God I Can’t Wait To See What Zak Does - Blog Posts
Radio Silence | Chapter Three
Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)
Series Masterlist
Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.
Then Lando Norris happens.
One moment. One line crossed. No going back.
Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pushy reporters, Carlos Sainz Sr is a little bit of a villain in this chapter (sry).
Notes — I feel like so much happens in this chapter and I love it. Also: tysm for 500 followers!!🧡
Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peacn x
2019
She hadn’t planned to cross through the garages; it just happened. Amelia was following a technician back from a briefing when she lost track of the conversation and the path, her thoughts spiralling through gearbox data and tyre deltas.
That’s when she heard it. Her name. Loud. Sharp.
“Miss Brown.”
She stopped. Pivoted.
Carlos Sainz Sr. stood a few feet away, hands behind his back.
He wasn’t smiling.
“You are the daughter of our team’s CEO, yes?” he asked.
Amelia nodded. “Yes.”
“You spend a lot of time in the garages,” he said. “Too much, I think.”
She frowned at him. “I— I help.” She told him.
“Right,” he said, and his face did a strange twist. “But with Carlos, my son, it is important he has focus. Space.”
She stared at him, unsure what he was trying to imply. “Carlos told me that I was allowed in his garage as often as I like.”
“He would,” Sainz Sr. said. “He is polite. A respectful boy. But it is not always good to blur lines between personal and professional.” He paused. “It could cause problems.”
Amelia stood perfectly still.
“I’m not causing problems,” she said, a bit too flatly.
Sainz Sr. regarded her a moment longer, then gave a short nod. “Good. I hope it remains that way. Distance, por favor.”
He turned and walked off, leaving her standing in the middle of the paddock walkway, her yellow water bottle pressed tightly to the base of her stomach.
She didn’t move for a long moment.
Her chest felt tight, but not like sadness; not exactly. It was the feeling of a… system error. A mismatch. She couldn’t understand what she’d possibly done wrong.
Carlos hadn’t seemed uncomfortable with her presence. He asked her thoughts on setup changes. Let her hover near the monitors during debriefs. He’d even nudged her elbow pre-quali and whispered, “Wish me luck.”
That didn’t feel like someone who did not want her around.
Swiftly, she made her way back to Lando’s garage. Slow and quiet, avoiding eye contact. Lando waved at her from where he was talking to Jon, but she didn’t wave back. Just sat down beside a stack of unused tyre blankets and stared at the concrete floor.
Her fingers fidgeted, tugged at her sleeves. She didn’t cry. She didn’t really feel anything, other than... a disorienting sense of being wrong.
She thought of the conversation on loop. Trying to decode it. Trying to figure out how she’d accidentally made an enemy out of Carlos Sainz Sr.
She couldn’t focus. Not on the setup sheets. Not on the chatter from the engineers. Not even on the low buzz of the paddock outside.
She started working hard to anchor herself to something familiar. The smell of tyre rubber. The click of Lando’s cooling fan. The buzz of telemetry feeds looping on a nearby monitor. Safe things.
“You hiding, or working?” came Will Joseph’s voice, low and even.
She glanced up. Lando’s race engineer stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand.
“Hiding,” she told him. That’s what it felt like she was doing, anyway.
Will nodded. Then he crouched down in front of her, elbows on his knees. “Wanna talk about it?”
Amelia tugged the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands. She hesitated. “I don’t think I did anything wrong. But… I think I have made somebody angry.”
His jaw jumped. “Yeah? Someone in the team?”
She gave a small nod.
Will glanced sideways. His voice stayed calm, but there was a weird tightness when he said, “If you want me to talk to them, I will.”
Amelia frowned. “It’s okay. I don’t want to… make it worse.”
“You sure?” He asked.
She looked away. “Yes.” She said, eventually.
He paused, then stood, still watching her. “Okay. But if you change your mind… you know where I am.”
She nodded. Will turned as if to go, but then glanced back at her again.
“You want to look over brake traces with me?” he asked.
She stood slowly, gripping her yellow water bottle. “Yes.”
Will gave a small smile. “Knew you would.”
--
It was Sunday, and her garage smelled like grease and old metal and comfort.
Amelia was elbow-deep in the engine bay of her BMW, sleeves rolled up and a thin streak of oil smudged across her cheek. Jazz played softly from the old radio by the workbench, and a fan hummed lazily in the corner, stirring the warm spring air. She was in her zone — focused, grounded, calm.
She didn’t hear the car pull up. But she did hear the familiar sound of her father’s golf shoes on the concrete.
She turned just in time to see them step inside.
Her dad was in his usual race-less Sunday outfit, white sleeves shoved to the elbows, cap pushed back on his head. Beside him, Lando Norris stood in golf clothes; white polo, khaki trousers, hair a little messy. He looked slightly sunburned.
“Thought we’d swing by for dinner,” her dad told her, a big smile on his face. “We got finished up early today.”
Lando lifted a hand and waved at her. “Hey.”
Amelia stared at him. “You’re wearing real shoes,” she said.
Lando glanced down at his golf trainers. “Yeah. I know. Weird, right?”
Her dad ignored both of them, already wandering over to inspect the engine. “You’ve done the belts,” he noted.
“I did the belts yesterday,” Amelia told him, still staring at Lando.
Having him here felt… odd. This was her space, her house, her garage. The place where everything made sense, where she could retreat from the world and lose herself in the rhythm of machinery.
Then again, she considered, she was always in his garage. This was just the other way around, really.
Lando shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Your dad said dinner was happening. I didn’t really get a say.”
She shrugged. “You could’ve said no.”
“I could’ve,” Lando agreed. He was smiling at her. “But then I wouldn’t get free food. And apparently your mum’s making roast potatoes.”
“She puts garlic in them,” Amelia told him. She turned back to watch her dad, making sure he wasn’t touching anything. Or worse, moving anything.
“She sounds like a genius.” Lando said behind her.
Her dad pushed the hood higher, eyes inspecting the wiring, and let out a low hum of approval. “Right. Dinner in twenty,” he said, glancing at both of them, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice. “Lando, you coming inside?”
Lando wiped his hands on his trousers, then glanced back at Amelia, clearly unsure. “Might stay out here for a bit,” he said with a slight shrug.
He paused, eyes flicking between them. He seemed to weigh the situation for a second before speaking again, more slowly this time. “That okay with you, Amelia?”
She looked over at him. Shrugged. “Fine.”
Her dad nodded and gave them both one last look before walking out of the garage and toward the house. He started whistling somewhere along the way. Amelia grimaced, shoulders inching toward her ears.
There was a beat of silence. Amelia crouched beside the car, fingers working a stubborn bolt. Lando just hovered.
“This place is sick.” He said, eventually.
She looked at him and then around the absolute chaos that was her workspace. “It’s a mess,” she said.
“Yeah, but like… a cool mess. Suits you.” He shrugged.
She made a face, nose scrunching, eyebrows lowering. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”
“It’s a compliment.” He said. “Like… you fit in here.”
Oh. Well. That was nice of him to say. Fitting in wasn’t something she usual excelled at.
The bolt finally gave way with a soft click, and she exhaled, satisfied.
Lando took a step closer, leaning in to peek at the engine. “So what are you working on now?”
She handed him the bolt without thinking. He closed his fist around it. “Timing chain.”
“Oh. Sick.”
“You keep saying that word.” She told him.
“I’ve got a limited vocabulary,” he said with a half-smile, sliding the bolt into his pocket. She narrowed her eyes. “Mine now. Finders keepers.”
“I hate that saying.” She muttered, not asking for the bolt back. She didn’t need it. Maybe he did. “Do you like chicken?” she asked abruptly.
“Sure.” He nodded.
“Good.” She sighed. “It’s all my mom knows how to cook.”
“Mom,” he repeated, mimicking her accent.
She frowned. “You’re quite annoying.”
He grinned, the lines next to his eyes deepening. “I know. Want me to get you a drink or something?”
Her gaze flicked to her yellow water bottle, standing out like a warning sign against the cold steel of the garage. Then to him. Her mind caught on the image of him picking it up, his hand unscrewing the lid, closing it again. It wasn’t even anything weird. Just… she didn’t like it. Not today.
Her stomach did a small, unwelcome swoop.
“No,” she said, sharp. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he replied simply.
She squinted at him. This would be the perfect moment to bring up his social media. She had a whole list saved in her notes app; bullet points and everything. Of things he could post that would improve long-term brand perception, boost fan engagement, attract sponsor interest. She’d even colour-coded it.
But then he leaned a little closer to the engine bay, poked a stray wire with the back of his finger, and asked, “What does that do?”
And instead of launching into a Twitter audit, she blinked. Then sighed. Then said, “That’s not a wire. It’s the gas belt.”
He just looked at her. “That sounds made up.”
“It isn’t.” She crouched beside him and pointed. “It’s part of the pressure regulation loop. If it’s too tight, the fuel intake timing offsets and we lose energy recovery.”
“Oh,” he said, looking down at it. “I thought it was just a spare wire.”
“It’s never just a spare wire.”
She didn’t plan to spend an hour explaining the entire energy recovery system to a man who literally drove race cars for a living. But she did. And he listened. Asked questions. Didn’t pretend to know more than he did.
Dinner came and went. Her mom popped her head in, said she’d keep their plates warm. Amelia didn’t even realise how long they’d been in the garage until her dad came to check if they were still alive.
“What’ve you two been up to?” He asked.
And Lando, still squatting beside the car with grease on his knuckles, said, “She taught me how a gas belt works.”
Amelia felt her lips twist into a smile before she could stop it.
Her dad laughed, loud and full of something Amelia couldn’t place.
Lando’s cheeks went a bit pink.
—
By the time the Spanish Grand Prix rolled around, one thing had become evident.
The Renault engine was going to be a problem.
It wasn’t just an occasional glitch or a minor calibration error — it was systemic. Structural. A pattern beginning to take shape. Carlos had already been forced to retire from the first two races. Lando hadn’t made it past lap twenty in China. And now, in Spain, he was pulling into the garage mid-race with smoke curling out from the rear.
Amelia didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The telemetry screens told her more than enough — voltage spikes, temperature climbs, the dreaded red-highlighted warnings blinking across the console in angry bursts.
She watched from her usual spot, perched on the edge of the engineering desk with her notebook balanced on her knee. The frustration in the air was sticky.
This was becoming predictable. Usually, she would like that — this was not one of those times.
After the race, she found herself lingering in the quiet corner of the garage, sketching out hypothetical flow improvements in the margins of her notebook. She didn’t work on the engines — not directly, not yet. But she could see the shape of the problem, the flaw in the systems approach. She could feel it humming under her fingertips like a code waiting to be cracked.
Across the paddock, celebrations echoed from the teams that had made it to the finish. The podium champagne had already been popped. But in Lando’s garage, it felt like they were all waiting out a storm that they already knew was coming.
She pressed her pen to the page and underlined a note she’d written hours ago, before the race had even started.
"Energy efficiency doesn’t matter if the engine won’t survive the lap."
She sighed and capped her pen. In the background, someone was wheeling the scorched power unit away for inspection.
Maybe she should’ve warned them louder.
—
She found him in his driver’s room, slouched in a chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. His helmet was discarded on the floor, and he was still in his fireproof suit, half-zipped. Amelia hesitated outside the door for a second, wondering if she should just leave him alone. But Lando had left his water bottle in the garage, and Amelia wasn’t the best at letting things slide. She wasn’t sure why it felt important to bring it to him, but it did.
She knocked softly on the already-open door before walking in. Lando didn’t even look up. He was just staring at the wall.
“I brought your water,” Amelia told him.
He looked up at her then. “Thanks,” he muttered as he reached for the bottle, shoving the straw into his mouth and taking a long gulp. “Second DNF in five races,” he said, his voice rough. “Rookie season, and this is what I get.”
After a second of hesitation, Amelia sat on the beanbag chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She didn't say anything at first — just looked at him. She wasn’t sure how this worked, whether she needed to talk first or wait for him.
Eventually, Lando exhaled through his nose and kept going, his words starting to pick up speed. “I don’t even know what went wrong this time. One minute, I’m fighting for position, and then it just… dies. The engine. The whole thing. It’s like I’m cursed, or something.”
“Curses aren’t real,” Amelia said, frowning. “Drink more water. I think you might be dehydrated.”
He laughed, but it was short, and it didn’t feel genuine. “Yeah, well. Maybe I deserve to be dehydrated.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she sighed, reaching up to itch her neck. She was pretty sure that she’d started to develop a stress rash somewhere around the tenth lap.
“I know it doesn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. “I just… I keep replaying it. I did everything right. I kept the pace, I managed the tyres, I even—” He stopped himself, jaw tight. “I’m trying so hard. Every week. And it still ends the same way.”
Amelia tilted her head. “Trying hard doesn’t guarantee results. Statistically, a mechanical failure is not a reflection of your driving ability.”
“Yeah, but people don’t see it like that, do they? Sponsors don’t see it like that. Fans don’t see it like that. They see a DNF next to my name and think “Ah, that lad’s shit. Couldn’t even finish the race.”
“They’re wrong,” she said, voice steady. “You can’t control the engine.”
He looked at her, like he was searching for something on her face. “That’s not really comforting, you know.”
“I’m not trying to be comforting,” she shrugged. “I’m telling you the truth.”
A beat passed. Then he let out a breath and leaned his head back against the wall, his shoulders finally sagging a little. “Still… it sucks.”
She watched him for a moment, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I made a chart,” she told him. “About Renault’s historical DNF rates. You’re not even in the worst percentile.”
He blinked at her, and for the first time that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You made a chart?”
“I like charts,” she said. “They help me make sense of things. Maybe they’ll be able to help you too. I colour coded.”
Lando unfolded the paper and scanned it, a soft breath of laughter escaping him. “You’re actually unbelievable.”
Amelia blinked. “In what way?”
He didn’t answer that, just kept smiling at the paper like it had done something remarkable. Which it hadn’t. It was a simple data set, neatly formatted, with pink for DNF, green for points finishes, and orange for races affected by mechanical issues but still completed. She had used bold font for his name and added a tiny asterisk explaining why none of it was technically his fault.
“You should remember that every time your engine has survived, you have finished in the points,” she said, because facts were important when emotions got loud. “And the season’s not over yet.”
Lando looked up at her. “Thanks, Amelia.”
His voice was quiet, yes, but there was something else layered in the tone, something that made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn’t immediately categorise. She frowned, not at him, but at the sensation itself.
There were variables she didn’t have control over. Facial expressions. Tone. Context. She could usually work it out when someone was mad, or distracted, or lying. But fondness… that was harder. It was inconsistent. Often irrational. Frequently confusing.
She pointed at his water bottle because that was easy. “You should still drink the water.”
He smiled again, this time more to himself, and shook his head. Then he picked up the bottle and unscrewed the lid, just like she knew he would.
As he drank, Amelia watched him carefully. Maybe, she thought, tucking her hands back into her lap, she just needed to collect more data in order to be able to fully understand Lando Norris.
—
iMessage — 17:09pm
Max F. Sorry about the shit luck, mate. Engine again?
Lando Norris Yeah. Just shut off mid-corner. Didn’t even get a warning this time. Proper embarrassing.
Max F. Not your fault. That Renault engine’s a grenade with wires.
Lando Norris Yh that’s what Amelia said kinda She made a chart
Max F. A chart?
Lando Norris Yeah. With colours Fucking cute
Max F. Whipped.
Lando Norris
Yh
—
She liked the Mercedes hospitality unit. Neutrally designed, air-conditioned, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. She liked that a lot.
Amelia walked slowly, phone in hand.
There was no sign of Lewis or Roscoe when she stepped inside, just the low hum of quiet conversations and the click of cutlery. She turned left, toward the usual corner where Roscoe liked to sleep in the sunbeam from the long vertical window.
She didn’t make it that far.
“Amelia.”
She blinked. Then blinked again.
Toto Wolff stood halfway down the hallway. In a dark polo. Arms crossed. He was very tall.
“Hello,” she said. She meant to say it with some level of confidence, but it came out more like a question.
“I was hoping we might speak.” His tone was hard for her to read.
She tilted her head, a slight frown growing on her face. “I’m supposed to go and see Roscoe.”
“He will not mind waiting. I am told he is a very patient dog.” Toto said.
She wasn’t sure what to say to that — Roscoe was not, in any sense of the word, a patient dog. She also didn’t really want to argue with Toto Wolff.
So she just gave a small nod and followed him when he gestured to a nearby side room. It was empty. A single chair. A single table. It felt a bit like an interrogation room.
Toto sat. Amelia did not. She hovered just near the wall and folded her arms tight against her chest.
“I understand,” he began, “that you have declined my offer. The junior engineering placement.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
There was a pause. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “You did not think it was a good opportunity?”
“I thought it was an excellent opportunity,” she said honestly. “But I already have a place at McLaren. The team like having my input.”
“That they do,” he said. He didn’t sound offended. He sounded like he was calibrating. “And Lando?”
She blinked. “What about him?”
“He seems to like having you around especially. I have noticed that you spent your time primarily on his side of the garage.”
She wasn’t sure what that meant, so she didn’t respond. She could feel her fingers starting to curl in against her arms. She tightened her grip to stop it.
Toto exhaled through his nose. “I will not press. I simply wanted to say, the door is still open. Mercedes does not forget talent.”
“I know,” she said. “My dad doesn’t either.”
There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Possibly a smile. Possibly a tic.
“I see. Then I will stop trying to, how do you say in English… poach you.”
“That would be good,” she said. “My dad would get mad if he found out.”
Toto raised an eyebrow. “You did not tell him?”
She shook her head. “No. I need to go now. Lewis and Roscoe are waiting.”
“Of course,” Toto said, standing. He offered a handshake, which she pointedly ignored.
She left the room and continued on down the hallway until she found Roscoe, sprawled across the carpet like a throw rug.
She dropped to her knees and scratched behind his ears.
“Hello. I have missed you very much,” she whispered. Roscoe huffed, then rolled over.
Lewis rounded the corner a second later with two smoothies in hand. One was green, and the other was pink. She hoped that the pink one was for her. He glanced over her shoulder, where Toto was walking away, his phone pressed to his ear. “Oh dear. Did you get ambushed?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I escaped.”
—
Two races later, she found herself in Canada.
She was en route to the Red Bull motorhome — they always had the best coffee vendor, and no one ever seemed to mind when she slipped in — when someone stepped into her path.
“Miss Brown? Amelia?”
She blinked. The man was tall, holding a Viaplay mic, all teeth and polished camera charm.
“We’re doing some quick paddock interviews — would you mind answering a couple of questions?”
Amelia hesitated. She wasn’t in team kit. Just a plain black hoodie and her headphones around her neck, though the headphones did have the McLaren logo engraved onto them. She glanced over his shoulder. The cameraman was already adjusting focus.
“I’m not a driver,” she said, pushing the words out through a chest that suddenly felt tight.
He laughed, like she’d made a joke. “No, of course — we know. You’re Lando Norris’, uh, data engineer, right? And Zak Brown’s daughter?”
Her fingers tightened in her sleeves. “I’m only officially one of those things,” she replied. “I am not Lando’s data engineer.”
“Still. Very involved in McLaren. We’d love a few thoughts on the upcoming qualifying session. From your perspective.” He was still smiling.
Amelia’s teeth squeaked with the force that she was grinding them together. Her heart was ticking fast, too fast. She didn’t like being filmed. She didn’t like… whatever this was.
She especially didn’t like when people used polite voices to try and back her into a corner.
“I didn’t say I’d do the interview.” She said, eventually.
“Just one or two—”
“She said no.”
The voice came from behind her. Flat. No hesitation or inflect.
Amelia turned her head. Max Verstappen was standing next to her, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He wasn’t looking at her — his eyes were locked on the reporter.
“We’re just asking—”
“She doesn’t work for a team. She doesn’t have to answer your questions.”
“Ah, Max, come on, we’re live in—”
Max took one step forward. The cameraman slowly lowered the lens.
“I do not like to repeat myself.” He said. He didn’t sound angry, but there was nothing kind about the way he said it.
The reporter faltered. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back. “We’ll… catch someone else.” They disappeared down the paddock, the cameraman not even bothering to stop the recording properly.
Amelia stared at Max.
He didn’t look at her right away. Just let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “They should not be bothering you. That was very shit of them.”
“I’m not very interesting,” she told him, her voice barely a mutter as she tried to collect herself. “There’s no point putting me on TV.”
“You’re on TV more than you think,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “Especially when Lando’s around. People are very interested in you both.”
She frowned. “What?”
Max looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
It sounded like it might matter, but if he said that it didn’t, then she wasn’t going to bother asking more about it.
Instead, she tilted her head upward in his direction. He was much taller than he looked when he was in his car. “You’re Max Verstappen.”
He squinted a little under the sun. “Yeah. I am.”
“Why did you help me?” She asked.
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Because I don’t like people getting cornered. And Dutch media are, ah—assholes, sometimes.” Then, his mouth curved slightly, something close to teasing. “And because Lando would kill me if I let someone mess with you.”
She just stared at him.
Her stomach did something strange and fluttery that she didn’t like at all.
Max must’ve caught the look on her face because he looked away immediately, regret passing across his features like a cloud. “Anyway,” he added, tone turning brisk, “don’t let them bother you. You’re not public property.”
“I know that,” she said, a little too fast. “I just… forget sometimes. That I’m allowed to say no.”
He nodded once. “You are.”
Then he gave her a brief, crooked grin. “I’ll see you around, Amelia.”
And with that, he disappeared into the Red Bull motorhome, as though nothing unusual had happened at all.
Amelia stood there for a few seconds, her skin still prickling from the confrontation, her thoughts spinning in all directions. The iced coffee no longer felt essential. She turned sharply on her heel and made her way back toward McLaren.
The motorhome wasn’t quiet, or even particularly peaceful; but it was familiar.
It was safe.
—
Lando’s garage was louder than usual.
Or maybe Amelia just wasn’t settled yet; her ears hadn’t quite adjusted, and everything felt like it was pressing in from too many angles. The buzz of the generators, the thud of tyres being stacked, the distant screech of an engine on an out-lap. None of it was new, but it all felt sharper today. She tugged her sleeves over her wrists and walked the perimeter of the garage, not because she needed to check anything, but just because she needed to walk.
Lando was leaning over the front wing of his car, talking to his race engineer. His voice had the kind of ease that came only after a good FP3. He glanced up when she approached.
“You okay?” he asked, brow ticking up.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see it in the way he paused, fully paused, mid-sentence with Will, and turned his body slightly toward her.
“You sure?”
She considered lying. Or deflecting. She was usually very good at both.
Instead, she told him, “I ran into Max.”
Lando blinked. “Verstappen?”
“Yes.”
He looked vaguely alarmed. “Did he—? I mean, are you—what happened?”
Amelia folded her arms across her chest and looked past him, toward the pit lane. “Viaplay tried to interview me. I wasn’t wearing anything official. I said no, but they kept asking questions. Then Max showed up and made them leave.”
“Oh.” Lando’s face shifted, obvious concern first, then something much tighter. “That’s… are you okay?”
“Max said that Dutch media can sometimes be assholes,” she added matter-of-factly. “His words.”
“He’d know that better than any of us.” Lando said.
She looked at his hands, noticing that his veins were very blue. “He also said you would kill him if he let them mess with me.”
Lando coughed, and Will made a choked sound somewhere in the back of his throat.
“Did he?” Lando asked, ears already pink.
She nodded. “Yes.”
Will looked like he was trying not to laugh, which was odd, because she hadn’t heard anyone make a joke. Lando gave a little shrug. Will nudged him with an elbow, and Lando muttered, “Fuck off, mate,” under his breath.
She sighed, looking off toward the data screens. “I didn’t even get my iced coffee.” She mentioned.
Lando leaned a little closer to her. “You want one now? We can go get it together.”
She shook her head. “No. Just… I want to stay here. Until quali starts.”
His smile got softer. “Yeah. Okay. You can do that.”
So she stood there, adjacent to him, not speaking; just listening to the familiar rhythms of the garage. Tyres being moved. Headsets crackling. Mechanics calling out numbers and adjustments.
She watched Lando pick up his gloves and flex his fingers into them, testing the fit. Quiet. Focused.
And then she turned, and for a split second, panicked. Her water bottle had been moved. She looked around quickly, breath hitching.
But Lando cleared his throat and caught her attention. He walked over to the back of the garage and pulled it from underneath the counter. “Put it in the mini fridge,” he told her. “Didn’t want it getting warm.”
She took it from him, stared at it for a long time, and then smiled.
—
iMessage — 5:08pm
Mom Hello, darling! Just checking in. Hope everything went well today x
Amelia Hello, mom. I have a question. How do you know if you have a crush on somebody?
Mom I think this conversation would be much easier on FaceTime. Are you back at the hotel yet?
Amelia No. Lando asked me if I’d like to go get burgers after qualifying and I said yes. Dad was busy so I didn’t tell him. I texted him though.
Mom Is Lando driving you to get burgers?
Amelia Yes. He is a very safe driver in a normal car. He drives exactly at the speed limit. I was a bit worried that he would speed, but he doesn’t :)
Mom That’s very nice, honey x
—
iMessage — 5:12pm
Tracy Brown (Wife) Zak Brown. You have some explaining to do.
Zak Brown (Husband) What’s going on, honey?
Tracy Brown (Wife) You tell me! Your driver has taken our daughter out on a date and you’re none the wiser!
Zak Brown (Husband) What? Which driver?
Tracy Brown (Wife) He is driving her, Zak. To go and get burgers. She texted you.
Zak Brown (Husband) SHE TEXTED ME “ALL GOOD” I THOUGHT THAT MEANT SHE WAS SAFE IN HER HOTEL ROOM UNDER TEN BLANKETS WATCHING A BARBIE MOVIE
Tracy Brown (Wife) Nope. She’s in a car. With LANDO NORRIS. They’re going for a burger date.
Zak Brown (Husband) I’m calling his father. That little shit head.
Tracy Brown (Wife) Don’t be dramatic. They’re just getting food. I think she likes him. It’s cute.
Zak Brown (Husband) Cute? Are you serious? The media are going to be all over this.
Tracy Brown (Wife) Have you seriously not noticed? They’ve been the talk of the paddock for weeks! They’re attached at the hip. I don’t know how we missed this
Zak Brown (Husband) I think I’m having a heart attack And also a stroke.
—
Amelia had already deconstructed her burger; bun on one side, lettuce on the other, everything organised into neat piles. She wasn’t sure if that was weird or not, but Lando hadn’t commented, so she assumed it was fine.
She cleared her throat, tapping her straw against the side of her milkshake. “I’m sorry if I’m in your garage too much.”
Lando blinked at her mid-bite. “What?”
“I just… I know it might be annoying. I don’t want to get in the way. But since I’m not really allowed in Carlos’ anymore—”
“Wait. Hold on.” He put his burger down, brows pulling together. “What do you mean you’re not allowed in Carlos’ garage anymore?”
She picked up a fry, broke it in half, and frowned down at her tray. “Carlos’ dad told me, in China, that I wasn’t welcome in there. So I’ve just been staying in yours.”
There was a long pause. Then, “Fuck that.” Lando said. He was digging his phone out of his pocket.
Amelia blinked at him, taken aback. “What are you doing?”
“I’m texting Carlos.” He stared down at his phone, typing furiously. “That’s absolute bullshit. You’re not just allowed in my garage, Amelia, you’re wanted there. You practically run the place. I mean, I was wondering why you didn’t spend any time in Carlos’ anymore, and he’s been thinking this whole time that he did something wrong.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t run anything—”
“You do.” He cut her off, still a little frantic. She stared at him. He took a deep breath. “I’m serious, Amelia. Everyone listens to you. Even Will. Which is terrifying.”
She bit her lip, worrying as she glanced at his phone. “It’s okay, though. I like your garage better, anyway.”
Lando smiled at her. “Good. But still. He can’t just get away with that. Carlos appreciated your input — he told me so. And you belong wherever you want to be, yeah?”
Her face felt warm. She reached for another fry, more for something to do with her hands than out of hunger.
“Also,” he added, a little more casually than before — but she didn’t miss the way his jaw was set, or how his voice had tightened just slightly. “Next time someone tells you that you’re not welcome somewhere you want to be… just tell me, alright? I’ll handle it.”
She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Handle it how?”
“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing another fry. “However I have to.”
—
iMessage — 7:48pm
Lando Norris oye
Carlos Sainz qué pasa
Lando Norris did your dad seriously tell Amelia she wasn’t welcome in your garage?
Carlos Sainz ¿qué? when??
Lando Norris few races ago. bahrain she just told me she thinks you don’t want her around
Carlos Sainz no jodas I never said that I just thought she was busy I will talk to him.
Lando Norris she didn’t wanna say anything
Carlos Sainz
I am glad that she did.
tell her I never said that and that she is welcome any time
Lando Norris yh. already told her but yeah, sort your dad out mate
Carlos Sainz voy a hacerlo ahora mismo this is nonsense
Lando Norris cheers mate
Carlos Sainz de nada are you with her right now?
Lando Norris we’re just getting burgers no biggie
Carlos Sainz Liar.