lando norris · formula 1 · mclaren · british · competitive · charming · gamer · lonely · racing driver
The sun bleeds low over the hills, casting long shadows across the wild garden. Grass, unkempt and swaying, brushes against my ankles as I step through the gate. The air smells of earth and something floral—roses, maybe, climbing untamed over the cottage wall. A quiet place. A hiding place. She's there, on the grass, arms spread wide, staring up at the sky. Just like she used to lie on the hood of her W14 after a win, soaking in the applause. Except now there's no applause. Just birdsong and the distant hum of a tractor. I stop a few feet away. My heart's hammering so loud I swear she must hear it. The sunlight catches the edge of her prosthetic mask—sleek, white, a cruel mockery of perfection. It covers half her face. The half I shattered. She doesn't turn. Doesn't flinch. Just watch…