Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lando Norris’s life looked perfect in photographs.

Glossy, sunlit, carefully angled.

On paper, it was flawless: PGA tour wins, endorsement deals, magazine covers that always caught his left side better than his right.

A swing analysts called effortless. A smile that sponsors loved because it felt approachable without being familiar.

His apartment reflected the same idea. It sat in the middle of the city, all glass walls and muted colours—soft greys, warm wood, clean lines.

Nothing cluttered. Nothing out of place. The kind of space interior designers loved because it didn’t tell you too much about the person living in it.

Lando liked it that way. Or at least, he told himself he did.

Most mornings followed a rhythm he could execute without thinking. Wake up early, stretch. Coffee—always black, always too strong.

A quick glance at his phone for overnight emails from his agent, his manager, someone reminding him where he needed to be next and who he needed to smile for when he got there.

He moved through his days like a professional at being seen.

On the course, he was all precision and focus. Lean shoulders relaxed under the polo, grip steady, posture flawless.

The crowd noise faded when he lined up a shot, replaced by the familiar calm that only golf gave him the quiet pressure, the private battle between breath and muscle memory.

This part of his life made sense.

Winning felt good. Losing stung. Improvement was measurable. There were numbers, trophies, proof that effort led somewhere tangible.

Cameras caught him at his best angles, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw tight with concentration.

Applause came easy. What didn’t come as easily were the moments afterward.

Hotel rooms that all smelled the same. Flights taken alone despite flying business class. Dinners ordered through room service because it was easier than sitting in a restaurant where people stared a second too long.

Sometimes, late at night, Lando would lie on his back and stare at ceilings he didn’t recognize, phone resting against his chest, the silence pressing in until it felt loud.

He could buy almost anything. Except company that stayed.

Friends were scattered—some back home, some on different sports, some slowly drifting into lives that didn’t overlap with his anymore.

Conversations became shorter, filled with “let’s catch up soon” and dates that never landed. Romance was…complicated.

Dating in his world came with footnotes and conditions. People who knew his name before they knew him.

People who liked the idea of him—the golfer, the lifestyle, the access. People who took photos when they thought he wasn’t looking.

He’d tried going out the old-fashioned way. That ended badly. So, eventually—half embarrassed, half resigned—he downloaded dating apps.

At first, it felt ridiculous. A PGA star swiping through profiles while sitting on a leather couch worth more than some people’s cars. He cropped his photos carefully.

No trophies, no logos, no golf courses. Just Lando. Smiling so casual and safe.

Bio kept simple. Too simple, maybe.

Travels a lot. Likes coffee. Bad at cooking.

It was mostly true.

The matches came quickly. Too quickly. Conversations burned hot and fast and fizzled out just as fast.

People ghosted when his schedule got messy. Others pushed too hard, too soon, asking questions that felt like interviews.

“What’s it really like being you?”

“Are you gone all the time?”

“Do you ever think about settling down?”

He did, constantly. Just not out loud. Some nights, he deleted the app. Some nights, he redownloaded it an hour later.

Loneliness didn’t look dramatic on him. It was subtle. A pause before locking the door. An extra mug left unused on the counter. A habit of leaving the TV on for background noise even when he wasn’t watching.

By the time Lando got home, his body felt like it had been folded and unfolded one too many times.

The course had been relentless that day—hours under the sun, drills that demanded precision long after his muscles started protesting.

His shoulders ached in that dull, familiar way, forearms tight, calves burning pleasantly from repetition. The kind of tired that lived deep in the bones, earned and stubborn.

He kicked his shoes off by the door without lining them up, a progress.

The apartment greeted him with silence, cool air, and the faint citrus scent of the cleaner that came twice a week. Normally, he’d shower first, maybe stretch again, maybe order something sensible and overpriced.

Tonight, he wanted none of that. He wanted instant noodles.

Cheap, salty and comforting. Something that reminded him of hotel nights years ago, before sponsorship dinners and nutrition plans, when food was just food and exhaustion didn’t need managing.

He filled the kettle, paused, then decided against it. Stove was faster. He set a pot on the burner, turned the knob, and watched the blue flame leap up eagerly.

Too eagerly. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already turning away. “Relax.”

The packet tore open with a soft rip. Seasoning powder dusted his fingers. He dumped everything into the pot without ceremony, gave it a lazy stir, and glanced at the clock.

He could shower while it cooked, just a quick one.

The bathroom light flicked on. Steam bloomed almost immediately as hot water hit tile.

Lando stepped under the spray with a grateful sigh, shoulders dropping as tension finally began to melt away. He rested his forehead briefly against the cool wall, eyes closed.

This was the best part of the day. The moment no one needed anything from him.

He started humming without realizing it. Something absent-minded and tuneless. The sound echoed softly off the tiles as shampoo ran through his hair.

And then— BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Lando froze. “What—?”

The smoke alarm shrieked again, sharp and insistent, slicing through the calm like a siren straight into his spine. “Oh no.”

He lunged for the shower handle, water splashing everywhere, nearly slipping as he stepped out. He grabbed the nearest towel, wrapped it around his waist with more hope than skill, and sprinted out of the bathroom.

The apartment smelled wrong.

Acrid, burnt and thick.

Smoke curled out of the kitchen, grey and aggressive, clinging to the ceiling. The pot on the stove was… on fire. Not dramatically—just enough flame licking up the side to feel deeply personal.

“Shit—shit, shit, shit.”

He waved his hands uselessly at the alarm, eyes watering. His heart hammered as the reality settled in with horrible clarity.

He did not know what he was doing.

Lando grabbed a dish towel, hesitated, dropped it. He reached for the pot, yelped at the heat, stumbled back.

The alarm continued screaming. Okay. No. This was bad.

He backed away, coughing, towel slipping dangerously low as panic took over. His phone lay abandoned on the counter, screen lighting up as if mocking him.

Hands shaking, he grabbed it.

Emergency services. The ringing felt unbearably loud in his ear. “Fire emergency, what’s your situation?”

“Hi—yes—hi,” Lando said, voice cracking as smoke drifted closer. “I—um—my kitchen is on fire. Like. Actually on fire.”

“Sir, are you in immediate danger?”

“I think so? The stove— I left it on—there’s a lot of smoke—”

“Okay. Stay calm. Help is on the way. Can you safely exit the apartment?”

Lando looked down at himself. Bare feet, damp skin. One towel between him and public humiliation. “…I’m in a towel,” he said weakly.

There was a pause. Then, professionally unfazed “Understood. If it’s safe, move to fresh air and unlock your door.”

He did as told, fumbling with the lock, lungs burning, pulse roaring in his ears. He stepped into the hallway, cool air hitting his skin, and leaned against the wall, chest heaving.

He could hear neighbors’ doors opening. Voices, confusion. Somewhere below, sirens wailed—growing louder.

Lando slid down until he was sitting on the floor, towel clutched tightly, head tipping back against the wall.

Of all the ways tonight could have gone…instant noodles. He laughed once, breathless and shaky, as footsteps thundered up the stairs.

The firefighters had arrived. And Lando Norris, PGA star and professional disaster in a towel, had no idea that the man about to knock on his door was going to change his life in ways a quiet night never could.

The hallway exploded with sound. Heavy boots hit the floor first—fast, practiced, unhesitating. The kind of footsteps that didn’t ask permission.

Voices followed, clipped and efficient, overlapping in a language Lando didn’t fully process because his heart was trying to escape his ribcage.

“Unit clear?”

“Third floor, active smoke reported.”

“Door unlocked.”

Lando barely had time to scramble to his feet before they were there.

Firefighters filled the hallway in a rush of dark uniforms and reflective strips, oxygen tanks glinting under the harsh lights.

The air shifted with them—suddenly charged, purposeful. Someone gently but firmly moved him aside.

“Sir—sir, step back for me.”

“Yeah—yeah—sorry—” Lando said, clutching his towel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

And then— “Inside. Now.”

The voice was calm, firm with no hesitation. The man who spoke stepped past him without breaking stride.

Tall, broad-shouldered. Completely covered in gear—helmet, jacket, gloves, mask hanging loose at his neck. He moved like he already knew exactly what he was walking into, like fire was just another problem to be solved before dinner.

“Ventilation first,” he said sharply. “You—fan. You—extinguisher. Stove area.”

“Yes sir,” someone answered immediately.

Lando’s brain latched onto the word and then promptly short-circuited.

The man—PIASTRI, apparently his name—did not look at him. Not really. Not the way people usually did.

No flicker of recognition. No double take. No awkward pause at the sight of a half-naked man dripping water onto expensive flooring.

Nothing.

He walked straight into the apartment like Lando wasn’t standing there in nothing but a towel and regret.

The team followed in formation, moving around each other seamlessly. The door was propped open. Air rushed in. The smoke alarm continued its shrill protest from somewhere inside.

Lando hovered uselessly in the hallway, heart pounding. “Uh—hi,” he tried, voice cracking slightly. No response.

The firefigter reappeared briefly, visor lifted just enough to scan the space. His eyes flicked to Lando for half a second—quick, assessing, professional. “You injured?”

“No,” Lando said too fast. “I mean—no. Just stupid.”

There was the faintest pause. Then, simply “Happens.” And he was gone again. Lando stared after him, stunned.

That was it? No comment? No look? No are you aware you’re naked moment?

His brain attempted to reboot and failed. Inside, the team worked with quiet urgency. Smoke thinned as windows were opened. The fire was extinguished quickly—efficiently—like it had never stood a chance.

A few minutes later, the man emerged again, helmet tucked under his arm this time. “Fire’s out. Damage is contained to the stove and surrounding area. You’re lucky.”

“I—yeah,” Lando said faintly. “I get that a lot tonight.”

The man nodded once, already turning to relay instructions to his team. “Power stays off. Don’t use the stove until inspection clears it. Someone will follow up.”

“Okay.”

“Sir.”

“Yes?” The firefighter stopped. Finally looked at him properly.

Close up, Lando registered details he hadn’t before—dark hair damp with sweat, jaw tight with focus, eyes sharp and unreadable. Calm incarnate, unshakable.

“You might want to get dressed,” he said evenly. “Hallway’s public.”

Lando glanced down. Then back up. “Oh—right—yeah—sorry—” The man didn’t wait for the rest. He turned back to his team, voice already back in command mode.

“Pack it up. Good work.” They filed out just as efficiently as they’d arrived.

Lando stood there, towel-clad and blinking, watching the firefighters disappear down the stairs.

Only then did his heart remember how to beat properly. He shut the door slowly, leaned back against it, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor again.

He pressed his palms to his face. He had nearly burned his apartment down. He had met a firefighter who treated him like a checklist item.

And for reasons he absolutely did not understand yet— Lando Norris could not stop thinking about the calm voice that hadn’t cared at all.

Lando woke up the next morning expecting consequences.

A phone vibrating itself off the nightstand. A dozen missed calls. His name trending for reasons he couldn’t spin politely. Some headline involving the words PGA star, fire, and towel.

None of it happened.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains instead, pale and ordinary. The apartment smelled faintly of smoke, but otherwise looked exactly the same—too clean, too quiet, pretending nothing had gone wrong.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. His phone remained blessedly silent.

No notifications from his agent. No frantic messages asking what the hell did you do. No push alerts from sports accounts with far too much imagination.

Lando exhaled slowly. “Oh thank God.”

He rolled onto his side and scrolled anyway, just to be sure. Sports news, weather. Someone arguing about equipment regulations. Nothing about him almost committing arson via instant noodles.

The building management had sent a single, politely worded email at six in the morning.

Minor incident resolved. Thank you for your cooperation.

No names. No drama.

Even the firefighters—efficient, anonymous, professional—had left without a whisper. No photos. No social media posts. No “you’ll never guess who I saved last night.”

Either they hadn’t known who he was… Or they hadn’t cared. Both options felt oddly comforting.

By the time he left for the course, the day had settled back into its familiar rhythm. Sunglasses on. Cap pulled low. The quiet hum of routine smoothing the edges of last night’s chaos.

Practice was steady. Controlled. His swing felt clean, body responding the way it always did. Muscle memory didn’t ask questions about fires or towels or calm voices in smoky hallways.

The guys joked. Someone mentioned a bad drive. Someone else complained about blisters. Life moved on.

And yet— Between shots, his mind kept drifting.

To the way the firefighter hadn’t flinched. To the voice that cut through noise without raising itself. To the fact that, for once, someone had seen him at his worst and treated him like nothing special.

It was unsettling.

At lunch, he sat alone with a protein shake and his phone, thumb hovering over the dating app icon. He opened it, scrolled, than closed it again.

The conversations felt louder now. More performative. He didn’t want small talk. He wanted—well. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Just something quieter, realer.

That evening, back home, he reheated leftovers using the microwave. The stove remained untouched, power still off like a silent accusation.

He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, looking around the apartment.

Same space, same life. No evidence that anything had changed. And yet, when he showered, he found himself humming again—only this time, he stayed alert.

Eyes open. Stove off. Lessons learned.

Lando went to bed that night thinking it had all been a fluke. A momentary disruption. A story that would fade into the background of a very busy life.

He had no idea that nothing happening was just the pause before everything else did.

The message arrived the night before, right as Lando was brushing his teeth.

Good evening. This is the fire department following up regarding the incident at your residence.

One of our officers will need to conduct a safety inspection of your unit. Please let us know your availability.

Lando stared at his phone through the mirror, toothpaste foam frozen at the corner of his mouth.

Inspection. Right, of course.

He rinsed, wiped his mouth, and typed back with a strange flutter in his chest he immediately ignored.

Tomorrow works. I’ll be home around 3 p.m.

A polite confirmation came minutes later. No names, no faces, no warning.

He slept fine that night. Perfectly normal. Didn’t think about it at all. That was a lie.

The next day ran long. Practice bled into meetings, meetings into recovery, recovery into traffic. By the time Lando pulled into the parking garage beneath his building, his shoulders ached and his golf bag felt heavier than usual slung over his back.

He checked the time. 2:57 p.m.

Close enough. The lobby doors slid open with a soft hiss, cool air washing over him. Marble floors. Neutral tones. A familiar, impersonal quiet.

And then his heart dropped straight through his chest.

He stopped walking. Sat on one of the lobby chairs, hands folded neatly in his lap, was the firefighter.

Not in full gear this time. No helmet. No oxygen tank. No bulky jacket swallowing his frame.

Just a navy uniform—pressed, clean, sleeves fitted snugly around forearms that looked just as solid without all that protective padding. Name stitched neatly over his chest.

PIASTRI.

Lando’s brain helpfully supplied, Oh it’s him. Their eyes met. Something unspoken clicked into place. “Oh,” Lando said, intelligently.

Oscar stood immediately. Efficient, polite and calm as ever. “Mr. Norris?” he asked, voice exactly the same as it had been the night before—firm, steady, like it didn’t waste words.

“Yes,” Lando said. Then, after a beat, “Hi.”

“Oscar Piastri,” Oscar said, offering a nod instead of a handshake, eyes flicking briefly to the golf bag. “I’m here for the inspection.”

Right. Of course he was.

Lando shifted his grip on the bag, suddenly very aware of the sweat at the back of his neck, the fact that he was still wearing practice clothes, hair a little damp from rushing through a shower at the course.

“Yeah—uh—sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “I didn’t realize it would be you.”

Oscar’s expression didn’t change. Not visibly. “It’s assigned by district,” he said simply. “If now’s not a good time—”

“No,” Lando said too fast. “No, it’s fine. Perfect. I mean—fine. Timing’s good.”

Oscar nodded once, like he’d expected that answer. They waited for the elevator together.

Silence settled—not awkward exactly, but charged. Lando stared determinedly at the numbers lighting up above the doors. He could feel Oscar’s presence beside him, solid and grounding in a way that made his thoughts tangle.

This was worse than the towel. At least then Oscar had been all gear and urgency. Now, there was nothing to hide behind. Just the man himself. Clean-cut, focused and real.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. “After you,” Oscar said.

Lando stepped inside, golf bag bumping lightly against the wall. Oscar followed, standing at a respectful distance, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

The doors slid shut. Lando swallowed. This was just an inspection just a stove, just a checklist. So why did it feel like the start of something he hadn’t prepared for at all?

The elevator ride was mercifully short.

When the doors slid open on Lando’s floor, Oscar stepped aside to let him lead the way. The hallway was quiet, carpeted, faintly echoing with the sound of their footsteps.

Lando adjusted the strap of his golf bag on instinct, already feeling the dull pull in his shoulder.

Oscar glanced at it again. “You play every day?” he asked, conversationally, like he was asking about the weather.

Lando blinked. “Uh—” He swore under his breath, more amused than annoyed. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Oscar hummed, thoughtful. “That explains the calluses.”

“What?”

“Your hands,” Oscar said easily. “Grip marks.” Lando stared at him for half a second too long.

Okay, he thought. So it’s true. He really didn’t know.

Not a flicker of recognition. Not a hint of oh. Just observation. The way people looked at other people when there wasn’t a headline floating above their head. Something in Lando’s chest loosened.

They reached his unit. Same door, same number. The same place that had nearly betrayed him over instant noodles.

Lando dropped the golf bag just inside the doorway with a dull thud and crouched to punch in the code, fingers moving automatically.

“Yeah,” he said casual, almost offhand, eyes on the keypad. “I, uh… I’m a professional golfer.”

The door unlocked with a soft click. Behind him, Oscar went quiet. Not dramatically. Just—still.

Lando straightened slowly, keys dangling from his fingers, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between them. He turned around.

Oscar’s brow had furrowed slightly, like a man recalibrating information. His gaze flicked—not to Lando’s face this time, but briefly to the golf bag. Then back. “Professional,” Oscar repeated.

“Yeah,” Lando said, scratching the back of his neck. “I play on the PGA Tour.”

Another pause. It wasn’t awe. It wasn’t excitement. It wasn’t even surprise, really. It was adjustment. “Oh,” Oscar said at last.

That was it. No congratulations. No I knew it. No sudden change in tone.

Just a quiet acknowledgment, followed by a nod like he’d filed the information away where it belonged.

“Well,” Oscar said, gesturing toward the apartment, voice back to business. “Mind if I come in?”

Lando stepped aside, heart doing something unhelpful in his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”

Oscar crossed the threshold like it meant nothing at all. And somehow, that meant everything.

Oscar moved through the apartment with the same efficiency he’d had the night of the fire.

He checked the stove first, crouching slightly, gloved fingers testing knobs, inspecting connections. Lando hovered nearby, pretending to lean casually against the counter while actually standing a little too close.

He noticed it. He just didn’t stop. Oscar smelled faintly of soap and something clean beneath it—laundry detergent, maybe. Not smoke not fire. Just… normal.

“Stove stays off until the gas line’s cleared,” Oscar said, straightening. “You’ve done that already?”

“Yeah,” Lando replied quickly. “I mean—yes. Immediately. Haven’t touched it since.”

“Good.” Oscar moved to the small utility panel, jotting something down on his clipboard. Lando followed, footsteps quiet, presence lingering like he didn’t quite know where to put himself in his own apartment.

Oscar glanced up. “You live alone?”

“Yeah.” A pause. Pen scratched against paper. “You travel a lot?” Oscar asked.

Lando huffed a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

“Golf bag, calluses, schedule,” Oscar said simply. “Usually adds up.”

Lando shifted his weight, arms folding loosely. “I’ll be on tour again next week, actually.”

Oscar nodded, processing. “Then you’ll want to make sure everything’s completely shut off before you go.”

“Right yeah. I was thinking—” Lando gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “Just… turning all the gas off? Like entirely? So I don’t accidentally commit arson again.”

That earned him the smallest breath of amusement. Barely there—but real. “That’s not how it works,” Oscar said, not unkindly. “But I can show you.”

He stepped closer to demonstrate. Too close.

Lando’s brain stalled as Oscar leaned in, pointing to the valve beneath the counter. Their shoulders nearly brushed. Lando could see the faint crease between Oscar’s brows when he concentrated.

“Here,” Oscar said. “This is the main shutoff. Turn it perpendicular when you’re away for extended periods.”

“Got it,” Lando said, though his attention was doing a terrible job staying where it belonged.

Oscar straightened, eyes flicking to him. “Where’s the tour taking you?”

“Oh—uh.” Lando blinked, then shrugged. “Couple of states. California first. Then Florida. Then overseas if I make the cut.”

Oscar nodded, thoughtful. “Long stretch.”

“Yeah,” Lando said quietly. “It is.”

Something settled in the space between them—not heavy, not awkward. Just… present.

Oscar checked the smoke detectors next, reaching up easily. Lando watched the movement without shame, then immediately felt embarrassed about it.

“Everything else looks fine,” Oscar said, scribbling a final note. “Just—don’t leave the stove on.”

Lando winced. “I promise. Learned my lesson.”

Oscar met his eyes for a moment longer than necessary. “Good,” he said. “I’d rather not meet you again under the same circumstances.”

Lando laughed, soft and genuine. “Yeah me neither.”

Oscar closed his clipboard, the inspection officially done. “Someone from management will follow up,” he said. “But you’re clear for now.”

“Thanks,” Lando said, meaning more than just that.

Oscar gave a small nod, already stepping toward the door. As he left, Lando stood there in the quiet of his apartment, heart inexplicably full, thinking—so this is what normal feels like.

And wondering how something so small had managed to leave such a mark.

The station was loud in the way only firefighters’ downtime could be.

Laughter echoed from downstairs, bouncing off concrete walls and metal railings. Someone was arguing about dinner.

Someone else was telling a story with far too many hand gestures. Boots were kicked off. Helmets stacked. The shift wasn’t over yet, but the worst of it had passed.

Oscar sat upstairs at his desk, uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair. He should’ve been typing the report. The cursor blinked patiently on the screen, waiting.

Residential inspection completed. Minor damage. No injuries.

He typed the basics quickly, fingers moving on muscle memory alone. He’d written hundreds of these. Thousands, probably. Apartments blurred together after a while—same layouts, same mistakes, same reminders not to leave heat unattended.

This one should’ve been no different.

Oscar paused.

He stared at the blank line beneath the address. Then, without fully deciding to, his fingers moved again.

Lando Norris

He frowned slightly, like he’d caught himself doing something unnecessary.

Just for accuracy, he told himself. Name verification.

The search bar filled instantly. Articles, photos, headlines. Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Oh,” he murmured.

The screen was suddenly very busy.

PGA Tour Star Lando Norris

World Ranking: No. 2

Can He Take the Top Spot This Season?

Oscar clicked one.

A photo loaded—Lando on a green so perfectly trimmed it barely looked real. Polo shirt crisp, posture confident, eyes narrowed in concentration mid-swing.

This version of him looked… composed. Like someone who never forgot to turn off a stove in his life. Oscar scrolled.

Wins, sponsorships, interviews, travel schedules. A life measured in achievements and expectations. Commentary dissecting his form, his mindset, his chances of becoming number one in the world.

Ranked No. 2 globally, considered one of the most consistent players of his generation.

Oscar let out a slow breath. Downstairs, someone laughed again—loud and unrestrained. A chair scraped, life went on.

Up here, Oscar clicked another link. Another photo, another headline. Lando smiling for a camera, holding a trophy, looking like he belonged exactly where he was.

Oscar thought of him barefoot in a hallway. Damp hair towel clutched at his waist. Saying I’m a professional golfer like it was something mildly embarrassing.

Huh.

Oscar closed the article and stared at the screen for a long moment. “So that’s you,” he said quietly.

It didn’t change anything. Not really.

Lando was still the guy who hovered too close during inspections. Still the one who listened carefully when told how to shut off the gas. Still someone who looked relieved when treated like a normal person.

Oscar minimized the browser, reopened the report, and finished typing.

Occupant advised on safety procedures. Cooperative. No further issues.

He submitted it, shut the laptop, and stood up. As he headed downstairs, laughter swelling to meet him, Oscar found himself thinking—not about rankings or headlines—but about how strangely easy it had been to talk to him.

And how, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain yet, that fact lingered longer than it should have.

Oscar didn’t have a habit of taking work home with him.

Faces came and went in his life the way smoke did—thick in the moment, unforgettable while it lasted, then gone once the danger passed.

He remembered them all, of course. The woman who wouldn’t stop apologizing while her kitchen burned.

The kid clutching a scorched backpack like it held his entire life. The old man who shook his hand too hard afterward, eyes shining with something like relief.

He remembered every one of them. But when the job was done, that was it. They went back to their lives. Oscar went back to his.

That was how it worked. So he didn’t understand why this one hadn’t faded.

It wasn’t logical. He hadn’t even spent that much time with him. A hallway an inspection.

Some small talk about gas valves and travel schedules. A man with damp curls and tired eyes who stood too close without meaning to. That should have been enough to let it go.

And yet.

On Saturday morning, Oscar woke up with no alarms, no calls, no urgency dragging him out of bed. The city outside his apartment moved lazily. Weekend sounds, distant traffic. Someone laughing somewhere below.

He made coffee. Burned the toast slightly. Ate it anyway. The quiet pressed in—not unpleasant, just… empty.

Without thinking too hard about it, Oscar picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

Sports channels flickered past. Football highlights. Commentary a replay of something he didn’t recognize then— green.

Wide, open green under a bright sky. A familiar hush, broken only by murmured commentary and the soft thud of a ball hitting turf.

Golf.

Oscar stilled. He adjusted the volume, sank back onto the couch, remote forgotten in his hand. The camera panned slowly across the course, lingering on a group of players lining up their shots.

And then it settled. There he was. Lando Norris.

Not the man in the hallway. Not the one wrapped in a towel, panicked and embarrassed. This version was calm, focused—curly hair tucked beneath a cap, jaw set, body loose with confidence as he addressed the ball.

The commentator’s voice drifted in. “…currently ranked number two in the world, Norris comes into this weekend with strong momentum—”

Oscar watched.

The swing was smooth effortless. Controlled in a way that made it look simple, even to someone who knew better. The ball arced cleanly through the air, disappearing into the distance.

Applause followed. Oscar didn’t move. He felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest—not awe, exactly. Not pride just recognition.

This was his world. The one Oscar had only glimpsed through headlines and search results. The one Lando carried quietly, like he carried everything else.

The camera zoomed in as Lando exhaled, a small smile tugging at his mouth—private, fleeting. The kind of expression that never made it into photos.

Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees. So this was where he went when he left. So this was why he traveled so much.

He stayed there for the rest of the broadcast, coffee long gone cold, watching a man who should have been just another name, another face, another finished job.

But when the tournament cut to commercial, Oscar didn’t reach for the remote. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes fixed on the darkened screen, thinking—

You’re not supposed to follow people after the fire’s out.

And realizing, with quiet certainty, that somehow… he already had.

Oscar didn’t use Instagram much.

He had an account—barely. A handful of posts from years ago. A skyline at sunset. A group photo from the station. Nothing curated nothing intentional. He mostly kept it because Mark insisted it was “how people stayed human now.”

“Everyone updates their life there,” Mark had said once, scrolling endlessly during a slow shift. “Even if you don’t care, they do.”

Oscar hadn’t argued. He just hadn’t looked. Until that night.

He sat on his couch, TV off now, apartment too quiet again. His phone rested in his hand, screen dark. He told himself he was bored. That this was normal. That curiosity wasn’t obsession.

He opened the app. The feed was a blur of people he barely remembered—engagements, gym selfies, food photos that all looked the same. He scrolled once, twice.

Then stopped. He tapped the search bar. His thumbs hovered. Don’t be weird, he thought. Then he typed it anyway.

Lando Norris

The result came instantly. Verified with blue checkmark.

More followers than Oscar could mentally process without squinting. The profile photo was familiar—same curls, same easy smile, same face that had stood in a hallway pretending his apartment wasn’t on fire.

Oscar tapped. The page loaded slowly, like it knew it had weight.

Photos filled the screen. Golf courses under perfect skies. Sponsored posts lined up neatly between candid-looking shots that probably weren’t candid at all. Trophies, travel, smiles aimed at cameras.

A life lived loudly, even when it tried not to be. Oscar scrolled once, then stopped. This wasn’t snooping, he decided. This was… context. His thumb drifted to the top of the screen.

Follow

He hesitated this was ridiculous. Lando Norris had millions of followers. Oscar was just another name, another number, another nothing in a long list of nothing.

He exhaled. Then clicked it the button changed instantly.

Following.

Oscar stared at it longer than necessary.“Well,” he muttered. “That’s done.”

He locked the phone, tossed it onto the couch beside him, and went to the kitchen to get water. By the time he came back, and picked up his phone again, thumb hovering for a second before he opened Instagram.

He told himself he wasn’t looking for anything specific. Just scrolling. Just… passing time. He refreshed his feed, than a new Instagram story from Lando.

Without thinking too hard—because if he did, he wouldn’t—Oscar tapped it.

A Video of Lando, mid-swing. Sunlight catching his hair. Smooth, controlled, perfect in motion. The ball sailed cleanly, disappearing against blue sky.

Oscar felt his chest tighten. He watched it twice. Before his brain could intervene, his fingers moved.

Great swing today.

He stared at the reply message the moment it sent. “Oh,” he said aloud. “That was—” Too late. He locked the phone immediately, like that might undo it.

Lando Norris would never see it, he told himself. Or if he did, it would disappear into a sea of messages from fans and sponsors and people who mattered far more.

Oscar leaned back into the couch, heart doing something annoyingly fast. That’s it, he thought. That’s where it ends.

The phone remained silent beside him. And Oscar had no idea that, somewhere miles away, a professional golfer was about to pause mid-scroll—and notice one very unexpected name.

Oscar woke up to his alarm like any other workday.

Dark room. Early light barely creeping through the blinds. His body already halfway into motion before his brain fully caught up—routine etched deep into muscle and habit.

He rolled onto his side, reached for his phone, ready to shut the alarm off and start the day.

The screen lit up. Two notifications. Oscar blinked. Once, then twice.

His brain stalled.

Lando Norris started following you.

New message from @lando.

Oscar sat up so fast the sheets twisted around his legs. “Oh fuck.”

The word left his mouth on instinct, sharp and quiet, like it might explode if he said it any louder.

He stared at the screen, heart thudding hard enough that he could feel it in his throat. This was wrong. This was not how this was supposed to go. Famous people did not follow him back. Famous people did not message him.

Famous people definitely did not remember one random firefighter who’d told them not to leave the stove on.

His thumb hovered over the notification.

You don’t have to open it, his brain offered weakly. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

His phone buzzed again, just once, like it was impatient. Oscar exhaled, then tapped the message.

The chat opened. There it was.

Lando Norris:

hey didn’t expect that message, but… thanks. means more than you probably think 🙂

also, hope i’m not breaking protocol here, but this is lando, the guy who almost burned his apartment down.

Oscar stared at the screen. His eyes went a little wider. His heart did something deeply unprofessional. He read it again. Then a third time.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t arrogant. It wasn’t distant. It was… warm. casual and very human.

Lando.

The guy with the towel. The guy who hovered too close. The guy ranked number two in the world who still typed like this.

Oscar scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning quietly. “Oh fuck,” he said again, softer this time.

This was bad. This was very bad. Because for the first time since he’d sent great swing today, Oscar didn’t feel like the fire was over.

He felt like something had just been lit. And he hadn’t the faintest idea how to put it out.

Lando stared at the ceiling of his hotel room like it might offer answers.

It didn’t. The lights were off, city glow bleeding faintly through the curtains. His phone lay face-down on his chest, warm and accusing, like it knew exactly what he’d done and was waiting for him to panic properly.

Why did he reply. Why did he follow back. He groaned, rolling onto his side and burying his face into the pillow. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Actual idiot.”

His brain, unhelpfully, supplied a list.

His manager: Why are you messaging random people online?

PR team: We don’t engage without vetting.

Fans: Who is this guy and why is he special?

Internet: Speculate wildly.

Lando flipped onto his back again, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes. It wasn’t even flirty. He’d kept it safe. Friendly and very normal.

Still,  he jumped up from the bed suddenly, pacing the room barefoot, hands tugging through his curls. “It’s fine,” he told the empty space.

“It’s fine. He’s a firefighter. Normal job. Normal guy. Not some influencer. No one’s going to care.”

He flopped back onto the mattress. “This is not a scandal,” he said firmly. “This is not a scandal.”

The phone buzzed. Lando froze. Slowly—very slowly—he lifted it and turned the screen over.

@oscarpiastri replied to your message.

“Oh my god.” He sat up so fast he nearly tangled himself in the sheets. Heart racing, he hesitated for half a second before doing the wrong thing in the most predictable way possible.

He tapped Oscar’s profile again instead and it loaded instantly. And…oh. Lando blinked. Scrolled, blink again. It was… boring.

No offense, truly but—wow. A skyline photo. A group shot of firefighters in full gear. Another sunset. A blurry photo of coffee. No captions longer than three words. No thirst traps, no effort.

“This is the most firefighter Instagram I’ve ever seen,” Lando whispered. He zoomed in on the group photo despite himself.

There oscar with helmet off. Hair slightly messed jawline doing something deeply unfair. Even pixelated, even half-hidden behind teammates, he looked—well.

Lando swallowed. “Right,” he said faintly. “You’re… very handsome. Noted.” He forgot, briefly, why he’d opened the app in the first place. The phone buzzed again.

DMs.

“Oh—right.” He tapped back into the message thread. Oscar’s reply sat there, unread. Lando took a breath, braced himself like he was lining up a crucial putt— And opened it.

Oscar:

morning. didn’t expect a reply either, if i’m honest. thanks for saying that i don’t know much about golf, but it looked…controlled.

also, probably for the best if you don’t cook anything in hotel rooms. just a professional recommendation.

Lando snorted out loud. In his very quiet, very expensive hotel room. “Oh my god,” he laughed, dropping back onto the bed. “You’re ridiculous.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t flirty in the obvious way. It was earnest and slightly stiff and completely him.

Lando stared at the screen, grin still tugging at his mouth, fingers already moving.

Lando:

fair. microwave only. learned my lesson 😅 and “controlled” is actually high praise coming from a firefighter, i think.

The reply came quicker than he expected.

Oscar:

i deal in chaos. control stands out.

Lando’s smile softened. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand, the city humming quietly beyond the window. This didn’t feel like talking to a fan. It didn’t feel like PR. It didn’t feel like anything he’d had to calculate in advance.

It felt… easy.

Lando:

where are you today? shift again?

A pause, not long just long enough to feel like Oscar was choosing his words.

Oscar:

day shift. hoping for nothing exciting. you?

Lando glanced at the itinerary pinned to the desk, then back at the chat.

Lando:

practice, interviews. trying not to overthink my swing, the usual.

Oscar:

sounds exhausting.

Lando let out a quiet breath.

Lando:

it is. but days like today make it a bit better.

He hesitated after sending it, suddenly aware of how that might sound. The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared. Appeared again.

Oscar:

glad i could help. even indirectly.

Lando laughed again, softer this time, something warm spreading in his chest. He stretched out on the bed, phone held loosely above him, curls falling into his eyes.

Later after that they kept talking about nothing, about small things, about work and travel and the best coffee places that were open too early or too late.

The messages stacked up quietly, one after another, until Lando realized he hadn’t checked the time in over an hour.

He stared at the screen, heart steady, smile easy. Somewhere between a firefighter reminding him not to cook and a golfer forgetting why he’d been spiraling at all, something had shifted.

For once, Lando Norris didn’t feel alone in a hotel room.

The days blurred together in a way that surprised Oscar. Not dramatically not suddenly. Just… gradually.

Messages slipped into his routine the same way coffee did. Familiar and expected. Sometimes missed if the day ran long.

Sometimes Oscar didn’t reply until midnight, fingers heavy, eyes tired, too drained to form anything more than a few honest lines. Lando never complained never pushed. Just picked the thread back up when it reappeared.

Sometimes it was Lando who replied late—messages full of typos, words doubled or missing entirely.

Lando:

fingers r stiff sorry

long day. swing feels like shit 😅

Oscar had smiled at those. Quietly to himself.

It was easy, strangely easy. Two people in different worlds finding the same small pocket of calm in each other’s presence—even if that presence was just a screen lighting up in the dark.

Tonight, though, Oscar wasn’t alone. The TV glowed in the station’s common room, low volume, half-watched. A few of the guys were sprawled across couches, boots kicked off, takeout containers balanced dangerously close to the edge.

Mark had the remote. “Anything good on?” someone asked. Mark flicked through channels without care. Sports., news, a rerun, another rerun.

Then— flashbulbs. The screen burst into light—rapid, white, aggressive. A crowd pressed in around two figures walking quickly, heads bowed.

The headline crawled across the bottom.

LANDO NORRIS REPORTEDLY DATING BRAZILIAN MODEL

Oscar froze. His eyes locked onto the screen before he could stop himself.

Curly hair. Familiar posture, sunglasses pushed too low, jaw tense in a way Oscar recognized instantly. Beside him, a blonde woman laughed, hand on his arm, cameras shouting questions they’d never hear the answers to.

Mark whistled softly. “Damn. That’s the golfer guy, right?”

“Looks like it,” someone said. “Model too. Figures.”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He sat very still, hands resting loosely on his thighs, expression blank in a way only people who had learned not to react could manage.

Oh. Of course.

The thought landed quietly in his head. Of course that was Lando’s life. Of course there were models and cameras and rumors and headlines that didn’t ask permission. Of course the world assumed things and filled in the gaps with confidence.

Why wouldn’t they?

Mark clicked the channel away almost immediately, already bored. The room’s noise swelled back to normal—laughter, commentary, someone arguing about sauce.

Oscar stayed silent. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it.

Not yet.

For the first time since the fire, Oscar felt the distance between their worlds not as an abstract idea—but as something sharp and real.

And he wondered, suddenly and uncomfortably, whether he’d imagined the quiet space between messages as something it had never been allowed to become.

Oscar didn’t answer Lando’s messages for two days.

It wasn’t intentional at first. The hours simply filled themselves—long shifts, interrupted sleep, the kind of exhaustion that left him moving on instinct rather than thought.

By the time he noticed the silence stretching, it felt easier to let it continue than to decide what to say.

Work gave him something solid to hold onto. Alarms rang gear was checked calls came in one after another, each one demanding attention in a way feelings never could.

When someone needed help, there was no space for hesitation, no room for overthinking. You went where you were needed. You did what had to be done.

That night, the alarm sounded just as Oscar was finishing a report. The station came alive instantly.

Boots hit the floor. Jackets were pulled on. Voices sharpened into commands as the team moved with practiced urgency. Oscar grabbed his helmet and headed for the truck, muscle memory carrying him forward.

Mark was already in the driver’s seat “Where?” Oscar asked as he climbed in beside him, strapping himself down.

“Near London Bridge,” Mark said, engine roaring to life. “Big one.”

They were still blocks away when Oscar saw the smoke—thick, dark, rising too fast to be anything minor. Sirens cut through traffic, lights flashing against glass and concrete as cars scattered out of their path.

When they arrived, the heat hit them first.

Flames climbed the side of the building, chewing through windows, pouring smoke into the night sky.

Crowds had gathered at a distance, faces lit by firelight and phone screens. Another engine pulled in behind them, then another.

“This one’s going to fight us,” Mark said under his breath.

Oscar was already moving. He pulled on his fireproof jacket, mask sealing over his face as the world narrowed into noise and heat and urgency.

Orders crackled through the radio. Water hit flame smoke swallowed everything beyond a few feet.

They went in. Inside, visibility vanished almost immediately. The air was heavy, hostile, pressing in from all sides. Oscar moved carefully, one hand on the wall, the other scanning ahead as debris crunched beneath his boots.

Then he heard it. A cough—ragged, human. “Hello?” he called, voice distorted through the mask. “If you can hear me, stay where you are.”

Another cough answered, closer this time.“There’s someone inside,” Oscar said into the radio, already changing direction.

He found the person slumped against a collapsed beam, barely conscious. Oscar hooked an arm under theirs and lifted, muscles burning as he turned back toward the exit.

“Stay with me,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. The smoke thickened as they moved, heat pressing harder with every step. His lungs worked overtime. His grip tightened.

When they finally broke through into open air, paramedics rushed forward, taking the weight from his arms. Oscar staggered back, ripping off his helmet and dragging in a breath that didn’t taste like ash.

The fire still raged behind him.

The woman was coughing hard against his chest.

Oscar tightened his grip, one arm braced around her back, the other guiding them forward through the smoke. Her weight sagged into him, legs unsteady, breath tearing out of her in sharp, painful bursts.

“You’re okay,” he said through the mask, voice steady even as heat pressed in from every direction. “I’ve got you. Keep breathing.”

The building groaned around them. It wasn’t loud at first—just a deep, wrong sound that vibrated through the floor beneath his boots. Oscar felt it more than he heard it, a shift in pressure that made his spine go rigid.

Roof.

He didn’t think, he moved. Oscar turned his body instinctively, pivoting so his shoulder took the brunt of it as the ceiling gave way above them.

Debris crashed down in a violent roar, sparks and embers exploding through the air. Heat slammed into him, sharp and immediate, searing even through the layers of his fireproof jacket.

Pain flared white-hot across his shoulder. He bit back a shout, teeth grinding as he wrapped himself around the woman, forcing her head down against his chest.

“Stay down!” he ordered.

Something struck his shoulder again—harder this time—and the world tilted briefly, balance threatening to slip. The heat was unbearable now, burning through his nerves, sweat soaking him beneath the gear.

“Oscar!” Mark’s voice cut through the chaos.

Oscar lifted his head just enough to see him rushing toward them through the smoke, another firefighter close behind. “Roof came down!” Oscar said, breath heavy. “She’s alive.”

Mark reached them, hands immediately on the woman, helping to steady her. His eyes flicked to Oscar’s shoulder, then back to his face. “Oscar, you good?” Mark demanded. “Let’s go—now.”

Oscar nodded once, jaw clenched. “Got her,” he said, refusing to let go.

Together, they moved. The fire was being brought under control now—water hammering flame, steam hissing violently—but the air was still thick, still dangerous.

Every step sent a jolt of pain through Oscar’s shoulder, muscles screaming in protest. He ignored it.

His arm stayed locked around the woman as they pushed forward, boots slipping on wet debris, visibility barely more than shadows and light. Her coughing had softened into shallow breaths, and Oscar adjusted his grip to keep her upright.

“Almost out,” Mark said. “You’re doing good. Just keep moving.”

Oscar focused on the sound of his voice, on the growing coolness ahead, on the thin strip of night air waiting beyond the smoke.

They broke through into open space moments later. Cool air hit his face like a shock.

Paramedics surged forward, taking the woman carefully from his arms. Oscar let go reluctantly, fingers stiff, shoulder throbbing viciously now that adrenaline was beginning to fade.

He took a step back—and nearly stumbled. Mark caught him immediately. “Hey,” he said sharply. “Sit. Now.”

Oscar shook his head once, breath still uneven. “I’m fine.”

Mark gave him a look that said he didn’t believe that for a second. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure you are.”

Behind them, the fire crackled lower, controlled now. Lights flashed radios buzzed. Life moved on around them.

Oscar stood there, shoulder burning, lungs aching, watching the woman being loaded into an ambulance.

She was alive. For the moment, that was enough.

The adrenaline didn’t disappear all at once.

It faded in stages—first the sharpness, then the certainty, and finally the lie Oscar had been telling himself since they’d cleared the building.

Pain followed close behind. By the time Mark pulled the truck into the hospital drop-off zone, Oscar’s shoulder felt like it was on fire all over again, heat blooming deep beneath the muscle.

Every breath tugged at something raw. His steps were slower now, heavier, the world tilting slightly no matter how hard he focused.

“You’re not walking this off,” Mark said, cutting the engine and jumping out. “Come on.”

“I can walk,” Oscar muttered. He tried anyway—and immediately regretted it. His knees buckled just enough for Mark to curse under his breath and hook an arm around his back.

“Yeah. Sure you can.” They moved through the sliding doors together, the hospital lobby bright and sterile after smoke and darkness. The smell hit Oscar next—cleaner, antiseptic, too sharp. It made his head swim.

Mark adjusted his grip. “ER,” he said to the intake nurse already approaching. “Possible shoulder injury. Fire exposure.”

Oscar nodded vaguely, vision narrowing. And then— “Oscar?” The voice was quiet at first, uncertain. Like it didn’t trust itself.

Oscar lifted his head. For half a second, he thought the pain was making him hallucinate.

Lando stood just outside the entrance, one hand still on his car door, cap pulled low over his curls.

Sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt. Dressed down, almost anonymous—except Oscar knew him now, would recognize him anywhere.

Lando’s eyes widened. “Oscar,” he said again, louder this time. 

Oscar managed a smile. A small one crooked at the edges. “Hey, what are you doing here?” he said.

The movement pulled something sharp through his shoulder, and he sucked in a breath, face tightening despite himself.

Lando was moving before anyone could stop him. “I—medical check up..what happened?” he asked, panic bleeding into his voice as he reached them. “Are you—what—”

“Fire,” Mark cut in briskly, already steering Oscar toward the ER doors. “Roof collapse. He’s fine, but we need him inside.”

Mark spared Lando a quick look—recognition flickering, confusion following close behind.

Oscar knew that look. Why does he know you? But Mark didn’t ask, not now.

Oscar barely had time to register the question himself before he was being guided forward again, weight leaning more heavily into Mark’s side.

Lando followed without hesitation. He pulled his cap lower, head ducked instinctively, staying half a step behind like he didn’t want to be seen—but didn’t want to leave either. His hand hovered uselessly near Oscar’s arm, like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

“You’re okay,” Lando said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “You’re okay.”

Oscar didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice not to give something away.

The ER doors swung open, swallowing them in white light and movement. Nurses took over. A wheelchair appeared. Mark eased Oscar down carefully.

As Oscar was rolled inside, he caught one last glimpse of Lando standing there, jaw tight, eyes fixed on him with something raw and unguarded.

The universe had a strange sense of timing. And tonight, it had decided not to be subtle about it at all.

The curtain slid shut with a soft, final sound.

It cut the room down to something smaller. Quieter the chaos of the ER faded into muffled movement beyond thin fabric—voices, footsteps, machines humming somewhere far enough away to feel unreal.

Oscar sat on the edge of the hospital bed, shoulders slightly hunched, shirt peeled halfway off to give the nurse access to the burn along his shoulder and upper arm.

The skin there was angry and red, already slick with cooling gel that caught the fluorescent light.

Lando hadn’t moved since they’d come in. He stood too close to the bed, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them, eyes tracking every motion the nurse made.

His cap was still pulled low, curls escaping around the edges, but he hadn’t once looked toward the curtain—hadn’t checked who might be watching.

“Does this…” Lando started, then stopped, breath hitching. “Does this always happen? I mean—after you save people?”

Oscar glanced up at him. Lando’s face was pale in a way that had nothing to do with lighting. “And that—” Lando continued, words tumbling now, “that was a roof. That’s—oh my god, that’s too dangerous, how can you—how do you—”

“Hey,” Oscar said. The nurse finished smoothing the gel and stepped back, injecting something into Oscar’s IV with practiced ease. “Painkiller’s in,” she said calmly. “It’ll take a minute.”

Oscar nodded. His voice came easier now, steadier, even as the dull ache throbbed beneath the medication.

“Lando,” he said again, firmer this time. “I’m okay.” Lando looked at him like he didn’t believe that for a second.

“You’re in a hospital bed,” he said, helpless frustration creeping into his tone. “You just—collapsed—your friend had to—”

“I didn’t collapse,” Oscar corrected mildly.

“You groaned,” Lando shot back. “And then you made that face like—like you were trying not to pass out.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh that turned into a wince halfway through. “Okay,” he conceded. “I groaned.” That didn’t help.

Lando dragged a hand through his hair, pacing half a step before stopping himself, eyes flicking back to Oscar immediately like he was afraid to look away.

Mark stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, saying nothing.

He watched the way Lando leaned in without realizing it. The way Oscar’s shoulders eased the moment Lando spoke. The familiarity there—easy, unguarded—something that didn’t belong to a first meeting or a coincidence in a hospital lobby.

Mark raised an eyebrow slightly. Interesting.

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” Lando said, voice lower now. “You could’ve—” He swallowed. “You could’ve gotten really hurt.”

Oscar met his gaze, expression softening despite the sting in his shoulder. “That’s the job,” he said simply. “Sometimes it hurts.”

Lando shook his head, lips pressed tight like he didn’t accept that answer at all.

Mark cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, breaking the moment just enough to remind them they weren’t alone, “doctor’ll be in soon. They’ll want scans. Maybe keep him sitting still until then.”

Lando nodded immediately. “Yes. Definitely, sitting. No moving.”

Oscar glanced at Mark, then back at Lando. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

And somehow, that felt like more than a promise about a hospital bed.

Mark watched them for another second, something unreadable passing over his face, before he stepped back slightly—giving them space without saying it out loud.

Behind the curtain, the world waited. Inside it, something fragile and undeniable had already taken shape.

Oscar noticed it before Lando did.

The buzz of a phone—once, then again—sharp and insistent in the quiet space behind the curtain. Lando stiffened, shoulders drawing in slightly, jaw tightening as he glanced down at the screen without fully looking at it.

Oscar shifted on the bed, the movement careful. “Lando,” he said gently. “It’s fine. You can go now. I’m okay.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. The phone buzzed again. Oscar could almost hear the unspoken panic in it—manager, schedule, expectations closing in. The world tugging Lando back where he belonged.

Lando bit his lip, hard. Then he reached up and pulled his cap off, curls springing free like he’d finally run out of patience for hiding.

“But you—” he said, voice catching just slightly. “You didn’t reply for two days.” Oscar held his gaze.

Ah. “So that’s what this is,” Lando continued, quieter now. “That’s why.”

Oscar smiled, small and apologetic. It wasn’t that simple. But it wasn’t a lie either. “Yeah,” Oscar said. “Sorry. Hard to type properly for a bit.”

He lifted his injured arm just enough to gesture, then winced. “But,” he added, dryly, “good news is—I can manage one hand now.”

Lando stared at him for half a second. Then rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply. “Oh, shut up.”

The phone buzzed again. Lando glanced at the screen, then finally answered, turning slightly away but not stepping back.

“Yes. Yes, I’m coming,” he said quickly. “I said ten minutes—wait, ten minutes, okay?”

He ended the call before the other person could argue.

For a moment, he just stood there, phone clenched in his hand, shoulders tense like he was bracing himself to leave something unfinished.

Then he looked back at Oscar. “I have to go,” he said, clearly hating it. “But—”

Oscar nodded. “I know.”

Lando took a step back, then paused. “Answer my messages,” he said, pointing at Oscar. “Or I will absolutely spam you. No mercy.”

Oscar laughed, the sound easy and real despite the ache still lingering beneath the medication. “Noted,” he said. “I’ll behave.”

Lando hesitated one last second, then turned to Mark. “Take care of him,” he said, tone half-request, half-order.

Mark smiled faintly. “Always do.”

Lando nodded, satisfied—or as close to it as he could get—then looked back at Oscar. “Get better,” he said quietly.

“I will,” Oscar replied. Lando slipped his cap back on, pulled it low, and disappeared past the curtain, footsteps fading into the noise of the hospital beyond.

Oscar leaned back against the bed, still smiling when Mark let out a low whistle. “Well,” Mark said. “That explains a few things.”

Oscar didn’t answer. But when his phone buzzed a moment later—one new message waiting—he reached for it without hesitation.

Mark dropped the car into park right in front of Oscar’s building.

The engine idled for a moment, the city humming softly around them. Oscar sat still, shoulder aching in that deep, dull way pain settled into once it decided it wasn’t going anywhere. The hospital wristband itched against his skin.

“Go home,” Mark said, already unbuckling. “Rest. Don’t be a hero for at least forty-eight hours.”

Oscar nodded. “You’ll cover my shift?”

“Already did,” Mark replied. “You owe me.”

“I know.”

Oscar opened the door, then paused, one foot still inside. He looked back at Mark, expression flat but eyes sharp. “And don’t start anything,” he said. “No rumors. No stories. I will end you.”

Mark laughed, loud and unapologetic. “Oh, Oscar,” he said, shaking his head. “I won’t say a word.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. Mark grinned wider. “I’ll just wait until your face shows up on television.”

Oscar snorted despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Get some sleep,” Mark said, softer now. “Text me if that shoulder gets worse.”

Oscar nodded once more, then shut the car door before Mark could add anything else. He stood there for a second, breathing in the familiar night air, then headed inside.

The apartment greeted him with quiet. No alarms no smoke. Just the low hum of the fridge and the city beyond the windows. He kicked off his shoes, careful with his arm, and let himself lean briefly against the door.

Only then did he exhale. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Oscar didn’t check it yet.

He moved through the apartment slowly, deliberately—lights on, jacket off, keys set down where they always went. When he finally sat on the edge of the couch, he pulled his phone out.

One new message from Lando. Oscar smiled to himself, small and tired, as the city blinked quietly outside.

He was home and somehow, that felt different now.

They slipped back into talking like nothing had happened. Not immediately. Not with urgency. Just… naturally.

Messages threaded themselves through Oscar’s days again—between stretches that pulled uncomfortably at his shoulder, between short walks around the apartment, between long silences where he let the painkillers do their work.

They talked about nothing important. What Lando saw from the plane window. How bad airport coffee was universally. How Oscar was banned from lifting anything heavier than a kettle and found this deeply offensive.

Lando had flown to Dubai by morning. Another tournament another hotel room that probably looked exactly like the last one.

Lando:

jet lag is evil, also why do hotels insist on decorative pillows no one uses

Oscar smiled at that, phone balanced awkwardly in his good hand.

Oscar:

pillows are a scam, don’t cook

Lando:

i would never

That morning, Oscar woke early despite having nowhere to be.

The city outside his windows was already warm, sunlight spilling across the floor. His shoulder protested when he sat up, stiff and tight, reminding him it wasn’t done healing yet.

He made coffee carefully. Sat at the small table. Opened Instagram out of habit more than intention. The post was right there, new.

Lando Norris.

Oscar tapped it without thinking. A photo first—Lando in neutral tones, looking tired but composed, cap pulled low, sunglasses gone. No woman in frame no crowd just him.

Then the caption. Measured, polished, every word chosen with care. A clarification about the rumors, about the photos.

Close friends, it said.

Please respect my privacy.

Nothing emotional. Nothing revealing. The kind of statement meant to close doors quietly.

Oscar read it twice. He didn’t know why his chest loosened. Didn’t know why the tightness he hadn’t noticed sitting there suddenly eased, breath coming a little deeper than before. It wasn’t relief exactly—at least not the kind he could justify logically.

He had no claim no reason no expectation and yet. Oscar leaned back in his chair, phone resting against his palm, staring at the sunlit floor. “Huh,” he murmured. His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Lando:

before you ask.. yes, that was exhausting

Oscar exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh.

Oscar:

i wasn’t going to ask

A pause.

Lando:

liar

Oscar smiled, slow and unguarded, the relief still sitting quietly in his chest where it didn’t belong—but didn’t feel wrong either. Whatever this was, it wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be and for now, that was enough.

Oscar had just gotten out of the shower.

His hair was still damp, towel abandoned on the back of the chair, sweatpants sitting low on his hips as he moved carefully around the apartment. His shoulder ached dully, the kind of pain that no longer demanded attention but refused to be ignored.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He glanced at it without urgency—already knowing who it would be.

Lando.

Oscar picked it up, thumb swiping instinctively. The message wasn’t long.

Lando:

osc, can we move to imessage instead? i’ve got a bit of a situation here 😅 my PR team’s going to handle my socials for a while i just… want some privacy.

Oscar stared at the screen. The apartment felt very quiet all of a sudden. This was the part he kept forgetting—the invisible machinery that followed Lando everywhere.

Teams, statements access revoked and granted by other people. A life where even casual conversations could be filtered, monitored, archived. Oscar leaned his hip against the counter, phone warm in his hand.

Different worlds, he thought again.

Fire and smoke and physical danger on one side. Cameras and contracts and constant observation on the other. Both exhausting both isolating in their own way.

For a moment, he considered what it meant—that Lando was asking for something smaller a quieter and more private.

Something that couldn’t be undone with a PR statement. Oscar typed slowly, deliberately.

Oscar:

yeah. that’s fine. send me the number.

The reply came almost immediately.

Lando:

thank you seriously

Oscar saved the contact when it came through. Lando — just the name. No last name no title.

It felt strangely significant. A second later, his phone lit up again—this time not with the familiar Instagram interface, but a clean, simple message bubble.

iMessage.

Lando:

hi (this feels weirdly illegal)

Oscar laughed under his breath, shoulders relaxing despite himself.

Oscar:

you’re fine i won’t tell anyone

Lando:

i trust you which is probably insane but here we are

Oscar looked down at himself—barefoot, damp, half-dressed in his quiet apartment—then at the message glowing on his screen.

Here we are.

Oscar:

welcome to my very boring, very private corner of the internet

A pause then:

Lando:

good i needed boring today

Oscar smiled, soft and genuine, and set the phone down beside him. For the first time, the line between their worlds didn’t feel quite so wide.

It felt… crossed.

Lando barely made it through the door before gravity won.

His suitcase hit the hallway floor with a dull thud. The golf bag followed, landing awkwardly against the wall, clubs rattling softly in protest. He didn’t bother fixing it.

He toed his shoes off and collapsed onto the couch face-first, arms folded under his chest, cheek pressed into the familiar fabric. The apartment smelled the same as it always did—clean, faintly citrusy, reassuringly his.

Home.

The one he’d nearly burned down. “Missed you too,” he muttered into the cushion.

Jet lag buzzed under his skin, his body unsure what time it was supposed to be operating on. He lay there for a moment longer than necessary, staring blankly at the opposite wall, letting the silence settle.

Then his phone chimed a new email.

Lando groaned, rolling onto his back and dragging the phone onto his chest. He squinted at the screen.

From: Management

He opened it.

An invitation. Words arranged carefully into something that felt like a command dressed up as an honor. A charity event next Saturday hosted by the city important attendees important optics.

Lando closed his eyes. “Of course it is.” He knew how this went. Suits tailored in a hurry. Handshakes. Small talk with people who didn’t really want to talk about golf but wanted to be seen talking to him. Cameras waiting patiently for the right angle.

Another evening where he would belong to everyone but himself.

He sighed and tapped accept. The phone rang almost immediately. “Hey,” he answered, voice tired but polite.

“Lando,” his manager said, brisk as ever. “I just forwarded the details—”

“I saw,” Lando interrupted gently.

“Good. You need to be there,” his manager continued. “You were born here. You’re part of this community. It looks good—for you, for the tour, for everyone.”

Lando stared at the ceiling, listening.

“I’ll arrange the suit,” his manager went on. “You just need to show up, make conversation, smile for the cameras. Standard stuff.”

“Right,” Lando said quietly. “Networking, smiling. Got it.”

There was a pause. Not unkind—but firm. “This matters,” his manager said. “It always does.”

“I know,” Lando replied. “I’ll be there.”

The call ended shortly after. Lando let the phone fall back onto his chest and stared up at the ceiling again, chest rising slowly as he breathed.

Another event. Another role to play. Somewhere in his pocket, his phone buzzed—iMessage this time, not work.

Oscar.

Lando smiled despite himself. Maybe Saturday wouldn’t be so bad. Or maybe it would be exactly as exhausting as he expected. Either way, he’d show up. He always did.