Thanks to Norris

part 54- forgiveness

Media day at the French Grand Prix started off surprisingly lighthearted. Being paired with Pierre and Daniel for the interviews was a welcome change from the usual solo spotlight. The three of you joked easily between questions—Pierre teasing Daniel about his "old school" approach, Daniel laughing off Pierre's quirks, and you sliding into the banter effortlessly. The cameras caught it all, and for a few hours, it felt less like work and more like catching up with friends.

You found yourself genuinely smiling, the usual nerves replaced by a comfortable rhythm. Even when the press asked the usual tough questions about performance and team dynamics, the mood stayed upbeat. You shared a few laughs, teased Daniel about his famous radio messages, and Pierre made a dramatic show of defending his home race, sparking laughter all around.

But as the final interview wrapped up and the crowds began to thin, your eyes drifted across the paddock—and landed on Lando. He was standing a little apart from his team, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ground. He hadn't looked your way once.

A sudden, heavy silence settled over you. The ease of the day vanished like smoke.

You watched as he shifted his weight, still not meeting your gaze, and it hit you how distant he'd become, how much space was between you now.

Before you could stop yourself from spiraling, Lewis appeared at your side, his expression soft but serious. He glanced in the direction you'd been staring.
"Hey," he said quietly, nudging your arm gently. "You've been zoning out. What's wrong?"

You blinked, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. You forced a small shake of your head, trying to push down the sudden rush of hurt and confusion.
"It's nothing," you said, but the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

Lewis wasn't buying it. He gave you that look—part brotherly, part friend—that you'd seen many times before in moments when you were holding back something.
"If you want to talk about it, I'm here," he said softly. "No pressure."

You looked back at Lando one more time, who still hadn't glanced your way. The tension in your chest tightened.
"I don't know if I'm ready," you admitted, voice low.

Lewis gave a reassuring smile. "That's okay. Just remember you don't have to carry it alone."

You nodded, appreciating his quiet support as the media day buzzed around you, but inside you knew the real race—the one with your own heart—was far from over.

Thursday night had settled over the paddock like a quiet sigh. The buzz of the day had faded, leaving a calm stillness that wrapped around the hotel like a soft blanket. You stepped outside, the cool air hitting your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the joint you lit in your fingers. You took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs and ease some of the tension that had been knotting inside you all day.

The city lights twinkled far below, but your focus was drawn to a figure standing alone near the far end of the corridor. It was Lando. He looked out over the edge of the balcony, arms resting on the railing, his posture heavy with a kind of quiet loneliness that mirrored your own.

Your heart skipped, hope and hesitation swirling inside you like the smoke rising from your joint. Slowly, you stepped forward, the gravel underfoot crunching softly as you closed the distance between you.

"Lando," you called softly, your voice trembling with something you couldn't quite name—regret, longing, maybe fear.

He didn't turn around. His shoulders stiffened slightly, and you could see the tension in his jaw even from here. After a moment, he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head—a silent but clear message. He wasn't ready to talk. Not now.