Thanks to Norris

part 46- silverstone

The skies above Silverstone were the unpredictable kind — gray but bright, with patches of stubborn sunlight trying to burn through. The paddock was alive early, unusually charged for a Thursday. Media swarmed, crews moved like clockwork, and fans packed the fences even before FP1.

This wasn't just another race weekend.

This was home.

For Lando, it was the place he grew up dreaming about — where his face was on billboards, and the fans chanted his name louder than any other.
For George, it was pride and pressure in every corner.
For Lewis, it was legacy — the echoes of 2008, the roar of "God Save The King."
For McLaren and Mercedes, it was the soul of their operations — their factories just down the road.
And somehow, for you, it was home too.

You lived here now.
Your best friends did.
Your people were here.

Josi was already in your garage, badge swinging around her neck, teasing the engineers with her usual mix of sarcasm and care.
Max Fewtrell had just dropped by with a cheeky grin and a "Don't bin it in FP1, yeah?"
But the ones you looked for — the ones you noticed without meaning to — were Lando's family.

They walked through the paddock like they belonged there. Calm, supportive, always present. Not loud. Just there.

You remembered being 15, standing behind the barrier in karting paddocks, watching Lando's dad speak to him gently before a start. His mum with a quiet smile, proud but never pushy. His siblings just... solid.

You never told anyone, but you looked up to them. Maybe even wished — quietly — for a foundation like that.

Friday – FP1 and FP2

The car felt good. Really good. You were sharp through Maggotts and Becketts, tidy through Copse. Your engineer's voice crackled with praise.

Engineer:
"You're purple through Sector 1 again. Copy that last lap, and we're laughing."

But Lando was fast too. Really fast. You knew it just by instinct — the way he looked in the garage, focused but light on his feet. The way his sector times flashed up orange and green.

After FP2, you passed him on the way to media.

He looked up, saw you. There was a pause — long enough to feel loaded.

Then—

Lando (quiet):
"Home race, huh?"

You blinked. He hadn't said a word to you since Montreal.

You nodded.

You:
"Yeah. Feels like it. Feels... loud."

Lando looked out across the circuit behind you — fans waving signs, McLaren flags fluttering.

Lando:
"Yeah. It always does."

He didn't say more. But he didn't walk away, either.

That felt like something.

Lando had walked away after that quiet moment — no tension, no anger, just that familiar wall between you that hadn't quite been torn down yet.

You stood there for a moment longer, eyes on the orange blur of his race suit disappearing into the McLaren garage. But then, movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention.