risk ? lando norris

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𝐍𝐨𝐚

I try to sleep. I toss. I turn. I scroll through TikTok for way too long before throwing my phone down like it personally offended me. I check my texts, because apparently I have the self-control of a wet napkin, and my stomach flips when I see his name still sitting at the top. Lando Norris. 3 Messages.

I don't open them. I just... can't.

So instead, I throw on an oversized hoodie and some sneakers and slip out of my hotel room like a ghost, wandering the halls with no destination in mind. I'm not even sure why I'm doing it. Maybe because movement feels better than lying in the dark overthinking until sunrise.

I turn a corner and nearly crash into someone—someone tall and solid, wearing a hoodie of his own and clutching a bottle of water like it's a microphone.

"Whoa!" the familiar Aussie accent startles me before I even fully recognize him. "Midnight ghost, is that you?"

I blink up at him. "Daniel?"

He grins sleepily. "Noa. Well, this is suspicious. Should I ask why you're haunting hotel corridors at 1 a.m. or should I just assume existential crisis?"

"Go with your instincts," I mumble, a little embarrassed but not turning away. He leans casually against the hallway wall, like he has nowhere better to be, and that comforts me more than it should.

"Want a walk?" he asks, and I nod before I can talk myself out of it.

We wander the corridors slowly, the silence of the hotel wrapping around us. It's not awkward. I've only talked to Daniel a few times—once on Max's plane, once in the paddock when he teased me for looking too serious—but there's something undeniably easy about him. He's like gravity: calm, grounded, pulling you in without trying.

"So," he finally says, after we pass a vending machine humming like it knows our secrets, "is this about the internet, your dad, or... someone who might drive a papaya-colored car?"

I shoot him a sideways look. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," he says, smiling knowingly. "You wear most of your emotions right on your face."

I let out a weak laugh, and to my surprise, it turns into something real. "I just... I don't know what I'm doing."

"You're twenty years old," Daniel replies. "Nobody knows what they're doing at twenty. Especially not in this circus."

I sigh. "It's just—everything feels like it has stakes. My family, the team, the media. If I so much as smile at someone from another garage, there's three tweets about how I'm switching alliances or fucking up the whole Red Bull team."

He nods. "Yeah, people on the internet love drama more than actual racing."

"And Lando..." I stop myself. Saying his name feels like opening a door I've been holding shut. "He's just... there. All the time. In my head."

"Because you like him," Daniel says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I don't deny it. "It would be easier if he wasn't him. Or if I wasn't me."

Daniel stops walking and leans against a wall, crossing his arms. His expression softens, more serious now. "Noa, listen. People are going to talk no matter what you do. You could date a guy from your own team and they'd still spin it. And your dad? He's not exactly here to see what you do. You are living your life. You're in the middle of a storm—you can't control the wind, but you can decide what kind of sail you put up."