Worth The Wait

worth the wait

pairing: lando norris x williams driver!reader

summary: winning the monaco grand prix brings to light some not so hidden feelings between yourself and a certain papaya wearing driver. (7.6k)

warnings: friends to lovers, mutual pining, use of Y/N, sexual insinuations but nothing graphic. the FW46 is not a tractor—also fictional. takes place in the 2024 season.

a/n: started writing this a little after monaco last year, didn't finish it until now 😭 my first major attempt at driver!reader, and also perhaps the longest one shot fic i've ever written?? i can't remember but i hope you all love her as much as i do <3 also sorry to charles for erasing his home win i still love you babe

“That’s P1, Y/N. Repeat, that is P1, congratulations.” 

You can barely hear your race engineer over the beating of your heart in your chest, the roar of blood in your ears as you make your way far past the checkered flag. Looking at your surroundings as you zoom by, you see people waving at you from all around you, people cheering at the top of their lungs, and you wave back. 

“Oh my god…” You say softly, just for yourself to hear. 

You’ve done it. 

You’ve won your first race, won Monaco, and you have no earthly idea how to react. It feels weird, like you know you’ve won but at the same time, it doesn’t feel quite real. 

Like you’re asleep and you’re about to wake up to find it’s all been just a dream. “Holy fucking shit.” 

“Y/N, do you copy? Radio check, please. Can you hear me?” 

Blinking a few times to ground yourself, you manage to hit the radio button on your wheel to respond to your team. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here, I’m—wow, that’s…thank you, everyone. Couldn’t have done any of this without you guys. I love you all, thank you for everything, really.” 

You can hear cheering on the other end of the channel, gleeful whoops and lots of clapping. They’re all absolutely wild with happiness, as you’re sure you should be too. 

You are happy. You’re so happy you can’t even feel anything except the familiar rumble of your trusty car. 

“Make your way to the grid. We’ll see you soon.” 

It begins to trickle in now, the realization that you’re now a Formula 1 winner, and here at Monaco, no less. 

You break into a face-splitting grin, letting a disbelieving laugh bubble from your mouth, which soon turns into a series of loud whoops you’re glad you’re the only one who can hear. 

It’s just you and your car out here right now, soaking it all in. 

The other two cars are already parked at their respective signs when you finally roll up to the grid after a celebratory cooldown lap, a Red Bull and a McLaren flanking your open spot on the left and right as they wait for you. Their drivers are standing by too, waving around at the fans. You spot Lando’s bright helmet immediately and Max a few feet away. 

You kill the engine as soon as you’re in place, shaky hands gripping the halo to pull yourself out of the cockpit. The roar of the cheering is loud even through your helmet, but the thump of your heart threatening to beat out of your chest seems more deafening. 

You aren’t entirely sure that your knees won’t give out when you step onto the hood. 

Nevertheless, you step out as confident as you can, punching both hands above your head in a sweeping motion, fist pumping the air once, twice, a third time. Each swing brings a louder cheer from the crowd, and you take it all in, clasping your hands as if to say thank you to anyone who’s watching—which is everyone. 

Everyone’s watching you as you take off your helmet and peel off your balaclava. Your fingers fumble with the cord of your earpieces, but you manage to wrench those off too, stuffing everything into the interior of your helmet clumsily. 

You hop down from your car, and immediately you’re swept off your feet. Lando crashes into you so hard you’re surprised he hasn’t knocked you both to the ground. He hugs you tight around the waist, swinging you around, and he’s laughing joyfully, that high pitched, squeaky laugh you’re only used to hearing when he’s extremely excited about something. 

If you hadn’t gotten P1, you would’ve thought he’d gotten it by the way he’s celebrating. 

“You did it!!!” He exclaims. “Oh my god, I knew you could do it!”

You’re both sticky with sweat and still breathing hard from those seventy odd laps, but his embrace feels welcoming. Familiar. It always has. You’ve known each other for a while now, having been rookies in the same season, and you’re close with him off the track too. 

Your helmet falls to the ground with a loud thud as you return Lando’s crushing hug. “Thank you,” You breathe, another disbelieving laugh spilling from you. “Holy fuck, it really happened!”

“You made it happen, Y/N. I’m proud of you. Seriously. You deserve this win and so many more,” He says sincerely. He sets you back down now, hands sliding from your shoulders down to your elbows, holding you almost tenderly. It’s a total opposite from the pure excitement he’d had mere seconds ago. 

Something in his eyes seems to deepen, though you can’t put your finger on exactly what. You can’t bring yourself to look away.

If you weren’t so attuned to Lando’s expressions by now, you wouldn’t have noticed the way his gaze flicked down to your lips for a split second. But you are, and you do notice. 

His lips part slightly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he visibly gulps. 

It feels like you’re the only two people in the world in this moment, not as who the public sees you both as, but as the versions of yourselves you really only get to be with each other. You’ve had the privilege of getting to know exactly who Lando Norris is, away from all the cameras and the media. 

Lando is kind and warm and genuine and would go to war for the people he cares about, but he’s still young. Despite having matured a lot in the past few years, he still hasn’t lost that boyishness he had about him when you first met him just before your rookie season together. He still has that spark that pulled you in from the beginning. 

A chant of your name begins to ripple through the grandstands, and just like that, the moment breaks. You remember that not only are you in front of thousands of people, but on the screens of millions more too. 

You inhale sharply and step away from him to pick up your things. He clears his throat, probably realizing the same thing you just did. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this position with Lando, and maybe it’s the adrenaline high, maybe it’s all the years of dancing around each other and your own feelings, but you can’t say for certain that you would’ve been able to hold yourself back if he’d looked at you that way any longer. Either way, you’re sure of one thing. 

In that moment, you wanted to kiss him. You wanted him to kiss you. 

He backs away before you have time to process any of the information firing its way through your brain, giving a little wave of his gloved hands as if to say ‘This is your moment. Take it in.’

Max is much more contained than Lando in his congratulations, giving you a nice pat on the back and firm handshake with a smile that feels genuine. You still can’t quite wrap your mind around the fact that you’d finished ahead of him for the first time. 

You make a run for your team just behind the barrier next, all but throwing yourself into them to celebrate not just your win, but theirs too. It truly takes a village, and you wouldn't have been able to do much of anything, let alone this, without yours. 

You want to stay with them for much longer than you’re allowed to, but you’re redirected by a few of the track marshals far too soon. 

The walk down the outside of the track is mostly a blur. Fernando clasps a hand over the back of your neck, telling you how proud he is of you and your hard work. His pride reminds you so much of your own father you can only squeeze his arm in a silent thanks. 

Charles and Carlos sandwich you into a congratulations group hug of Ferrari red, Lewis ruffles your hair like an older brother would. Daniel squishes you in such a tight hug that the breath gets squeezed out of your chest. 

You’re vaguely aware of various other people coming to congratulate you, clapping you on the back, jostling you excitedly. Reporters, photographers, track marshals all clamoring for your attention, shaking your hand, cameras hovering in your face. All while you're trying to wave to the fans and listen to the multitude of things being told to you by so many people. 

It’s overwhelming, but in the best possible way. 

Next is Alex, who wraps you up in a hug with such a fierceness that rivals Lando’s when you get to where he is, a beacon of familiarity for you. When people say Formula One teammates can never truly be friends, they’ve never seen you and Alex before. There’s some competition there, obviously, but it’s a healthy kind. You push each other to be better. 

He keeps you company until you need to split off for the cooldown room. Even then, he promises to find you afterwards. 

It feels like everyone is beyond happy for you, and you revel in it. This is the first and last time you’ll ever get to experience that maiden win feeling. 

The air conditioning in the tiny room feels like heaven on your sweaty skin when you finally make it there, and even though there's a chair you know you should be sitting in, the ground looks much more enticing. 

Your sore limbs scream as you lower yourself down to the floor, but it feels nice and cold when you extend your legs out in front of you with a noise that somewhat resembles a strangled groan. 

Max takes a seat in his assigned chair with an amused shake of his head. You expect Lando to do the same, but he makes a beeline in your direction, throwing himself down next to you with a reaction not dissimilar to the one you’ve just had. It takes all you have in you not to smile like a fucking idiot when he holds his hand out for a high five. 

You’re still buzzing as you sip your water while watching a few moments from the race on the screen. One of the clips that rolls is you crossing the finish line, which makes a lump rise up in your throat. You’re able to hear some broadcast commentary as it plays, and it feels surreal.

“And she’s done it!!! Y/N L/N wins the Monaco Grand Prix! First P1 ever for the Williams driver, here at the historic circuit in Monte Carlo, and Williams’ first Monaco title since 2003! That’s gonna have to be a win for the books, I’d say,” He’s saying. He sounds ecstatic. 

You do your best to swallow the lump down, sniffling quietly a few times. 

What you’re not going to do is cry in front of these cameras. You refuse to give the people who ever doubted you any ounce of ammunition against you. 

Lando hastens a look over at you, spots the tiniest crinkle of your brow, and nudges your knee with his water bottle. When you meet his eyes, he mimes taking a deep breath, smiling reassuringly. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

You match the rise and fall of his chest, finding that it helps. He doesn’t even have to say a word. 

“Wow, that was turn 10, wasn’t it? Where you overtook me?” Max asks suddenly, looking over to you for an answer. Your gaze slips back to the screen, where you see your Williams sneaking around his Red Bull at the chicane right after the tunnel, then over to him for a sheepish nod. 

It’s not everyday you can say you’ve gotten past a three time World Champion. 

Max looks almost impressed. “That was a bold move, but I’ve got to hand it to you—it was a pretty solid overtake. In a tricky spot too. Nice one.” 

He’s always been nice to you on the track, and you’ve even spent some time together in the offseason, but any ounce of praise from the Max Verstappen still feels like it’s coming from a legend. Even if you’ve witnessed that legend absolutely smash it at drunk karaoke at Charles’ Christmas party a few years ago. 

Your time in the cooldown room also seems far too short, and before you know it, the podium awaits. 

You manage a peek outside whilst the announcer is welcoming Max to the podium, and you’re absolutely floored. The crowd is a sea of different colors, all different teams gathered to witness your very first time on the top step of the podium. You spot yours front and center chatting excitedly amongst themselves, eagerly awaiting your arrival. 

“Feels different, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re about to climb to that winning step,” Lando asks, pulling his P2 hat down over his damp curls. 

He’s right. You’ve been on the podium before, but anticipating being at the top of it, anticipating finally getting to hear your home country’s national anthem—it’s something different entirely. 

“I feel like I’m about to shit myself,” You answer honestly, not bothering to censor yourself in any way. It’s Lando; he’s heard you say much worse before. 

“I would advise against that, but hey, everyone celebrates in their own way. To each their own and all that.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender, shit-eating grin present on his face. “Just know, I’ll never let you live it down if you do.” 

“That’s rich coming from the guy who nearly peed himself when he got his first podium!” You scoff. 

Lando’s teasing grin morphs into an offended drop of the mouth. “I did not!” 

“You so did, don’t even try to lie about that.” 

“Right, well if I did, and that’s a huge fucking if, it was only because I didn’t have time to hit the toilet before the ceremony.” 

“I’m sure it was.” 

“Say, we should celebrate tonight. I was thinking about going out clubbing later, if you’re up for it?” He offers, effectively changing the subject. His brows raise mischievously a beat later, eyes full of mirth. “Unless…you’re too tired, of course.”  

“Ha, nice try! I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep tonight, so you’re on,” You shoot back, tilting your chin up in challenge. 

“That’s my girl.” Lando’s expression turns warm and fond, and it makes your insides go fuzzy. You know it’s just a phrase. It isn’t even the first time he’s said it, but this one feels different. 

The way he’s looking at you feels different. It feels like he’s staring into your soul with those eyes of his you still haven’t quite figured out yet. Were they green, were they hazel? Truth be told, you’d been wondering about it since what feels like forever. 

Lando steps forward—once, twice, a third time. Three steps and he’s right in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand comes up to run along the length of your arm, thumb rubbing over the sleeve of your race suit. 

There’s no cameras here this time. The people around you aren’t even paying any attention to the two of you. It would be so easy just to let it happen, to just close the gap between you and…kiss him.

Before either of you can make a move, you hear his name echo from outside, followed by even more cheering. Lando opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out. 

You give him a light shove, pushing down your disappointment in favor of a smile. “Go. You deserve to bask in the glory. Before I steal the show, I mean.” 

Lando looks like he doesn’t want to go, but really, he doesn’t have a choice. There are people waiting for his grand arrival out to the podium, and yours too. Before he leaves, he squeezes your hand once, and then he’s gone. The roar of the crowd grows louder. 

You take a few centering deep breaths to calm yourself. This moment is what you’ve been waiting for your entire career, and you’d be damned if you let anything, let alone your own running thoughts, take away from it all. 

The sunlight nearly blinds you when you round the corner, but you take it in stride, waving at the crowd as you take that rightful top step. You aren’t sure if you could stop smiling even if you tried. That smile only grows as your home anthem fills the air, and you swear it’s never sounded more like music to your ears than it does right here and now. 

It’s all for you.

You inhale deep, soaking in every bit of the moment as much as you can before it ends, and as you exhale just as deep, your shoulders sag with relief. It still feels surreal. 

The final notes of the anthem fade, and then you’re being handed a huge trophy by the literal Prince of Monaco, which is mindblowing in and of itself. You like to think you’re playing it cool, but you’re sure if you watch back anyone’s footage of the moment sometime later, you would probably see how not cool you were being. 

Nonetheless, the trophy is a welcome weight in your hands, and when you look down at it, all you can see in the sleek metal is a promise of things yet to come. The pride you feel is insurmountable—of yourself, of your team, of every little thing that has happened to bring you to this day, bad or good. Everything has led you here. 

You beam bright, hoisting it above your head proudly to the tune of hooting and hollering and whistling. 

It feels…well, the only word you can think of to explain how being up here feels is glorious. Even when you’re suddenly being blasted with champagne from all sides, you feel like you’re on top of the world. You can’t see a thing, but you don’t need to in order to know that you could get used to this. 

You don’t feel like you’re truly back down on the ground again until you make it back to the paddock. Natalie Pinkham from SkySports is waiting for you with a proud smile, waiting patiently as your media officer ushers you towards the group of cameras in the media pen. 

“Natalie, hi!” You greet her with a hug, having become extremely familiar and fond of the reporter in your few years of racing. There’s a reason why she’s a favorite amongst most of the grid. 

“Hi, Y/N! Thanks for taking the time to chat with myself and SkySports, I’m sure you’ve got a thousand things to do before calling it a day and going home. Or going to celebrate, maybe?” 

You bob your head, chuckling lightly. “Celebrating, definitely. Dunno what’s in the cards yet, but one of the many good things about Monaco is that afterwards I can sleep in my own bed for once.” 

“That definitely sounds like a win to me. Speaking of wins, massive congratulations on today! Now I have to ask, did anything feel different about the race or qualifying, or even any of the practices that made you think, ‘this is the weekend, today is my day’?”  

“The car’s felt amazing all weekend. Even though I wasn’t on pole, I still managed to move up in the race, and I think my pace was pretty good from the start today. Y’know, obviously nothing was perfect, there’s always bound to be a few hiccups here and there, a few unexpected things to come about at times when you don’t want them to, but overall?” You explain, letting your shoulders drop in a shrug. 

If you wrack your brain, there really hadn’t been anything that clued you into how this weekend would go. You were always confident in your own skills as a driver, but you’d been doing this long enough to know that most of it boiled down to luck, especially with a track like Monaco. 

“Overall I think things went nice and smooth this weekend. I’m not sure what could’ve made it different from other races, if I’m being completely honest, but I’m very happy with the way everything turned out in the end.” 

“Oh, you’re being modest now, aren’t you? Your first ever win, here of all places. You must be over the moon!” Natalie laughs. You chuckle too. That seems like an understatement. “Tell us a little bit about that. How does it feel to not only have that maiden win finally under your belt, but to also be the first female Formula 1 driver to win here at Monaco?” 

It’s a loaded question, of course. 

How does it feel to have beaten nineteen of the best drivers in the world? How do you feel about the highest point of your racing career so far? How does it feel to be amongst the names of all the greats who’ve driven and won this race in the past? 

You’re really not even sure where to begin, but for some reason, you laugh. Your emotions feel jumbled up right now, so much you can barely cobble together a well thought out answer to the question. 

“Sorry, I don’t—gah, I’m all over the place right now, I’m sorry,” You manage to say, taking a cleansing deep breath in an attempt to center yourself. Good thing she just nods encouragingly, giving you time to recompose. 

You can see Lando doing his own interview off to the side, talking animatedly with the biggest smile gracing his face, and you flash back to that moment on the track just a little while ago. The way he was so happy for you despite missing out on P1 himself by less than two seconds, how hard he’d hugged you as soon as you’d climbed down from your car. 

The way he looked at you right after he did, some foreign emotion lingering in his eyes that you couldn’t shake your thoughts free of. 

It’s as though he senses you looking at him, because he glances over at you, catching your gaze for a moment. He smiles even bigger, if at all possible, before turning back to his own reporter seamlessly. It makes you feel giddier inside by a tenfold, which definitely doesn’t help your focus. 

You manage to tear your attention away from him at last. You hope nobody’s noticed you looking at each other. “Okay. Alright, I’m good. Sorry again. I…I think for any driver, winning at Monaco is the dream, with all the history behind the track and—and the stories you hear. Um, it’s definitely always been a dream of mine, ever since I got into karting as a kid, so actually being able to make that dream come true is absolutely unreal to me.” 

You will yourself not to let your voice waver, on live television of all places. You kind of want to cry again (in the best possible way), but you steel yourself, keeping your head held high. This is your time. 

“This win is—above all, it’s extra special, especially since it’s my first win ever and because I’m the first female driver to win. It’s…truly, it’s such an honor. And to be racing among so many other talented drivers this season too, winning is certainly a high point. I think the rest of the season is looking up for Williams. Feels like this is only the start. I don’t really know what else to say other than that.” 

“You’re part of Monaco history now, congratulations again, Y/N. One more question and then I’ll let you get back to your celebrations,” Natalie replies, looking genuinely thrilled for you. That’s something you’ve always admired about her, the way she seems to really care about the people she’s interviewing, instead of rushing through things like you were just something to check off a list. You nod happily for her to continue. “What do you have to say to all those girls watching at home right now, watching you pave the way for future drivers, wanting to race in Formula 1 one day?” 

“I’d say exactly what my dad said to me before every one of my karting races. You’re strong, you’re determined, and you can do anything you put your mind to. Just work hard and keep the focus, but have fun too.” 

“Truly lovely advice from Monaco’s newest Grand Prix winner, thank you so much, Y/N. And congratulations again on the accomplishment! Very proud.” 

You thank her and give her another quick hug before you’re shown off towards another gaggle of reporters to answer their questions. These feel less daunting than the first, maybe because you now have somewhat of an idea of what to say, but you still need to keep things professional—no matter how much you want to shout from the rooftops. 

Maybe you’ll do that later, after you’ve been released from your media duties. 

-------

The club is so loud you can barely hear yourself think. 

You’ve shaken hands and taken pictures with so many people you begin to lose track of who’s who, though you also suspect that might be because of how many drinks you’ve had so far. But it is a celebration—a celebration for you, so really, who’s counting? 

“This is the best night of my life!” You exclaim, plopping down into the empty seat between Alex and Lando. Lily sits on the other side of her boyfriend, stifling a laugh at the state of you. 

“Having a good time?” She asks, reaching over Alex to pluck some confetti out of your hair. You beam at her brightly, nodding. “Good. You deserve to celebrate!” 

“I love you, Lil,” You sigh, squeezing her hand gratefully. “You’re my favorite person.” 

“Um, hello? I’m sitting right here, you know.” Alex sounds and looks genuinely offended, squinting at you in disbelief. You only smile guiltily. “Oh, that’s mean. You’re a mean drunk, did you know that?” 

Lando giggles loudly into his nearly empty glass, lips working the straw intently to get the last few drops out. 

Alex turns his attention on him, raising a brow. “Easy there, tiger. There’s nothing else in that poor glass.” 

“Whatever, dad,” Lando huffs drunkenly. He plonks the now empty glass onto the table with a pout. 

You let out a cackle at that, keeling over into Alex’s shoulder with the force of your laughter. “Dad! You’re an old man, Dad!” 

“I’m only four years older than you two,” He deadpans, seemingly unamused. 

“I’m getting another drink. Don’t miss me too much,” Lando announces to the general vicinity, clambering to his feet with a dangerous sway to him. 

You pop up from your seat too and he notices, holding out a hand for you to take. When you do, he pulls you in even more, tucking you under his arm so you won’t lose each other in the crowded club. 

Alex watches the two of you weave through people together, leaning towards Lily. “Hundred pounds says they’re going home with each other tonight.” 

She rolls her eyes playfully at her grinning boyfriend, scoffing. “You’re not getting my money that easily, Alex. Make it higher stakes next time.” 

Before you can make it to the bar, you tug at Lando’s hand gently to get his attention and he turns immediately, ducking in close so he can hear you over all the noise. “I need to use the toilet.” 

“Go. I’ll order for you.” He nods, giving you a gentle push towards the restrooms. You stumble a little, but right yourself quick, straightening out on your way. 

The corridor right outside the toilets is fairly quiet, and you slump against the wall to catch your breath. Fatigue is starting to set in at this point, the adrenaline from today fizzling out until you’re left feeling tired. You still haven’t quite come to terms with everything that’s happened today. 

You’re a fucking Grand Prix winner. A Formula 1 winner. 

It’s what you've dreamed of since you were a kid, something you’ve worked so hard and so tirelessly for. You’re still happy, of course, but there’s something else biting at you that rings louder in your subconscious. 

What the hell are you supposed to do now? 

The obvious answer is to do it again, and again, and again, until one day you have what it takes to be World Champion, but you're far away from that ever becoming a reality yet.  

What if this win was just a stroke of good luck? 

It’s a miracle you got past Max when you did, but really, it was the track that helped you keep your position. Monaco is notorious for making it near impossible to overtake the car in front of you. 

Had he been just a few inches over to the other side, you would’ve caught too much kerb, maybe even locked up right before the apex of the next turn. It could’ve ruined your entire race, but you got lucky. 

What if you can’t win any more races? What if this was the peak of your career and you’re destined to go downhill from here? What if you lose your seat? 

Tears slip down your cheeks before you even realize you’re crying, your pesky ability to overthink everything taking its toll once again. You dig the heels of your palms against your eyes, letting out a frustrated groan. 

Now is not the fucking time to be second guessing yourself. 

“There you are!” Lando’s voice echoes from the end of the corridor, and you swear quietly, swiping at your cheeks to rid yourself of tear tracks before he reaches you. “I was starting to think you’d fallen into the—” His teasing remark dies on his lips the moment he lays eyes on you. Immediately, you know he can tell something’s off. “Why are you sad? What happened? Did someone do something?”

You shake your head through his bombardment of questions, squeezing your eyes shut with a heaving sigh. “Nothing happened, Lando. Everything’s fine.” 

“I’m sorry, but that’s a load of crap. You’re sat out here crying when you should be celebrating the biggest moment in your career, and you say everything’s fine, but those aren’t happy tears,” Lando insists. “You can talk to me. You know that. Let me help you with whatever’s wrong.” 

You open your eyes and he’s looking at you like he’s in pain, and suddenly you feel like your chest has cracked wide open. “What if the only reason I won today was because I got lucky?” 

“Don’t say that,” He says, shaking his head firmly. “C’mon, don’t talk like that. You’re being ridiculous, alright?” 

You scoff weakly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I thought you were here to help, not bully me.” 

“This isn’t bullying, this is tough love. I wish someone would’ve had this talk with me after Miami, ‘cause I went through the same headspace you’re going through right now. What if it’s just a one off, what if I can’t live up to the brand new expectations everyone else has for me now that I’ve won a race?” 

“So you know the feeling?” 

“Yeah, I do. But you’ve got to ignore it. Whatever you think you can’t do, push it down. Lock it away and throw out the key.” 

“But what if people are right? What if this is the best I can do?” 

“When has anyone ever been right about you?” Lando asks sharply. You feel a bit taken aback at the bluntness of his question, but you bite your tongue. He’s going somewhere with this, if you just wait. “They said you wouldn’t be able to get a seat on any team, you proved them wrong. They said you’d never make it in this sport, now look at what you’ve managed to do! You’ve won the most coveted race in history, and you’re the first female driver to do it. You’re constantly smashing glass ceilings, every single day, and if anyone ever says otherwise, they don’t know you. Not like your team knows you. Not like I know you.” 

If you think back all these years, even to the very beginning of your career, Lando has always been one of your fiercest supporters, always in your corner rooting for you. Even though you’re rivals on track, off the track he’s been a fantastic friend. You’re lucky to have someone like him. 

And now, as he stands here before you, looking at you with such unwavering support and admiration, you’re whisked back to the last time you were this close to each other, mere hours ago. The only difference is, you didn’t kiss him then, but now…

Your mouth is on Lando’s before your brain even registers the movement, but even then, you can’t bring yourself to pull back. Especially not when his hands come around your waist to steady you both.

You’re kissing him and he’s kissing you back, and it’s everything you’ve imagined it would be like despite it happening outside the bathrooms of a club. 

The weight of what you’re doing dawns on you a split second later. You jerk back, eyes wide as Lando’s mouth drops into a tiny, dazed oh. 

You let go of your grip on the front of his shirt, dropping your hands back down to your sides. You aren’t sure how you can even begin to explain this one. “I’m—fuck, Lan, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” 

Lando smothers your weak excuse of an apology with a searing kiss, only this time you’re the one caught by surprise when his tongue darts out, swiping over yours expertly. 

Fuck, he’s really good at this. 

He pulls away before you can think too much on it, blinking at you slowly. “I think—” He pants, licking his lips, “I think we should leave.” 

“Your place?” 

He nods quickly. “My place.” 

You drop by where you’d left Lily and Alex to let them know you’re leaving without letting them know why you’re leaving, but judging by the not-so-subtle back and forths their eyes do between Lando and yourself, it isn’t exactly a secret. 

The constant buzzing of your phone in your purse in the car taking you back to Lando’s place is most likely Lily wanting all the details as soon as possible. 

It feels as if you can’t keep your hands off each other as you stumble down the quiet corridor after Lando, fingers interlocked as he tugs you towards his apartment. 

Every so often, he stops in his tracks, turning around to capture your lips in a quick kiss before remembering where you’re going and forging ahead again. It seems like forever until you manage to get inside with the door shut behind you. 

You’re nudged up against the back of it by one of Lando’s hands splaying flat over your torso the moment the locks click shut, the other one bracing him next to your head as he leans in, kissing you fervently. It’s messy and rushed and frantic, but you’ve both waited way too long for each other to even give a fuck. 

You thread your fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck, giving a testing tug at the curls. What you’re not expecting is the whine that escapes his mouth against yours, the ever so slight buckle of his knees that follows.

You freeze. 

It seems like he wasn’t expecting it either because he does the same, retreating just enough to gauge your reaction to his slip up.  

“That was cute,” You murmur, lips quirking into a smug smile. 

“Nuh uh. Not another word about it.” 

“I said it was cute!” 

“I don’t want you to think I’m cute right now, I want you to think I’m sexy.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I do think that. Like that thing you always do with your tongue when you’re thinking? Hot.” 

“Yeah?” He hums, mouth lifting into an easy smirk. You roll your eyes at him. It’s so like Lando to be flustered one moment, but able to turn on the charm in a blink. But then he hooks his hands under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly now you’re the flustered one. “You like that?” 

Your breath hitches in your chest, but you manage a nod. 

“Wanna see what else I can do with it?” 

-------

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the terrible pounding in your head. It feels like a hundred little people in your skull, banging little hammers everywhere like they’re making an attempt to escape. You want to lay in this bed and hibernate for the next three days, at least. 

The second thing you notice is that the bed you’re laying in is certainly not yours. Your duvet isn’t dark blue, and you don’t have a shelf full of helmets across the room. 

But you know who does. 

Slowly, you turn your head to the side. You pretty much already know who you’re going to see in the spot next to you, but it can’t hurt to check, right? 

The moment your gaze lands on a head full of dark curls smushed face first into the pillow and tanned skin, your suspicions are confirmed. You’re not wearing much of anything, and if you lift the duvet covering Lando, you’re sure you’ll find him in the same way. 

Everything that happened last night is starting to come back to you. 

Lando stirs right at that moment, a rather loud yawn accompanying the stretch of his long arms above his head as he rolls onto his back. 

“Hey,” You say hesitantly. Quietly. 

Apparently you aren’t quiet enough, because he startles easy, scrambling into an upright position and pulling the covers over his chest like he’s accidentally exposed himself. Once he realizes it’s you, though, he relaxes. 

“Hi,” He breathes, smiling. He seems to connect the dots about what happened at this moment, because he takes in the mess of clothes trailing from his bedroom door, then looks back at you with a furrowed brow. “So, last night…happened.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay. Do you—I mean, should we talk about it?” He lets the blankets pool back down at his waist, rubbing his eyes furiously to rid them of sleep. Your eyes skate over the marks littering his chest and neck, and it makes you think back to last night when your mouth was the one planting them there. 

“I’d kill for some breakfast first.” 

“I’ll make you something.” 

“Uh, no. The last time you cooked for me I had food poisoning for a week. I’ll handle the cooking, thank you very much.” 

Lando makes a face at you, lips screwed up into a pout. “I already said I was sorry, like, a million times! How was I meant to know the cream was expired?” 

“Expiration dates, Lando. That’s what expiration dates are for.” 

“Those are a suggestion.” 

“They’re really not,” You insist, to which Lando merely shrugs. “You’re so weird. D’you mind closing your eyes while I grab my clothes?” 

He snorts, chuckling. “Why? S’nothing I didn’t see last night.” 

“I know, but—whatever. Can you just look away?” 

“Yeah, fine. Just take my shirt though, it’ll be easier to put on.” He slaps a hand over his eyes, gesturing for you to go with the other. 

Inhaling a deep breath, you move quickly, scurrying across the room grabbing what you need before locking yourself in his en suite. 

Your hair is a mess, you’re fairly certain your breath is absolutely rank, and you’re on the verge of freaking out. Last night happened way faster than you were expecting it to, and you don’t regret it one bit, but now in the light of day and a fully sober state of mind, you’re not sure what to do next. 

But then you think about it a little more and quickly come to realize that whatever it is, whatever happens, you’re going through it together. 

You’ll cross that bridge together. 

Lando isn’t in bed anymore when you finally hype yourself up enough to reemerge, though the banging of cupboards coming from the kitchen is a clear indicator of where he’s gone. Always making such a racket, he is. 

As you work with what little food he has in the fridge (which to be honest, really isn’t much), he quietly makes two giant mugs of tea for you both. You decide eggs and toast are the safest bet. 

You’re already well attuned to where things are in this kitchen, so you don’t need much help finding what you need. Still, that doesn’t stop Lando from cozying right up behind you as you reach for something in the spice cupboard, one hand curling around your hip to thumb at the bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. 

It feels natural to accept the kiss he sneaks to the side of your neck where he’d nipped at last night, to lean back into his chest in the fleeting second his nose nuzzles in just below your ear. 

In no time, the two of you are scarfing down the food like you haven’t eaten in days. It isn’t until your plates are nearly empty that you look at each other again. 

“Are we—” 

“Do you think—” 

Both of you stop mid-sentence, giving each other matching sheepish smiles. You gesture for him to go first. 

“Is this—was this just a one off because we were drunk, or did last night mean something more?” He blurts, setting his fork down.

“What d’you want it to be?” You’re testing the waters now, putting out your feelers to see what Lando thinks of the situation. You know what you want, but whether or not he wants the same thing is a total unknown factor.

He blinks for a concerningly long amount of time, clears his throat before responding. “I want it to be whatever you want it to.” 

That doesn’t answer any of your questions. Great. 

“Same,” You decide, struggling to remain neutral. What you want to do is drag him in by the front of his jumper and kiss him again, but you’ll restrain yourself. 

“So…what would that be?” 

“Promise me no matter what, I won’t lose you.” 

“You won't. You could never lose me,” He says softly, reaching across the table to curl his fingers over yours. “Just tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. I know you’re thinking.” 

You gnaw on your lip in contemplation. Well, here goes nothing. 

“We’ve worked basically our entire lives to get where we are today.” 

He bobs his head in agreement. “Sure did.” 

“So it would be selfish of us to let anything get in the way. Distract us from the main priority.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“And you’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” 

Lando offers up a cheeky grin, tilting his head to one side. “Not one bit, no.” 

You roll your eyes at his sass, moving to take your plate to the sink. He intervenes before you can get far, easing the dish out of your hands in favor of intertwining your fingers. 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’ll be serious now, I promise,” He insists, nodding sharply. You raise a disbelieving brow. “Look, I’ve had feelings for you since we were nineteen and didn’t know what the hell we were doing outside of racing, and ever since then, I’ve waited for the day I finally got my head out of my arse and did something about it.” 

“Is today that day?” You ask softly, only partially teasing.

“Depends on if you feel the same way,” Lando says softly. “Do you?” 

“Am I a Formula 1 winner now?” 

The smile that stretches across his face grows big enough to make his eyes squint, and he nods enthusiastically. “Fuck yeah, you are.” 

“There’s your answer then.” You drape your arms over his shoulders, fingers linking around the back of his neck loosely. “I love you, Lan.” 

He surges forward right there and then instead of using his words, connecting your lips in a second. 

Yesterday’s kisses felt like zooming towards the checkered flag mere hundredths of a second at the front of the pack, putting everything you have into crossing the line first. Fighting tooth and nail for your points, clawing your way up to the top and digging in your heels so you stay there. 

Frantic, urgent, like you’re running out of time. 

Right now is a total juxtaposition to that rush of adrenaline. 

Right now, Lando kisses you like he has all the time in the world to do it. It’s slow and sweet and more like lazy mornings in bed on an off day. Of sunshine pouring through the curtains as you gradually wake up on your own time. No plans, no training, no work. Just peace. Not something you’re used to, but definitely something you’d love to do more. 

You’re both breathless when you break apart for air. 

Lando’s still smiling hard as he studies you, that dizzyingly gorgeous swirl of the blue and green in his eyes flitting all around your face like he can’t quite believe you’re real and in front of him right now. 

“I love you too,” He says happily, grinning even bigger as the words slip off his tongue. You’re beaming just the same, so big your cheeks are starting to ache a little bit, but you don’t care. 

Finally, after years and years of telling yourself it just wasn’t your time, you’ve got the two things you’ve wanted more than anything. You’ve got your first win, and you’ve got your first love. 

Both have been beyond worth the wait. 

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