Redline | L.Norris

twenty four

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Isla sat curled up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched.

Across from her, Lando sat on the floor, back propped against the edge of the bed, arms loosely draped over his knees. He wasn't saying much. He hadn't since arriving. But he didn't need to. Just being there was enough.

The footage, Max pushing Markus away, the way her own body visibly recoiled, was already circulating online. She hadn't seen it herself, but Lando had. Danny sent it with a sharp message: "You need to be with her. Now."

Her team kit still clung to her, damp with sweat, wrinkled, and smelling faintly of burnt rubber and engine oil. The black and Red Bull fireproof undershirt felt too tight now, too heavy on her skin. She'd pulled off her balaclava hours ago, but her hair was still twisted back in a messy braid that looked like it had barely survived the helmet.

"You doing okay?" Lando asked gently, watching her.

She hesitated, eyes unfocused. "I'm just... tired."

He nodded. "I figured. That's why I came."

He said it like it was obvious.

She let out a weak breath. "You're supposed to be prepping with McLaren."

"McLaren will still be there tomorrow. You needed me tonight."

Her throat tightened, and she nodded, trying to keep her emotions at bay. There was something so steady about him, the way he never flinched, never asked for more than she was willing to give. He had this quiet way of showing up always when it mattered most.

Her fingers picked at the seam on her sleeve. "I didn't think anyone would notice how scared I looked."

"They did," he said softly. "But not in the way you think. No one's blaming you, Isla. They're with you. You're not alone."

"I don't want to be a headline tomorrow," she murmured.

"You already are," he said gently. "But not the kind you're afraid of."

She raised a brow.

He pulled out his phone, tilting the screen toward her. A pause, then a scroll through social media. Hashtags #WeStandWithIsla and #ProtectWomenInMotorsport had started trending. Clips from the video were accompanied not by speculation, but by waves of support. Women calling out the industry. Fans demanding accountability. Men and women both praising her courage, even if all she'd done was survive.

Her eyes filled again, and she pressed her hand to her face, overwhelmed.

"They see you," Lando said. "Not just the driver. You."

She looked over at him and something in her face crumpled, just for a second. Not tears, not quite. Just the weight of it all settling somewhere behind her eyes.

Lando leaned forward slightly. "Hey. Come on," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You're still in your kit. You need to shower. Eat something. You've been running on fumes since practice ended."

She frowned a little, the suggestion almost too much to process. "I'm fine."

"You're not," he said gently. "And it's okay not to be."

He stood, walked over, and offered her his hand. "Come on. Just the shower. I'll sit out here. You'll feel better."

She didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, she slipped her hand into his, let him guide her up from the couch like she was made of glass and might crack if he pulled too hard. He didn't say anything else, just pressed a quiet kiss to the top of her head before letting go.