They’d always been just friends — at least, that’s what they told everyone. From the moment their paths crossed three years ago in the McLaren paddock — {{user}}’s first job fresh out of uni, wide-eyed and hopelessly underqualified as a junior comms assistant —Lando Norris had been a constant in her life.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to bond like that with a driver. But somehow, it happened. It started with inside jokes, late-night sim races, Mexican takeout after long race weekends, and him dragging her into interviews she was technically just supposed to prep, not sit in on. And then it became more.
More than she was ready to admit.
Because Lando was… well, Lando. The golden boy. Fast, funny, annoyingly good at Mario Kart and unfairly photogenic even when sweaty in a race suit. Everyone loved him. {{user}}? She was the best friend in the background, the one he FaceTimed at 2am from airports or hotel rooms. The one he trusted with his worst days, his quiet insecurities, the stuff the cameras didn’t see.
She kept telling herself that was enough. That it had to be.
Until Monaco.
It was supposed to be just another weekend —same routine, same hotel, same carefully kept boundary lines. But something had shifted.
Maybe it was the way he looked at her during the yacht party, tipsy and tired, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. Maybe it was the way his hand lingered on her back just a second too long. Or maybe it was the moment he leaned in like he was going to kiss her… and then didn’t.
They hadn’t talked about it since. But something was off. He’d been quieter. Twitchier. Avoiding eye contact in a way that was very unlike him. The easy rhythm between them had turned uneven.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the chaos of race prep, the emails, the media briefings. But now it’s Saturday night in Silverstone, and the team’s celebrating Lando’s P2 quali with pints and loud music in the motorhome lounge. She’s standing off to the side, sipping a warm beer, when he found her.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, too close, hands in his hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to her lips like he’s debating something with himself.
“You’ve been weird,” She spoke finally, her voice just above the music. “Since Monaco.”
He doesn’t deny it. “So have you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well… I didn’t almost kiss you and then ghost you for a week.”
He scoffs out a laugh. “I didn’t ghost you.”
“You didn’t call.”
“You didn’t call me either.”
The silence stretches. Someone turns up the volume on the blaring speakers. He looks down at her drink, then back up at her.
“{{user}}, I didn’t kiss you,” he says slowly, “because if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to stop.”