Chapter Text
Lando Norris was in a fantastic mood.
It wasn't because of the Sydney weather—though it was indeed sunny—nor was it because he was flying an A380 today—which was undeniably roomier than a Boeing 737. It was because he had swiped right on a blonde, blue-eyed Aussie lad on Grindr last night. They had chatted until 2 AM, and the last message from the guy was: "Hope I get the chance to see you in person :)" followed by a winking emoji.
Lando had replied with a plane emoji, thinking: Babe, you have no idea what I do for a living.
And what did he do? He was a flight attendant. Specifically, a first-class steward for Papaya Air. Known in the industry as "the world’s orangest airline," Papaya Air’s planes, uniforms, and even the curry in the in-flight meals were a blinding shade of bright orange. The founder, CEO, and Chief Pilot, Zak Brown, explained it as: "Orange makes people happy." Lando’s interpretation was: "Orange makes people blind."
Regardless, it was his job. And the part he enjoyed most—besides the free global tickets—was flirting with handsome passengers at thirty thousand feet. Zak often called him "Papaya Air’s Number One Socialite," his tone hovering somewhere between exasperated and fond. Lando felt that was unfair; he wasn't interested in every passenger. He was only interested in men with sharp jawlines, perfectly straight teeth, and those who wouldn’t tell him "you should smile more" while he was pouring champagne.
Well, when you put it like that, the pool was actually still quite large.
Lando did a final check of his appearance in the mirror. His dark curls were behaving today, coiling perfectly over his forehead. His honey-toned skin glowed healthily under the lights. He turned sideways, checking the curve of his waist and hips accentuated by the tailored uniform—fine, the uniform was indeed a perfect fit; Zak never skimped on the budget for that. Lando blinked at the mirror. Under these lights, his eyes were a bright blue-grey, though he knew they shifted to a pale green in direct sunlight and deepened into a dark slate-grey in shadows. His eyes were mercurial, just like his mood.
"Lando," Zak’s voice crackled over the intercom. "Stop admiring yourself in the mirror. We need you at the boarding gate."
Lando pressed the button. "I’m not admiring myself. I’m ensuring there are no wrinkles in the uniform."
"You’ve been staring at the mirror for four minutes. I have CCTV."
"...How do you know it was four minutes?"
"Because I’ve known you for six years. You’re on the clock. Get moving."
Lando pouted but didn't argue. Zak Brown, the helm of Papaya Air, former racing manager turned airline mogul, was a fifty-something American who looked after Lando like he was his own daughter. Yes, daughter. Zak had said in public more than once: "Lando is like the daughter I never had." Lando wasn't sure if he should be touched or protest, but he usually chose to be touched when his paycheck arrived.
He walked to the gate to finalize preparations. Today was Sydney to London via Singapore—a grueling twenty-four-hour journey. It was one of Papaya’s longest routes and one of Lando’s favorites. Long hauls meant passengers got tired, tiredness meant they lowered their guard, and lowered guards meant—
"Lando," the intercom buzzed again. "I know exactly what’s going through your head. Do your job."
"I’m not thinking of anything!"
"You were smiling like a toddler who just stole a bar of chocolate."
Lando decided he would never smile in front of Zak again. This decision would likely last until the next flight took off.
Boarding commenced. The first-class passengers began to settle in. Lando delivered welcome drinks and hot towels with a smile he had practiced countless times—not too warm, but memorable; not too deliberate, but just enough to be suspicious. He called it his "professional smile." Max Verstappen called it "fishing"—though, that was a direct quote from a party long ago when Max had too much to drink: "Lando, that smile is pure fishing. Don’t think I can’t see it." Lando had rolled his eyes, but he had to admit Max was spot on.
And then, there was Oscar. Oscar Piastri was a Papaya Air frequent flyer. An Australian in his early twenties, he possessed a face that was perpetually expressionless and eyes that saw everything. His dark brown hair was always meticulously styled, and coupled with his quiet, introverted demeanor, he was like a book with a minimalist cover but riveting content. He was about Lando's height—maybe two or three centimeters taller, though Lando refused to acknowledge it. His teeth were perfectly straight, except for two very prominent front bunny teeth that appeared when he smiled, which was devastatingly cute. The first time Lando saw that smile, he nearly poured champagne onto a passenger’s lap. Oscar flew the Sydney-London route at least twice a month, always in first class, always in window seat 2A. Lando had first noticed him simply because he was gorgeous—sharp features and warm brown eyes as soft as melted honey. When Lando served him champagne, Oscar would look up, say "Thank you" in a low, calm voice, and for some reason, Lando felt like he’d been struck by lightning.
In that moment, Lando thought: This one. I’m getting this one.
However, Oscar was a tough nut to crack. Six flights later, Lando’s flirting had escalated from subtle hints to direct hits—from "You look great today" to "Do you know our airline’s hotel policy?"—but Oscar’s reaction remained unchanged. He would smile politely, nod politely, say "Thank you" politely, and go back to his book. What was he even reading? Lando had peeked once. It was a thick volume on aerodynamics. Who the hell reads about aerodynamics on a plane? Normal people read trashy novels or pretended to read trashy novels while secretly staring at the steward’s backside, but Oscar was seriously studying lift and drag.
Lando figured this was a classic case of "avoidant attachment style." He was fascinated because his therapist had once mentioned Lando had a "chase-heavy attachment style"—basically, he wanted what he couldn't have.
So today, Lando had a plan. He wasn't going to initiate. He was going to make Oscar come to him. How? By ignoring him. Completely, utterly, not-even-a-glance ignoring him. Psychology suggested that when someone is used to attention and it’s suddenly withdrawn, they feel a sense of deprivation and seek it out. Lando thought this theory was foolproof, just like how it had worked with Carlos—
Wait. Carlos. Carlos Sainz.
Lando’s smile vanished, replaced by a complex expression of awkwardness and a faint, lingering ache.
Carlos was his ex-boyfriend. More accurately, the ex-boyfriend who dumped him. Two years ago, Lando was a rookie steward when he met Carlos Sainz—an elegant, mature Spanish businessman who radiated an "I’m rich and I know it" aura. Carlos had pursued him relentlessly—flowers, gifts, late-night texts, and surprise appearances in cities where Lando was layovered. Young and inexperienced, Lando had fallen hard. He thought it was love.
But once they were together, Carlos changed. He was hot one moment and cold the next. He would show up at the arrivals hall with a bouquet after Lando’s fourteen-hour shift, but then reply with a simple "Okay" after Lando sent a flurry of messages. Lando had loved him too much, willing to lower himself—sending "good morning" and "good night" texts, being available on call, and waiting quietly for three weeks when Carlos said he was "busy." Only later did Lando realize Carlos was a master of the "push-pull" dynamic. Lando had been the fish that bit the hook too eagerly.
Then Carlos dumped him. On a random Tuesday night via a text: "I don't think we’re right for each other. I wish you the best."
Lando had stared at that message for two hours, typed "What did I do wrong?" three times before deleting it, and finally replied with a simple "Okay." Then he cried all night and showed up for work the next day with eyes like walnuts. Zak had forced two cups of black coffee down his throat and said something Lando would never forget: "If you cry over him one more time, I’m changing the Papaya Air logo to your face, because even orange isn't as red as you are when you're sad."
Since then, Lando vowed never to wear his heart on his sleeve again. He became cynical, enjoying the flirtation without the feelings. He told himself it was growth, self-protection, the mark of a mature man. And then he met Max Verstappen.
Max. Max Verstappen.
If Carlos was the one who taught Lando how to be "dumped," Max was the one who taught him how to be "confused." Max was a friend he’d known for a long time—no, "friend" was too polite; "partner-in-crime" was more accurate. They met at a party in London shortly after the breakup. Lando was drunk, and Max handed him a drink, saying: "So you’re Carlos Sainz’s pathetic ex?" Lando almost threw the drink in his face, but Max followed up with: "He didn't deserve you," and Lando downed the drink instead.
From then on, they became party buddies. Wherever there was a party, they were there—Lando worked the room while Max stood in the corner with a "you all owe me money" expression. They drank together, danced together, ate junk food at 3 AM together, and occasionally—occasionally—wound up in bed together. But those times were rare, and Max always acted like nothing happened the next morning, returning to his usual snark: "Your dark circles are heavy today. Didn't sleep well?"
Lando never took those nights seriously. Neither did Max. They had a strange unspoken agreement: no dating, no feelings, no strings. But one thing always bothered Lando—Max’s hostility toward Carlos. It wasn't just a generic "I don't like your ex" vibe; it was deeper, more personal, like there was some old blood between them. Every time Lando accidentally mentioned Carlos, Max’s eyes would turn cold, and he’d say dismissively: "That Spaniard? He was never right for you."
When Lando asked what their history was, Max would just shrug. "Nothing. I just don't like him."
Eventually, Lando started feeling that Max’s unclear relationship with him wasn't even about him, but rather about him being "Carlos Sainz’s ex-boyfriend." That thought exhausted him. He began distancing himself, replying slower to texts and skipping parties. Their last contact was three weeks ago when Max texted: "Are you ducking me?" Lando hadn't replied.
Right. Back to the present. Lando took a deep breath, telling himself today was a new day, a new flight, a new opportunity. His target was one person: the man in 2A with dark brown hair and warm brown eyes who kept him at arm’s length—Oscar Piastri. No Carlos, no Max, just Oscar.
He turned to head back to the galley, and then he froze.
A man walked through the first-class boarding door. Dark hair, sharp features, wearing a navy blue suit and carrying a tan briefcase. His stride was steady, his posture elegant, and his face wore that familiar smile that had broken Lando’s heart too many times.
Carlos Sainz.
Lando’s first reaction wasn't anger; it was panic. He instinctively smoothed his hair, checking if any curls were sticking up, then immediately cursed himself: Lando Norris, what are you doing? He dumped you! You cried all night! You made so much paella! You can’t— but his hand had already straightened his tie.
Carlos turned his head, his gaze landing accurately on Lando. That smile deepened, carrying a confidence that said, "I know you still have feelings for me." Lando hated that his heart rate spiked because of it.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Sainz," Lando’s voice struggled to remain professional.
"Lando," Carlos said his name, his voice low and tender. "It’s been a long time. You look... even better than before." His gaze lingered for a split second on the curve of Lando’s waist before shifting away nonchalantly.
Lando rolled his eyes internally. Before? You didn't think I was good-looking when you dumped me? He maintained his professional mask: "Your seat is 1K, Mr. Sainz. This way, please."
As Carlos passed him, his arm brushed lightly against the back of Lando’s hand. An incredibly natural, almost imperceptible touch. But Lando felt it, and his skin felt like it had been scorched.
No. No way. He wasn't going down this road again. He wasn't that naive rookie anymore. He had a new life, a new goal, a new—
Before he could finish the thought, someone else walked through the door.
Blonde hair, a blue polo shirt, and icy blue eyes that radiated sharpness. Max Verstappen.
Lando’s heart rate skipped from "accelerated" to "total loss of control." Max was more of a shock than Carlos because at least Carlos maintained the polite distance of an "ex," whereas Max—there was no politeness between him and Max. Max had seen Lando at his worst; he’d seen him pass out at a party, seen him singing to a lamppost at 3 AM. Seeing those memories walk into first class as a passenger was a disaster.
Max walked up to him and looked down—well, only slightly, given the 181.5cm to 175cm difference. Those blue eyes were as direct as ever. "Hi."
"What... what are you doing here?" Lando asked.
"Flying."
"I know you’re flying. Why are you on this flight?"
Max tilted his head with a look that said, "Do you really have to ask?" Then his gaze shifted over Lando’s shoulder, landing on Carlos, who was stowing his luggage in 1K. That look—Lando knew it too well. It was the expression Max only made when he heard the name "Carlos": cold, scrutinizing, and filled with a trace of lingering hostility.
Lando’s heart sank. He suddenly understood.
Max wasn't here for him. At least, not entirely. Max was here for Carlos. Or rather, Max was here for "Carlos Sainz’s ex-boyfriend." Lando Norris, in this whole absurd situation, was likely just a prop, a pawn used to irritate Carlos.
The realization left him with a hollow ache. But he didn't have time to dwell on it because Zak’s voice came over the intercom—an angel’s horn, a lifeline: "Lando, stop daydreaming at the gate. Go check the overhead bins."
Lando practically fled. As he turned, he heard Max say behind him, "I’m in 1A." There was no humor in his voice, only an unsettling certainty.
1A. Carlos was in 1K, Max was in 1A. They were at opposite ends of first class, separated by an aisle and Oscar in 2A. They couldn't see each other because of the staggered pod layout of the seats.
Lando ducked into the galley, closed the door, and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor with his face in his knees. He heard Zak on the intercom: "Lando? You okay?" He pressed the talk button, his voice muffled. "Zak, I need you to do me a favor."
"What favor?"
"Can you... turn this plane around and go back?"
Zak was silent for five seconds. "Lando, we just took off from Sydney."
"I know. But Sydney is nice. Sun, sand, koalas. Why don't we stay?"
"Because people are waiting for us in London." Zak’s tone grew alert. "What happened? What trouble are you in now?"
Lando looked up at the orange emergency exit light on the galley ceiling, feeling like his life was just like that light: bright, glaring, and liable to go out at any moment.
"Zak," he said, "my ex-boyfriend and my former... hookup are both on this flight."
Another five seconds of silence. Then Zak said something that almost made Lando cry: "Which hookup? The blonde Dutchman? How many times have I told you, the way that man looks at you isn't 'hookup' energy, that’s—forget it, I don't have time to analyze this. Get up, wash your face, and get out there. You’re a professional steward."
"I can't, Zak."
"You can. And haven't you been trying to flirt with that Aussie kid? Today’s your chance. Being nice to someone else in front of an ex is the ultimate revenge. Being nice to someone else in front of a hookup is the ultimate liberation. Go, Lando. Remember to use that smile I told you about, the one where you angle your head to make your jaw look smaller."
Lando paused. "What’s wrong with my jaw?"
"Nothing, I misspoke. Go."
The intercom cut out. Lando stood up, checked himself in the small galley mirror. His curls were a bit messy, his honey skin looked warm, and his mercurial eyes were a deep slate-grey with nerves. He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and pushed open the galley door.
In first class, everything seemed calm. Carlos was in 1K, laptop already open. Max was in 1A, eyes closed and reclining. Oscar was in 2A, still flipping through the aerodynamics book.
Lando noticed another figure—George Russell, the other first-class steward, checking bins at the other end of the aisle. George was significantly taller than Lando, his brown hair styled perfectly, his uniform crisp. He looked like he’d stepped off an airline recruitment poster. He was Papaya Air’s "Most Professional Steward" and also the most blunt person Lando had ever met. George never wasted words, never gossiped, and corrected any infraction immediately, whether from a passenger or a colleague. Lando was slightly intimidated by him.
"Norris," George approached, lowering his voice. "Your tie is crooked."
Lando looked down. It was. He straightened it quickly. "Thanks, George."
"Also," George’s gaze swept toward 1K and 1A, his voice as calm as a weather report. "Those two passengers have been watching you since boarding. I don't know what your history is with them, but please remember you are at work. Do not let your private life affect the quality of service in first class."
Lando opened his mouth to defend himself, but George had already turned away, leaving behind a rigid, "do-not-approach" back.
Lando took a deep breath, grabbed the champagne, and began his rounds.
He went to Carlos first. "Mr. Sainz, would you like a drink?"
Carlos looked up, those dark eyes fixed on Lando, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "You know what I like, Lando. The Rioja, the one you picked for me that time. I’ve always remembered it."
Lando cursed internally. He smiled: "Of course. Rioja it is."
As he poured, Carlos’s fingers lightly brushed his wrist. "How have you been? I’ve been thinking about us."
"Your wine, Mr. Sainz." Lando pulled his hand back and walked away immediately.
He went to Max. Max opened his eyes and stared at him.
"Drink?" Lando’s tone was more casual—there was no need for pretension with Max.
"Gin and tonic," Max said, then added, "Do you remember the G&Ts we had in Amsterdam?"
"I don't." Lando replied too quickly.
"You had two, said your head was spinning, then leaned on my shoulder, and then—"
"G&T coming right up," Lando cut him off and fled.
As he poured the drink, Max suddenly said: "The gentleman in 1K. He’s your ex?"
Lando’s hand shook, spilling a bit of gin. "How do you know?"
"Because when you poured his wine, your left hand was shaking." Max’s voice was steady. "You only shake when you’re nervous. I’ve observed it."
Lando placed the glass down without a word. He didn't want to discuss Carlos, especially not with Max. He could never figure out Max’s true intentions—did Max actually care about him, or was he just interested in the label of "Carlos’s ex"?
He took a deep breath and walked to 2A.
Oscar Piastri was reading. His posture was perfect, back straight, one hand holding the book while the other rested casually on the armrest. He wore a dark grey t-shirt under a light jacket—casual, but every detail was refined. Lando noticed his watch was a discreet but expensive brand, and his white sneakers were pristine.
Lando stood before him, about to say "Would you like a drink?" when he caught a scent.
Chocolate.
Not the cheap, candy-shop scent, but something high-end, with a hint of bitterness—like melted dark chocolate. It wasn't overpowering; in fact, it was subtle, but it was there, lingering around Oscar like an invisible mist.
Lando’s brain short-circuited.
He loved chocolate. Not "occasionally have a piece" love, but "if the world only had chocolate and air left, he’d choose chocolate" love. He always had dark chocolate in his fridge, a chocolate sweet in his pocket, and his social media avatar was a chocolate emoji. Everyone who knew him knew the easiest way to please Lando Norris was to give him chocolate.
And Oscar Piastri, the man he’d been chasing for six flights without success, was wearing chocolate-scented cologne today.
Lando stood there, mouth agape, unable to utter a word.
Oscar looked up. Those warm brown eyes—soft as melted honey—gazed at him calmly. Then Oscar spoke: "Lando, you look a bit different today."
He said my name. Lando’s heart spiked again. He said my name, and he noticed I’m different. How am I different? Is the tie better? Are the curls better? Or—
"You look like you’ve just seen something very surprising," Oscar said.
"Chocolate," Lando blurted out.
Oscar raised an eyebrow. The expression lasted for half a second before vanishing into his usual stoicism. "What?"
"You... the scent on you. It’s chocolate." Lando realized what he was saying and flushed crimson. "I mean, your cologne. Chocolate-scented. I love chocolate. Not 'love' like I love you, but 'love' like I love chocolate. Not that I don't love—I mean—"
He stopped because Oscar was watching him. It wasn't a glare or a judgment; it was a quiet, patient gaze, like he was looking at an interesting puzzle. Then Oscar’s mouth moved—not a full smile, but a micro-expression of "I see."
"Yes," Oscar said, his voice low and calm. "It’s chocolate. Limited edition."
"Limited edition," Lando repeated, feeling like an idiot.
"Would you like a taste?"
Lando’s brain completely crashed. A taste? Of what? The cologne? Or— His mind began uncontrollably generating images, each frame looking like a trailer for an R-rated movie. His face grew redder, his palms sweated, and his mouth opened and closed like an oxygen-deprived fish.
Oscar watched him with an expression that—if Lando wasn't dreaming—looked a tiny bit like smugness at a successful prank. Then Oscar reached into his jacket pocket and handed Lando something.
A bar of chocolate.
"Chocolate," Oscar said. "You wanted a taste. Didn't you?"
Lando took the bar, glancing at the wrapper—it was his favorite Swiss brand, 70% dark chocolate. He looked up, meeting Oscar’s gaze, and found something unmistakable in those warm brown eyes: amusement.
Oscar Piastri was smiling. Not a polite smile, but a genuine, warm smile that softened his entire face. It was so cute it made Lando’s heart stop for half a beat. Lando felt like he’d been hit by a chocolate-flavored missile.
"Thank you, Mr. Piastri," Lando’s voice was a bit raspy.
"Oscar," he corrected. "Call me Oscar."
"Oscar," Lando repeated, the word feeling good on his tongue, like chocolate melting slowly.
The intercom buzzed. Zak’s voice sounded like he’d just come from a dentist’s chair: "Lando, I need you in the cockpit. Now."
Lando closed his eyes, took a breath, and said to Oscar: "Sorry, Oscar, I have to go. If you need anything else—"
"I’ll let you know," Oscar said, his eyes still on Lando.
Lando turned to head toward the cockpit, the chocolate in his hand growing warm from his grip. As he passed 1K, he felt Carlos’s gaze like two knives in his back. As he passed 1A, he felt Max’s gaze burning into him. He quickened his pace, pushed open the cockpit door, and slammed it shut.
Zak Brown was in the captain’s seat, turning to look at him. The fifty-something American wore his orange captain’s uniform, his grey hair perfectly styled, his expression somewhere between "concerned father" and "interrogator."
"Close the door," Zak said.
"It’s closed." Lando leaned against the bulkhead.
"Lock it."
Lando locked it.
Zak was silent for a few seconds, then said: "You’re flirting with 2A."
"I’m not. I was just giving him a drink."
"You stood in front of him for four minutes holding a chocolate wrapper. You didn't pour a single drink. I saw it."
Lando looked down at the chocolate in his hand—he’d squeezed it out of shape.
Zak sighed, turning back to the instrument panel. "Lando, you know I only have two rules for you. One: fly safe. Two: don't do anything on a flight that gets the company in the news. Do you think those rules are being met today?"
"Yes."
"Your ex is in 1K, your hookup is in 1A, and the kid you want to flirt with is in 2A. How do you think this situation is going to develop?"
"Into a disaster."
"Correct." Zak turned back to him. "It’s going to be a disaster. But it’s your disaster. I’m not solving it for you. All I can do is buzz you on the intercom to get you back to work. The rest is up to you."
"Thanks, Zak. You’re the best."
"Don't thank me yet." Zak’s expression turned subtle. "I just did something that might help you or haunt you."
"What?"
"I saw the gentleman in 1K—your ex—press the call bell. I told the purser you were handling another passenger and to let him wait. I bought you five minutes."
Lando paused. "That... that’s a good thing."
"Is it?" Zak tilted his head. "Then I told the gentleman in 1A—your hookup—that you wanted to talk to him and to wait for you by the forward lavatory. He should be there now."
Lando’s face went pale. "What?!"
"I thought you’d want to talk to them separately to clear the air." Zak’s tone was as innocent as a cat that just knocked over a vase. "I’m creating opportunities for you. One-on-one communication, resolving conflict. Isn't that what adults do?"
"Zak! I don't want to talk to Max alone! And he’s waiting by the toilet while Carlos has a call bell I haven't answered, and Oscar—god, Zak, what a mess you’ve made!"
"I’m helping you!" Zak’s voice rose. "You said you didn't know what to do with your ex and hookup on board. I’ve arranged one-on-ones! That’s kindness!"
"That’s 'kindness' gone wrong! Horribly wrong!"
"So what are you going to do?"
Lando took a deep breath and opened the cockpit door. He peeked out and saw Max had already stood up and was heading toward the forward lavatory. Carlos was leaning out of his pod in 1K, looking for a steward. And Oscar—Oscar had put down his book and was watching him calmly.
Lando made a decision. He couldn't do a "one-on-one" with Max, and he couldn't deal with Carlos’s bell. He was going to Oscar, getting that phone number, and then it would all be worth it.
He strode toward 2A, leaned down, and was about to say "Oscar, I have something to tell you"—when Zak’s voice came over the intercom again. This time, it wasn't a private channel; it was a cabin-wide PA: "Attention passengers, please clear the aisle near the forward lavatory. Our crew needs to attend to an urgent situation. I repeat, forward lavatory area—"
Lando closed his eyes in despair. Zak, what are you doing? Are you trying to manufacture chaos?
Sure enough, Max stopped in his tracks and turned around, his gaze locking onto Lando—and Oscar next to him. Carlos heard the announcement, stood up, and saw Max, then saw Lando leaning over talking to Oscar.
The air in first class froze.
Lando felt three sets of eyes—Max’s cold, Carlos’s complex, and Oscar’s... calm. Oscar didn't even look at the other two men; he just looked at Lando, the corner of his mouth curling almost imperceptibly.
"You seem busy," Oscar said.
"No, I’m not," Lando said quickly. "I just wanted to tell you—"
"Lando," the intercom buzzed again, Zak’s private channel this time. "I forgot to tell you, that Aussie kid in 2A—I saw something in his seatback magazine pocket earlier. Go check it out."
Lando almost cried. Zak, you should say that privately! Not over the radio! Even if only Lando could hear the voice—
"Lando, why aren't you answering? Are you flirting again? I’ve told you so many times, during work hours—"
Lando cut the intercom.
He looked up and found Oscar watching him with a hint of playfulness in his warm eyes. "Your captain seems very concerned about your love life."
"He’s not—" Lando started to explain, but a rotund elderly gentleman with a suitcase passed through the aisle. The suitcase wheel clipped the lavatory door, jarring it open slightly before it bounced back. Nobody noticed.
At that moment, George Russell emerged from the galley. His gaze swept first class—Carlos standing, Max standing, Lando leaning, Oscar sitting—and he did a very George thing.
He walked to the center of the aisle, cleared his throat, and said in a voice of natural authority: "Passengers, please return to your seats. We are in the cruise phase, but the seatbelt sign is still on for your safety. Please be seated immediately."
Carlos looked at George, about to say something, but George’s gaze was calm and immovable, like a wall. Carlos sat back down. Max also turned and returned to 1A. George nodded with satisfaction, then turned to Lando, lowering his voice: "Norris, there are three special meals in the galley that need confirmation. Now. Immediately."
Lando opened his mouth to explain, but George had already turned away, leaving a back that said, "Don't make me say it twice."
Lando took a deep breath. He needed to cool down. He needed to leave this scene that Zak had stirred into a frenzy and George had flattened with order. He needed a quiet place to reorganize.
He said to Oscar, "Sorry, I’ll be right back," then turned toward the forward lavatory. He pushed the door open, went inside, turned on the tap to wash his hands, and straightened his hair in the mirror. The curls were particularly unruly today. His honey skin was flushed with nerves. His eyes were a deep slate-grey. He took a breath, ready to head back out.
Just then, the door was pushed open from the outside.
Oscar stood in the doorway.
They locked eyes for a second. Oscar clearly hadn't expected someone to be inside and blinked. But Lando—
Lando’s brain exploded with fireworks.
The lavatory. Alone. Door closed. No one outside paying attention.
If this wasn't a god-given opportunity, what was?
He had waited six flights for this. Six! Every time Oscar sat in 2A, smiling at him, taking champagne, looking at him like an unopenable book. And now, fate—or a rotund elderly gentleman—had pushed this man right in front of him.
Lando’s mouth curled upward uncontrollably.
"Hi," he said, his voice carrying a noticeable skip. "Oscar."
Oscar watched him, his gaze calm. Then he reached out and turned the handle—it didn't move. He turned it again; still nothing. He frowned slightly.
Lando stepped forward and pressed the lock, a click sealing them in. "Don't be in such a rush."
Oscar looked up, those warm brown eyes calm. They were nearly the same height—Lando estimated Oscar was maybe two or three centimeters taller, but in dress shoes, the difference was negligible. They were eye-to-eye.
Lando leaned against the door, angling his body slightly to make his waist and hips more apparent under the uniform. He shoved one hand into his trouser pocket, a pose he’d practiced many times.
"You know," Lando said, his voice dropping into a husky, supposedly sexy tone. "I’ve been watching you for a long time. Six flights, seat 2A, always watching me. Don't say you weren't; I saw you."
Oscar straightened up, saying nothing.
Lando took it as tacit permission and grew bolder. He stepped half a pace forward, closing the gap. He could clearly smell the chocolate now, rich and warm, making him a little dizzy.
"You’re wearing chocolate cologne," Lando tilted his head, his slate-grey eyes sparkling. "You know I love chocolate, don't you? You did your homework."
Oscar finally spoke. His voice was still low and steady: "You always have dark chocolate in your fridge. Sweets in your pocket. A chocolate emoji as your avatar."
Lando laughed, his eyes crinkling into crescents. "You really did do your homework. So you’re not denying you’re pursuing me?"
Oscar watched him, the corner of his mouth moving almost imperceptibly. "I didn't say I was pursuing you."
"Then why six flights?"
"Work requirements."
"Then why were you always watching me?"
Oscar was silent for a second. "Because you flirt with different passengers every time. Watching you is... entertaining."
Lando was momentarily speechless, but he recovered quickly. He wasn't easily defeated. He stepped forward another half-step. The distance was so close he could see a single rebellious curl in Oscar’s dark hair and feel the heat of his breath.
"And now?" Lando’s voice was a whisper. "There are no other passengers to flirt with in this toilet. Just you. What do you want to do about it?"
He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing the hem of Oscar’s t-shirt sleeve. His fingers slid up the fabric, stopping at the wrist.
"Lando," Oscar said.
"Yeah?"
"Do you know who the passengers in 1A and 1K are?"
Lando’s fingers froze.
Oscar’s voice remained calm. "The gentleman in 1A touched your fingertips when you served him. The gentleman in 1K looked at your lips when you poured his Rioja. The relationship between the three of you doesn't look like typical passenger-crew interactions."
Oscar leaned in slightly, his warm brown eyes boring into Lando’s. "And when you served them, your tone was different. For 1K, it was polite distance—but your left hand shook. For 1A, it was deliberate casualness—but your ears turned red. Both reactions suggest... you don't just know them; your history with them makes you uncomfortable."
Lando opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Oscar stepped back half a pace, hands in his pockets, relaxed as if he were in his own living room. "So, Mr. Norris, before you flirt with me in this lavatory, don't you think you should explain your relationship with those two?"
Lando’s face turned red. Not with shyness, but from being caught red-handed. He hadn't realized Oscar was observing that closely—he’d even noticed the shaking hand and red ears.
He took a deep breath, ready to say something—perhaps the truth, because he really didn't want to lie to Oscar anymore—but the moment he opened his mouth—
The plane lurched violently.
It wasn't a minor tremor; it was a massive jolt, like the fuselage had been kicked from below, sending everything airborne. Lando’s body spun out of control, and he instinctively reached for the nearest solid object to steady himself—
He caught something.
He caught Oscar. Specifically, he caught a part of Oscar that was particularly prominent during the jolt. A part that a flight steward absolutely should not be grabbing in a lavatory.
Lando’s brain underwent a rapid evolution from AAHH THE PLANE IS CRASHING to What did I catch? to What the HELL did I catch? to I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead. His hand froze, locked onto the spot like it had been welded there. And Oscar—Oscar’s reaction was very Oscar. He didn't scream, didn't push Lando away, didn't even show shock. He just looked down at Lando’s hand, then looked up at Lando.
On that perpetually expressionless face, a very complex look appeared. There was surprise, exasperation, a hint of pain, and something else Lando couldn't identify—a mix of "Are you kidding me?" and "I should have seen this coming."
Just then, the cabin PA crackled. Zak’s voice came through, calm and professional: "Attention passengers, we are experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your belts. Passengers in the lavatories, please hold onto the handrails and remain calm."
Hold onto the handrails.
Lando looked down at the "handrail" he was holding, then let go with the fastest speed in his entire career. He scrambled backward, his back hitting the door—the lock had been jarred open by the turbulence.
He recoiled out of the lavatory like a chocolate bean squeezed out of a tight wrapper, popping right out the door.
He didn't look back at Oscar’s face.
Lando sprinted back to the galley, slammed the door, and collapsed on the floor. He buried his face in his hands, feeling like his life was over. He hadn't just made a fool of himself in front of a passenger; he’d done it in front of the one he’d been chasing for six flights, the one with the chocolate cologne, the one he actually wanted to be with.
And—the fatal part—before the incident, he had been trying to flirt. He’d been using his "sexy" voice. He’d been touching Oscar’s wrist. He’d been thinking about a kiss.
And then Oscar asked about Carlos and Max.
And then Lando hadn't explained a thing.
And then he’d grabbed Oscar’s—
"Norris." The galley door was knocked twice. George Russell’s voice came through the panel. "Are you in there?"
Lando scrambled up and opened the door. George stood there, blonde hair perfect, uniform crisp, expression flat. He looked at Lando—messy curls, flushed face, crooked tie.
"How long were you alone in the lavatory with the passenger from 2A?" George asked, his tone devoid of emotion.
"I—it wasn't—it was an accident—"
"Answer the question."
"Maybe... two minutes?"
George was silent for a second. "Norris, I know your private life is your own business. But being alone with a passenger in a lavatory during work hours is a violation of company conduct. I won't report it this time, but if it happens again, it goes in the log."
Lando tried to argue, but George had already turned. He walked two steps, then stopped without looking back: "Also, your tie is crooked."
The door closed. Lando leaned against the wall, feeling abandoned by the world. Zak’s help had backfired, George was a stone wall, Carlos and Max were lurking in the cabin, and Oscar—Oscar would probably never speak to him again.
"Lando?" Zak’s voice came over the intercom, sounding a bit guilty. "Are the passengers out of the lavatories? The turbulence is continuing."
Lando pressed the talk button, his voice raspy like sandpaper. "They’re out."
"Are you okay? You sound terrible."
"Zak, remember when you said you wanted to arrange 'one-on-one communication'?"
"...Yeah."
"You sent Max to the toilet door, which resulted in me being locked in the toilet. You announced 'hold onto the handrails,' and I held something I shouldn't have. You created chaos, and that chaos resulted in the biggest embarrassment of my life."
Silence from Zak for three seconds. "...When you say 'something you shouldn't have,' do you mean what I think you mean?"
"Yes."
Five more seconds of silence. Then Zak said in a very complex tone: "Lando, if I said I did it on purpose, would you believe me?"
"What?!"
"Not the grabbing part! The alone-time part!" Zak’s voice turned defensive. "Think about it. Your ex and hookup are on the plane; how were you ever going to get 2A alone? I used the PA to lure Max away and kept Carlos waiting just to give you a chance! I wanted you two to talk in the toilet! Then the turbulence hit and you grabbed the wrong thing—how is that my fault?"
"ZAK!!!"
"Fine, fine, not my fault. But look on the bright side, at least you got alone time, right? It was eventful, but you were alone. That’s a win."
"He’ll never talk to me again!"
"I wouldn't be so sure. I saw him on the CCTV coming out of the toilet. He went back to his seat, looking normal. Also—his ears were red."
Lando paused. "What?"
"I said his ears were red. The Aussie kid. His ears were red after the 'incident.' Do you think a man who feels offended gets red ears?"
Lando’s brain began to whir. Red ears. Oscar Piastri, the perpetually stoic, perpetually calm Oscar Piastri, had red ears.
What did that mean?
Did it mean... he wasn't that angry? Did it mean he was nervous too? Did it mean he cared?
Lando stood up, fixed his hair in the mirror. It was a mess, and his honey skin was streaked with—had he been crying? Had he really cried because he grabbed Oscar’s package? Lando Norris, when did you become so pathetic?
He wiped his face, straightened his tie, and pushed open the galley door.
In first class, Oscar had returned to 2A. He sat there holding the aerodynamics book, but Lando noticed—it was upside down. Oscar Piastri, the man who seriously studied aerodynamics, was holding his book upside down.
Lando’s heart skipped a beat.
He didn't walk over immediately. He needed to be calm, needed a strategy—and he needed Zak to stay off the PA.
"Attention passengers," Zak’s voice crackled, "we have cleared the turbulence. Estimated flight time remaining: twelve hours. Enjoy your journey."
Lando breathed a sigh of relief. At least Zak didn't say anything weird this time.
He took a breath and headed toward 2A.
But halfway there, Carlos stood up from 1K. The Spaniard held his glass of Rioja, walking gracefully into the aisle, blocking Lando’s path to Oscar.
"Lando," Carlos’s voice was low and tender. "I’ve been thinking about us. I know I made mistakes. I shouldn't have treated you that way. I want to apologize, and... I want to start over."
Lando froze. Carlos Sainz, the man who dumped him, was apologizing? Asking for another chance?
"Are you drunk?" Lando asked.
"I’m not. I’m very sober." Carlos stepped forward, close enough for Lando to smell his familiar cologne. "It took me two years to realize how special you are. Lando, I want to give us another try."
Lando’s mouth opened and closed. Two years ago, he would have thrown himself into Carlos’s arms. But now—he glanced toward 2A. Oscar had put down the upside-down book and was watching the scene calmly, his warm eyes unreadable.
Then Lando heard a cold voice behind him.
"How touching."
Max Verstappen had stood up. He leaned against the side of 1A, arms crossed, his blonde hair catching the light. He looked at Carlos with a mocking smirk.
"Has Mr. Sainz finally found a conscience?" Max said. "Or are you just upset because you saw Lando with someone else and realized someone’s taking your toy?"
Carlos’s face darkened. "Verstappen, this is none of your business."
"None of my business?" Max laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "You broke up with him two years ago. You didn't reach out once in those two years, and now you show up saying 'start over'? Do you think I believe you're sincere?"
"And what are you to him?" Carlos’s voice turned icy. "What exactly is your relationship?"
Max looked at Lando. The look was complex—challenging, smug, with a hint of something Lando couldn't decode. Then he said: "Do you know why he goes to Amsterdam every month? It’s not for the flight schedule. It’s because my private jet is there. Lando hitches rides with me all the time; it’s much more convenient than commercial. And as you know, private jets are more... private. More accommodating."
The air turned thick.
Carlos’s face went from white to red, then to purple. He turned to Lando: "Is this true?"
Lando stammered. Yes, it was true. Max had a jet, and they had spent plenty of time on it. But the way Max said it wasn't a confession; it was a provocation—directed at Carlos. He had used the words "more private, more accommodating" to imply something unspoken.
Lando remembered when he first met Max—he’d been a wreck after the breakup, partying every night, and Max was the most prominent Dutchman in the room. They’d gotten drunk countless times, roamed the streets at 3 AM, done plenty of stupid things. Max knew Carlos dumped him, knew how sad he’d been, but Max never comforted him; he just handed him a drink and said "Drink." It was a strange kind of companionship, but it was exactly what Lando needed at the time.
Later, their relationship became blurred. Friends? Hookups? Lando didn't know. He only knew that every time Max mentioned Carlos, he did so with a calculated contempt, as if Carlos was a non-entity. But the contempt was too calculated, as if he were hiding something.
"Enough!" Lando finally spoke. "Both of you, back to your seats! This is a plane, not a gladiator arena! If you want to fight, go find a racetrack when we land!"
Carlos and Max both looked at him.
"A racetrack?" Carlos raised an eyebrow.
"Yes! There are tracks near London. Go see who’s faster and stop fighting in front of me!" Lando regretted it the moment he said it, seeing the dangerous glint in both their eyes.
Carlos turned to Max: "What do you think?"
Max tilted his head. "Fine. Fastest wins. The winner gets..."
"Gets what?" Lando asked warily.
"Gets to take you out," Carlos finished for Max. "The loser walks away."
"I am not a prize to be won!" Lando protested, but the two had already shaken hands.
"Deal," Max said.
Lando felt his life had become utterly farcical. His ex and his former hookup had just formed a racing duel pact on a plane with him as the stakes. And all of it had been witnessed by Oscar Piastri—the one he actually wanted—who was currently sitting in 2A with an upside-down book and a ghost of a smile.
Lando turned and fled back to the galley.
Lando collapsed onto the folding stool in the galley, feeling drained.
He looked at the chocolate bar on the counter—the one Oscar gave him, now slightly deformed from his grip. The silver foil was wrinkled like a crumpled heart.
He picked it up and slowly peeled back the foil.
The aroma of dark chocolate filled the air. 70% cocoa—his favorite Swiss brand. Oscar even knew that.
Lando snapped off a small piece and put it in his mouth.
It melted on his tongue, bitter at first, then transitioning into a rich, lingering sweetness. He chewed twice, swallowed, and suddenly felt his nose sting.
What was he doing?
He’d chased the guy for six flights, served champagne, flirted, and then ended up grabbing him in the toilet. It wasn't a light brush; it was a full, five-finger grip during the "hold onto the handrails" announcement.
Oscar’s ears were red. But so what? Red ears could be anger, embarrassment, or a rush of blood from feeling violated. Lando chose to believe the worst—after all, he’d just personally destroyed any good possibilities.
He snapped off another piece. It tasted bitter. Bitterer than the first.
Love. Pfft.
Lando took another piece, chewing slowly, savoring the bitterness spreading over his palate. He felt like this chocolate—polished on the outside, 70% Swiss import, but pure bitterness underneath.
He looked down at the remaining half, the foil spread out on the counter, gleaming under the lights.
"Lando."
Lando jumped, nearly dropping the chocolate.
George Russell had pushed open the door at some point. His blonde hair was perfect, uniform crisp enough to cut glass. He looked at Lando expressionlessly, then his gaze moved to the floor.
"You dropped the wrapper," George said. "Pick it up."
Lando looked at the foil on the counter, then at his feet.
There was a small, neatly folded slip of paper on the floor. It wasn't foil; it was a regular post-it, folded into a thin strip. It must have slipped out from the foil wrapper earlier.
Lando froze.
He leaned down and picked up the note.
George remained in the doorway. "The first-class cutlery needs re-folding. Come help when you're done." He turned and left.
Lando didn't answer. He didn't even hear what George said.
他 unfolded the little slip of paper.
There was a phone number written on it.
Next to it was a line of neat handwriting: "Spend less time talking to others, and more talking to me."
Lando stared at the words for ten full seconds.
The chocolate was still in his mouth, the bitterness not yet gone. But in that moment, his tongue felt a sudden surge of sweetness.
He opened his mouth but found he couldn't speak.
Then he started to laugh. Not a quiet chuckle, but a burst of laughter from deep in his chest that he couldn't control. He doubled over, laughing until tears came, clutching the note before carefully smoothing it out again.
Lando pushed open the galley door and walked into the dimmed cabin. Most passengers were asleep, save for a few reading lights. The light in 2A was on. Oscar wasn't sleeping—he was leaning back, holding the aerodynamics book, but it was closed. He was just sitting there, quietly, as if waiting for someone.
George Russell passed in the opposite aisle, saw Lando heading for 2A, and paused. He didn't speak, but his pale blue eyes gave Lando a look that said: I know what you're doing. Don't let me catch you again. Lando nodded, acknowledging the warning. George gave a slight tilt of his head and continued his rounds.
Lando walked over and knelt by Oscar’s seat. He took the note from his pocket and unfolded it so Oscar could see the handwriting.
Oscar looked down, then looked up at Lando. In the dim light, his warm brown eyes looked like melted toffee. His mouth slowly, slowly curled into a genuine, warm, and slightly smug smile.
"You finally found it," Oscar said.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" Lando asked, his voice a little thick.
"Because," Oscar said softly, "if you didn't have at least that much patience, you wouldn't have been worth the six flights of waiting."
Lando looked into his eyes, feeling his heart gently squeezed by a chocolate-colored hand.
"About 1A and 1K," Lando took a breath. "I want to answer the question you asked me in the toilet."
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
"1K is my ex, Carlos. He dumped me two years ago and I was a wreck. Now he’s back wanting to start over, but I don't know if he’s sincere or just jealous because he saw me with someone else."
"1A is Max. We’ve known each other for ages; we’re party friends. He’s blunt, sometimes hurtful. Our relationship... has been unclear, but I never figured out what he actually wanted. He has this massive grudge against Carlos, and sometimes I think he only stayed close to me because I was Carlos’s ex." Lando bit his lip, a faint flush rising on his honey skin. "But that’s all in the past. There’s only one thing I want to know now."
"What?"
"When we land, go for coffee with me. Then I’ll tell you more. Anything you want to know."
Oscar watched him for several long seconds. Then he said: "Okay."
Just one word. But this time, it wasn't a polite response; it was a promise.
Lando beamed. It was that unstoppable, idiot-like grin that made the freckles on his honey skin dance. His eyes, under the warm glow of the reading light, turned a miraculous blend of blue and green, like precious gems.
In seats 1K and 1A, two men who couldn't sleep heard that laughter. Carlos gripped his wine glass tighter. Max crushed a third packet of peanuts.
But neither of them stood up.
Because tomorrow, on a track near London, a duel awaited them.
And Lando Norris—dark curls, honey skin, Papaya Air’s Number One Socialite—only cared about one thing: the man in front of him, dark-haired and warm-eyed Oscar Piastri, had just given him a note hidden in chocolate and a genuine, worthwhile beginning.
Thirty thousand feet in the air, the stars were endless outside the window.
Lando figured this was probably the best flight he’d ever worked.
END