms.
Isabelle: I need help with Dutch.
Isabelle: Max has been learning French. Like, properly. Quietly. Seriously. He pretends it’s casual but I’ve caught him watching French YouTube videos and writing down verb conjugations in Notes. And—well—I kind of want to return the gesture. So. Would you maybe be willing to help me with a little Dutch?
Victoria: Okay, first of all: this is absolutely NOT weird, it’s adorable.
Victoria: Second: I would love to help.
Victoria: Third: I’m going to send you a list. You’ll be fluent in romantic, slightly sassy Dutch in no time.
Victoria: And if you ever need help pronouncing anything, just send me a voice note. Sister-in-law privileges and all that.
Isabelle: You’re amazing. Thank you so much.
Isabelle: Also—I’ll absolutely take you up on the voice notes. But only if you promise not to laugh too much.
***
Pre-race press conference Transcript - Canadian Grand Prix 2023
[Scene: Pre-race press conference. Max Verstappen is seated alongside Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, and George Russell.]
Journalist: “Max, there have been some rumors that you’ve been spending time with some horses recently. Can you confirm or deny?”
Max: [Sighs, then nods] “Yeah. I tried horse riding recently”
*[Lando immediately chokes on his water. Charles and George exchange wide grins before the laughter starts.]
Lando: “Please tell me there are videos.”
Max: [Deadpan.] “Yes, I have been on a horse. And, in case you’re wondering, I have no talent whatsoever.”
Lando: [Wheezing.] “Oh my god. This is the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
Charles: “Wait, but like… how bad are we talking?”
Max: [Shrugs.] “It’s way harder than I thought. The balance, the movement, trying not to fall off… And trotting? It’s horrible.”
George: [Grinning.] “The bouncy part?”
Max: [Dead serious.] “The bouncy part.”
Lando: [Nearly in tears laughing.] “I need to see this. Max Verstappen getting humbled by a horse.”
Charles: [ thoughtful.] “So… are you done, or—?”
Max: [Clears his throat, avoiding eye contact.] “I… I am taking lessons.”
*[Immediate chaos. Lando actually slides out of his chair laughing. Charles stares in shock. George is shaking his head, grinning.]
Lando: “YOU’RE TAKING LESSONS?!”
Charles: “Oh, this is amazing.”
George: “I have never respected you more.”
Max: [Shrugging, trying to play it cool.] “Well, I sucked at first. But I figured I should at least try to be decent at it.”
George: [Teasing.] “And how’s that going for you?”
Max: [Sighs.] “I am still terrible.”
Charles: [Grinning.] “But you’re improving?”
Max: “...Not really.”
Lando: [Absolutely delighted.] “This is better than winning a race.”
***
The door clicked shut behind Max as he stepped into their apartment, exhaustion lining his features but the unmistakable glow of victory still in his eyes. Red Bull cap slightly askew, and his bag hung off his shoulder. He barely had time to drop it before—
“Welkom thuis, kampioen.”
Max freezed.
His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Isabelle, who stood a few feet away, hands nervously clasped in front of her. She looked stunning—she always did to him—but right now, all he could focus on was what she just said.
“Say that again,” he demanded, stepping closer.
Isabelle bit her lip, suddenly shy, but she straightened and repeated, “Welkom thuis, kampioen.”
Max blinked. His hands were still mid-motion, as if he'd forgotten what he was about to do. “You’re speaking Dutch.”
She shrugged, trying to play it off. “A little.”
Max just stared at her, stunned. His heart was racing—not from the adrenaline of winning, but from this. From her. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“You learned Dutch?” His voice was softer now, almost reverent.
“I slid into Victoria’s instagram dms,” Isabelle admitted sheepishly. “She’s been helping me.”
Max let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Of course she has.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” she continued, shifting nervously on her feet. “You’re always learning French for me, and I just thought… I should try, too.”
Max moved before she could say anything else, closing the space between them in an instant. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. His lips crashed against hers, not just in gratitude, but in pure, overwhelming love.
When he pulled back, his forehead rests against hers. He was smiling, wide and radiant. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Isabelle smiled back, breathless. “I think I have some idea.”
Max grins. “Say something else.”
She hesitated for half a second before murmuring, “Ik heb je gemist.”
That did something to him.
Max exhaled sharply, his grip on her tightening. His jaw clenched, like he’s trying to keep his emotions in check, but his voice betrayed him when he murmurs, “Isabelle.”
“What?” she asked, suddenly worried she said it wrong.“Do you like it?”
Max huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? I love it.”
“Good,” she said, growing bolder. “Because ik hou van je, Max.”
Max freezed for the second time that night. His breath caught, and for a moment, he just stared at her. Then, something shifted in his expression—something softer, deeper.
“Say it again.” His voice was quiet, almost pleading.
She smiled. “Ik hou van je.”
Max let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against hers.
And then he kissed her again—slowly this time, like he was savoring every moment, every syllable of her Dutch, every part of her. Because he didn’t need to say it out loud for her to know:
Ik hou van je, ook.
***
Red Bull Racing Video – "Max Verstappen Answers Fan Questions!"
The video opens with Max Verstappen sitting casually in a Red Bull Racing hoodie, arms crossed, a can of Red Bull next to him.
Interviewer: "Alright, Max, we’ve got fan questions for you. Ready?"
Max: grinning "Let’s go."
Interviewer: "First question—what’s something new you’ve tried recently?"
Max: shrugs "Horse riding."
Interviewer: laughs "Really?"
Max: smirking "Yeah. Turns out, it’s harder than it looks."
Interviewer: "And why exactly did you try horse riding?"
Max: casually "My girlfriend rides."
Interviewer: "Oh? That’s new information."
Max: grinning, taking a sip of his drink "Next question."
Interviewer: "What’s your go-to post-race meal?"
Max: "Pasta. Preferably good pasta."
Interviewer: "Define ‘good’?"
Max: mock serious "Not made by me."
Interviewer: "What’s something people would be surprised to learn about you?"
Max: thinking "I actually enjoy sim racing just as much as real racing."
Interviewer: *"I think everyone knows that, Max."
Max: laughs "Yeah, fair enough."
Interviewer: "What’s your favorite thing about Monaco?"
Max: "It’s home. It’s quiet when I need it to be."
Interviewer: "Last one—what’s the best advice you’ve ever received?"
Max: "Surround yourself with the right people and focus on what really matters."
Interviewer: "And you feel like you’ve done that?"
Max: grinning slightly "Yeah. I think so."
Comments:
@/F1Obsessed97: Max casually dropping ‘my girlfriend’ like we weren’t all going to freak out???
@RBRfan4life: HORSE RIDING. MAX VERSTAPPEN. I need a moment.
@/GridGossip: Did we all just collectively miss the fact that MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS A GIRLFRIEND?? AND SHE RIDES HORSES??
@/SimRacingKing: Max really went ‘surround yourself with the right people’ and immediately smiled. Sir, who is she??
@/F1MemeLord: Red Bull: ‘Max answers fan questions!’ Max: Gives us a relationship soft launch instead.
@/TifosiTears: I’m sorry but ‘next question’ after mentioning his girlfriend??? Sir, that is NOT how this works.
@/MaxSupermax33: Max went from never mentioning a girlfriend to learning horse riding for her. That’s commitment.
@F1TeaSpiller: ‘My girlfriend’???? EXCUSE ME, SIR???
@/RedBullRacingFanatic: Max casually mentioning he moved and has a girlfriend in the same video like that’s not the biggest news drop of the year.
@/OversteerKing33: He really thought he could sneak that in and we wouldn’t notice. WE NOTICE EVERYTHING, MAX.
@/SoftLaunchDetective: So… Max has a girlfriend. Max learned horse riding. HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?
@/Horner’sBurnerAccount: The way he just smiled and moved on after saying ‘my girlfriend’… I am unwell.
@/TifosiPainClub: The FIA needs to investigate how Max managed to keep a whole relationship secret.
@/HorseGirlMax: I am begging Red Bull to release footage of Max on a horse.
@/VerstappenFanatic: Max, blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a woman with an equestrian background.
@F1Gossip: MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS A GIRLFRIEND AND HE LEARNED HORSE RIDING FOR HER. DO NOT SPEAK TO ME.
***
The sun warmed the white stone path leading through the cemetery, birds chirping gently in the background as Isabelle made her way to the familiar headstone tucked beneath a slender tree.
Six years.
The ache hadn’t gone away—it had just changed. Softened. Settled. It lived with her now, quietly, like a shadow that didn’t ask for attention but never really left either.
She knelt in front of the headstone, brushing a bit of dust and pollen off the smooth stone. No frills, no flourishes.
“Bonjour, Papa,” she said quietly, placing the bouquet down. White roses, lavender, and the soft green of eucalyptus. The kind of flowers that looked like peace, not performance.
She sat cross-legged in the grass, like she always did, tugging at her dress to keep it from wrinkling and resting her elbows on her knees. The breeze pulled gently at the hem of her dress, tugging her hair loose from its clip. “Six years.”
She exhaled slowly. The ache wasn’t raw anymore—it was worn in, like a bruise she didn’t flinch from, but never quite forgot.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately,” she admitted. “And not just today.”
Her fingers picked absentmindedly at the grass beside her, pausing at a small patch of dandelions. “I used to come here and pretend I only had good memories. I think I did that to protect myself, and you. But I don’t think I have to do that anymore.”
“Maman’s… still Maman,” she began, her voice light, like she was easing herself into it. “She misses you more than she admits. Though she hides it behind self-help books and gift-wrapped life advice… She got me a pantsuit for my birthday, by the way. Black. Structured. She knows I don’t wear trousers unless I’m working out. I think she thinks if I dress like a different person, I’ll be one.”
A small pause. Then a sigh.
“She also gave me a book. How to Be More Assertive. You’d have laughed. Or said nothing and nodded. Which is worse, probably.”
She looked down for a moment, voice quieting.
“The boys are alright. Arthur got into Formula 2. He’s thrilled—he’s already planning how to outshine Charles. He won’t, but I like that he dreams like that. It reminds me of you, sometimes. And Charles…” she smiled, but it was tinged with something bittersweet, “he placed fourth in Canada. Said it like it was a tragedy. I think he forgets how much he’s already done.”
Her fingers stilled. “And Lorenzo is still Lorenzo. Always the calm one. The problem solver.”
The silence stretched, until it turned heavier.
“You probably already know, but... I never really forgave you for Blanche.”
Her voice didn’t shake, but it softened.
“I know it wasn’t easy. That money was tight. That you wanted Charles to have a chance. But Blanche was mine. You didn’t even ask. Just said she’d gone to a good home and expected me to smile about it.”
She swallowed.
“I was thirteen. And I didn’t have much that was mine. You took the one thing I loved and gave it up for someone else’s dream.”
A breeze moved past her, rustling the eucalyptus leaves.
“But I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she said after a while. “You were doing what you thought was right. You always put racing first. Always.”
She stared at the ground for a moment, lips pressed together.
“I used to think that made you a bad father. But now, I think it just made you… human. Flawed. Stubborn. Messy. You were trying to hold a family together by chasing a finish line.”
Her voice cracked just a little. “Sometimes I wish you'd seen me more clearly.”
And then—after a long pause, a small smile ghosted across her lips.
“I met someone.”
Her eyes stayed on the headstone, like she needed to say it just right.
“I haven’t told anyone yet. Not Maman. Not the boys. It’s still just ours right now.”
She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them.
“His name’s Max. Max Verstappen. I know you knew him—you used to talk about how talented he was in karting. You said he and Charles were ‘the kind of rivals who’d make each other legends.’ I remember. You always respected him.”
“He’s competitive, sure. But there’s kindness underneath it. Stillness. And when he looks at me, it feels like… like I’m not invisible.”
Her voice softened.
“He’s not like people think. He’s quiet. Kind. Steady in a way I didn’t know I needed. And he listens. Like—really listens. He even started learning French for me. Just… because.”
She smiled, quietly.
“I think you’d be surprised. Not just that it’s him. But that I’m happy. Really, truly happy. It doesn’t feel like I’m shrinking anymore just to keep other people comfortable.”
She stood slowly, brushing off her dress, gathering herself.
“I’m happy, Papa. I didn’t know I could be, not like this. I just wanted you to know. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
She bent to press her fingers lightly to the cool marble.
“I’ll come back next year,” she said. “Same day. Same flowers. Maybe a different story.”
***
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