Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lando wasn’t sure when the secret started to feel like something real. He hadn’t meant for it to be a secret in the first place. It was just theirs. A quiet, private thing kept out of the noise of the world. Out of the spotlight, away from paddocks and competitions. A place where they could just be each other’s–no helmets, no skates. 

She’d come to races before. Just always tucked under the red of the Ferrari camp, blending in like she belonged there. Being Charles Leclerc’s childhood best friend had its perks. Paddock passes. Easy smiles from team staff. No one suspected that at some point she wasn’t just there for Charles anymore, but Lando too. The perfect disguise.

He met her in Monaco. Not through Charles, like people would assume, but because of an old woman with kind eyes and no boundaries who happened to live next door to him. He’d just moved to Monaco around the end of his third Formula 1 season. It made sense: sunshine, no taxes, a view of the water. He was excited for the new chapter, even if it meant leaving his friends and family behind. But he wasn’t expecting his new neighbor to corner him in the lobby, speaking in rapid French and pressing a basket into his hands before he could even say hello. Soup. Herbs. A note with an address. He barely had time to protest before she shooed him off with a flurry of hand gestures. Which was how he ended up standing in front of a stranger’s door, holding a basket full of soup and questioning his life choices.

“You’re a racer,” she said when she opened the door, voice flat, unimpressed–very French. 

The door was barely open–just a few inches. Only her head peaked out, but he could see she was wrapped in a fuzzy blanket like a cape, curls piled messily on her head, glasses too big for her face. She looked like someone who’d been fighting off a cold and winning with stubbornness alone–and like someone who definitely needed a bowl of soup. 

“Um, yeah?” he said, unsure if he had met her before or if this was about to turn into an unexpected fan experience. 

“Mamie said you were coming.” She held out her hand expectantly. 

“Your grandma knows who I am?”

“Non. She said Charles couldn’t come, so she found a boy in her building to deliver the soup.” A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “I think it’s funny out of all the people in Monaco, you’re the first person she found.”

“Sorry, have we met?” He was beyond confused by this interaction.

“Non, I don’t think so. Merci for the soup. Mamie will bring you some later.” 

The door shut before he could reply. He stood there a second longer, dumbfounded, before making his way back to his apartment where he found a container of soup waiting outside his door. Somehow, the old woman had figured out which apartment was his. He wasn’t going to question it. Still, as he ate, he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. Her curls. Her accent. The fact that she looked infuriatingly cute with a red nose and messy hair.

The next time he saw her was at the grocery store. Produce aisle. He recognized her immediately because she hadn’t really left his mind since he met her. She had her back to him, sifting through the bananas. She looked like a fucking Disney princess. Her messy curls were now half-tamed by a red bandana and she had a woven basket hooked over one arm, the picture of effortless calm.

Lando, on the other hand, was anything but calm.

He hovered for a second, debating if he should say something–and then, before his brain could intervene, his mouth betrayed him with absolutely no impulse control.

“You know the brown ones tend to be mushy,” he said, stepping up beside her like he had any business giving fruit advice. He reached for a few less-ripened yellow ones to sell the act, though he didn’t even like bananas that much.

Without looking at him, she replied, “The ripe ones are better for clafoutis.” Her voice had that thick, slinky French accent that connected every word to the next–like her sentences were just blooming flowers.

“Claffootey?” he repeated, absolutely butchering it.

“Cla-fou-tis,” she corrected patiently, breaking the word down like she was teaching a child. “It is like a custard, but when you bake it, it goes—poof.” She mimed a small explosion with her hands, eyes still focused on the fruit. Then, glancing at his basket, she added dryly, “You need that many bananas?”

He looked down. Eight bananas. When had that happened?

“Do you know what?” he said quickly, an awkward laugh bubbling out, “I’m more of an apple guy.”

He started putting half the bananas back, trying not to think about how stupid he probably looked.

“You should try the melon,” she said, moving gracefully to the next stand. Her arm brushed against his as she passed, enough contact to make him forget where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. “They are from Cavaillon.”

She knocked lightly on a few, listening for something he couldn’t hear. “The bananas–they don’t grow here, so they are not always good. But the melons and the cherries–always good.” She placed two melons into his basket before he could protest.

“You’re new to Monaco,” she said simply, eyes still scanning the produce. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Moved around the end of last year. Still…getting my bearings.” He said with a shy grin and a shrug of his shoulders.

She nodded, unfazed, moving down the aisle. He followed, helplessly magnetized.

“I always have dinner at Mamie’s on Sunday, when I’m in the city,” she said. “I was sick last time–it’s why she made you bring me soup.”

He noticed again that she never looked at him when she talked. Her focus stayed on whatever her hands were doing–rearranging, sorting, selecting. It was maddening and mesmerizing all at once.

“It was really no trouble–” he started.

“She wouldn’t have let you say no anyway,” she interrupted, glancing at him with a knowing smirk. “You can come this Sunday. Six o’clock. She wants to say thank you, and you can try the ‘clafootey.’” She tried to imitate his accent on the last word, purposefully bad. He couldn’t help laughing.

Then she gave his basket another look and sighed. “Now go find what you actually came here for. You’ve been picking up random things the entire time you follow me like a baby canard.”

Before he could respond, she was already walking away, curls bouncing behind her.

Lando looked down at his basket. Four bananas, two melons, a bag of lentils, and a tin of cookies.

He groaned under his breath. “Absolute muppet.”

And still, he couldn’t stop smiling.

He showed up five minutes before six. His mum had always said on time is late, and he’d never really believed her–until now.
That, and her rule about never showing up empty-handed, explained why Lando Norris was currently standing outside a stranger’s door in Monaco holding a pot of lavender, trying to work up the courage to knock.

“Lando?”

He spun around. Both of them froze for half a second, surprised, before the door in front of them swung open.

“Oh good, you’re both here.”

It was her.

Her hair was down tonight, curls tied back with a long white ribbon. Loose jeans, a thin tank top–breezy, sun-soaked, perfectly effortless. He hadn’t noticed her eyes before; the huge glasses had hidden them. Now he saw they were a deep, dark blue–like a stormy sea–and it completely threw him. This was the third time he’d come face to face with her, and every time it felt like a gust of wind.

“Soeurette,” Charles groaned behind him, stepping forward to hug her, “why is it the one time I’m invited to dinner with you and Mamie, you also invite one of my track rivals? You could’ve at least invited Carlos.”

“It could be worse– I could’ve invited Max,” she shot back, kissing both his cheeks. “Go cry to Mamie. She’s the one who found him.”

Then her gaze flicked to Lando. “Are you going to stand there all night?” That teasing half-smile appeared–the one that seemed permanently etched into her expression.

“These are for Mamie,” he blurted, holding out the lavender like a peace offering.

“Then go give them to Mamie, Racer.” She pushed the pot back toward his chest and started down the hall. “And take off your shoes!”

He let out a quiet laugh under his breath, tugging off his trainers. “No kisses for me?” he muttered, too low for anyone to hear–he hoped.

“Mamie, j’ai trouvé ton chien errant!” she called as she disappeared around the corner.

He followed the sound of her voice into a warm, bright kitchen. She hugged her grandmother from behind, resting her chin on the woman’s shoulder. “Ça sent très bon,” she said before kissing her cheek and moving to the dining table. “Charles, prends la vaisselle!”

“She can never say please,” Charles said, rolling his eyes at Lando like they’d been drafted into the same sitcom. He moved with practiced ease, grabbing silverware from drawers like he had lived there his whole life.

“These are for you, ma’am.” Lando held up the lavender, instantly regretting the words leaving his mouth. “For your garden… on the terrace…I saw from mine that you had a lot of plants so my mum thought it would be a nice addition…” His voice trailed off, mortified by how stupid he sounded.

Mamie looked up from basting something golden and aromatic in the pan, squinting first, then lighting up. “Ah! Lavande!” She looked delighted. Relief flooded him.

“Le balcon, s’il vous plaît…dans le jardin,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the open balcony doors.

Lando froze, half-panicked. He had no idea what she’d just said.

Charles, of course, was laughing. “I’ve got it, mate.” He took the pot easily. “Go bring the salad to the table.”

Lando spotted a large bowl of greens on the counter and carried it carefully to where she–still nameless in his mind–was arranging the table like a perfectionist. Her hands moved quickly and confidently: forks straightened, spoons swapped, a fingerprint wiped away with a cloth. She was a study in control.

He must’ve stood there too long because she said, without looking up, “Are you going to stand there all night?”

Second time that evening. He blinked out of his daze. “Sorry.” He set the bowl down. She immediately shifted it half an inch.

“It was crooked,” she said defensively when she caught his amused look.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The corner of her mouth twitched–trying, and failing, not to smile. It felt like watching the start lights go out at the grid; impossible to look away.

“Fini!” Mamie called, and just like that, dinner began.

They all took their places–Mamie and Lando on one side, Charles and the curly-haired girl on the other. When the older woman reached her hands across the table, the others followed automatically, fingers lacing together.

Lando hesitated, confused, until Charles gave him a look. “It’s not a prayer,” he said. “Mamie says if God wants to be invited to dinner, he shouldn’t let children starve.”

“Oui, and if prayer worked, Charles would have been World Champion by now.” She said, glaring playfully at her faux brother. “You just squeeze hands. We say thank you to each other that we are here, together, and that we are alive and that it’s enough.”

She squeezed Charles’s hand, then Lando’s, starting a quiet chain around the table.

The simple gesture hit harder than he expected. He hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he felt that kind of warmth and community.

When their hands fell away, Charles immediately reached for the serving tongs.

“Aïe!” He whines as he cradled his hand to his chest.

“Be quiet you baby, you know she likes to do it.” The girl berated him as Mamie stood from her chair to start filling their plates. Mamie quietly explained the dishes as she divided them out, the girl kindly translating for Lando after each turn. Everything sounded  lovely to Lando–until they got to the main course.

“Poisson à la bordelaise,” she said at last, smiling. “White fish cooked with breadcrumbs, lemon, and wine. It was my maman’s favorite when she was a girl.”

Lando’s fork froze mid-air.

Fish.

Across the table, Charles caught his expression and smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. One eyebrow lifted, as if to say: Well, mate–let’s see how you get out of this one.

He could handle cornering at 200 miles an hour, could handle the pressure of race day and crowds and cameras–but fish? That was a different story. Evil, if he had anything to say about it.

Charles leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “Go on then, mate,” he said casually, spearing a perfect bite with his fork. “Wouldn’t want to offend Mamie.”

Lando glared at him. “You’re evil.”

“Toujours,” Charles said with a shrug, and the girl next to him tried and failed to smother a laugh.

Her hand came up to her mouth, shoulders shaking slightly. “You don’t like fish?” she guessed, amusement dancing in her voice.

He forced a swallow. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she teased, echoing their earlier exchange.

Charles snorted, earning himself a swift kick under the table.

“I–” Lando tried again, staring at the flaky white mound on his plate. “I’m…just not usually a fish guy. More of a…uh…chips guy.”

She tilted her head, the smallest of smiles playing at her lips. “So, you like the boring part of fish and chips?”

“Exactly.” He shot her a mock-serious look. “I’m all about the carbs. Very consistent energy source.”

“Mm,” she said, pretending to consider this deeply. “Then you will eat the bread crumbs on top. Leave the fish. Problem solved.”

Charles burst out laughing, and even Mamie cracked a smile from her end of the table.

Lando felt his cheeks warm, but he picked up his fork obediently and scraped up a bite heavy on the breading. It wasn’t half bad, actually.

“See?” She said softly. “Not so terrible.”

“Yeah,” he said, meeting her eyes–that same stormy blue that had already started to undo him. “It’s great.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now, really smiling, and for a second he forgot where he was entirely–forgot the fish, the teasing, the fact that Charles was probably watching him like a hawk.

When dinner ended, Mamie brought out the clafoutis. She served it warm, the smell of sugar and banana filling the room.

Lando took one bite and nearly melted. “Okay,” he said, pointing his fork across the table at her, “you were right. This is incredible.”

“I usually am,” she replied, lips quirking.

Charles groaned. “Ugh, stop flirting over dessert, I’m trying to eat.”

Lando choked on a laugh, sputtering, “I wasn’t–”

But the girl across from him only raised an eyebrow, looking far too composed for someone whose cheeks had definitely gone pink. 

The evening stretched on with broken english and fast french. Mamie’s wine kept refilling their glasses, and Charles was deep into a karting story from when they were young and his younger brother swore he could beat his track time in the rain.

Lando listened–or tried to–but his attention kept slipping to the girl across from him. The way she tucked a loose curl behind her ear only for it to fall forward again. The way she laughed with her whole face, soft but unguarded.

“Et toi, Lando?” Mamie’s voice pulled him back. “Do you like Monaco?” She said slowly, like the english words were bitter on her tongue

He blinked, caught mid-thought. “Yeah–yeah, I do. It’s…different. Still figuring it out, I guess.”

“You’ll like it more once you learn your way around the grocery store,” Charles teased.

The curly-haired girl hid a smile behind her glass. “He found the bananas though,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“I’m never living that down, am I?” Lando said.

“Not if I can help it,” she replied, and there it was again–that faint smirk, the one that made her eyes light up just a bit longer than normal.

Mamie laughed, shaking her head. “Toujours des enfants. Always children.”

They cleared plates after dessert, the three of them moving around the kitchen like they’d done it a hundred times before. Charles hummed softly under his breath, stacking glasses. Mamie scolded him for dripping water on the floor. The girl wiped crumbs into her palm, then passed by Lando with a dish towel, brushing his arm just slightly as she reached past him.

He didn’t want to assume it was on purpose, but he also didn’t rule it out.

“So,” he said, trying for casual as he dried a plate, “am I finally allowed to know your name? Or do I just keep calling you ‘Soup Girl’ forever?”

She paused, glancing up at him over her shoulder. “You never asked.”

“I didn’t get the chance,” he countered.

Her lips twitched like she was deciding whether or not to tell him. “Amelie.”

He repeated it quietly, tasting the syllables like something fragile. “Amelie.”

She nodded, turning back to the sink and he pretended like he didn’t see the blush creeping up her cheeks just from the way he said her name.

Charles walked back in, catching the tail end of the moment. “You just now learned her name? Mate, I knew you were slow but c’mon.”

Lando rolled his eyes, handing him a stack of plates. “Go make yourself useful, mate.”

“Bonne idée,” Charles said, grinning.

They worked until the kitchen was spotless, Mamie shooing them out with promises of leftover clafoutis in the morning. When Lando finally stepped into the hall, the warm light spilling out behind him, Amelie followed to hand him his jacket.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it.

She shrugged lightly, eyes flicking toward him then away again. “Try not to get lost on your way home, Racer.”

He smiled, pulling the jacket over his arm. “I’m just a few doors down, but I don’t know. If I do, maybe I’ll end up at the right door again.”

That earned him a smallest laugh, quiet but real.

“Bonne nuit, Lando,” she said with a coy smile.

He hesitated, savoring it. His name. Her voice. The way she said it.

“G’night, Amelie.”

She closed the door, and the hallway fell silent.

Lando stood there for a moment, the smell of lavender and lemon still clinging to him. Then he smiled to himself–the big, cheesy kind.

Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.

The next morning, Lando woke up thinking about her.

By 10, he gave up pretending he wasn’t thinking about her.

By noon, he decided to do something about it.

He paced his kitchen, stared at the leftover clafoutis in his fridge, then found himself halfway down the hall before he even realized what he was doing.

Mamie answered the door in a floral apron, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.

“Lando!” she said brightly. “Tu viens pour le café?”

“Uh–bonjour,” he said, a little too confidently. “No, uh, café–later…maybe? I was actually wondering…” He trailed off. Her expression was kind but completely uncomprehending. “Right. You don’t–okay.” He gestured helplessly. “Amelie? Is she–uh–around?”

Mamie tilted her head. “Amélie? Oui, oui.”

He brightened. “Great, yeah. Is she…free?” He mimed walking, then pointing to himself, then doing an awkward steering-wheel motion. “Like, uh–out? Go out?”

She blinked at him, utterly baffled.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, one sec.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled for Charles’s name.

The line clicked. “Mate,” Charles answered, “don’t tell me you forgot your wallet here again.”

“No, I need a favor,” Lando said quickly. “I’m at Mamie’s and she doesn’t understand anything I’m saying. Can you–uh–translate for me?”

Charles groaned. “Why are you at Mamie’s?”

“I just need to ask her something.”

There was a pause. “Ask her what?”

Lando hesitated. “...If Amelie’s around.”

That woke him up. “Pourquoi?”

“Because I was gonna, you know…ask her if she wanted to grab a coffee…or something.”

Silence. Then a long, disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not!”

“Oh, mate. You’ve got some nerve.”

“I’m literally just asking if she’s free,” Lando said defensively. “Not proposing or anything.”

Charles was still laughing. “You realize she’s basically my sister, right? Mamie practically raised her. You’re lucky I don’t hang up right now.”

“Charles,” Lando said, exasperated. “Please. Just translate before she thinks I’ve lost it.”

He heard a muttered mon dieu on the other end, then Charles switching to French. “Mamie, Lando veut savoir si Amélie est là.”

Mamie’s eyes lit up in recognition. She rattled off a stream of French that sounded suspiciously like teasing.

Charles sighed into the phone. “She says Amelie went to the market. And also she wants to know if you’re courting her.”

Lando’s face burned. “Tell her no! Wait–actually, I mean, not yet–well, not ‘courting,’ that sounds medieval–just–”

He heard Charles choke on a laugh. “I’m telling her you’re in love with her.”

“Don’t–wait–Charles!”

But it was too late. Mamie was already smiling, that knowing, mischievous kind of smile. She patted his cheek like he was twelve. “Amélie, marché. Dix minutes,” she said.

“Merci,” he said quickly, even though his accent made her wince.

After he hung up and Mamie had shut her door, he leaned against the wall, groaning. “Brilliant. Great. Exactly how I wanted that to go.”

Still, ten minutes later, he found himself walking toward the market anyway, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He could feel the sun on his neck, the hum of the street, the buzz of nerves in his stomach.

He spotted her before she saw him–basket on her arm, head tilted as she tested the weight of a peach. It was just like when he saw her at the grocery store. He felt like he could find her in any crowd–his eyes were just drawn to her.

He took a breath, straightened his sweatshirt, and stepped forward.

She was comparing two peaches when she looked up and froze.

For a heartbeat, neither of them said anything. Then she smiled, that same small, knowing grin that had undone him at dinner.

For a second, Lando forgot how to move. Then he managed a grin, a little sheepish, a little too pleased.

“You again,” she said, half laughing. “You follow me everywhere, hm?”

He grinned back, caught. “Not on purpose. Well–mostly not.”

“Ah, so you admit it.” She raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. “You are stalking me for the bananas again.”

“I’m branching out,” he said quickly, gesturing toward the peaches and cherries. “New fruit. Character development.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You are not very subtle, Racer.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Uh–no, I’m more…persistent?’”

“That too,” she said, tossing both peaches into her basket. “So? You come to buy fruit or to ask me something?”

He hesitated. “Maybe both.”

That earned him a curious look–half amusement, half challenge. “Then ask.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime,” he said, trying to sound casual but coming off a little breathless. “There’s that café on Rue Grimaldi–I walked past it yesterday, and I thought, you know…maybe you’d like it.”

Her lips curved, like she was trying not to smile too much. “You ask all your girls this? To get coffee?”

“Just the ones who bully me.” He shrugged.

“How many girls do you let bully you?” Her eyes narrowed, but her feet took a step closer to him like a string tugging them together.

“Just one at the moment.” He grinned cheekily down at her.

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Hm…I will think about it.”

Lando’s stomach dropped for a second before she added, “Maybe tomorrow.”

He blinked. “That was...easy.”

“I don’t like to waste time,” she said simply, then handed him the basket. “Hold this.”

He took it automatically. “Why?”

“So you don’t look so lost and empty-handed while you follow me around.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never, canard.” she said, turning toward the next stall. Then, over her shoulder, “But maybe I will let you buy me a coffee.”

He watched her walk a few steps ahead, the sun catching her curls peaking out of her bandana, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Monaco, everything felt oddly, stupidly right.

He caught up to her by the next stall, still holding the basket as proof he had a reason to be there.

“Do you always come to the market?" he asked, falling into step beside her.

“Why, are you trying to memorize my calendar so you can stalk me easier?” she said without looking up, examining a row of tomatoes, pressing one gently with her thumb.

“No! No–I–uh…no, I was just–”

“I’m just teasing you, canard, I know we have…how do you say? It is heureux hasard in French, but I don’t know how you say in English. It is like…happy chance?” She smiled faintly. “Not fate, but something…lucky, maybe.” She said it shyly, like she was telling him a secret. He saw the embarrassment cross her face as soon as she realized what she was saying. “You have to check if it’s good. Otherwise you end up with bad tomatoes and a sad dinner.” She said, quickly changing the subject, poking the tomato he had picked up in his hand.

He grinned at her sheepishness, appreciating that she wasn’t as unmovable as she presented herself to be. He was scared that she would regret showing him her softness, so he decided not to press, for now. Instead, he held up the tomato like it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

“So…this one’s bad?”

She leaned closer, inspecting it. “Not bad. Just…not patient.”

He laughed. “Like me.”

She glanced up at him, then away again, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Then maybe you two will get along.”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands then, except keep holding the tomato, as if it might give him another clue about herself.

She held in a laugh and took his hand, saving the poor tomato he was poking to death, and tugged him along to the next cart.

“You’ll have to give me more produce tips. My cooking skills top out at cereal.”

“Then it is good you live near Mamie.”

“Yeah,” he said, watching the way her bracelets slid down her wrist as she reached for some leafy greens. “She’s great. Scares me a little, though.”

“Everyone is scared of Mamie. Even Charles.”

“That’s comforting.”

She laughed under her breath, dropping a few stems into the basket on his arm. “You think she is sweet, but she knows everything. She probably already knows you wanted to ask me out.”

He winced. “Yeah, I’m aware. I might’ve…asked her where you were…with Charles translating. It was a whole thing.”

She turned, amused. “Ah, so he knows too.”

“Oh, he knows. I’m getting torn apart for this later, guaranteed.”

“Good,” she said lightly. “He will tell me everything.”

Lando groaned. “That’s cruel.”

She shrugged, eyes flicking toward him.

He couldn’t argue with that.

They moved from stall to stall, slow and easy. She pointed out what was local, what was worth buying. He mostly just followed, listening to her talk about fruit the way most people talked about music. Every so often she’d hand him something to carry–apricots, bread, herbs–until his arms were full and hers were empty.

“You’re doing very well,” she said, biting back a smile. “A good assistant.”

“Assistant?” he protested. “I thought I was an invited guest.”

“You invited yourself.”

He grinned. “Fair.”

They walked on, sunlight cutting through the striped awnings, the smell of coffee drifting from somewhere nearby. When they reached the corner of Rue Grimaldi, she stopped, adjusting the strap of her shirt.

“This is the café?” she asked, nodding toward the terrace with small round tables spilling onto the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the one.”

She studied it for a moment, then him. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I will let you buy me coffee,” she said, as if granting permission.

He laughed, a little breathless. “Generous of you.”

“Oui,” she said simply, stepping ahead of him toward the door. “But I choose the pastries.”

“Deal.”

He followed her inside, the bell above the door chiming softly as the sunlight folded behind them. The café was tucked between a florist and a bookshop, small and warm. They found a table by the window, sunlight spilling across the wood top. Amelie ordered for both of them in French–quick, confident, the words rolling off her tongue. Lando had no clue what she’d said but decided anything would sound good coming from her.

“You always sound like you’re saying something important,” he said once the waiter walked away.

“That’s just how French sounds,” she replied. “Everything is very…dramatic.”

“Even ordering coffee?”

“Especially ordering coffee.”

He grinned. “I’ll have to work on that. My accent sounds like I’m apologizing every time I speak.”

“You are English. It is your nature to apologize.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “That’s probably true.”

The coffees arrived, along with two small pastries she’d apparently ordered without asking. He liked that about her–decisive, unbothered.

He took a sip and winced. “You didn’t warn me it’d be this strong.”

She raised a brow. “I thought you asked to get coffee?”

“I–yeah, I guess I didn’t really think about the fact that I’m not a big coffee person.”

“Ah,” she said, leaning back slightly. “I will order you a hot chocolate next time.”

He laughed, setting the cup down. “You’ve got me figured out already, huh?”

“It was not difficult,” she said, smiling into her cup.

He watched her for a moment, the way her hair fell forward when she leaned down, the way she seemed to think before every word. “You and Charles are close, yeah?”

Her smile deepened, softer this time. “Very. Our mothers were best friends. He was always at our house, or I was at his. He likes to say he taught me how to ride a bike, but I think I did most of the work.”

“That sounds about right,” Lando said, laughing.

“When my mother passed, I think his family became…mine, too. He is like a brother. Annoying, but good.”

They shared a small laugh before he asked, “And your dad? Last night you said he was a coach?”

She stirred her coffee slowly. “Yes. He was always traveling–competitions, training camps. When he realized I could skate, he thought it would be nice to coach me, too. So I moved to France a few years after my mother died. Now I go back and forth–Monaco when I can, France for training. It is…a strange balance.”

“You still compete?”

“I’m not competing this season. I decided to…take some time off. I help younger skaters more now–choreography, edge work. But it’s still my favorite place to be, on the ice. I’m good at it. And it makes sense.”

“I get that.” he said.

She looked up at him, something knowing in her eyes. “You have that with racing.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I grew up in it. My dad loved cars, my mum tried to keep us all alive, and with four of us in the house, it was just–chaos. But the track always felt quiet, even when it was super loud.”

“Four?” she repeated, surprised.

“Yeah. One brother, two sisters. They’re a lot, sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade it. They still come to races when they can.”

“That’s nice,” she said softly. “A family that travels to watch you do something dangerous.”

He smiled. “They say it builds character.”

She tilted her head. “And does it?”

“Not sure. Maybe it just builds nerves.”

She looked up at him, something knowing and soft in her stormy eyes. He saw the shift, the brief moment where the shield of wit and teasing fell away, and he knew he was completely screwed. He listened as she continued to talk about her sport–the structure, the control, the need for perfection that he recognized from his own life. The same kind of intensity that let her ignore the hustle of the farmer’s market and focus only on the perfect ripeness of a peach. He looked down at his own bitter coffee, then across at the girl who was suddenly, effortlessly occupying all his headspace, and a stupid grin spread across his face. This was it. The beginning. It was just coffee, just a simple date arranged with the help of a very confused old woman and a heavily-teasing rival. And for a while, it was, quietly tucked away–just theirs.

Chapter Text

The Miami sun was a brutal, humid weight, but inside the air-conditioned, low-lit lounge behind the McLaren garage, Lando felt nothing but the cool relief of Amelie’s fingers tracing the faint scar just above his wrist. He was supposed to be in a long, tedious media debrief, but a major sponsor had cancelled their session last minute, gifting him an unexpected forty minutes of stolen time. He’d sent her a frantic, one-word text—now—and she had appeared five minutes later, slipping past the security guard with the practiced, casual confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere.

The secrecy and sneaking around wasn't born from shame, but from a weary anticipation of the backlash. Lando’s last public relationship had ended in a media storm, and the girl he was seeing at the time had been relentlessly bullied and subjected to crazy amounts of online hate. He knew Amelie, a professional athlete herself and inherently tougher than anyone he’d met, could handle the spotlight, but they had mutually agreed that preserving their privacy was paramount. They needed time to build something real and solid before involving the PR teams, the restrictive contracts and the inevitable rules about what they could and couldn't share.

Now, she was curled against the corner of a leather sofa, wearing a simple white linen shirt that made her look impossibly crisp next to his sweaty race gear. He was sitting too close, his knee touching the hem of her jeans, their connection a quiet, blazing heat in the clinical silence of the room. He was supposed to be reviewing telemetry on the monitor across the room, but his attention was tethered entirely to her. His thumb was caught gently in the corner of her eye, and the air between them was thick with unsaid things and barely-managed urges. He felt like a ridiculous, dopey golden retriever, happy just to be in her orbit, and the sheer need to touch her, to feel her warm, solid presence, was almost painful.

“It smells like sweaty tires in here,” she murmured, her accent a low, slinky rhythm that vibrated in his chest. She leaned forward, pressing a quick, dry kiss to his jawline, a tiny, fleeting movement that still managed to electrify his skin. He caught her hand before she could pull it away, bringing her knuckles to his mouth, tasting the faint floral soap she always used.

“It smells like a podium to me,” he countered, a grin splitting his face. He watched her try to maintain her cool, collected exterior, but the betraying blush that crept across the high points of her cheeks was all the evidence he needed. She was just as gone as he was, just as desperate for this private moment. The knowledge was intoxicating.

“You’re ridiculous,” she scoffed, though her fingers tightened around his, and her eyes flicked towards the closed door like a security measure. She was always the hyper-aware one, the one who remembered the stakes. He had the adrenaline of the track; she had the perpetual, quiet tension of keeping a secret. “You should be working. Cha asked me if you were heading to the media pen soon but I told him you were too busy meditating.”

“I am meditating,” Lando countered, pulling her hand up to his lips again, placing a string of slow, deliberate kisses across her palm. His eyes never left hers, challenging her composure. “My meditation is focusing on the only perfect thing I’ve seen all weekend.”

Amelie’s composure cracked. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped her, quickly smothered as she slapped his chest lightly. “Lando. We’re going to get caught.”

“Worth it.”

He pressed his luck, leaning closer, closing the final inch between them. He settled his weight against the leather couch, moving his arm to pull her in by her waist, ignoring the internal siren screaming at him that they had limited time before someone came looking for him.

The kiss started softly, a tentative brush of lips, tasting like her gum and his Monster and the sweet promise of more. Amelie hesitated for just a second, her hands flat on his chest, still the sensible one. But Lando was past caring about sense. He deepened the contact, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw, tilting her head back to allow him better access. Her resistance melted instantly. A soft, hungry sound escaped her throat and her hands, which had been pushing him away, clawed gently into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, demanding more. He felt the soft pressure of her mouth, the urgent need that mirrored his own, and the sheer, breathtaking relief of being consumed by her.

He pulled her into his lap, not bothering with delicacy, one hand anchoring itself low on her hip. The movement was clumsy and driven by need, a reckless action that should have been reserved for the privacy of his hotel room. For those few glorious seconds, the world dissolved. There was no paddock, no media, no Zac or Andrea–just the thunder of his own heartbeat, the desperate rush of air, and the intoxicating reality of her body pressed against his.

Just as the kiss deepened–that sweet, easy surrender he craved, that dizzying climb of heat–the quiet, controlled beep of the main lounge door lock going off sliced through the silence.

He pushed her off his lap and spun toward the monitor, pulling his headset down over his ears in a smooth, rehearsed motion. He hunched his shoulders, pretending to stare intently at the data streams flashing across the screen.

Amelie leapt off the couch and straightened, the only movement left her in a frantic tremble.

The door swung open. It wasn't a journalist or his engineer; it was Zac, looking crisp, serious, and in a hurry, with a manager trailing half a step behind him. Zac stopped dead, his sharp eyes scanning the quiet lounge before landing immediately on Lando's rigid back.

"Lando," Zac's voice cut through the air, completely professional and demanding attention. "I thought you were in the sim debrief. I need five minutes on the strategy for the pit stops, now."

Lando slowly turned, his expression carefully neutral, heart hammering against his ribs like a panicked drummer. He focused on the data screen, not the girl next to him. "Hi, Zac. I just wrapped up. Data looks...interesting." He gestured lamely at the monitor before scratching his head nervously.

Zac's gaze then flicked to Amelie. She was still frozen by the couch. She straightened, adopting the face of a highly annoyed, bored professional.

"And who is this?" Zac asked, his tone polite but firm.

Amelie spoke before Lando could, her voice clipped, French accent smooth and icy–a flawless shield. She offered the barest hint of a nod. "I am coordinating a project for the FIA. We are gathering signatures for a charity auction in Geneva next month, a large piece with all the drivers. I was told to wait here for the Head of Communications to confirm the item and move the acquisition forward."

Zac blinked, recognizing the high-profile, multi-team charity angle instantly. "Ah, the foundation. Important work. I’m sure trying to wrangle everyone for signatures has been a nightmare. Lando, make sure you get her whatever she needs. Give her Sheila’s direct line if she needs it then meet me in my office–5 minutes, ok?." He spared Amelie one last, appraising look. "A pleasure. Best of luck with the auction."

Zac swept out, his assistant scrambling to keep up. Lando nodded stiffly, his eyes locking with Amelie’s for a fraction of a second–a shared, frantic breath and a silent wink–before he turned slowly, his face now split by an enormous, stupid, relieved grin.

Amelie was already leaning against the couch, her shoulders shaking with silent, relieved laughter. Her eyes, those deep, stormy blue pools, were shining with a mixture of terror and triumph.

“You’re supposed to be following your boss, Racer,” she whispered, her accent thick with suppressed amusement, a slight hitch in her breath.

He walked straight to her, ignoring the open door and the certainty of being spotted. He was too high on the risk and the success of her flawless lie.

“You heard him–5 minutes,” Lando murmured, the thrill of their deceit making his voice husky. He reached up, his fingers sinking into the silky, loose curls at the back of her neck, pulling her close. His eyes devoured the remnants of her composure–the lingering flush on her cheeks, the slight tremble of her bottom lip. It was the most ridiculously hot thing he had ever seen. The way her mind snapped to attention, the way she fabricated a high-status lie on the spot, was pure genius.

“I told him about the Foundation, and the auction,” Amelie confessed, her breath warm against his mouth. “A massive piece for all the drivers. It was plausible, non?”

“Flawless. Absolutely flawless, Amelie,” he whispered against her lips. “You were so cool, I was about to give it all up just to get out of the meeting.”

She laughed, a small, quiet sound that was instantly devoured by his mouth. The kiss was no longer frantic, but deep and needy, a confirmation that they were okay, that they were still safe. It was greedy and possessive, driven by the intense anxiety that had just ripped through them. He pulled her body flush against his, needing the solid, grounding reality of her touch.

When she finally pulled back–too quickly for his liking, always the sensible one–she was breathless, her eyes clouded with the same mutual heat that was roaring in his own chest.

“You have to go,” she insisted, pushing gently at his shoulders.

“I know,” Lando groaned, pressing his forehead against hers for one last second of desperate contact. He saw the way her hand instinctively moved to smooth the wrinkles from his team kit, the small, habitual movement of someone who cared about him.

“Go. I will find Charles. My cover is blown here, anyway. I cannot face the Head of Communications about a fake auction item.” She smiled, her eyes promising a reward later.

He finally released her, but not without leaning in one last time, planting a decisive kiss on the tip of her nose. "You are incredible. And next time, we get caught properly."

"Don't you ever dare, canard," she threatened, but the soft, lingering smile she gave him as he walked toward the door told him she was just as intoxicated by the danger as he was.

Lando strode out of the lounge, his gait confident, his mind racing. He was late, he was about to be grilled on tire degradation, and his professional life was a nightmare–but he had Amelie. And for now, that secret, terrifying heat was all that mattered.