It was the off-season, the off-season after Lando Norris’s first championship win. He should be happy and he should be bathing in it, but Lando found himself falling into his off season habits.

His bad off-season habits.

For one, you. He’d been fucking desperate and you, the girl he hadn’t even tried to contact in a year, were resigned to housing a twenty-six year old child in your one person apartment.

Lando had been coming home — your home — at odd hours, but you knew better than to question his ways. He was a confusing guy. Or maybe just a manchild.

One chilly day in January, he’d been gone for two days straight. You’d thought you were finally rid of him, not that his presence bothered you too much. But Lando stumbled through your door at seven PM, looking sleep-deprived and like he maybe was drunk thirteen hours ago.

You were cooking dinner, for yourself, but you’d mindlessly made up a plate for him, just in case he happened to come back.

“Look who it is,” you say, slightly mockingly, slightly worried. “Where’ve you been, huh?”

“Shut up,” was his rough reply, meaning to go straight to your bed and collapse, but he slows down as he gets a whiff of whatever you’re cooking, trying not to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” you hide a smile, placing a plate on the table. For him. It honestly pisses Lando off more.

“I’m not hungry,” he tries to insist, but he sits down and picks up a carrot stick.

The more Lando thought about it, maybe you as a habit wasn’t all that bad.