Archive of Our Own ^beta

By the time Lando turned eighteen, he was used to needles.

Used to bloodwork forms slid across pristine desks. Used to the careful way doctors spoke around him, like his body was a problem they didn’t want to scare.

Used to waiting. The hospital in London was advanced enough that it barely felt like a hospital at all—glass walls, soft lighting, technology humming quietly behind panels. It was the kind of place people trusted with answers.

They never had any for him. Lando sat on the edge of the examination bed, swinging one foot absently while his mum spoke to the consultant.

His dad stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the city like he might spot the solution somewhere between rooftops. “Everything’s been normal so far,” the doctor said, voice calm, professional.

“Hormones within expected ranges. No abnormal scent markers. No delayed development indicators.”

“So…?” his mum asked. The doctor hesitated. “So,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “we still don’t have a classification.”

Lando didn’t react. He’d learned not to.

Alpha. Beta. Omega.

Everyone slotted into one of them eventually. Most people presented before sixteen. Some earlier. A few later. But eighteen? Eighteen was already late enough that articles existed about it. Panels. Studies. Think pieces.

The Unclassified Adolescents of Modern Society.

Lando hated those. “Another test?” his dad asked.

The doctor nodded. “We’ll run a deeper panel. Genetic markers. Scent response under controlled conditions.”

Lando sighed quietly. “Again?”

The doctor offered him an apologetic smile. “Again.”

They did the tests. They always did.

Blood drawn. Vials labeled. Machines whirring softly as they scanned his data like they might finally catch something everyone else had missed.

Lando lay back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the light panels.

This was just another stop between races. That was the strange part—how normal everything else in his life was.

Karting championships. Junior formulas. Contracts discussed in quiet offices. People talking about his future like it was already written in permanent ink.

Lando Norris: driver.

Fast. Talented. Marketable.

Just… unclassified.

By the time they finished, it was late afternoon. The doctor returned with a tablet, brows faintly furrowed. “Still nothing,” he said.

Lando’s mum exhaled sharply. His dad swore under his breath. “So what does that mean?” Lando asked, forcing lightness into his voice. “Am I broken or just special?”

The doctor met his eyes. “Neither.”

That was worse.

“It means,” he continued, “that whatever triggers your presentation hasn’t occurred yet. It could be environmental. Psychological. Or—”

“Or?” Lando prompted. “Or relational,” the doctor said. The word hung in the air. Lando frowned. “You mean… another person?”

“In some rare cases,” the doctor explained, “presentation is delayed until a significant biological match is encountered.”

His mum stiffened. “Like a mate?”

The doctor didn’t answer directly. Lando laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “So I’m waiting for… what. Fate?”

The doctor didn’t laugh back. “We’ll keep monitoring,” he said. “There’s no danger. No risk to your health. You’re functioning normally.” Normal, except for the part where he wasn’t. They left the hospital with no answers.

Again.

That night, Lando packed his bag for another race weekend like nothing had happened.

Helmet. Suit. Gloves. His world stayed fast and loud and forward-moving, even as one fundamental part of him stayed stubbornly undefined.

At eighteen, Lando Norris remained unclassified. And somewhere, unknowingly, the trigger for everything he was missing hadn’t entered his life yet. But it would.

Lando’s career moved faster than his body ever did.

Formula 2 barely had time to claim him before Formula One came knocking. Podiums blurred together. Contracts were signed in quiet rooms with very loud implications.

By twenty, he was standing in papaya orange, smiling for cameras like he’d always belonged there.

McLaren.

An A team. A real seat. No “development year,” no waiting in the wings.

Young. Bright. Fast.

Unclassified.

The headlines loved it.

LANDO NORRIS: THE GRID’S UNCLASSIFIED PROSPECT. CAN AN ANOMALY SURVIVE FORMULA ONE?

He learned how to smile through it. Media day was his first real lesson in what being unclassified meant under a spotlight. “So,” a journalist asked, microphone angled just a little too eagerly, “still no classification?”

Lando tilted his head, grin easy. “Last I checked.”

“Does that affect your performance?” another asked.

“Nope,” Lando said lightly. “Car doesn’t care.”

They laughed. He laughed too. Inside, it gnawed.

Every other driver had a label before their name—alpha dominance narratives, omega focus myths, beta balance analyses. Sponsors built campaigns around it. Teams planned dynamics around it.

Lando got a footnote.

Unclassified.

In the paddock, it was quieter but no less present. Scent blockers were mandatory for most. Alphas wore them to keep aggression down. Omegas to stay neutral. Betas because everyone did.

Lando wore them because there was nothing to block. He passed alphas without triggering a response. Sat next to omegas without tension. No pull. No push. No instinctual echo.

Some people found that unsettling. “You ever worried?” a fellow driver asked once, casual but curious. “About… you know.”

Lando shrugged. “About what?”

“Never presenting.” He shrugged again. “Can’t miss what I’ve never had.”

That was a lie. Doctors still ran tests every off-season. Bloodwork. Scans. Controlled scent exposure in sterile rooms. Always the same answer.

No response. No markers. No classification.

At twenty, Lando Norris debuted in Formula One and immediately proved he belonged. Points finishes. Sharp racecraft. Praise from people who mattered. And still—every success came with an asterisk.

Anomaly. Unclassified. Waiting.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself racing was enough. But sometimes, late at night in hotel rooms that all looked the same, he wondered what kind of person he was still waiting to become. And whether the thing that would finally unlock it was already on the grid—or hadn’t arrived yet.

Lando did try. People assumed he didn’t—that he avoided relationships because of the unclassified thing, because it was easier to joke about being married to racing than to explain why nothing ever clicked.

But that wasn’t true. He dated an alpha once.

Nice guy. Calm, even for an alpha. Protective without being possessive. They went to dinners that felt normal, conversations that flowed easily. The alpha never pushed, never treated Lando like a mystery to solve.

In the end, it wasn’t the lack of instinct that ended it. It was timing. “You’re never really here,” the alpha said gently, sitting across from him in a quiet restaurant, fingers wrapped around a cooling cup of coffee. “Even when you are.”

Lando had nodded, because it was fair. They hugged goodbye. No drama. No resentment.

Then there was an omega. Soft-spoken, thoughtful, someone who understood schedules and absence and long silences between messages. They fit easily—too easily. Comfortable in a way that felt safe, but not… anchoring.

“You love your career,” the omega said one night, lying beside him, tracing patterns on Lando’s arm. “And I don’t want to compete with that.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Lando said automatically.

The omega smiled sadly. “We both know that’s not true.” That one hurt more.

A beta came later. Sharp-witted, grounded, someone who didn’t care about labels at all. They went to races together. Laughed easily. Tried to build something steady in the gaps between flights and podiums.

It almost worked. Almost. But almost wasn’t enough. None of the breakups were about Lando being unclassified.

No one ever said, I wish you were an alpha or I need an omega.

What they said instead was quieter.

“I don’t see the same future.”

“You’re chasing something I can’t follow.”

“There’s always another race.”

And they weren’t wrong. Because every time it came down to a choice, Lando chose racing. The season didn’t wait for clarity or closure. It demanded focus. Precision. Hunger.

There was always another weekend. Another circuit. Another chance to prove he belonged. Sometimes, standing on the grid, helmet on, engines roaring around him, Lando felt perfectly complete. Other times, late at night, phone dark beside him, he wondered if there was something in him that hadn’t woken up yet.

Not broken. Just… waiting. And somewhere ahead—another race to win. Always another race.

They sang too loudly. Off-key, enthusiastic, full of love.

Lando sat at the head of the table in his parents’ house, cheeks warm, laughing as his family crowded around him. His grandmother clapped along, his grandfather grinning like he’d won something personally. His brother nudged his shoulder. His sister leaned in to steal icing off his cake.

“Make a wish!” someone called.

Lando closed his eyes. He didn’t know what he wished for anymore, so he just smiled and blew out the candles.

Twenty-five. It felt heavier than he expected.

Later, when the house settled into that familiar post-celebration quiet—plates stacked, voices drifting into softer conversations—Lando slipped upstairs without saying anything.

His childhood room hadn’t changed much. The Senna poster was still there, slightly faded at the corners. His old karting helmet sat on the shelf, scratched and scuffed and impossibly small now. Trophies lined the desk, frozen proof of a dream that had started right here.

Lando sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled. Earlier that week, he’d been back in London. Same hospital. Same calm voices. Same clean, bright rooms that smelled faintly of disinfectant and disappointment.

The doctor hadn’t needed long. “Still unclassified,” he’d said gently. “No changes. No markers. No delayed response.”

Lando had nodded. He hadn’t been surprised. “We can continue monitoring,” the doctor added. “There are newer trials. Experimental scent triggers. Neural response mapping—”

“No,” Lando had said, quietly but firmly.

The doctor had paused. “No?”

“I’m done,” Lando replied. “I said I’d give it until twenty-five.”

And now he was. He looked around the room again—at the boy he’d been, the dreams he’d chased, the life he’d built without waiting for permission from his body.

Racing hadn’t waited for him to figure himself out. Life hadn’t either.

“I’m okay,” he murmured to the empty room, like he needed to hear it out loud. Unclassified wasn’t a failure. It wasn’t unfinished.

It was just… him. Lando lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of his family laughing downstairs. Loved. Supported. Whole.

He made himself a promise then.

No more hospitals. No more labs. No more waiting for something that might never come. Whatever he was, whoever he was going to be—he would meet it on his own terms.

At twenty-five, Lando Norris accepted his fate. He didn’t know that fate was already warming up. And that the thing he’d stopped looking for was about to find him anyway.

Lando arrived at the McLaren Technology Centre at six in the morning. Not because he had to. Because he always did.

The building was still half-asleep—lights dimmed, corridors echoing softly under his trainers. He grabbed a coffee, black, and settled into the conference room at the far end of the floor, laptop open, notes already pulled up.

New season. New teammate. He wasn’t nervous. He’d been doing this long enough to know how it went—introductions, polite enthusiasm, the careful dance of figuring each other out before the engines ever turned over.

Still, something felt… off. At exactly 6:07, the door opened. “Sorry—sorry, traffic.”

The voice was unfamiliar. Australian accent, warm and earnest. Lando looked up. And felt it.

Not a scent—there was nothing there, nothing triggered in the way the doctors had always described. No heat, no instinctual pull. Just a sudden, sharp awareness in his chest, like someone had pressed pause on his lungs for half a second.

The guy standing in the doorway was tall. Broad-shouldered without trying to be. Dark brown hair still a little messy like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. He smiled—quick, a bit nervous, the smile of someone very aware they were standing at the start of something huge.

“Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Oscar. Oscar Piastri.” Twenty-two, Lando remembered. Young. Exceptionally talented. The future, according to everyone with a spreadsheet and an opinion.

Lando stood automatically, the movement slower than usual. “Lando,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome.”

Oscar’s handshake was warm. Solid. The moment their hands met, the strange feeling sharpened—not painful, just present. Like static under his skin. Like recognition without a name.

Oscar blinked once, then smiled a little wider. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve… uh. Watched a lot of onboard footage.”

Lando huffed a quiet laugh. “Unlucky.”

Oscar laughed too, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Guess we’re doing this, then.”

“Looks like it,” Lando said. They sat. The room filled slowly with engineers, familiar faces, familiar rhythms. Introductions were made. Slides clicked forward. The season was outlined in neat bullet points.

Lando tried to focus. But every now and then, his attention drifted—caught by the way Oscar leaned forward when he listened, the way his hands clasped together, the way he nodded along like he was storing every word somewhere important.

Once, their eyes met across the table. The feeling flared again—brief, electric, gone before Lando could examine it. He frowned slightly and looked back at his screen.

Get it together, he told himself. He’s just your new teammate.

Still. When the meeting ended, Oscar lingered awkwardly by the door. “Uh,” he said. “If you ever want to—go over data together, or… whatever. I’m keen.”

Lando smiled. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Oscar nodded, visibly relieved. “Cool. See you.”

He left. The room emptied.

Lando stayed seated for a moment longer, fingers resting against the edge of the table, heart beating just a touch too fast for no reason at all.

He exhaled slowly. He’d promised himself he was done waiting for something to change.

And yet— For the first time in years, his body felt like it had noticed someone.

Not reacted. Not presented. Just… noticed. Lando Norris stared at the closed door and wondered, briefly, what exactly he’d just shaken hands with.

Then he shook the thought away. New season. New teammate.

Nothing more. Not yet.

The schedule didn’t slow down for anyone.

By the time they reached Abu Dhabi for pre-season testing, Lando felt like he’d lived three weeks in the span of five days. Simulator sessions, engineering briefings, debriefs that blurred into dinners that blurred into early mornings.

Testing was relentless. The new car behaved well—responsive, aggressive in all the right ways. Lando climbed out of the cockpit sweaty, helmet tucked under his arm, fireproofs clinging uncomfortably in the heat.

Abu Dhabi was unforgiving. The sun pressed down hard, the air thick with heat and fuel and rubber. Mechanics moved like they were underwater. Everyone was sweating.

Including Oscar.

Lando knew the basics already. It was in the paperwork, buried in the personal info packet HR provided when new drivers joined.

Oscar Piastri — Alpha.

Lando had nodded when he read it. That tracks, he’d thought. The calm authority. The quiet confidence. The way people instinctively gave him space without being told.

Alpha dominance aura. Textbook. So it shouldn’t have surprised him. And yet— They stood side by side near the garage wall, both drinking water, both catching their breath. Oscar leaned back against the concrete, forearms bare, hair damp with sweat.

Lando inhaled. And froze. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t overwhelming.

It was… chocolate.

Warm. Deep. Familiar in a way that made no sense. Like melted cocoa and something softer underneath. Comforting. Grounding.

Lando frowned slightly and took another breath.

Still there. That didn’t happen. Not to him. He didn’t respond to scent—not alphas, not omegas, not anyone. Years of tests had confirmed it.

He shifted his weight, trying to subtly step away. The scent followed. His chest felt tight—not panicked, just confused. His thoughts slowed, like his brain had hit traffic.

Oscar glanced over. “You okay, mate?”

Lando realized he’d been staring at absolutely nothing. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just—hot.”

Oscar huffed a small laugh. “Tell me about it. I feel like I’m melting.”

He stepped a little closer to speak over the noise. The scent intensified. Lando’s fingers curled unconsciously around his water bottle.

Get a grip.

“Car feels good,” Oscar continued, oblivious. “Bit nervous on corner entry, but nothing major.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, nodding automatically. “Same.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, studying him—not invasive, just attentive. “You sure you’re alright?”

Lando forced a grin. “Promise. Just tired.”

Oscar nodded, accepting it easily. “Long day.” He pushed off the wall and headed back toward the garage.

The scent faded with distance. Lando exhaled slowly, chest loosening. That night, alone in his hotel room, Lando stood under the shower longer than necessary, water pounding against his shoulders as he tried to make sense of it.

Chocolate. He’d never associated scent with anything before. Never noticed it. Never reacted.

And yet his body had clocked Oscar instantly—without heat, without presentation, without explanation. He turned the water colder and rested his forehead against the tile.

You’re imagining it, he told himself.

New teammate. New environment. Stress. Heat.

That was all. Still…his mind replayed Oscar’s voice, the warmth of his presence, the strange calm that followed him like a shadow.

Testing continued the next day. And Lando couldn’t stop noticing when Oscar was near.

Not reacting. Just… noticing.

For someone who’d spent twenty-five years unclassified, it felt dangerously close to the beginning of something. Even if he didn’t know what that something was yet.

The season didn’t ease them in.

It never did.

The paddock was already alive when they arrived—cameras flashing, fans pressed against barriers, engines screaming somewhere in the distance like a promise.

Oscar stepped through the gates with a careful calm, posture straight, jaw set just a little too tight.

First race. First real one. Lando noticed immediately. “You’re doing fine,” Lando said quietly as they walked. “Breathe.”

Oscar exhaled, a little laugh escaping him. “I am breathing.”

“You’re breathing like you’re about to sit an exam.”

Oscar shot him a look. “It kind of is.” Lando grinned and reached out, fixing the collar of Oscar’s team shirt without thinking. “You’ve done harder things.”

Oscar relaxed—just a fraction. “Thanks.”

Media day was chaos. Interviews back-to-back. Cameras everywhere. Questions thrown fast and loud. Through it all, Lando stayed close—hovering in a way he didn’t quite register until Oscar noticed.

“You’re not my bodyguard, you know,” Oscar said under his breath as they waited for their turn.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t get lost,” Lando replied easily.

Oscar smiled, nervous energy bleeding into humor. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

Lando laughed. “Not planning to.”

They were ushered onto the stage soon after. Thousands of fans stretched out before them, a sea of color and sound. The MC talked endlessly, hyping the crowd, throwing questions, building energy. Lando waved easily, familiar with this. Oscar waved too—more tentative, but genuine. The crowd roared anyway.

Then came the games. Lighthearted stuff. Quick reactions. A bit of movement across the stage.

Lando stepped forward— And his foot caught.

It happened fast. One moment he was laughing, the next his balance tipped sharply forward. Before his brain could even catch up, a hand was at his waist.

Oscar.

Strong. Steady. Immediate. Skin to skin.

Lando gasped—not audibly, but enough that his breath stuttered. The contact sent a shiver straight through him, sharp and electric, like his nerves had suddenly come alive all at once.

Oscar held him easily, eyes wide for half a second before softening. “Got you.”

Lando’s fingers curled instinctively into Oscar’s sleeve. Too long. Too close.

The crowd cheered, thinking it was part of the show. Lando laughed it off, forcing himself upright, but his body betrayed him—heart racing, skin tingling where Oscar’s hand had been. “Thanks,” he said, voice a touch rougher than he meant.

Oscar nodded, smiling, but there was something searching in his eyes now. “Anytime.”

They finished the segment. More waving. More noise. But Lando couldn’t shake it.

The warmth. The grounding. The way his body had reacted before his mind could intervene. He’d never shivered from touch before. Never felt instinct flare without reason. As they stepped offstage, Oscar leaned closer, voice low. “You sure you’re okay?”

Lando swallowed. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Because under the lights, in front of the world, something inside him had responded. And for the first time, Lando wondered if accepting his fate had been premature. Because his body—quiet for twenty-five years—had just spoken. And it had chosen Oscar.

Oscar Piastri had known Lando Norris long before he ever met him.

Not personally—not really. But in the way racers knew each other long before their paths crossed. In lap times memorized. In clips replayed late at night. In headlines read with a mix of awe and hunger.

When Oscar was still karting, Lando was already there.

Fast. Fearless. Laughing in interviews like the pressure didn’t touch him. Winning races like it was instinct, not effort.

When Oscar moved up to Formula 4, then Formula 3, then Formula 2, Lando’s name never stopped appearing. Always ahead. Always relevant. Always… unclassified.

People talked about that part more than they should have.

The anomaly of the grid. Twenty-five and still unclassified. What does it mean?

Oscar never cared.

To him, Lando Norris was brilliant. Not because of secondary gender classifications or biology, but because he understood cars in a way that felt intuitive and honest. Because he raced like he trusted himself. Because he smiled like someone who loved what he did.

That was enough.

Oscar followed his career quietly, never commenting, never engaging publicly. Admiration didn’t need an audience.

When McLaren called, Oscar didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Yes,” he said immediately.

After the call ended, he sat very still in his kitchen, phone still in his hand, heart pounding like he’d just finished a race.

McLaren. Formula One. Lando Norris. His mum noticed immediately. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smiling in that way that meant she already knew. “You said yes fast.”

Oscar nodded, trying—and failing—to look calm. “It’s McLaren.”

“Mmm,” she said. “And Lando.”

Oscar felt heat creep up his neck. “He’s… very good.”

She laughed. “You’ve had his posters on your wall.”

“That was years ago.”

“And now,” she teased, “you get to be with him all the time.”

Oscar swallowed. That thought—being around Lando, really around him—sent a strange, electric flutter through his chest. Anticipation. Nerves. Something warmer underneath.

“I’m just excited to learn,” Oscar said carefully.

His mum smiled softly. “Of course you are.”

By the time he arrived at the McLaren Technology Centre, Oscar had told himself a hundred times not to put Lando on a pedestal. He was his teammate now. A colleague. An equal.

Then Lando had stood up, smiled, shaken his hand— And Oscar had nearly forgotten how to breathe. Not because of scent. Not because of instinct. Because the person he’d admired for years was suddenly real. Warm. Kind. Human.

And now, every time Lando hovered near him, every time Lando laughed at his jokes, every time Lando stayed close in crowded rooms—

Oscar’s heart beat just a little faster.

He told himself it was nerves. Excitement. The start of a new chapter.

He didn’t know yet that Lando’s body had noticed him too.

But if he was honest—He’d always hoped, just a little, that someday Lando would look at him and seehim.

And now, standing beside him under the lights, Oscar had the unsettling feeling that something was beginning.

Something neither of them had planned for.

And Oscar Piastri—alpha, rookie, lifelong admirer—was absolutely not prepared for what came next.

The McLaren Technology Centre was quiet in the early afternoon.

Not empty—never empty—but hushed in the way a place full of focused people became when everyone was buried in their own work. Screens glowed softly. The sim rooms hummed behind glass walls.

Lando was already there. He sat in one of the prep rooms, race suit half unzipped, sleeves tied around his waist, scrolling through data on a tablet with tired eyes. He’d been in meetings since morning. Simulator earlier. Media calls squeezed in between.

He rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. The door opened. Oscar slipped inside, still in team kit, hair slightly damp like he’d rushed over. He stopped when he saw Lando slumped in the chair.

“You’re here early,” Oscar said.

Lando glanced up and smiled instantly. “Someone has to carry this team.”

Oscar snorted. “You look wrecked.”

“Rude,” Lando said. “True, but rude.”

Oscar didn’t reply. He just reached into the small bag he was carrying and pulled something out.

A banana.

He set it on the table in front of Lando like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Lando blinked. “…Is this an intervention.”

“You skipped lunch,” Oscar said. “Again.”

Lando laughed, bright and easy, like he always did. “Wow. Called out by the rookie.”

“Eat,” Oscar said simply.

Lando picked it up, grin softening. “Thanks, Osc.”

The way he said it—casual, warm, familiar—hit Oscar harder than he expected. Lando peeled the banana, still smiling, sunshine in human form even on four hours of sleep. It struck Oscar, not for the first time, how Lando carried light into every room he walked into without trying.

Oscar stepped closer without thinking.

Too close.

His hand lifted—automatic, unplanned—and brushed lightly through Lando’s hair, fingers just grazing curls at his temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The room stilled. Lando froze. Not startled. Not uncomfortable. Just… paused.

His breath caught, eyes flicking up to Oscar’s face, something unreadable passing through them both in the span of a heartbeat.

Oscar’s brain short-circuited. He dropped his hand immediately. “Eat that banana,” Oscar said quickly, far too casual. “You need energy.”

Then, before Lando could say anything—before hecould think about what he’d just done—Oscar turned and headed for the restroom down the hall.

Lando stared after him. His fingers tightened around the banana peel, pulse loud in his ears. That hadn’t felt like nothing. It hadn’t felt like instinct either. It had felt… personal. A quiet gesture. Unclaimed. Unexplained.

Lando took a slow breath, shook his head once like he could physically dislodge the feeling, and took a bite.

Still— the warmth lingered where Oscar’s hand had been.

And somewhere down the hall, Oscar stood at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, heart racing like he’d just crossed a line he hadn’t known existed.

A small thing. A real moment. And neither of them would forget it.

Lando woke up gasping. Not from a nightmare. Not from a noise.

From heat. It pressed in on him from the inside out, heavy and unfamiliar, like his skin didn’t fit right anymore. His sheets were twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. His hair stuck to his forehead.

He blinked at the ceiling, chest rising too fast. “What the hell…?”

He reached for his phone on the bedside table. 2:07 a.m. Too early. Too sudden.

Lando sat up slowly, heart thudding, and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. Hot. Great, he thought. I’m getting sick.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. He had a full media day tomorrow. A Vogue photoshoot, of all things—stylists, lights, cameras, no room for being unwell.

He swung his legs out of bed and padded quietly to the bathroom, flicking on the light. His reflection stared back at him, flushed and tired-looking, eyes a little too bright. “Don’t do this now,” he muttered.

He rummaged through his medicine bag—habitual, practiced—pulling out fever reducers, supplements, the usual things he took when his body decided to misbehave before big weekends.

He swallowed the pills with a long drink of water and leaned against the sink, breathing slowly.

It didn’t help. The heat didn’t fade. It lingered, coiled low in his chest, not sharp enough to panic over but persistent enough to keep him awake.

Lando frowned. This didn’t feel like a fever.

There was no ache. No dizziness. No chills.

Just warmth. Pressure. Awareness. He went back to bed anyway, throwing the covers off, opening a window despite the cool night air. He lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.

Eventually, exhaustion won. By morning, the worst of it had dulled, filed down to something he could ignore.

He chalked it up to stress. Jet lag. Overwork.

By the time he stepped into the studio later that day—smiling, joking, effortlessly charming under bright lights—no one noticed anything wrong.

Not the stylists. Not the photographers. Not even Lando himself.

What Lando didn’t know— What no one knew— Was that his body had finally begun to move.

Quietly. Patiently.

After twenty-five years of silence, something inside him had stirred. And once it started— It wasn’t going to stop.

Japan was beautiful. That almost made it worse. The paddock buzzed outside—orderly, efficient, alive—but Lando was locked inside his driver room, back against the door, phone shaking slightly in his hand.

The article glared up at him.

UNCLASSIFIED AT 25: WHEN BIOLOGY FAILS THE GRID EXPERTS QUESTION LONG-TERM VIABILITY

He scrolled. He shouldn’t have. He knew better.

Words blurred together—anomaly, unknown risk, unprecedented. Speculation dressed up as concern. Strangers dissecting his body like it was a faulty part.

Lando slid the phone onto the floor and pressed his palms to his eyes.

His chest hurt. “If I had to choose,” he whispered hoarsely to the empty room, “I would.”

Alpha. Omega. Beta.

Any of it. Anything but this. Tears slipped free before he could stop them. Silent at first. Then heavier. He curled forward, knees pulled to his chest, shoulders shaking as the weight of it finally crushed down.

Why was the world so cruel to him? He raced. He trained. He showed up. He gave everything. And still—still—his body was treated like a question mark people felt entitled to answer.

A soft knock came at the door. Lando froze.

Another knock. Gentle. Careful. “…Lando?”

Oscar’s voice. Lando didn’t answer.

“I brought your favourite Kinder,” Oscar said softly, like he was offering peace instead of chocolate. “The one with the little cards inside.”

That broke him. Lando pushed himself up on unsteady legs and opened the door just enough for Oscar to slip inside. Oscar didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, locked the door behind him, and exhaled slowly like he’d been holding his breath the entire walk here.

He took one look at Lando—red eyes, tear-streaked face, body folded in on itself— And his chest ached. “Oh, Lan…” Oscar murmured.

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to. Oscar crossed the room and pulled Lando into his arms—firm, grounding, immediate. No hesitation. No explanation.

Lando broke against him. He clutched Oscar’s shirt, sobbing now, the sound muffled against Oscar’s chest. Oscar held him like it was instinct, one hand cradling the back of Lando’s head, the other pressed solidly between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not fair,” Lando choked. “I didn’t— I didn’t choose this.”

“I know,” Oscar said quietly, voice steady even as his heart raced. “I know.”

“I don’t want to be… like this,” Lando whispered. “I just want to be normal.”

Oscar swallowed hard. “You are,” he said firmly. “You are brilliant. And kind. And the best driver I’ve ever seen.”

Lando shook his head weakly. “They don’t see that.”

Oscar tightened his hold just slightly. “I do.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, the world outside forgotten. Teammates. Articles. Labels.

None of it mattered here. Eventually, Lando’s breathing slowed. His grip loosened just a little, exhaustion replacing the sharp edge of grief.

Oscar rested his forehead against Lando’s hair, eyes closed. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly. “Okay?” Lando nodded against him. He didn’t trust his voice yet. But for the first time since the article, the weight eased—just a fraction.

Not gone. But bearable.

And somewhere deep inside Lando’s chest, that unfamiliar warmth stirred again—quiet, insistent, awake. Not cruel. Not punishing. Just… beginning.

After Japan, something shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t announced. But it followed them from race to race like a shadow that stayed just close enough to notice.

Oscar watched Lando more. Not in the obvious way—no hovering hands, no constant checking—but in the way his attention sharpened whenever the paddock leaned too close. Whenever voices took on that particular edge.

Too curious. Too sharp.

Media day in Saudi was where it happened first. They were seated side by side, microphones clipped neatly, sponsor boards glowing behind them. The questions started easy—car performance, tire deg, setup philosophy.

Then a hand went up. “Lando,” a journalist said, smiling like this was harmless, “there’s been renewed discussion about your secondary gender status. Do you feel pressure to—”

Lando’s fingers dug into his own thigh under the table. Hard. Oscar felt it before he saw it. “What’s the point of that question?” Oscar cut in.

The room stilled. The journalist blinked. “I—well, it’s relevant to—”

“No,” Oscar said calmly. Too calmly. “It isn’t.”

A ripple went through the room. Oscar leaned slightly forward, posture open, voice steady—but the air changed. Alphas in the room felt it immediately.

That low, unmistakable flare of dominance, restrained but present. “We’re here to talk about racing,” Oscar continued. “Lap times. Strategy. Cars. Not someone’s biology.”

Silence. The journalist cleared their throat. “Of course. Just—” “If you have a racing question,” Oscar said, eyes unwavering, “ask it.”

Lando stared straight ahead, breath shallow, heart pounding. Oscar didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

The journalist nodded quickly and moved on. Afterward, the paddock buzzed. People whispered. Some looked impressed. Some looked startled. Some looked… wary.

Oscar Piastri did not usually snap. Which made it worse. In the motorhome later, Lando finally let go of his thigh. His leg ached.

Oscar noticed immediately. “You okay?”

Lando nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat passed. “You didn’t have to do that,” Lando said quietly.

Oscar met his eyes. “Yes. I did.”

Lando swallowed. “Osc—”

“I’m not letting them do that to you,” Oscar said, voice low but firm. “Not again.”

Something in his tone—protective, unyielding—made Lando’s chest tighten. It happened again in Miami. Then Monaco.

Any question that veered too close, too invasive, too personal—Oscar intercepted it. Redirected. Shut it down with polite firmness or, when necessary, steel-edged authority.

People started backing off. Not because of rules. Because of Oscar.

Lando noticed the pattern. The way Oscar angled his body subtly toward him in press scrums. The way his voice dropped when he spoke over the noise. The way his presence expanded when Lando went quiet.

Alpha energy, fully restrained—but unmistakable.

One evening, Lando caught Oscar watching him from across the garage, expression unreadable. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” Lando said lightly when he joined him.

Oscar shrugged. “Worth it.” Lando didn’t argue. Because every time Oscar stepped in, that strange warmth in his chest flared again—steady, grounding, alive.

And for the first time, Lando wondered if the thing waking up inside him wasn’t just about biology.

Maybe it was about safety. About being seen. About someone standing in front of the world and saying—enough.

And Oscar Piastri, alpha and teammate and something dangerously close to more, was doing it without hesitation.

Race after race.

The McLaren Technology Centre was almost dark. Not closed—never truly closed—but emptied out in the way it got after long race weeks. The engineers had filtered out one by one. Screens went black. Conversations faded. Even Andrea and Zak had left with final nods and tired smiles.

Only one screen remained lit. Telemetry from the last race still glowed faintly on the wall—brake traces, throttle maps, lap deltas frozen in time like evidence.

Oscar stayed seated. He’d learned, without quite meaning to, to wait for Lando.

Lando finished typing his notes, fingers moving fast despite the fatigue. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, cracking his neck. “Alright,” he said, bright again, like he always was. “Let’s go, Osc.”

Oscar stood immediately. Lando pushed himself up— And the room tilted. Hard.

The floor seemed to slide sideways, his vision narrowing to a blur of light and shadow. His stomach dropped. His head felt weightless, wrong. “Oh—” His knees buckled.

“Lando!” Oscar was there before gravity could finish the job.

Strong hands caught him around the waist and shoulders, pulling him back upright, then down into a chair again. Oscar’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs. “Hey—hey—sit,” Oscar said urgently. “I’ve got you.”

Lando’s breathing went sharp and fast, chest heaving as he gripped the armrests, trying to anchor himself. “What the hell was that,” Lando muttered, blinking hard. I wasn’t standing up that fast.

Oscar crouched in front of him, eyes wide and searching. “You nearly collapsed.”

“I didn’t,” Lando said automatically. “I just—got dizzy.”

“That’s not normal,” Oscar said, voice already rising despite his attempt to keep it calm. “We’re going to the doctor.”

“No,” Lando said quickly, shaking his head. The movement made his vision pulse again. “No, Osc. It’s fine. I’ve been tired. Long season. Probably just need rest.”

Oscar didn’t like that answer. Not one bit. “You were breathing like you couldn’t catch it,” Oscar said. “That’s not ‘just tired.’”

Lando swallowed, hands still trembling slightly. “I don’t want… not now.”

Oscar hesitated. Alpha instinct screamed at him to override, to insist, to protect. But he stayed still, stayed grounded, because Lando was looking at him now—really looking—eyes bright with unease rather than humor.

“Please,” Lando said quietly. “Just let me sleep it off.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “…Okay,” he said finally. “But if it happens again, we go. No argument.”

Lando nodded, relief flickering across his face. “Deal.”

Oscar stayed close as Lando steadied himself, one hand resting at the small of his back as they walked out together, the darkened corridor swallowing them up.

Neither of them spoke. But both of them knew. That hadn’t been nothing.

And whatever had started weeks ago—heat in the night, strange scents, unexplained reactions—it was getting harder to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Lando lay awake later that night, heart still racing for no reason at all. Oscar stared at the ceiling in his own room, replaying the moment Lando’s body had gone slack in his arms.

Something was wrong. And next time, he wasn’t going to let it slide.

Lando didn’t sleep. He tried. God, he tried. Lights off. Phone face-down. Breathing slow like the sports psych had taught him. Nothing worked. His body refused to settle, like rest itself had been rejected.

Heat rolled under his skin again—worse than before. Not sharp. Not painful.

Just there. He turned onto his side, then onto his back, then back again, sheets tangled around his legs. His mind would not shut up.

Oscar’s hands. The way they’d caught him without hesitation. Solid. Certain. Like Lando’s weight hadn’t even been a question. The warmth of his palms through fabric, the instinctive pull of being held upright.

Oscar’s scent. Lando groaned quietly and pressed his forearm over his eyes.

“Why,” he muttered, “does it have to be chocolate.”

Of all things. Chocolate was his favourite. Always had been. Comfort food. Childhood treats. Something safe and familiar. And now his own body had decided to associate it with Oscar Piastri. That was not fair.

Oscar’s steady presence replayed in his mind too—the way he stood between Lando and journalists, the way his voice cut clean and calm through noise, the way he waited after meetings like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lando’s chest tightened. “This is so wrong,” he whispered. Unclassified. Twenty-five. Done with hospitals, done with tests, done with waiting.

And yet— A memory surfaced, uninvited.

Years ago. School. Health class. The hushed way the instructor had talked about it, like it was something half-mythical.

Heat.

Late-onset cases. Rare. Usually stress-triggered. Sometimes brought on by proximity to a compatible alpha.

Symptoms listed clinically on a screen he’d barely paid attention to back then:

• Restlessness

• Elevated body temperature

• Heightened scent awareness

• Difficulty sleeping

• Emotional fixation

Lando sat bolt upright. “No,” he said aloud.

That couldn’t be it. He’d been tested. Over and over. He’d accepted it. Made peace with it. You didn’t just wake up omega at twenty-five like some delayed software update.

Except— His hands were shaking. His body felt wrong in a way that wasn’t illness. And Oscar— Oscar was everywhere in his head.

Lando grabbed his phone with trembling fingers and stared at the screen. 2:41 a.m. He hesitated. Then hit call. It rang twice before— “Lando?” his mum’s voice came through, instantly alert. “Love? What’s wrong?”

His throat closed. “Mum,” he said, voice breaking despite himself. “I—something’s happening. I think— I think something’s wrong with me.”

Silence. Then, gentle but steady “Okay. Breathe. Tell me.”

“I can’t sleep,” he rushed. “I’m too hot and I feel weird and—and there’s this alpha, my teammate, and I can smell him and—” He swallowed hard. “Mum, what if it’s a heat?”

She inhaled sharply. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Okay. Okay. Listen to me.”

Lando curled in on himself, gripping the phone like a lifeline. “I thought I was done,” he whispered. “I thought I accepted it.”

“I know,” she said. “You did everything right.”

“What if the world finds out,” Lando said, panic creeping in. “What if it’s happening now—like this—”

“We’ll deal with it,” she said firmly. “One step at a time. You’re not alone.”

Lando squeezed his eyes shut, tears slipping free. “I don’t want this to ruin everything,” he said.

“It won’t,” his mum promised. “And tomorrow, we’ll talk to a doctor. A good one. Quietly.”

Lando nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Okay,” he whispered. The call ended eventually, but sleep still didn’t come. Lando lay there in the dark, heart racing, body awake, thoughts circling one name over and over again.

Oscar.

If this was really happening—if his body was finally awakening— Then it had chosen the worst possible moment. And the one person he absolutely, definitely could not afford to need.

Lando didn’t go to the MTC that morning. That alone felt wrong.

The apartment near Woking was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made his thoughts echo. He sat at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a mug he hadn’t touched, body still humming with restless heat that refused to fade.

A knock came at the door. “Mum,” Lando breathed, relief flooding him as he opened it.

She stepped inside and pulled him into a hug immediately—firm, grounding, familiar. Lando let himself lean into it for a second longer than usual.

“You look pale,” she said gently, pulling back to examine him.

“Feel worse,” Lando admitted.

They didn’t waste time. The drive to London passed in near silence, broken only by his mum’s steady reassurances and Lando’s phone lighting up on the console.

Oscar:
Hey mate, didn’t see you at MTC. You okay?

Lando stared at the screen. His chest tightened—warmth flaring for no logical reason at all. He typed back quickly.

Yeah, all good. Taking the day off. Just dizzy, that’s all.

A lie. But not one he was ready to unpack yet. The hospital looked exactly the same. Same glass doors. Same soft lighting. Same faint scent of disinfectant and something almost comforting beneath it. The receptionist recognized him instantly—of course she did.

“Good to see you again, Lando,” she said kindly.

He smiled faintly. “Wish it were under different circumstances.” The doctor was familiar too. Older now. Greyer. But his eyes were still calm in that way that suggested he’d always suspected this day might come. “Let’s take a look,” he said gently.

The examination was thorough but quiet—bloodwork, scans, scent sensitivity tests that had never shown anything before. Lando lay still, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering as if his body already knew what the machines were about to say.

This time, the wait felt different. When the doctor returned, he didn’t hesitate.

“Lando,” he said, sitting down across from him, tablet resting on his knee. “You’re presenting.”

Lando’s breath hitched. “…Presenting,” he repeated.

“Yes,” the doctor said. “Early-stage omega presentation. Pre-heat.”

The word landed heavy and sharp and relieving all at once.

Omega.

His mum’s hand tightened around his. “But—” Lando whispered. “All these years—”

“Delayed presentation,” the doctor said calmly. “Rare, but documented. Often triggered by prolonged stress or the presence of a biologically compatible alpha.”

Lando swallowed. Oscar’s face flashed unbidden in his mind. Chocolate. Steady hands. Safety. “So… I’m not unclassified anymore,” Lando said quietly.

The doctor smiled, soft and genuine. “No. You aren’t.” Lando laughed once—breathless, disbelieving—and then covered his face with his hands as tears slipped through his fingers.

“I waited so long,” he said, voice breaking. “I gave up waiting.”

His mum leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple. “And it still found you.”

The doctor continued gently, outlining what came next—monitoring, blockers if needed, discretion, control. Words that should have scared him. But Lando felt strangely calm. Terrified, yes.

But no longer empty. When they left the hospital later, the world looked the same—but Lando wasn’t.

His phone buzzed again.

Oscar:
Glad you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything.

Lando stared at the message for a long moment, heart racing for an entirely new reason.

I’m an omega now, he thought, stunned. I’m really an omega.

He typed back carefully.

Thanks, Osc. I will.

He didn’t know how—or when—he’d tell Oscar.

But one thing was clear now. After twenty-five years of waiting, Lando Norris finally had an answer. And nothing about his life was going to stay the same.

Lando took another day off.

Oscar noticed immediately.

By mid-morning, the garage chatter had shifted from casual concern to quiet speculation, but Oscar wasn’t listening to any of it. He stared at his phone longer than he should have, rereading the last message Lando had sent—polite, short, reassuring in a way that didn’t reassure him at all.

Just resting. All good.

It didn’t feel good. By lunchtime, Oscar made a decision. He left the MTC with a paper bag clutched carefully in one hand—hot takeaway, still warm through the cardboard. Lando’s favourite. He hadn’t even had to think about it. He parked outside Lando’s flat near Woking and took a steadying breath before knocking.

No warning. No text. He wanted to see him. The door opened.

Lando stood there in an oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over his hands. His hair was messy, curls sticking up like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times. His cheeks were flushed, eyes a little too bright.

Oscar’s breath caught. The scent hit him instantly.

Spicy and sweet at the same time—warm, rich, unmistakable. It wrapped around him like a wave, sinking straight into his chest, into his instincts, into something ancient and undeniable.

Omega.

Oscar’s fingers tightened reflexively around the paper bag. “Oh god,” he breathed before he could stop himself.

Lando blushed immediately, colour deepening across his face. “I—sorry. I should’ve—”

Oscar took a sharp step back, putting space between them like it was muscle memory. “No,” he said quickly. “No, you’re fine. I just—”

He swallowed, grounding himself, forcing his shoulders to relax. Alpha instincts surged, loud and demanding, but he held them back with practiced control. “I brought you lunch,” Oscar said, lifting the bag slightly. “Didn’t mean to… surprise you like that.”

Lando watched him carefully, nerves flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t know how strong it would be,” Lando admitted quietly. “It’s… new.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. I can tell.”

The air between them hummed, heavy with everything neither of them was saying. “I can leave it here,” Oscar added gently. “You don’t need— I don’t want to make this harder for you.”

Lando hesitated. Then, softly “It’s okay.”

Oscar stilled. “Come on in,” Lando said, stepping back to open the door wider. “Please.”

Oscar searched his face—really searched it—for any sign of pressure, any hint that this wasn’t what Lando wanted.

He found none.

Slowly, carefully, Oscar crossed the threshold. The door closed behind him with a quiet click. And for the first time, they stood in the same space knowing exactly what Lando was.

Not an anomaly. Not unclassified.

Omega.

Oscar set the food down on the counter like it was something fragile. “We can just eat,” he said, voice steady despite the way his pulse thundered. “Talk about nothing.”

Lando smiled, small but real. “That sounds… perfect.” They stood there for a moment longer—two teammates, two people, something fragile and powerful blooming between them.

Oscar stayed exactly where he was. Not crowding. Not claiming.

Just there. Because if this was Lando’s first heat— Oscar would make sure the first thing it learned was safety.

Lando picked the movie. Of course he did. Oscar glanced at the screen as the opening credits rolled and snorted softly. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“What?” Lando said defensively, tugging the blanket up around himself. “It’s comforting.”

“You quote it,” Oscar said. “That’s not comfort, that’s commitment.”

Lando smiled, wide and genuine, and pressed play.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch at first—close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough to keep things calm. Oscar ate from the takeaway container, watching the movie with half his attention, the other half locked on Lando.

Despite the heat still clinging to his skin, Lando managed to eat. That alone felt strange. His body had been restless all day, appetite coming and going, nerves humming like exposed wires. But with Oscar there—steady, solid, real—everything inside him felt… quieter.

Lowered.

Like his body had finally stopped bracing for something. He liked that. Halfway through the movie, though, the dizziness crept back in.

Subtle at first. A slight sway in the room. A pressure behind his eyes. Lando shifted, swallowing hard, trying to ignore it.

Oscar noticed immediately. “Lan,” he said gently. “Hey.” Lando blinked and looked at him. That’s when he smelled it.

Not chocolate this time—not exactly. Oscar’s scent had changed. It was still warm, still familiar, but deeper now. Richer. Intentional. Like he’d opened something just a fraction wider, without pushing.

Lando inhaled before he could stop himself. His body responded instantly—heat easing, tension melting, the dizzy edge smoothing out like it had never been there.

He laughed softly, breathless. “You did that on purpose.”

Oscar froze. “What?”

“That,” Lando said, smiling despite the way his head still felt light. “You shifted your scent.”

Oscar hesitated, then nodded slowly. “So… you notice now.”

Lando leaned back into the couch, eyes fluttering closed for a second as Oscar’s presence wrapped around him—anchoring, calming, unmistakably alpha.

“Yeah,” Lando murmured. “Guess I do.”

Oscar moved without thinking, closing the distance just enough to steady him, one hand resting lightly at Lando’s elbow.

“Easy,” Oscar said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

Lando exhaled, long and deep, letting himself sink into it. His body responded not with panic—but with trust.

That scared him a little. It comforted him more. His omega instincts—new, unfamiliar, still finding their footing—had made a choice.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just this.

Oscar stayed exactly where he was, scent controlled, touch careful, eyes watching Lando for any sign of discomfort. None came. The movie played on, forgotten.

Lando opened his eyes and looked at Oscar, something soft and real settling between them. “…Don’t stop,” he said quietly.

Oscar nodded. “I won’t.”

And in the quiet glow of the screen, with Sherlock Holmes unraveling mysteries neither of them were watching, Lando Norris let himself be held in a way that felt natural for the very first time.

Not claimed. Not rushed. Just noticed.

And chosen.

After that night, things didn’t explode.

They aligned.

It happened in small, almost invisible ways—Oscar always waiting, Lando always drifting closer. Shared glances that said you good? and answers that didn’t need words.

Oscar learned the exact point where his presence eased the heat without pushing it. Lando learned how to ask with a look and breathe again when Oscar answered.

They didn’t talk about it much.

They didn’t need to.

It stayed private. Deliberately so.

At McLaren, only a handful of people knew the truth. The executive level, medical staff—and Zak and Andrea.

When Lando told them, it wasn’t dramatic. He said it plainly, hands steady, voice calm.

“I presented,” he said. “Omega.”

Zak didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and hugged him—tight, unfiltered. “Proud of you,” he said, a little hoarse. “However that happened.”

Andrea followed, quieter but just as firm, a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “You are still you,” he said. “That is all that matters.”

Lando blinked fast and smiled. “Thanks.”

Oscar stood just behind him, presence solid, protective without being loud. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Sponsors shifted. A few quietly stepped back. Others stepped in, faster than expected, contracts sliding across desks with supportive language and careful smiles. McLaren handled it cleanly. Professionally.

Outside the bubble, the paddock buzzed.

Questions kept coming—still unclassified? any update? care to comment?

Lando smiled through it.

“I’m focused on racing,” he said. “Next question.” Half the grid guessed. Half of them whispered. Some watched Oscar more closely now, noticing how he angled his body, how his voice dropped when Lando went quiet.

Lando didn’t care. Because in private—away from cameras and speculation—they were unshakably close.

Oscar’s flat became a second home. Lando’s hoodie ended up draped over Oscar’s chair. Late nights turned into early mornings. Silence became comfortable.

When the heat flared, Oscar was there—controlled, respectful, steady. When the world pressed in, Lando leaned back and let himself be held by the one person who made everything quieter.

They weren’t public. They weren’t labeled. They were careful. They were chosen.

And for the first time in his life, Lando Norris didn’t feel like an anomaly waiting to be explained.

He felt… settled. Whatever the world thought it saw, whatever it guessed or demanded—

This part was theirs.

Quietly. Unshakably.