Chapter Text
His head hurt before he’d even opened his eyes.
A slow, pounding ache, heavy behind the eyes, champagne-thick. His throat was raw too, rough from shouting over music and spraying bottles until they were empty.
Melbourne sunlight slashed across the hotel curtains like it was angry at him. He groaned, dragging the duvet over his head. Didn’t help.
Max F. stirred next to him?
"Mate, stop stealing the duvet..."
Lando groaned.
The night still lived there, buzzing under his skin.
Bits and pieces slowly comming back to him Too loud. Too bright.
---
The podium first.
Champagne slick in his hair, dripping down his fireproofs, confetti glued to his skin. Max shoving him with a laugh that carried more irritation than joy. George grinning through the spray, champagne flying in every direction. The crowd — papaya everywhere, voices raw from screaming his name like they’d been waiting years to.
The high was indescribable. A fever. Like flying and burning all at once.
And then the club.
Quadrant had ambushed him the second he walked through the door. Max F., Keegan, Rory, even Ellis somehow here — all of them half-wrecked already, clutching cocktails and roaring like they’d won the race themselves.
“LANDO FUCKING NORRIS!” Max shouted across the room, dragging him into a hug that nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. “About bloody time, mate!”
“Should’ve started like this last year!” Keegan yelled over the music, shoving a glass of champagne into his hand. “But fine, we’ll celebrate now!”
Keegan was already narrating into a camera like it was a vlog, nearly tripping over a speaker cable. Ellis tried to start a chant that didn’t rhyme, Rory climbed halfway onto a table before security dragged him down again. It was stupid, messy, perfect.
They were chaos. His chaos. Spraying drinks, chanting his name until the DJ actually cut the track and gave them a beat just to yell it louder. For a few minutes, he let it carry him.
But then—
Her.
---
Alessia.
He hadn’t actually thought she’d come. Mostly because he hadn’t had the guts to ask.
The invite had been obvious — post-race celebrations always blurred into one: sponsors, staff, drivers, the whole paddock bleeding into the same neon haze. But when he’d tried to imagine actually turning to Alessia and saying, come out tonight, his throat had closed up. She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t do chaos for fun. She disappeared when the lights got too bright, always retreating back to quiet hotel rooms and perfectly folded blazers.
So he’d hovered. Stupid, awkward. Even thought about texting. You’re coming tonight, right? Just five words. But it had felt… dangerous. Too direct.
Instead, he’d cornered Cristina in hospitality while Jon was triple-checking his recovery notes.
“So, uh…” he’d started, pretending to scroll his phone, “is Costa coming out tonight?”
Cristina had lifted a brow like she knew exactly what he was doing. “Why?”
He’d shrugged, too quickly. “Just—dunno. Sponsors will be there. Zak, board, all that. Probably good for her to show face.”
Cristina smirked, slow and knowing. “Right. Sponsors.”
He shot her a look. “What?”
“Nothing,” she sing-songed. “I’ll text her...even though she is YOUR manager...”
He’d wanted to backpedal, tell her to forget it, but she was already walking away.
So when Alessia vanished before he could catch her after the podium, he figured that was it. Decision made. She’d slipped out, back into her armour. End of story.
Which was why, when he caught her eyes at the club later — hair glossy, dress sharper than anything in the room — it knocked the air clean out of him.
---
She was different here. Not the ice in the garage, not the precise strategist in sponsor meetings. Softer, but somehow untouchable. The kind of pretty that wasn’t supposed to exist in his orbit. Devastating. That was the word.
He wanted to go to her, to say something, but sponsors crowded her first. Zak pulled her in for introductions, drinks shoved into her hand, men leaning too close with smiles that didn’t belong. And she played it like she always did: calm, smooth, tilting conversations wherever she wanted them to go.
He tried to forget her. Danced with Fewtrell instead. Took shots with Carlos and Oscar, who rolled his eyes but still lifted the glass. Let George drag him into a round with Alex and Antonelli, who looked like he couldn’t believe his own ID had actually worked. Even Max Verstappen, ended up at their table — loud, smiling just enough to let him know he’d earned something.
But his eyes kept dragging back.
Every time he looked up, she was there. Tipsy. Her head tilted in sponsor conversation. Laughing twice — twice — at something a Ferrari comms rep said. And Klein.
Lando’s stomach turned even in hindsight. Klein — sharp suit, whiskey glass, cologne strong enough to choke. He leaned in too close, smiling in that way that wasn’t smiling. His hand brushed her wrist, deliberate. Lando had frozen mid-sip. He’d almost gone — almost stormed across the floor like an idiot — until Oscar slid in first, all calm, steady, offering her water instead of whiskey. He’d hated that he’d felt relieved. Hated that he hadn’t been the one to cut in.
She’d laughed then. Actually laughed, unguarded, head tilted back. It should’ve made him glad, but it only twisted sharper in his chest. She was beautiful when she laughed. Too beautiful. And she wasn’t laughing at him.
He thought about going again. More than once. But Max hooked him into another story, dragged him into another drink, the night kept spinning, and every time he looked back she was already speaking to someone else.
Until the balcony.
---
That he remembered too clearly.
The club noise dulled to a heartbeat when the door shut. Neon painted her face sharp and soft at once. She sipped water, like she hadn’t been touched by champagne at all. And he, drunk — an idiot — went straight for the thing he shouldn’t have. Klein’s name. Parc fermé. The hug.
Policing? ...Is that what you think parc fermé was?
The words replayed in his head now, unforgiving. His own voice, raw, desperate. He’d seen the way she flinched. The way her jaw set like stone, like she’d build a wall between them right there on the balcony.
“It was a moment,” she’d said.
Moment. Just a moment.
But it hadn’t felt like just a moment. Not then. Not now.
He rubbed his hand down his face, groaning. Shame burned under his skin, hotter than the hangover. He shouldn’t have said it... Shouldn’t have dragged her into it. She was his manager. The one who’d kept him upright through the noise, who’d carved space when no one else had.
And yet, he couldn’t forget the way she’d looked at him before Cristina burst in — rattled, raw, not unshaken.
She’d been devastatingly pretty all night, but that moment had undone him more than any of it.
---
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Jon.
Hydration. Stretch. Breakfast at 9. Don’t be late.
He groaned again, tossing it facedown. He was already late. His chest was still tight, head still pounding. And none of it had to do with champagne anymore.
Because the truth was simple, even if he didn’t want to say it.
He couldn’t stop seeing her.
Parc Fermé. In the club. On the balcony.
Every version of her burned into the back of his eyes.
And the worst part?
He didn’t want to forget.
---
The hotel gym smelled of rubber mats and iron. Too early, too bright, his head still pulsed faintly, but Jon didn’t care. “Hydration, stretch, band work — then we’ll load.”
Lando groaned, tugging the resistance strap until his shoulders burned. “Feel like I’ve been hit by the car instead of driving it.”
“Not my problem,” Jon muttered, scribbling something on the iPad. “Shouldn’t have had those three shots with Carlos last night.”
“Two,” Lando argued, grimacing.
Jon just gave him the kind of look that ended arguments.
The door slid open, letting in a spill of corridor light.
Alessia.
Blazer already on, tablet in one hand, the other adjusting her watch strap. No trace of champagne, no trace of last night’s balcony. Calm, precise, every line in place.
She stopped just short of the treadmill row. “Norris.”
He straightened, tugging the band too quickly, chest flaring out with the movement. For half a second he thought it looked impressive — shoulders pulled, chest tight, biceps flexed — until he caught Jon’s sideways glance and felt like a complete idiot.
Alessia didn’t blink. She only tilted her chin toward her tablet. “You’ve got an interview at ten thirty. Then technical with Will. Lunch with the board at one. Don’t be late.”
He forced his voice steady. “Copy.”
Her eyes lingered a beat too long — not admiring, not dismissive, just reading him, as if she could see straight through the fog still dragging at his bones. Then she tucked the tablet back to her side. “Thirty minutes, Norris. Don’t make Cristina chase you out of the shower.”
And just like that, she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Jon didn’t even try to hide the smirk. He set the iPad down, leaned on the weight rack, and crossed his arms. “Flexing, huh?”
Lando groaned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m definitely doing,” Jon said, almost cheerful in his cruelty. “She walks in and suddenly you’re Mister Chest Expansion?”
“Shut up.”
Jon ignored him, voice going sly. “So, balcony last night. You want to tell me what that was?”
Lando nearly dropped the band. “How—”
“Don’t play dumb. You stormed out like a man on a mission. Came back looking like you’d run five laps without shoes. And don’t think I didn’t clock Costa leaving with Cristina two minutes earlier.”
Lando dragged a hand through his curls, scowling. “It was nothing.”
Jon’s smirk deepened. “Right. Nothing. That’s why you’re still red in the face and trying to impress her with your pecs at nine a.m.”
“Jon.” His voice came low, warning.
But Jon only shrugged, smug as ever. “Just saying. Careful, mate. Complications don’t win championships.”
Lando looked away, jaw tight, trying not to hear his own pulse in his ears.
Complications.
He hated how right it sounded.
---
By the time he dragged himself out of the gym, sweat still clinging at his collar, Jon had him on recovery shakes and a half-hour stretch that felt like punishment. Shower, suit, hotel car waiting out front — all of it a blur.
The media centre smelled of cables and cheap coffee. He’d done this a hundred times, but today every light felt hotter, every camera closer. Questions ricocheted: Melbourne, Verstappen, McLaren’s momentum. He fired off the answers they’d rehearsed in Woking — calm, measured, grounded. The grin came easier than usual. Winning did that.
Except whenever he caught her in the corner of his eye.
Alessia stood at the edge of the scrum, tablet in hand, sunglasses perched in her hair. She wasn’t looking at him, not directly — just tracking, listening, guiding the flow with a raised hand when someone pushed too hard for time. Perfectly controlled, perfectly composed. As if last night’s balcony hadn’t happened.
As if parc fermé hadn’t happened.
It rattled him. Enough that when a Dutch journalist pushed, “Do you think this is finally the year you can beat Max over a season?” he almost slipped. He heard himself start with “Well—” before Alessia’s voice cut sharp across the edge of the scrum:
“Last two questions. Norris has a technical briefing.”
Her tone was polite, final, and the question died before he had to answer it.
He exhaled once, quietly, and moved on.
---
Lunch with the board was worse.
McLaren had rented out a glass-walled restaurant overlooking the Yarra. The table was long, polished, heavy with silverware. Board members in suits, sponsor reps in silk, Zak at the head like some benevolent king with his tie already askew.
Lando was flanked by Oscar on one side, Alessia on the other. Too close. Too deliberate.
The conversation was all numbers and strategy. The board praising results, speculating about the rest of the season, asking about Verstappen with the same grin as the journalists. He answered when prompted, Oscar filling in his parts with that quiet, steady cadence that made him sound older than he was.
But Alessia was the one steering. Every time a question strayed too far — about personal life, about distractions — she redirected with smooth precision. “The focus is on performance. You saw that yesterday.” Or: “The data speaks for itself.”
He should’ve been grateful. He was. But when the champagne was poured and glasses lifted, he caught the brush of her sleeve against his arm, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with steel and citrus, and it twisted sharp inside him.
He lifted his glass, forced the grin. “To the team,” he said, voice steady.
The clink rang out, applause following. But his hand was tighter around the stem than it should’ve been.
---
Later, back in hospitality, Jon cornered him again.
“You were staring,” he said flatly, dropping onto the sofa beside him.
Lando scowled. “I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Jon said, unbothered. “Whole bloody lunch, mate. I thought you were gonna burn a hole in her sleeve.”
He groaned, rubbing at his eyes. “Jon, drop it.”
Jon leaned back, folding his arms. “You need to figure this out. Either it’s nothing, or it’s something. But if it’s something…” His gaze sharpened. “You’d better be sure, because this job doesn’t leave space for messy.”
The words landed heavier than he wanted them to.
Messy. Complicated. All of it circling back like the bass line from last night.
He let his head fall back against the seat, eyes on the ceiling. Outside, the city still hummed with victory, the paddock buzzing with aftermath. He’d already hugged his parents goodbye — Cisca pressing his face between her hands, Adam’s clap to his shoulder solid, proud. They were flying back to the UK tonight. Work, life, all the things that didn’t pause just because he’d won.
But inside his chest, the celebration felt sharper, stranger.
Because Jon was right. It wasn’t nothing.
And that terrified him.
---
The hotel room felt too quiet.
Jon had left him with another schedule pinned to the minibar, hydration tracked down to the millilitre, recovery stretches circled in red. Necessary. Boring.
Lando lay on the bed anyway, trainers still on, scrolling his phone without really seeing. Articles, headlines, endless replays of the win already cut into highlight reels. His name everywhere. His grin frozen on every thumbnail.
He should’ve been buzzing still. He was. But the four walls pressed too tight, the silence like static in his ears.
The knock came sharp, then the door swung open before he could even get up.
“Mate,” Max Fewtrell said, leaning into the frame like he owned the place. “If you think we flew twenty bloody hours for you just to sit in here all night, you’re actually insane.”
Behind him, Rory and Ellis crowded in, Keegan with a camera already rolling.
Lando groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “Jon’s gonna kill me.”
“Jon’s asleep by now, mate,” Max countered. “Or knitting a training manual, whatever he does. Come on. We’re not doing clubs — promise. Just Melbourne. Yarra. Street food. Maybe a few clips for the channel if you don’t sulk through it.”
He peeked out from under the pillow. “Street food?”
“Yeah.” Max grinned. “Hot jam doughnuts at Queen Vic Market. Skewers. Chips on the pier. All the unhealthy shit Jon hates. One day off. You earned it.”
Lando sat up, rubbing his face, a reluctant grin pulling at his mouth. “You lot are a bad influence.”
“Best influence,” Max corrected. “Come on. You’re world champ for the night. Let’s film it. Fans will eat it up.”
The camera was already pointed at him, the red light blinking. He shoved a hand through his curls and sighed. “Fine. One night.”
They erupted like they’d just won again, shoving him toward the door.
---
The night was warm, sticky with city light. Melbourne pulsed with a softer buzz than the club — families out along the Yarra, buskers on corners, the smell of fried dough and petrol mixing on the wind. Cameras trailed, discreet but steady, Max narrating like he’d been born with a mic in hand.
“Here we are — fresh off his first win of the season, Lando Norris. Melbourne hero. Tell us, champ, how does it feel to be outside after 48 hours of being locked in McLaren hospitality?”
“Feels like I need new mates,” Lando muttered, but he was smiling.
They laughed, pushed him toward the food stalls, filmed him trying too-hard to eat a skewer without dripping sauce on his shirt. Locals stopped him every ten steps — photos, signatures, cheers of Lando! Papaya! Legend! He obliged, grinning, leaning into it. This was the part he loved.
Still, every so often, his eyes flicked sideways — down the river, across the crowd, scanning.
Max noticed. Of course he did.
They’d found a bench near the pier, paper cones greasy in their hands, the camera finally off. Ellis had peeled away to grab drinks, Rory was already editing clips on his phone.
“You keep looking for someone,” Max said, casual but sharp.
Lando froze, chip halfway to his mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are.” Max leaned back, grinning like a cat. “Costa?”
His throat tightened. “Why would you say that?”
Max shrugged. “Because you’ve been weird since London. And because you went full soap opera in parc fermé yesterday, hugging her like you’d just proposed. Half of Twitter thinks you’re shagging already.”
Heat flooded his face. “Jesus, Max.”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Max said, eyes narrowing with mischief. “Just… you’re different when she’s around. Quieter. Which is saying something, because you never shut up.”
Lando shoved his shoulder, too hard. “Piss off.”
Max laughed, unfazed. Then he tilted his head, more serious now. “Look, if you like her — even just a bit — maybe stop skulking and do something about it. Invite her. Tomorrow. Show her Melbourne. What’s the worst that happens?”
Lando hesitated, fingers crumpling the paper cone in his hand. The worst? The worst was that she’d look at him with that unreadable calm, like the balcony never happened, like parc fermé was already forgotten. Like he was just another idiot kid she had to manage.
He swallowed, eyes on the dark stretch of river. “She wouldn’t come.”
Max smirked. “You won’t know until you ask.”
Lando shook his head, grumbling into the paper cone. “She’s not the type.”
“Mate,” Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin too knowing, “you said the same thing about Quadrant once. And look at you now — dancing on tables, selling hoodies to twelve-year-olds, pretending you don’t love it.”
“That’s different.”
“Not really.” Max popped another chip into his mouth. “You overthink everything. She probably wouldn’t even come for you, you know. But…” His eyes glinted, wicked. “If Oscar’s there? Whole different story.”
Lando’s head snapped up. “Oscar?”
“Yeah.” Max smirked. “He’s still around, isn’t he? Hometown boy, knows all the good spots. Invite him. Invite her. Tell her it’s team bonding, sponsor goodwill, whatever excuse makes it sound professional.”
Lando frowned. “That’s… dodgy.”
“It’s genius,” Max corrected. “And don’t act like they wouldn’t get along. She’s all calm, sharp edges, proper grown-up. He’s basically the same, just quieter. Personalities match. They’ll be comparing skincare routines in ten minutes.”
Lando groaned, shoving a hand through his curls. “You’re a menace.”
“Maybe,” Max said, stretching out like he had all the answers. “But I’m right. You can’t keep staring at her across rooms forever. Try being normal for once. Ask her to come out with the group. If she says no, fine. If she says yes…” He shrugged, grin lazy. “Then, you know...”
The words sat heavy, louder than the buskers still singing down the pier, louder than the city itself.
As the thoughts ran, he felt it again. The phantom weight of parc fermé — her hand on his arm, the way she’d steadied instead of pulling back.
Max's idea lodged itself in his chest, heavier than it should’ve been. Invite Oscar. Invite her. Safe behind “team bonding,” untouchable if it went wrong.
He sighed. It was stupid.
He hated how much he wanted to try it. Hated it more that he already knew he would.