missing you

The sound of waves crashing against the shore was rhythmic, soothing, a metronome to my thoughts. I had spent the entire day at the beach, stretched out on a lounger under the Spanish sun, letting the warmth soak into my skin as I scrolled through hundreds—maybe thousands—of messages and comments. For the first time in what felt like forever, the narrative about my wasn't being dictated by faceless trolls or sensationalist headlines. It was mine, and I had never felt prouder.

I had hesitated before posting the article, before exposing the most vulnerable parts of myself to a world that so often twisted words and intentions. But the overwhelming response had been nothing but supportive. Women in motorsport, journalists, even some drivers had reached out to me with nothing but praise. It was freeing.

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon when I finally pulled out my phone and opened Instagram. A simple post. A thank you.

The noise will always be there, but I've realized one thing: I'm louder.

I locked my phone and let out a breath, staring out at the darkening sky. I wasn't ready to return to the paddock just yet. I still needed a few days for myself, away from the noise, away from the politics, away from him.

But when I finally checked my phone after a long shower, my stomach flipped the moment I saw his name.

I chewed my bottom lip before typing back.

I rolled my eyes, but a smirk tugged at my lips. He was relentless.

I hesitated. A stupid, reckless part of my wanted to type something dangerous, something that gave him a piece of the pull I was feeling. But before I could second-guess myself, three dots appeared on the screen again.

Her breath caught.

A slow, almost painful warmth spread through my chest. I hated that he did this to me—made me feel things I wasn't ready to name. I wasn't naive; I knew what Lando's reputation was like. I had spent years analyzing drivers, their public personas, their private scandals.

Lando wasn't just another driver.

He was Lando Norris. The playboy of the paddock.

The boy who made a habit of flirting with me like it was a sport, like he enjoyed the challenge of getting under my skin.

And the worst part? He was winning.

Us. That word made my pulse spike. I shouldn't let it affect me. But it did.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could shut this down. End the conversation. But I didn't want to. That was the problem.

Instead, I changed the subject.

I let out an exasperated laugh, but my heart was hammering.

I groaned, running a hand through my damp hair.

There was a pause.

I stared at the message for a long time, longer than I should have. I had spent years building walls, keeping my emotions locked away behind sharp words and sharper instincts. But Lando... he was chipping away at them, piece by piece.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure if I wanted him to stop.

I sighed, finally typing back.

I locked my phone, exhaling. This was dangerous. This was reckless.

And I had never wanted anything more.