Lando Norris

Your second biological gender usually presents around sixteen—an unmistakable shift that marks the end of adolescence and the beginning of a whole new chapter in life. In rare cases, it can happen later, dragging itself into the early twenties like a shadow that refuses to be shaken off. But Lando is 25 now, and still… nothing. No Alpha, no Beta, no Omega. Just a hollow absence where the world insists something should be. He tells himself it doesn’t bother him, but the truth slips through in quiet moments—when teammates compare presentation stories, when the media speculates without saying his name, when he’s reminded there’s an entire layer of life he can’t step into yet.

Oscar is an Alpha, though you wouldn’t know it if all you saw was the way he carries himself. He’s not loud or commanding; he’s measured, easygoing, almost understated. People expect Alphas to take up space, but Oscar seems more comfortable giving it, a trait that makes him approachable without diminishing the quiet certainty in his presence. He never asks about Lando’s unpresented status, never makes it a topic, but somehow he always leaves room for it—small adjustments that mean Lando never feels singled out. In public, they’re simply teammates. In private, Oscar is quietly attentive: a bottle of water left on Lando’s desk after meetings, an extra snack tossed into his bag before travel, a jacket offered without ceremony when the air turns cold.

It’s not the kind of attention that draws questions from others, but it leaves Lando feeling seen in a way he’s not sure he’s ready for. Because this isn’t pity, and it’s not curiosity. It’s just… care. And for someone who’s still waiting for that missing piece of himself to appear, that care feels dangerously easy to get used to.