The Finish Line Kiss - Lando Norris

✦˚₊‧⁺˖ chapter 2 ˖⁺‧₊˚✦

⊹★⋆💋｡°⋆✮🏎️✮⊹★🏁⋆｡ °⋆

Lando sat in his team garage, half-listening to the engineers running through data as the monitors around him flickered with live feed from the track. The red flag had halted everything, leaving him with nothing to do but wait. He leaned back in his chair, helmet still sitting beside him, and pulled out his phone.

When she didn't reply right away, he fired off another message. He knew she'd been hyped for tonight, but no way was she getting away with not celebrating properly. Then her reply finally came through. 

Ah, there she was.

The conversation flowed easily after that, his fingers flying over the screen as he teased her about not celebrating properly. Her protests only made him laugh harder. He could almost hear her voice in his head, half-annoyed, half-laughing, telling him to let her breathe after her show.

But he couldn't help himself. That's just how their friendship worked—his teasing, her dry humor, and the way they both knew exactly how to push each other's buttons without ever going too far.

He put his phone back on the table just as one of the engineers called him over. But as he walked toward the monitors, he was still smiling, the conversation replaying in his mind. Zoe's shows, his races—no matter how chaotic life got, their little chats always brought him back to center.

Lando squinted as the sunlight reflected off the glossy surfaces of the Miami circuit. Even in the garage, the heat was relentless, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement feel like an effort. The Miami GP always had a way of pushing drivers to their limits—not just on the track, but in patience.

The red flag dragged on, leaving him with nothing but time. The energy in the garage was a strange mix of tension and boredom. Engineers talked in low voices, analyzing telemetry, while others scrolled through their phones. Lando, however, found his mind drifting back to Zoe.

She was in Paris tonight, performing at another one of her sold-out shows. He smirked, picturing her dramatic post-performance sighs, the way she always claimed she was "too tired to deal with life" after her concerts—only to end up chatting with him for hours anyway.

He pulled out his phone again, pretending to check race updates but quickly returning to their chat. Her ellipsis reply from earlier still sat there, unresolved.

"Typical," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He could practically hear her mock exasperation as she typed out something snarky, only to delete it and leave him hanging instead.

He leaned against the side of his seat, one leg bouncing restlessly.

#z

landoooo⁴ 
I swear, Zoe, if you're just sitting in your dressing room doing nothing, I'm coming to drag you out myself

#z
Miami's a bit far for a rescue mission, don't you think?

landoooo⁴
Wouldn't put it past me. Private jet and all. You're a terrible celebrator

#z
You're more dramatic than me, and that's saying something

He laughed, covering his face with his hand to muffle it. The garage may have been hot, the race may have been on hold, but somehow, Zoe always managed to make the waiting bearable.