Avenue Again

Max Verstappen had three requirements for his summer break: silence, sunshine and not a single question about the season.

The flight from Monaco to Olbia had been blissfully quiet–private jet, noise-canceling headphones, uninterrupted hours of not thinking about championship points (of which he was seriously lacking). He’d slept most of the way. It was a deep and dreamless sleep he only managed when he was truly exhausted, where his body finally stopped humming with leftover adrenaline.

He’d woken up twenty minutes before landing, groggy and disoriented, neck stiff from sleeping at a weird angle against the window. The cabin was dim, the flight attendant moving quietly through the space, and for a moment Max had forgotten where he was, why he was going, what day it was. Then it all came back: Sardinia. Victoria’s villa. Two weeks of family and Mediterranean sun and hopefully–finally–some fucking peace.

The first half of the 2025 season had been brutal. Not terrible results–podiums, points, at some points he was even leading the championship by a comfortable margin–but brutal nonetheless. The car had been a bastard to drive at most of the circuits, fighting him through every corner like a bucking horse. Silverstone had been a nightmare of understeer. Hungary had nearly broken him with the heat and the traffic. And Spa–Spa he was out before the race even started.

The team had been managing, adapting, improving. But it had required every ounce of focus Max had, and then some. Eighteen-hour days at the factory. Simulator sessions that stretched well into the night. Debriefs that somehow became arguments because everyone was tired and stressed and trying to conjure two tenths of time out of thin air.

And through it all, the media wouldn’t shut the fuck up about Kelly.

Three months since the breakup. Twelve weeks. Ninety-one days of journalists asking the same questions in just slightly different ways: How are you handling being single again? Does it affect your performance? Do you think the split gave you more focus, or less?

What Max wanted to say: I’m fucking fine. Better than fine. The relationship had been over for a long time before we made it official, and honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have to pretend anymore. Glad I don’t have to smile for photos and attend events and play the role of devoted boyfriend when really I was just…going through the motions. Doing what was expected. Being who everyone thought I should be.

His actual response: “I’m focused on racing. Next question.” Which was true. He was focused on racing. He’d always been focused on racing. That was never the problem.

The problem was that everyone else seemed to think his personal life was somehow more interesting than the fact that he was the reigning champion and was having the most impressive comeback of the season. That Red Bull had finally sorted out their porpoising issues. That he was driving better than he ever had, more mature, more calculated, finding lines other drivers couldn’t see even with a car that had a multitude of still unresolved issues.

But no. They wanted to talk about Kelly. About whether he was dating anyone new. About whether being single made him “dangerous” on track, whatever the fuck that meant.

He was fine, though. Really. Lighter. Like he’d been carrying something heavy without realizing it and someone had finally taken it off his shoulders.

The breakup had been mutual, clean, no drama. They’d sat down one evening in Monaco, looked at each other across the dinner table, and both just…known. Known it was over. Known they were both going through the motions. Known that staying together because it was comfortable and easy and what everyone expected was slowly suffocating them both.

Kelly was a good person. Smart, successful, beautiful. On paper, they should’ve worked. In practice, there’d always been this distance between them. This sense that they were playing roles–she was the daughter of a Formula 1 driver, and then the sister of a Formula 1 driver, so it was only natural she dated Formula 1 drivers. After things didn’t work out with Daniil, Max and Kelly were already such good friends it just made sense to develop that into something more concrete. But underneath that, there’d been nothing. No spark. No deep connection. No feeling that being together made them better than being apart.

She’d said it first: “We’re not in love, are we?”

And Max had felt nothing but relief when he’d answered: “No. We’re not.”

So they’d ended it. Cordial, mature, with the kind of careful politeness that came from two people who’d genuinely tried to make something work and failed. She’d moved out of their Monaco apartment the next week. He’d archived the photos from his Instagram. They’d released a joint statement through their PR teams, all very civilized and polite. And Max had felt nothing. No heartbreak, no grief, no sense of loss.

Just relief.

Which probably said everything about why it had never worked in the first place.

The driver dropped him at the villa’s gate just as the sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon. Max hauled his duffel out of the trunk himself–he’d packed light, mostly training gear and swimwear–and waved the guy off before starting up the limestone steps. The villa was exactly the kind of place Victoria got giddy about. She’d been sending him photos for months–Look at this terrace! and Max the VIEWS and We’re going to have the best time!!!–and he’d mostly ignored them because he trusted his sister’s taste and also he’d been too busy trying to extract performance from a car that seemed to hate him as much as he hated it. But standing here now, looking up at the whitewashed stone and bougainvillea and the ridiculous beauty of it all, he had to admit: Victoria had picked well.

The place was massive. Multiple levels terraced into the hillside, each one offering a different view of the coastline. Bougainvillea in shades of purple and pink dripped from every railing, creating these cascading walls of color. The stone was that perfect weathered white that only came from decades of sun and salt air. And everywhere–literally everywhere–there were these little touches that screamed money: hand-painted tiles, wrought-iron fixtures that were definitely custom, olive trees in enormous terracotta pots that probably cost more than he cared to know.

It was beautiful. And Max was already planning how quickly he could escape to his room and avoid everyone for the next twelve hours.

He could hear voices from somewhere inside–Victoria’s laugh, high and bright, the lower rumble of her husband Tom’s voice in response. Music playing softly, something jazzy and summery that his sister probably curated on their journey there. The sound of children shrieking with delight, which meant his nephews had already found the pool.

Sounds of the kind of chaos he’d grown up with and generally enjoyed in small doses.

Just…not right now. Right now he wanted silence. Wanted to not be on for anyone, not even his sister.

But he’d promised Victoria he’d come. Had promised his mum, who was joining them next week and had made him swear he’d actually relax for once instead of spending the whole time on his phone. So he picked up his bag and headed toward the front door.

The door was open–of course it was, Victoria never locked anything and it drove him absolutely crazy–and Max stepped into blessed coolness. Air conditioning, thank God. The interior was all clean lines and natural light, terra-cotta floors and whitewashed walls. French doors lined the back wall, leading to what looked like the main terrace. Beyond that, he could see the pool, the view, the endless stretch of blue, water meeting sky.

And there were people. Victoria and Tom and the kids, plus–

Max slowed to a stop.

There was someone else on the terrace. A woman, standing at the railing with her back to him, looking out at the water. She had on denim shorts, frayed at the hem. A loose white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric moving slightly with the breeze. Dark blonde hair was caught in a low, messy braid at the nape of her neck. She held a wine glass in one hand, the stem casual between her fingers, and her posture was relaxed. Comfortable. Like she belonged here.

Something about her was familiar. The line of her shoulders, the way she was standing, the–

“Max!” Victoria materialized from nowhere, pulling him into a hug that smelled like sunscreen and white wine and that expensive perfume she’d been wearing since she was nineteen. 

“You’re here! How was the flight? Are you exhausted? We were just having aperitivos–”

“I’m good. The flight was fine.” Max hugged her back, but his attention kept drifting to the woman on the terrace. Who was she? A friend of Victoria’s? Tom’s sister? Someone from–

“There’s someone here I’m excited for you to see,” Victoria said, and there was something in her voice. Something pleased and teasing that made Max’s spine straighten with suspicion.

“Vic, please tell me you didn’t–”

“Relax. I’m not setting you up with a stranger. I promised.” She grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward the terrace. “It’s a surprise. A good one this time, I swear!”

Max followed because what else was he going to do? His sister was already pulling him through the French doors, out onto the terrace where the late-afternoon sun painted everything gold, and–

“Ada?” Victoria called. “Look who finally showed up.”

The woman turned.

And Max’s entire world tilted sideways.

[9 Years Old]

“You’re cheating.”

Max looked up from the Nintendo 64 controller, genuinely offended. “I’m not cheating. You just suck at Mario Kart.”

Ada Bakker–nine years old, gap-toothed, with hair in two braids that were already coming undone–glared at him from her spot on his bedroom floor. “I don’t suck. You’re using the shortcut on Rainbow Road. That’s cheating.”

“It’s not cheating if it’s part of the game.”

“It’s cheating if you didn’t tell me about it.”

“I don’t have to tell you all my secrets.” Max grinned, smug with victory. He’d just beaten her for the seventh time in a row, and the scoreboard on the TV screen was proof of his prowess.

Ada threw her controller at him. Not hard–they’d been friends since they were six, she would never want to actually hurt him–but did it with enough force to make a point.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For being annoying.” But she was smiling now, that gap-toothed grin that made her look younger than nine. “Teach me the shortcut.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’ll tell Victoria you’re the one who broke her Walkman.”

Max’s eyes widened. “That was an accident!”

“Don’t care. Teach me the shortcut or I tell.”

They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Max broke first–he always broke first with Ada, something about her made it impossible to not give in–and sighed dramatically.

“Fine. But you can’t tell anyone else. This is classified information.”

“Who am I going to tell? I don’t have any other friends who play Mario Kart.”

“You don’t have any other friends, period.”

She reached out to punch his arm, and Max laughed, ducking away. They reset the game, and he showed her the shortcut–the exact location on the bridge optimal for the cut, how to angle the jump, how to nail the landing without falling off the edge.

Ada listened intently. She didn’t do anything halfway, didn’t understand the concept of casual. If she was going to play Mario Kart, she was going to master Mario Kart. It was one of the things Max liked best about her.

“Got it?” he asked after demonstrating three times.

“Got it.” She grabbed her controller. “Race me again.”

“You’re going to lose.”

“Maybe. But at least now I know how to cheat properly.”

Max laughed, and they started another race. And another. And another, until his mom called them down for dinner and they had to pause the game, arguing about who was really winning if you discounted the first seven races where Max had been “cheating.”

Later, after dinner, they sat on the back deck eating popsicles and watching the sunset.

“Max?” Ada’s voice was quiet, thoughtful.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to be friends forever, right?”

“Obviously. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Promise?”

He held out his pinky, sticky with popsicle juice. “Promise.”

She linked her pinky with his, and they shook on it, solemn as a blood oath.

Forever.

Standing on Victoria’s terrace seventeen years later, staring at Ada Bakker in the golden afternoon light, Max felt that memory hit him like a physical blow.

Forever.

They’d promised forever when they were nine years old. Had spent nearly ten years being inseparable–best friends, partners in crime, a friendship so close that it made other people envy what they had found in each other at such a young age.

And then that summer when they were fifteen, everything had changed. One kiss had changed everything.

And now she was here.

After twelve years of silence, twelve years of wondering what the hell had happened, twelve years of comparing every person he dated to a memory of a girl who’d kissed him once and then disappeared–

She was here. In Sardinia. On his vacation home’s terrace.

Looking at him with those same big brown eyes he remembered so clearly, flecked with gold in the sunlight.

She looked exactly the same and completely different all at once. And Max’s brain had gone completely offline. She was–

God, she was beautiful.

Her face had matured, lost the softness of adolescence, but her eyes were the same. Warm and expressive, showing everything she felt before her mouth could catch up. She’d always been like that–terrible at hiding her emotions, which had made her both thankfully easy to read and dangerously honest.

She was taller than he remembered. Or maybe he was just seeing her differently now, not looking down at a girl but across at a woman. She’d filled out in all the ways people did between fifteen and twenty-seven, but she was still–

She was still Ada.

The girl who he’d shared baths with after playing in muddy gardens when they were five.

The girl who’d cheered him on at his first karting match.

The girl who’d kissed him under the stars when they were fifteen, tasting like cherry chapstick and cheap wine and changed his entire understanding of what wanting someone could feel like.

The girl who’d disappeared the next morning and never spoke to him again.

And now she was here. Staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read–surprise, definitely, maybe nervousness.

“Max,” she said, and her voice was exactly the same. A little raspy still, like she’d just woken up.

Max’s mouth had gone dry. His brain was screaming at him to say something, anything, to not just stand there like an idiot. Staring at her, mouth agape like a fish out of water.

“Hey,” he managed.

Smooth. Very smooth. World Champion of eloquence, he was.

Victoria was grinning like she’d just won the lottery, completely oblivious to the fact that Max felt like he’d been hit by a truck. Or maybe she wasn’t oblivious. Maybe this was exactly the reaction she’d been hoping for.

“Surprise!” Victoria said, her voice bright with false innocence. “I ran into Ada in Amsterdam a few months ago–can you believe it? Small world, right?–and when I told her about Sardinia, she said she hadn’t had a proper holiday in ages, so I told her she had to come.” She squeezed Ada’s arm affectionately, like they were best friends, like this was all completely normal and fine.

“It’s been way too long since the three of us hung out.”

“Yeah,” Max said, because his brain had apparently decided to abandon him entirely. “Way too long.”

Twelve years. Twelve years since he’d last seen her, since that morning after they’d kissed. Since she’d smiled at him–soft and unsure and maybe a little scared–and said I should probably go before disappearing into the guest room at his parents’ house.

He’d waited for her to come back out. Had sat in the kitchen drinking a hot chocolate his mom had made, pretending to read a magazine, waiting. But she’d never emerged. And by the time he’d worked up the courage to knock on her door the next morning, her family had already packed up their things and were long gone.

Family emergency, his mum had said. They’d had to leave in a hurry.

She’d call, his mum had promised. She’d left a message saying she’d call.

Except she never had.

And now–now she was here, standing twenty feet away, looking at him like she wasn’t quite sure what to say either.

“How have you been?” Ada asked, and the question was so normal, so casual, so completely inadequate for the moment that Max almost laughed.

“Good. Busy. You know. Racing.” He sounded like an idiot. He was definitely sounding like an idiot. “You?”

“Good. Also busy. Work is…yeah.”

“Right. Work.”

This was excruciating. They were talking like strangers. Like they hadn’t spent years intertwined, like they hadn’t known each other since they were five years old, like they hadn’t–

Victoria was watching them with poorly concealed delight, and Max wanted to strangle her.

“Well,” Victoria said brightly, “I’ll let you two catch up! Tom’s probably wondering where I disappeared to. Ada, you remember where your room is, right? Max, why don’t you show her around the villa? Give her the grand tour?”

“I just got here–” Max started.

“I’d love a tour,” Ada said quickly, and there was something in her voice–relief? Desperation for an excuse to escape this awkward conversation in front of Victoria?

“Great! Perfect!” Victoria was already backing away, still grinning like the meddling nightmare she was. “Take your time. Dinner’s at eight. Very casual, just us.”

She disappeared into the villa, and Max was left alone on the terrace with Ada Bakker.

The silence stretched, painful and loaded with twelve years of things unsaid.

Max cleared his throat. “So…the villa’s nice.”

“Yeah. Sardinia is beautiful…” Ada took a sip of her wine, and Max watched her throat work as she swallowed. Watched the way the evening light caught in her hair, like spun gold. Watched her fingers tighten slightly on the stem of her wine glass.

She was nervous. That made him feel marginally better about his own complete inability to function like a normal person.

“Victoria didn’t mention you’d be here,” Max said carefully.

“She didn’t mention you’d be here either.” Ada’s lips quirked in something that might have been a smile. “I think she was deliberately vague about who exactly was coming on this trip.”

“That sounds like Victoria.”

They fell silent again, and Max tried to figure out what he was supposed to do now. Small talk felt wrong. Ignoring the past felt impossible. But diving straight into why did you ghost me twelve years ago seemed like a terrible idea when they were supposed to spend the next two weeks in close proximity.

“I would show you around,” he said finally. “like Victoria suggested. Except I just got here and I’m willing to bet money she’s already given you a tour. So really, I think you should show me around. Before she comes back to check on us.”

“She’s really not subtle, is she?”

“She’s never been subtle in her entire life.”

That got a real smile out of Ada, small but genuine, and Max felt the tightness in his chest loosen a fraction. This was still Ada. Underneath the unresolved history, he was sure this was still the girl who’d laughed at his jokes and called him out on his bullshit and made him feel like the best version of himself.

They walked through the villa together, Ada pointing out the various rooms–the kitchen with its restaurant-grade appliances that Victoria would probably never use, the living area with furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable, the kids’ room with bunk beds and toys already scattered everywhere despite them only arriving yesterday.

And the whole time, Max was hyperaware of Ada beside him. The space between them–careful and just slightly too wide to be casual. The way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, a gesture he remembered from childhood. Some things never changed.

“This place is incredible,” Ada said as they stepped onto one of the upper terraces. The view was even better from here–the coastline stretching in both directions, the sky starting to paint an array of colors as the sun made its final descent for the evening. “Victoria really outdid herself.”

“Yeah, she’s good at that.” Max leaned against the railing, keeping a careful distance between them. “So…Amsterdam. That’s where you’re living now?”

“Yeah. For about five years now. I moved there for work after–” She stopped, like she’d been about to say something else and thought better of it. “After university. You’re still in Monaco?”

“When I’m not traveling. Which is most of the year.”

“Right…how’s it going? Victoria mentioned you’re making a bit of a comeback?”

“Yeah. It’s been–it’s been good. The car’s been difficult, but we’re managing. And we’ve got a few more upgrades in the works.”

Careful small talk. Surface-level questions that avoided everything real.

Max hated it.

“Ada–” he started.

“Max–” she said at the same time.

They stopped, and Ada laughed–a nervous sound that reminded him so much of when they were younger that it ached.

“You first,” she said.

Max took a breath, trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say. How to ask the questions that had been sitting in his chest without making this even more awkward than it already was.

“I just–” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. Victoria didn’t–she didn’t warn me. And now we’re here and it’s–it’s weird, right? It’s not just me?”

“It’s definitely weird,” Ada agreed softly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you either. Victoria said it was a family trip, and I assumed–I thought you’d be busy. I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”

“Would you have come if you’d known?”

The question hung between them.

Ada looked out at the water, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Aits been a long time. And now you’re here and I still don’t know.”

At least she was being honest. That was something.

“We don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Max said, even though every cell in his body was screaming at him to demand answers immediately. “We can–we can just take it day by day. See how it goes.”

“Day by day,” Ada repeated, like she was testing the words. “Okay. We can just see how it goes.”

“Good. Great.” Max pushed off the railing, already planning his escape to wherever Victoria had put his room. He needed space. Needed to process this. Needed to call Daniel and have a complete breakdown about the fact that his childhood best friend–his first kiss, his first heartbreak, his first everything–was apparently staying at the same villa as him for two weeks. “I should probably go find my room. Get settled in. Unpack.”

“Right. Yeah. Me too.”

They walked back through the villa in silence, and Max was so focused on planning his exit strategy that he almost missed when Victoria intercepted them in the main hallway.

“There you are!” She was still grinning, still clearly thrilled with herself. “Did you two have a nice catch-up?”

“Sure,” Max said flatly. “Very nice. Where’s my room, Vic?”

“Oh! Right. About that.” Victoria’s grin turned slightly sheepish, which was never a good sign.

“So, I might have slightly overestimated how many bedrooms we actually have available?”

Max’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”

“It means that Tom’s parents are coming, and obviously the kids have the bunk room, and Mom’s taking the master suite when she arrives, and–”

“Victoria.”

“–so you and Ada are in the guest cottage! It’s very cute, totally private, right on the property but separate from the main house. You’ll love it.”

Max stared at his sister. “A cottage?”

“Yes. The cottage. It’s lovely. Very romantic–I mean, not romantic, just, you know, nice. Peaceful. Good views.”

“How many bedrooms does this cottage have?”

Victoria’s grin turned slightly sheepish. “Technically? One.”

Fuck.

[15 Years Old]

The bonfire had burned down to embers by the time everyone else had gone inside, leaving Max and Ada alone on the back lawn of his parents’ house.

It was late July, the night before Ada and her family were supposed to drive back to Amsterdam. They’d spent two weeks at the Verstappen house–an annual tradition, their families taking turns hosting each other for part of the summer. Max’s favorite two weeks of every year.

This year had been different, though. This year, every time Ada laughed at one of his jokes, Max’s chest did something weird. Every time she leaned close to look at his phone or steal food off his plate, he was hyperaware of her proximity. Every time she pushed her hair back from her face, he found himself staring.

It was annoying, actually. She was Ada. His best friend. The person who knew him better than anyone, who’d seen him at his worst and still chose to spend time with him.

He wasn’t supposed to be noticing the way her face had changed over the past year, losing a bit of the softness of childhood. Wasn’t supposed to be counting the freckles across her nose, or noticing the way her eyes crinkled when she really laughed, or the fact that she’d started wearing different clothes–less tomboy, more…feminine. And pretty.

“What are you thinking about?” Ada asked, and Max realized he’d been staring at the dying fire, lost in thought.

“Nothing. Just–I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow already. This summer went too fast.”

“They always do.” She pulled her sweatshirt tighter around herself. It was his sweatshirt, actually–he’d given it to her earlier when she’d complained about being cold. It was too big on her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, and something about seeing her in his clothes made Max’s stomach flip. “But we’ll see each other soon.”

“Yeah, but it’s still–I don’t know. It feels different this year.”

“Different how?”

Max didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an idiot. That everything felt different with her lately. That he’d spent the past two weeks hyperaware of her in ways he’d never been before. That the thought of her leaving tomorrow made his chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with missing his friend.

“Just different,” he said finally.

Ada turned to look at him, and in the dim light from the dying fire, her face was all shadows and angles. “Max–”

“I’m going to miss you,” he interrupted, because he needed to say it, needed her to know. “I know that sounds dumb and I always miss you when you leave, but this year it’s–it feels…bigger. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was soft, barely audible over the sound of crickets and the distant hum of the road. “It makes sense. I’m going to miss you too.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Max tried to work up the courage to say what he’d been thinking about all week. All month, really, if he was being honest with himself.

“Ada, I–”

She kissed him.

Just leaned over and pressed her lips to his, quick and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed. Like she’d been thinking about it as much as he had and finally just went for it.

Max froze for half a second–shock and disbelief having to cycle through–and then he was kissing her back. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and she made this small sound against his mouth that made his whole body light up.

She tasted like the cheap wine his mum had served at dinner. And like cherry chapstick. Like summer and bonfires and like everything he’d been wanting without knowing how to name it.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathing a bit harder, Ada’s eyes were wide. Scared, maybe. But hopeful, too.

“Was that–is that okay?” she whispered. “I’ve been wanting to and I thought maybe you wanted it too but if I didn’t know and I’m so sorry–”

“It’s okay,” Max interrupted, his voice rough. “More than okay. I’ve been wanting–I wanted to do that too. I just didn’t know if you–if we–”

“We should probably go inside,” Ada said, but she hadn’t moved away. If anything, she’d leaned closer, her hand resting on his chest, right over his heart that was beating way too fast.

“Probably.”

“Before someone comes looking for us.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moved a muscle.

“Max?” Ada’s voice was barely a whisper now.

“Yeah?”

“Can we–can we do it again?”

He kissed her in answer, slower this time, taking his time. Learning the shape of her mouth, the soft sound she made when he tilted her head to deepen the kiss, the way her fingers curled into his shirt like she was trying to pull him closer.

They kissed until the fire had gone completely cold, until the sky had shifted from deep purple to true black, until Max’s mom called from the house that it was late and they should come in.

“Tomorrow,” Max said as they finally stood up, still holding hands. “Before you leave. Can we talk about this?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.” Ada squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

But the next morning when Max woke up, Ada and her family were already gone.

Standing in Victoria’s villa hallway, staring at his sister’s too-innocent expression, Max felt that memory crash over him like a wave.

She’d promised they’d talk. And then she’d left without a word, and Max had spent three weeks texting and calling and leaving voicemails until someone had answered her phone and told him Ada didn’t want to talk to him.

And now Victoria had put them in the same room. In a cottage with one bed.

For two weeks.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Max said.

“Language,” Victoria chided, but she was still grinning. “Look, it’s not ideal–”

“Not ideal? Vic, we’re–we can’t–we can’t share a room.”

“Why not? You used to have sleepovers all the time when you were kids.”

“We were kids. This is different.”

“How is it different?”

Because the last time he’d seen Ada, he’d kissed her by a bonfire and thought maybe–finally–she felt the same way about him that he felt about her. Because he’d spent twelve years trying to move on and failing spectacularly. Because sharing a room with her felt like some kind of cosmic joke designed specifically to torture him.

“It just is,” Max said through gritted teeth.

Beside him, Ada had gone very still, very quiet. Her face was carefully neutral, but her fingers were white-knuckled around her wine glass.

“I can take the couch,” she offered. “In the cottage. If there’s a couch. I don’t mind.”

“There’s a couch,” Victoria said. “But it’s not really sleeper-sized. It’s more decorative than functional.”

“That’s fine. I’m not–I don’t need much space.”

“You’re not taking the couch,” Max said automatically. “If anyone’s taking the couch, it’ll be me.”

“Max, you’re kind of a high performance athlete. I’ll take the couch.”

“Neither of you needs to take the couch,” Victoria interjected. “You’re both adults. The bed is huge–king sized. You can share it without it being weird.”

“Vic–”

“Look, if you’re really that uncomfortable, I can ask Tom’s parents to postpone their visit and you can have their room. But that means disappointing them, and they were so excited to come, and–”

“No,” Max sighed, recognizing when he was beaten. “No, don’t do that. It’s–it’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

He looked at Ada, who was still clutching her wine glass and looking like she wanted the terrace floor to open up and swallow her.

“Is that okay with you?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Her voice was tight. “Yeah, it’s fine. We’re adults, we don’t have to make it weird.”

It was going to be so fucking weird.

But Max nodded anyway, because what else was he going to do? “Okay. Fine. Where is this stupid cottage?”

Victoria gave them directions–down a stone path, past the lavender garden, tucked into the far corner of the property. Private. Romantic.

Sometimes he really hated his sister.

Max grabbed his bag and headed out, not waiting to see if Ada was following. He needed a moment. Needed to process this. Needed to figure out how the hell he was supposed to survive two weeks sharing a bed with Ada Bakker when he could barely survive five minutes on a terrace with her.

The cottage was exactly as Victoria had described–beautiful, private, with views of the sea and that one very large bed dominating the bedroom.

Max dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Two weeks.

This is going to be the longest two weeks of his fucking life.

And then he heard footsteps on the stone path outside, heard the cottage door open, heard Ada’s voice say softly, “How…cozy.”

Max looked up to find her standing in the doorway, still holding that wine glass, looking as shellshocked as he felt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Cozy.”

Their eyes met, and something passed between them–acknowledgment, maybe, of just how impossible this situation was. How much history was crammed into this small space. How much they’re avoiding.

“It'll be fine,” Ada said. But she didn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah,” Max agreed, not convinced either.

But as she set down her wine glass and started unpacking her bag, carefully maintaining distance, moving around him like they were defusing a bomb–Max thought:

Heat flooded through Ariane at the memory–his hands on her, his mouth on her neck, the promise of ‘later’ that had been building between them all evening.

She should be practical. Should stick to the plan. Should go home, get a good night's sleep, approach this with a clear head tomorrow.

Instead, she heard herself say, "Let me get my bag from my car."

Lando's face lit up like she'd just given him the best gift ever. "Yeah? Really?"

"Really. But if this is a terrible decision, I'm blaming you."

"Completely acceptable. I’ll take full responsibility for all terrible decisions tonight."

Five minutes later, Ariane was sliding into the seat beside him, her overnight bag tossed in the trunk, her car keys tucked safely in her purse to deal with tomorrow. The car pulled away, and Lando immediately reached for her hand.

"Hi," he said, grinning like an idiot.

"Hi," she replied, feeling equally idiotic and not caring at all.

"So. Change of plans."

"I noticed."

"You okay with this? Because if you're not, we can turn around. I'll take you back to your car. No questions asked."

"I'm okay with this." More than okay, actually. The prospect of another night–of actually following through on what had started in the cellar–was making her heart race and her skin feel warm.

"Good." His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "Because I've been thinking about you for the past two minutes and thirty seconds."

"Only two minutes?"

"I was thinking about you before that too. Just more intensely in the car." He shifted closer, his voice dropping lower. "Thinking about how we got interrupted. How we didn't get to finish what we started."

"Lando." Her voice came out breathier than intended.

"Ariane, tell me if I'm reading this wrong, but you got in this car for a reason, right? And that reason wasn't just to save on gas money?"

"That reason was definitely not gas money."

"Good. Because I have plans. Very specific plans. Involving significantly fewer clothes than we're currently wearing."

"You mentioned that."

"Did I mention they're detailed plans? With multiple steps?"

"You may have implied that."

His hand slid up her thigh, just slightly, just enough to make her breath catch. The windows were tinted, giving them a cocoon of semi-darkness, the lights of the French countryside sliding past the windows.

"And did I mention," he continued, his hand inching higher, "that I've been thinking about the sounds you made in that cellar? How you bit your lip to stay quiet? How I want to hear what you sound like when you don't have to hold back?"

Heat pooled between her legs. "We're in a car."

"I'm aware." His fingers traced the hem of her dress, teasing. "I'm just talking. For now. Building anticipation. You seemed to like that earlier."

"You're evil."

"I'm thorough." He said, his hand tightening on her leg. "I'm going to take my time with you. Going to learn every single thing that makes you fall apart. Going to make you come so many times you lose count."

Ariane's breath hitched. "How long did you say this drive was?"

"Too long." His fingers grazed higher. "But we'll be there soon. And then I'm going to bring you into my home, peel this dress off you inch by inch, and make good on every promise I made."

"You're very confident."

"I'm motivated." His hand slid higher, fingers brushing against her inner thigh. "And I think you're just as impatient as I am. I can feel you trembling."

She was trembling. Had been since she got in the car. "What happened to building anticipation?"

"Change of plans." His fingers traced higher, and she had to bite back a gasp. "I want to feel how much you want this."

"Lando–you’re driving–"

"I’m focused. I do this for a living, darling, we’re perfectly safe." His fingers found the edge of her underwear, tracing the lace. "Tell me to stop and I will. But if you want this–if you want me to touch you–you're going to have to say it out loud."

Ariane's brain had officially short-circuited. This was insane. They were in a car. He was driving. But his fingers were so close, and she was so wound up, and the privacy of the darkened windows made her brave.

"Touch me," she breathed.

"Where?" His fingers stayed maddeningly still.

"You know where."

"I want to hear you say it." His head turned towards her, briefly. "Use your words, Ariane. Tell me what you want."

"I want–" She took a shaky breath. "I want your fingers. Inside me. Please."

His sharp inhale told her exactly how much that affected him. "God, I love the way you sound."

His fingers slid beneath the lace, finding her wet and ready, and they both groaned.

"So ready for me," he murmured, circling slowly. "You've been thinking about this too, haven't you? About what happens next?"

"Yes." The word came out as a gasp as his finger circled again, closer to where she needed him.

"Tell me what you've been thinking about."

"Lando, please–"

"Tell me first." He kept up that maddening circling, never quite giving her what she needed. "What have you imagined?"

"You," she admitted, beyond caring about maintaining any dignity. "Your mouth. Your hands. Your–everything. I've been thinking about everything."

"Good girl." He finally–finally–slid one finger inside her, and she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to muffle her moan. "So responsive. Being so perfect for me, darling."

He established a rhythm, adding a second finger, his thumb finding her clit with devastating precision. Ariane's head fell back against the seat, her hips moving with his hand, chasing the pleasure building inside her.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with his own desire. "Take what you need. Let me feel you."

"I'm going to–" She couldn't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed by sensation.

"I know. I can feel it. Come for me, Ariane. I want you to come on my fingers."

His fingers curled inside her, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids, and she fell apart with his name caught between her teeth, trying desperately to stay quiet even as her body shook with the force of her orgasm.

He worked her through it, slowing gradually as she came down.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "So fucking beautiful."

When she could breathe again, she opened her eyes to find him watching her with dark, hungry eyes, his fingers still inside her.

"That was–" she started.

"Just the preview." He slowly withdrew his hand, and she watched–transfixed and slightly scandalized–as he brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting her. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. "Christ. I need more of that. So much more."

They spent the last fifteen minutes of the drive trying to compose themselves–Ariane smoothing her dress, Lando adjusting himself with a muttered curse about uncomfortable pants. But the tension between them had ratcheted up impossibly higher, and by the time they pulled up to his apartment, Ariane was already aching for more.

Lando grabbed both their bags, and led her through the lobby with barely restrained urgency. She could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the purposeful stride, the way his jaw was clenched. The elevator ride up felt endless. The second the doors closed, he dropped the bags and pulled her against him, kissing her with bruising intensity.

"Do you have any idea," he said against her mouth, "how hard it was to sit still next to you after that? Knowing how you taste? How you feel?"

"Show me." She nipped at his bottom lip. "We're almost there. Show me everything you've been thinking about."

The elevator dinged. They sprang apart just as the doors opened, and Lando grabbed the bags and her hand, practically dragging her down the hallway.

He fumbled with the key card–"Come on, come on"-finally got the door open, and the second they were inside, they were on each other.

Hands everywhere. Mouths desperate. Clothes hitting the floor in a trail to the bedroom. Lando backed her toward the bed, his hands already working the zipper of her dress. 

"I'm going to worship every inch of you," he promised, his voice rough. "Going to make you forget your own name."

"Big promises."

"I keep my promises." He slid her dress off, letting it pool at her feet, then stepped back to look at her. His gaze was scorching as it traveled over her body–lingering on her breasts in their lace bra, the matching underwear, the heels she hadn't bothered to take off yet.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're–" He seemed to lose the ability to speak, just reaching for her again, hands spanning her waist.

"Your turn." Ariane made quick work of his shirt buttons, pushing it off his shoulders, running her hands over the muscles of his chest and abs. "God, you're incredible."

"You haven't seen anything yet." But his breath hitched when her fingers trailed lower, tracing the line of his abs down to his belt.

She undid his belt slowly, maintaining eye contact, enjoying the way his breathing quickened. When she popped the button of his pants, he groaned.

"You're killing me."

"Good." She slid his zipper down, her knuckles grazing him through his boxer briefs. He was hard, straining against the fabric, and the evidence of how much he wanted her sent another wave of heat through her.

"Bed," he said roughly. "Now. Before I lose what little control I have left."

She climbed onto the bed, and he followed, a predator stalking its prey. His hands slid up her legs, removing her heels one at a time, pressing kisses to her ankles, her calves, behind her knees.

"You have a thing for legs?" she asked breathlessly.

"I have a thing for your legs. For every part of you." He kissed higher, along her inner thigh. "Going to taste every inch."

He reached her underwear and hooked his fingers in the waistband, dragging them down slowly, exposing her to his gaze. His sharp inhale was gratifying.

"Spread your legs," he commanded softly. "Let me see you."

She did, feeling vulnerable and powerful all at once under his heated gaze.

"Perfect," he murmured, settling between her thighs. "So perfect."

Then his mouth was on her, and Ariane's back arched off the bed. He'd touched her in the car, yes, but this–this was different. His tongue worked her with purpose, learning her responses, finding every sensitive spot and exploiting it ruthlessly.

When he slid two fingers inside her while his tongue circled her clit, she nearly came off the bed.

"Lando–oh god–"

"That's it. Let me hear you. No one to hear us now. Be loud for me, baby."

She stopped trying to hold back, letting every gasp and moan escape freely. He responded to every sound, adjusting his rhythm, his pressure, until she was writhing beneath him, her hands fisted in his hair.

"Please–I'm going to–"

"Come for me." He curled his fingers inside her. "Come on my tongue. I want to taste you."

The combination of his words and his fingers and his tongue sent her flying over the edge. She came with a cry, her thighs clamping around his head, her body shaking with the intensity. He didn't stop, working her through it, then building her back up immediately. Before she could fully come down, he was at it again, adding a third finger, stretching her, preparing her.

"I can't–it's too much–"

"You can." His voice was dark. "Going to make you come again before I'm inside you. Want you desperate for me."

"I am–"

"Not desperate enough." But his fingers were relentless, his mouth wicked, and within minutes she was climbing again, higher this time, the pleasure almost unbearable.

"Lando, please–I need–"

"What do you need? Say it."

"You. Inside me. Now. Please."

He pressed one more kiss to her inner thigh, then moved up her body, trailing kisses as he went–her hip, her stomach, the underside of her breast. He paused to remove her bra, groaning at the sight of her bare chest.

"These," he said reverently, cupping them, "have been driving me crazy all night."

He lowered his mouth to one nipple, sucking hard enough to make her arch into him. His hand worked the other breast, rolling and pinching until she was squirming beneath him.

"Lando, please–"

"I'm getting there." He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention. "Just appreciating what's mine."

The possessive note in his voice sent heat straight to her core. "Yours?"

"Mine." He kissed up to her mouth, claiming her lips in a deep, thorough kiss. "If you want me."

"Yes. God, yes. But right now I need you to stop teasing me and–"

He sat back on his heels, finally–finally–removing his boxer briefs. Ariane's eyes went wide.

"Oh," she said dumbly.

"Oh?" He grinned, clearly pleased by her reaction.

"That's–you're–" She couldn't form words, just reached for him.

He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Patience."

"I don't have any patience left. You used it all up in the car and with your mouth and–Lando, please."

He reached for his wallet, pulled out a condom–"Presumptuous," she managed to tease–and rolled it on with shaking hands that told her he was just as desperate as she was. Then, he was settling between her legs, the head of him pressing against her entrance, both of them holding their breath.

"Look at me," he said softly. "Want to see you."

She met his gaze as he pushed inside, slowly, giving her time to adjust. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, and she saw her own pleasure reflected in his face–his jaw clenched, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged.

"Okay?" he gritted out when he was fully seated.

"So okay. Move. Please move."

He did, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, deep and sure. They both groaned at the sensation.

"You feel–" He couldn't finish, just started moving, building a rhythm that was slow at first, torturously so.

"Faster," Ariane urged, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Harder. I won't break."

"You sure?" But he was already picking up the pace, his hips snapping forward with more force.

"Yes–god yes–like that–"

He hooked her knee over his elbow, changing the angle, going deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars.

"There," she gasped. "Right there–don't stop–"

"Not stopping." His voice was strained, his control clearly fraying. "Never stopping. You feel too good. So tight. So perfect."

His hand slid between them, finding her clit, circling with practiced precision. The added stimulation pushed her higher, the pleasure building impossibly fast.

"I'm close," she warned. "So close–"

"Hold on for me. Want to feel you come around me."

"I can't–it's too much–"

"You can." He thrust harder, deeper, his fingers unrelenting. "Come with me. Want to feel you fall apart."

The combination of sensations–him inside her, his fingers on her clit, the intensity in his eyes–sent her over the edge. She came with a cry, her body clenching around him, and the feel of her pulsing sent him over too. He thrust through it, her name falling from his lips like a prayer, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her. They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, neither quite ready to separate.

"Holy shit," Lando finally said, his voice wrecked.

"Yeah."

"That was…"

"Yeah."

He lifted his head to look at her, grinning despite the obvious exhaustion. "Worth getting back in the car for?"

"Definitely worth it."

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, then carefully pulled out, both of them wincing at the sensitivity. He dealt with the condom, then immediately pulled her against his side, like he couldn't stand to not be intertwined with her after everything.

"You okay?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Not too much?"

"Perfect. It was perfect. You were perfect." She traced patterns on his chest, enjoying the rapid beat of his heart under her palm. "Though you might have ruined me for anyone else."

"Good." The possessive note was back. "That was the plan."

"Very presumptuous."

"Very confident." He tilted her face up for a kiss. "Also very much in awe of you. That was–you're incredible."

"We're incredible," she corrected. "That was a team effort."

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Best team ever."

They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Ariane's fingers trailing lazily over his skin, Lando's hand stroking her hair.

"I don't want you to leave in the morning," he said quietly.

"I have to get my car. And work–"

"I know. But I don't want you to." He shifted to look at her. "Stay for breakfast at least? Let me feed you? And then we'll figure out the car situation and get you back to Lyon."

"Breakfast sounds good."

"Good." He kissed her again, slow and sweet. "And then dinner tomorrow. Like we originally planned. Proper date."

"After this, I think we've moved past the proper date stage."

"Doesn't mean I can't take you to dinner and woo you appropriately."

"Woo me?"

"I'm very good at wooing. You'll see." His hand slid down her side, over her hip. "Speaking of which..."

"Already?" She raised an eyebrow.

"What can I say? You're very inspiring." He was already half-hard again, pressing against her thigh. "But if you're too tired–"

"I didn't say I was too tired." She pushed him onto his back, climbing on top of him, enjoying the way his eyes darkened. "I believe you mentioned detailed plans? Multiple steps?"

"I did." His hands found her hips, steadying her. "We've only covered step one so far."

"What's step two?"

His grin was wicked. "You're about to find out."

An Hour Later

Ariane was boneless, thoroughly satisfied, and completely certain she'd never had so many orgasms in her life.

"You're insatiable," she said, lacking any real complaint in her voice.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his arm draped over her waist. "Besides, you weren't exactly protesting."

"Fair point."

They'd christened several surfaces in the room–the bed (twice), the wall by the window, the desk chair that definitely wasn't meant for that kind of force. Ariane had lost count of how many times she'd come, each one more intense than the last.

"We should sleep," Lando said, though he showed no signs of letting her go.

"We should."

Neither of them moved.

"Lando?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad I got in the car."

His arms tightened around her. "Me too. Best decision of the night."

"Second best," she corrected. "First was getting trapped in that cellar with you."

"Good point." He nuzzled into her neck. "Though I'm starting to think we don't need emergencies to make good decisions. We can just make them anyway."

"Revolutionary."

"I know, I’m wicked smart."

She laughed, sleep pulling at her, but she fought it off for a moment longer, not wanting to miss a second of this–the warmth of him, the safety of his arms, the certainty in her chest.

"Lando?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow–our proper date…I'm probably going to be exhausted and walking funny."

He laughed into her hair. "Sorry not sorry."

"Just warning you that I might need a nap before dinner."

"I'll allow it, I love a wee nap. Can I nap with you?"

"Deal."

"Good." He pressed one more kiss to her shoulder. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up in the morning with step three."

"There's a step three?"

"There are many steps. Many, many steps." He murmured, dozing off already.

Ariane smiled into the darkness, feeling happy and sated and absurdly content. "Can't wait."

And wrapped in his arms, she drifted off to sleep, already looking forward to morning–to breakfast and proper dates and whatever came next with this impossible, wonderful man who'd somehow become everything she didn't know she needed.

Just them, this time by choice–no cellar required. Though she had to admit, that cellar had been a pretty excellent start.

Two Weeks Later

Ariane's phone buzzed for the forty-seventh time that hour. She knew it was the forty-seventh time because she'd started counting after the thirtieth, equal parts exasperated and charmed.

Lando: Update: Carlos just tried to give me relationship advice. CARLOS. The man who once forgot he had a date until she showed up at his apartment.

Lando: I told him I was doing fine without his help, thank you very much.

Lando: He said, and I quote, "You're texting her again right now, aren't you?"

Lando: I had to lie and say no. While actively texting you. He saw right through it.

Lando: Now he's laughing at me. This is your fault somehow.

Ariane smiled, setting down her coffee mug in her apartment–the same apartment where she'd returned after that first night, exhausted and exhilarated and completely unsure of what happened next.

She knew now.

What happened next was this: constant texting. Video calls that stretched past midnight despite time zones and early morning training sessions. Photos of random things;his breakfast (green juice, still disgusting), her cat (still judgmental), the view from his Monaco balcony (admittedly gorgeous), the new branding initiative at work (he'd asked surprisingly informed questions).

And visits. Three in two weeks, which was probably excessive and definitely unsustainable, but neither of them seemed capable of caring.

Ariane: Carlos is right. You text too much.

Lando: BETRAYAL. From my own girlfriend. How will I recover?

Ariane's heart did a little skip at the word. Girlfriend. They'd had that conversation during his second visit to Lyon, over dinner at the mediocre wine restaurant he'd insisted on finding ("It exists! I found one! The reviews say 'wine is okay at best'. It’s perfect”.)

"So," he'd said, twirling pasta around his fork with intense concentration, "I've been calling you my girlfriend in my head for like a week now. Is that presumptuous?"

"Depends. Have you been calling anyone else your girlfriend?"

"Definitely not. You're very exclusive in my internal monologue."

"Then it's not presumptuous."

"So you're my girlfriend? Officially?"

"Officially."

He'd grinned so wide she thought his face might split. "Excellent. Carlos owes me twenty euros. He said you'd make me work harder for it."

"You bet on whether I'd agree to be your girlfriend?"

"In my defense, it wasn’t much of a bet. I was very confident I'd win."

Now, two weeks into whatever this was–long-distance, chaotic, completely imperfect–Ariane found herself happier than she'd been in years.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lando: Also I'm bored. Training is boring. My trainer is making me do core work and I hate it.

Lando: Entertain me. Tell me what Chardy is doing.

Ariane glanced over at her cat, who was doing what she did best: sleeping in a sun patch, looking deeply unimpressed with existence even while unconscious.

Ariane: She's sleeping. Very aggressively.

Lando: How does one sleep aggressively?

Ariane: She’s very talented.

Lando: I miss her. Tell her I miss her.

Ariane: You saw her three days ago.

Lando: And? I'm allowed to miss my girlfriend's cat.

Ariane: She barely tolerated you.

Lando: She let me pet her for a full thirty seconds. That's huge.

Ariane: You have a very optimistic interpretation of cat behavior.

Lando: I'm an optimist in general. You know this about me.

She did. She knew a lot about him now, actually. She knew he was an optimist who struggled with anxiety. That he calls his mum every Sunday without fail. That he has a borderline obsessive skincare routine that he gets defensive about when anybody (usually Carlos) teases him about it. That he watches trashy reality TV when he can’t sleep and feels genuinely invested in the outcomes. That he’s thoughtful and funny and surprisingly vulnerable when he lets himself be. That he makes her laugh more than anyone else ever has. That he looks at her like she’s the most interesting person in the room, even when they were alone and there was no one to compete with. That she was falling for him, fast and hard and in a way that should have terrified her but didn't.

Her laptop pinged–a video call request. She accepted, and Lando's face filled the screen, hair mussed from training, wearing a hoodie that said "I LOVE HELMETS" in comic sans.

"Is that shirt a joke?" she asked immediately.

"No, I love helmets." He grinned, propping his phone up on something so she could see him properly. "Hi."

"Hi." She mirrored his setup, angling her laptop so he could see her properly too. "Aren't you supposed to be training?"

"Water break. I have precisely six minutes." He took a long drink from a bottle covered in sponsor logos. "Wanted to see your face."

"You saw my face last night."

"And? I like your face. Sue me." He set down the bottle, leaning closer to the camera. "How's your day?"

"Good. Boring. Lots of emails about the strategy for Q4. Very glamorous."

"Sounds it. Learn anything interesting about wine?"

It was a running joke between them–he always asked, she always had some absurd fact to share, and he always pretended to be deeply fascinated. Except she was starting to suspect he actually was fascinated, or at least good at pretending.

"Did you know that some winemakers play music to their grapes? They think it improves the quality."

"What kind of music?"

"Classical, usually. Mozart is popular."

"Do the grapes have opinions about this?"

"The grapes remain silent on the matter."

He laughed, that bright, unguarded laugh that still made her chest warm. "I love that you know these things. I love–" He stopped, something shifting in his expression.

"You love…?" she prompted.

"Nothing. Just. This. Talking to you. Even when it's just about wine facts." He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking a bit uncertain. "Is this weird? That I want to talk to you constantly? Carlos says I'm being clingy."

"Carlos has a lot of opinions."

"He really does."

"And no, it's not weird." Ariane pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "I like talking to you, too. Even when you send me forty-seven texts in an hour."

"You count?"

"I counted today."

"That's either very sweet or concerning."

"Little bit of both."

He grinned again, but before he could respond, someone shouted in the background–his trainer, probably, calling him back.

"That's my cue," he said reluctantly. "More core work. More suffering."

"You'll survive."

"Barely." He leaned closer to the camera. "I'm flying back to Monaco after the race on Sunday. You're still watching, right?"

"Of course I'm watching."

"Good. I'll wave at the camera for you."

"Please don't. That's embarrassing."

"I'm absolutely going to. You can't stop me." His grin was wicked. "Also, I've been thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very. But I've been thinking–after the race, I have four days off. Before the next triple header starts. And I was wondering if maybe you could come to Monaco? For a few days? Meet some people, let me cook you dinner–"

"You cook?"

"I use that term loosely. I can operate a stove without burning the building down. That counts." He looked almost nervous now, which was unusual for him. "You don't have to decide right now. Just think about it. I know it's a lot, meeting people and staying over and–"

"Lando."

"Yeah?"

"I'd love to come to Monaco."

His face lit up like she'd just told him he'd won the championship. "Yeah? Really?"

"Really. I'll need to check with work, make sure I can take the time, but...yeah. I want to."

"Okay. Good. Great. Amazing." He was practically bouncing now, his earlier uncertainty completely evaporated. "This is going to be so good. I'll show you all my favorite places, and we can go to that restaurant I told you about, and you can my friends properly, and–"

"LANDO!" The trainer's voice, more insistent now.

"COMING!" He looked back at the camera, still grinning. "I have to go. But we'll talk later?"

"We always talk later."

"True. Okay. I'll text you after training. And maybe call tonight if you're not too tired?"

"I'm never too tired for you."

"Good. Because I'm never too tired either." He blew her a kiss, which should have been cheesy but somehow wasn't. "Miss you already."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you like me anyway."

"Unfortunately."

He laughed, waved, and the call ended.

Ariane sat back, staring at her laptop screen, a smile playing at her lips. Chardy had woken up at some point and was now watching her with those judgmental green eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," Ariane told the cat. "I know what you're thinking."

Chardy blinked slowly, unimpressed.

"Yes, it's fast. Yes, it's complicated. Yes, long-distance is difficult." Ariane reached over to scratch behind Chardy's ears, which the cat tolerated with regal indifference. "But it's also...good. Really good. Better than I thought."

Her phone buzzed.

Lando: Already miss talking to you. This is a problem.

Ariane: You saw me 30 seconds ago.

Lando: Irrelevant. The heart wants what it wants.

Ariane: That's very dramatic.

Lando: I'm a dramatic person. You signed up for this.

Ariane: Did I though?

Lando: You absolutely did. No takesies backsies.

Ariane: Is that legally binding?

Lando: In the court of my heart, yes.

Ariane: You're ridiculous.

Lando: You like it.

Ariane: Unfortunately.

Lando: OKAY NOW I REALLY HAVE TO GO. Trainer is giving me the look. The I'm disappointed in you look. It's very effective.

Ariane: Go train. I'll talk to you later.

Lando: Promise?

Ariane: Promise.

Lando: Good. Because I have many more thoughts about grape music that I need to share with you.

Ariane: Can't wait.

Lando: <3333

She set her phone down, but couldn't seem to stop smiling. Through the window, Lyon stretched out in afternoon sunlight, beautiful and familiar. In a few weeks, she'd be in Monaco, seeing his world, meeting his people, taking another step into whatever this relationship was becoming. It should have felt scary–the speed of it, the uncertainty, the way her carefully controlled life had been completely upended by one night trapped in a wine cellar.

Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Her phone buzzed one more time.

Lando: Okay last thing I PROMISE. Just wanted to say I'm really glad the fire alarm broke that night.

Ariane: You're glad we got trapped?

Lando: I'm glad I got trapped with you. Best accident ever.

Ariane: Best accident ever. <3

She sent the heart before she could second-guess it, and his response was immediate.

Lando: You sent a heart! This is a milestone! Carlos will want to know about this!

Ariane: Carlos will not want to know about that.

Lando: Too late. Already told him.

Ariane: You're impossible.

Lando: And yet <3

Ariane: And yet.

Three Months Later

The Monaco apartment was smaller than Ariane expected, but somehow that made it more charming. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, the late afternoon sun painting everything in gold. Lando's sim racing setup dominated one corner ("I know it's excessive, but it's how I practice when I can't be at the track"), and his helmet collection lined a shelf along the wall ("Also excessive, but they're cool, admit it").

Ariane stood in front of the helmets, studying the designs while Lando finished a call with his manager in the other room. She'd been here for two days now–her fourth visit to Monaco, though the first where she was staying more than one night. 

"Sorry about that," Lando said, emerging from the bedroom. "He said my trainer’s concerned about my hydration levels. I tried to explain that I'm an adult and capable of drinking water, but they remain unconvinced."

"Hydration is important."

"You sound like him. This is concerning." But he was grinning, moving to stand behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. "What do you think? Too much?"

"The helmets? They're very you."

"That's not an answer."

"It's absolutely too much. But I like them."

He pressed a kiss to her temple. "You know what I've realized?"

"What?"

"You never did give me a proper tour of your apartment. I've been there like six times now, and we always just end up on your couch or ordering takeout or–"

"Getting distracted?"

"Very distracted." His arms tightened slightly. "But I don't actually know where you keep your wine glasses. Or if you have any books besides the work ones on your coffee table. Or what drawer your toothbrush is in."

Ariane felt warmth spread through her chest. They'd been doing this dance for a few months now–visits that were never quite long enough, conversations that stretched into the early hours, learning each other in fits and starts between his racing schedule and her work commitments. It had been wonderful and frustrating in equal measure. But lately, she'd been thinking about what came next. About whether this constant back-and-forth was sustainable. About whether she wanted it to be.

"You want to see my wine glass collection?" she asked, turning in his arms to face him.

"I want to see everything." His expression was soft, open. "I want to know where you keep your coffee mugs and where you throw your akeout menus and if you organize your closet by color or just shove everything in there–"

"I don't shove–"

"--and I want to memorize how you look in the morning before you're fully awake, and what you sound like when you're on work calls trying to sound professional, and which spot on your couch is your favorite." He paused, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want all the boring, everyday stuff. Not just the visits and the countdowns and the constant missing you."

Ariane's heart was doing acrobatics. "Lando–"

"I know we haven't talked about it. About what happens long term, about how we make this work when we're both so busy and in different places. But, I've been thinking about it. A lot." He took a breath, looking nervous in a way she rarely saw from him. "I want more than stolen weekends. I want normal. I want boring. I want to be the person you tell about your annoying coworker and the one who helps you carry groceries and who knows how you take your coffee without asking."

"Two sugars, no milk," he continued before she could respond. "But you'll drink it black if that's all that's available, and you claim you don't have a caffeine addiction but you get a headache if you don't have any by lunchtime. See? I pay attention."

"I know you do."

"So I've been thinking–and you can say no…this is just an idea, just something I've been considering–" He was talking faster now, nervous energy making him ramble. "What if you moved here? To Monaco? Not like, immediately, but eventually. When it makes sense. If it makes sense. I know your job is in Lyon, but you work remotely or are traveling half the time anyway, and Monaco has wineries, and you could even start your own consulting thing if you wanted, and–"

Ariane kissed him to stop the spiral of words.

When she pulled back, he looked dazed. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a 'let me finish processing what you just said.'"

"Right. Sorry. I'm nervous. Can you tell? I'm very nervous."

"Little bit." She cupped his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "You want me to move to Monaco."

"Eventually. Maybe. If you want to. No pressure."

"Lando."

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking about it too."

His eyes widened. "You have?"

"Of course I have. You think I haven't noticed that this is hard? That we're both exhausted from the constant travel, that we're missing things in each other's lives, that we're trying to build something while never in the same place?" She smiled softly. "I've been thinking about what it would take. What I'd need to make it work."

"And?"

"And I think I could do it. Not immediately–I'd need to give proper notice at work, figure out the logistics, maybe build up some freelance clients first if we can’t make it work with Rousseau. But..." She took a breath, feeling brave and terrified and absolutely certain. "But I want to. I want the boring stuff too. The everyday. The normal. With you."

His smile was incandescent. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But Lando, you need to know–Chardy's coming with me. That's non-negotiable, we’re a package deal."

"Obviously. I wouldn't dream of separating you two."

"And I'm going to need my own space sometimes. I love you, but I'm still going to need alone time."

She realized what she'd said a second after the words left her mouth. They'd been dancing around those words for weeks now, both feeling them but neither quite ready to say them first.

Until now, apparently.

Lando's expression shifted–surprise melting into something soft and overwhelming. "You love me?"

"I–um, yes. I do." No point in taking it back now. "I love you. Even though you send too many texts and you're obsessed with your sim rig and you have forty-three helmets–"

"Forty-five, actually. Two new ones came last week–”

"--and you make me watch your races at ungodly hours and you steal all the blankets and you talk during movies–"

"In my defense, movies are better enjoyed with commentary–"

"--I love you anyway." She was smiling now, couldn't help it. "I love you, even though you're ridiculous and dramatic and impossibly clingy–"

He kissed her this time, deep and thorough and full of everything he couldn't quite put into words. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"I love you too," he said, voice rough. "So much. I've wanted to say it for weeks but I was worried it was too fast, and Carlos said I should wait, and Charles said I should just go for it, and I was overthinking everything–"

"You? Overthink? Shocking."

"I know, very out of character." He rested his forehead against hers. "But I do. Love you. Completely. Even though you're judgy about my helmet designs and you refuse to admit that you have a caffeine addiction and you always steal my hoodies–"

"I don't steal them. I borrow them."

"You 'borrowed' three last month and I haven't gotten them back."

"They're comfortable. That's your fault for having comfortable hoodies."

He laughed, pulling her closer. "Keep them. Keep all of them. Move here and steal all my hoodies and bring your judgmental cat and take over half my closet. I don't care. I just want you here."

"Eventually," she amended. "Give me a few months to sort things out."

"I can do a few months. I've done three months of long distance. I can do a few more." He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. "And then you'll be here. And we can be boring together."

"The most boring."

"Grocery shopping on Tuesdays."

"Fighting over whose turn it is to do dishes."

"Getting judged by your cat."

"Getting annoyed when you leave your sim rig running all night."

"Perfect." He was grinning now, bright and unrestrained. "It will be absolutely perfect."

Ariane looked at him–at this man who'd stumbled into her life through the completely random chance of a faulty fire alarm, who'd made her laugh in a wine cellar when she should have been panicking, who'd somehow convinced her that maybe love didn't have to be slow and careful and protected.

That maybe sometimes you just knew.

And she had known, hadn't she? Some part of her had known that first night, in the darkness, when he'd held her hand and made her laugh and seen her in a way no one else had.

"Hey," Lando said softly, pulling her from her thoughts. "Where'd you go?"

"Just thinking about that night. The cellar."

"The best worst night ever?"

"The best worst night ever," she agreed. "Can you imagine if that alarm hadn't gone off? If the lock hadn't broken?"

"We probably would have had a nice wine tasting, said polite goodbyes, and never seen each other again."

"Terrible alternate timeline."

"The worst." He kissed her again, sweet and slow. "Good thing the universe had other plans."

"Good thing," she echoed.

His smile was soft, genuine, the kind that still made her heart skip. "I love you. Fortunately, luckily, completely. Even when you're stubborn and you argue with me about wine facts and you give me that look when I forget to put my dishes in the dishwasher."

"I don't give you a look."

"You absolutely give me a look. It's very effective. I'm training myself like a dog to remember the dishwasher purely to avoid the look."

"Good."

"See? This is going to work perfectly. You'll train me to be a functional adult, and I'll...what do I bring to this relationship again?"

"Entertainment. Hoodies. A concerning number of helmets." She pretended to consider. "Occasional orgasms in wine cellars."

"That happened ONE TIME."

"An incredible time though."

"I mean, yeah, definitely." He was grinning again, pulling her toward the couch. "But I'm planning to up my game significantly. I have ideas. Many ideas."

"Scandalous."

"I'm very scandalous." He pulled her down onto the couch with him, arranging them so she was tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders. The harbor sparkled outside the windows, Monte Carlo stretching out in the late afternoon light. "Comfortable?"

"Very."

"Good. Because we're going to sit here for a while and be boring. Maybe order takeout later. Maybe watch a movie. Maybe do absolutely nothing interesting at all."

"Sounds perfect."

And it was, Ariane thought. It was perfect. Not the dramatic, swept-off-her-feet kind of perfect. Not the carefully planned, risk-free kind of perfect. Just the everyday, comfortable, real kind of perfect. The kind that came from finding someone who made boring feel like an adventure. Who made takeout on the couch feel like a romantic date. Who made her see that sometimes the best things happened when plans went completely sideways.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

"Sophie's going to keep texting until you respond," Lando pointed out.

"I'll respond later. I'm being boring with my boyfriend right now."

"Prioritizing boring time. I like it."

"I learned from the best."

"That's true. I am an excellent boring time prioritizer." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You know what we should do?"

"What?"

"Open a bottle of wine. The good stuff. Celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"You. Me. This." He gestured vaguely at everything. "That seems worth celebrating."

"Okay," she agreed, letting him pull her up off the couch. "But I'm choosing something actually good. No mediocre wine in this apartment."

"Deal. But I get to choose the movie later."

"Also deal."

As they moved to his small wine collection–modest compared to the cellar where they'd met, but carefully curated–Ariane caught their reflection in the window. Lando was already pulling bottles out, asking her opinion, gesturing animatedly. She was laughing at something he said, relaxed and happy in a way she'd never quite managed before.

They looked good together. Happy.

"This one," she said, pointing to a bottle. "2015 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It's perfect."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's from the year you started in Formula 1."

Lando paused, bottle in hand, looking at her with such open affection it made her chest ache. "You know that?"

"I pay attention too."

"I know you do." He set the bottle down carefully, pulled her in for a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise. "God, I love you."

"I love you too."

"Even when I'm impossible?"

"Especially when you're impossible."

"Good." He picked up the bottle again, examining the label. "So. Captured sunshine from the year I started racing, about to be drunk with the woman I love in my Monaco apartment. Not bad for a Wednesday."

"Not bad at all."

"Think your grand-père would approve?"

Ariane thought about it—the man who'd taught her that wine was more than just fermented grapes, that each bottle told a story, that the best moments were the ones shared with people who mattered.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think he would. I think he'd say this is exactly what wine is for. Celebrating the good stuff. The unexpected stuff. The moments that change everything."

"To unexpected moments then." Lando raised the bottle slightly, as if toasting.

"To unexpected moments," Ariane agreed. "And faulty fire alarms."

"And wine cellars."

"And badly timed rescues."

"And forty-seven texts in an hour."

"And stolen hoodies."

"And judgmental cats."

"And whatever comes next."

Lando's smile was brilliant, unguarded, completely real. "Whatever comes next," he repeated. "I can't wait."

Neither could she.

"Bold of you to assume–"

"Am I wrong?"

"No," she admitted. "You're not wrong."

From the stairwell, a triumphant shout: "IT'S OPEN! THE DOOR IS OPEN!"

They looked at each other.

"Should we–" Ariane started.

"Probably should check on Thomas first. Make sure he's presentable." Lando stood, offering her his hand. "And give ourselves a minute to look less like we've been making out for the past half hour."

"Has it been half an hour?"

"At least. Maybe longer. Time is meaningless in wine cellars."

They made their way back to where Thomas was still sleeping, miraculously undisturbed by the noise from the stairwell. Lando gently shook his shoulder.

"Thomas. Mate. Door's open."

Thomas jolted awake, disoriented. "What? Where?"

"The door. They got it open." Lando helped him stand. "Time to rejoin civilization."

Thomas rubbed his eyes, still groggy. "Did I fall asleep? Oh god, how long was I–"

"Not long," Ariane lied smoothly. "Maybe twenty minutes. You needed it."

As they walked toward the stairs, Ariane caught Lando's eye. He winked, and she had to bite back a smile.

Twenty minutes. Sure. That's definitely all it had been.

Just twenty very innocent minutes.

With absolutely no life-changing orgasms or promises of detailed plans for later.

Nothing to see here.

They started up the stairs, Thomas leading the way, still half-asleep and oblivious. Behind him, Lando caught Ariane's hand, squeezed it once.

She squeezed back.

Whatever happened when they got through that door–whatever reality waited on the other side–they'd face it together. Just them and the secret of what had happened in the darkness of the cellar.

The light from the open doorway was almost blinding after hours in the dim cellar. Ariane squinted against it, raising her hand to shield her eyes as they reached the top of the stairs.

A crowd had gathered–Monsieur Rousseau looking stressed and apologetic, the locksmith with his tools, several staff members, and behind them, Charles, Carlos, and Alexandra, all looking relieved and concerned in equal measure.

"Ariane! Lando! Thomas!" Monsieur Rousseau rushed forward, hands outstretched. "I am so, so sorry. This is absolutely unacceptable. The security system, it's completely–we will be replacing the entire–are you all alright?"

"We're fine," Ariane said automatically, slipping into professional mode even as she was acutely aware of Lando's presence just behind her, of the warmth still radiating from her skin, of how thoroughly not-fine she felt in the best possible way. "Just a bit cold. And tired. But we're okay."

"Cold? Of course, of course!" Monsieur Rousseau snapped his fingers at a staff member. "Blankets! And hot tea! And–" He turned to the locksmith. "You're absolutely certain the door won't lock again?"

"The electronic system is completely disabled," the locksmith assured him. "Manual lock only now until we can install a new system. Won't happen again."

Thomas stumbled through the doorway, still looking half-asleep and completely overwhelmed. A staff member immediately wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and guided him toward a chair.

Lando emerged last, and Ariane watched Carlos and Charles descend on him immediately.

"Mate!" Carlos grabbed him in a hug. "We thought you'd died down there!"

"Very dramatic." But Lando was grinning, hugging him back. "Takes more than a faulty lock to kill me."

"Three hours though," Charles said, his concern genuine. "That's a long time to be trapped underground."

"Could've been worse." Lando's eyes found Ariane's across the space, and something in his expression made her face warm. "Could've been boring."

Alexandra appeared at Ariane's side, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders with the efficiency of someone used to managing crisis situations. "You poor thing. Are you really okay? That must have been terrifying."

"Honestly?" Ariane pulled the blanket tighter, grateful for the warmth. "It wasn't that bad. Lando and Thomas were good company."

"Lando especially?" Alexandra's voice was light, teasing, but her eyes were knowing.

Ariane felt her face heat. "I don't–what do you mean?"

"Nothing." But Alexandra was smiling. "Just that you're both very...flushed. And your hair is a bit messed up. And his shirt is untucked." She paused meaningfully. "Cold down there, was it?"

"Alexandra–"

"I'm not judging! I think it's sweet." She squeezed Ariane's arm. "Charles said Lando couldn't stop looking at you during the tasting. I'm just glad the trauma bonding went well."

"We didn't–it wasn't trauma bonding–" Ariane stopped, realizing she was protesting too much. "We just talked. A lot. That's all."

"Mmhmm. Talked." But Alexandra's smile was warm, not mocking. "Well, whatever you did…he looks very happy about it."

Ariane glanced over to where Lando was still being interrogated by Carlos and Charles. As if feeling her attention, he looked up, caught her eye, and smiled–that soft, private smile that made her stomach flip.

Yeah. He did look happy.

She looked away quickly, trying to compose herself, but couldn't quite suppress her own smile.

"Ariane!" Sophie appeared out of nowhere, pulling her into a tight hug. "Oh my god, I was so worried! When the door locked with you inside, I thought–are you okay? Do you need anything? Water? Food? A drink? You probably need a drink."

"I'm fine, Sophie. Really."

"You were trapped for three hours. THREE HOURS. In a cellar. In the dark. That's–" Sophie pulled back, studying her face. Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait. Why do you look so...calm?"

"I am calm."

"No, I mean, you should be having a panic attack right now. This is literally your nightmare scenario–trapped in a small space during a work event with no control over the situation. You should be spiraling." Sophie's eyes widened. "Oh my god. What happened down there?"

"Nothing happened. We just–"

"You're lying. You're a terrible liar. Your voice goes up half an octave when you lie." Sophie looked past her to where Lando was standing, then back to Ariane. "OH MY GOD. You and–did you–"

"Sophie. Not here." Ariane grabbed her friend's arm, pulling her slightly away from the crowd. "Please."

"But did you–"

"We talked. We got to know each other. That's all." Technically true. They had talked. They'd also done other things, but Sophie didn't need to know that right now.

Sophie studied her for a long moment, then grinned. "You like him."

"I barely know him."

"But you like him. I can tell. You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look of someone who just had a very interesting three hours in a wine cellar with a cute British racing driver." Sophie bounced slightly on her toes, clearly delighted. "This is amazing. This is the best disaster ever."

"It's not a disaster if everyone's fine."

"True. It's more of a...romantic opportunity that happened to involve a scary scenario." Sophie squeezed her arm. "I want details later. All the details."

Before Ariane could protest, Monsieur Rousseau was calling for everyone's attention, his voice booming across the space.

"If I could have everyone's attention! First, I want to apologize again, profusely, for this absolutely unacceptable situation. The safety and comfort of our guests is our top priority, and we have failed spectacularly tonight."

"It's fine–" Ariane started, but he waved her off.

"It is not fine! But we will make it right. The security system will be completely replaced. We are offering full compensation to everyone affected, including of course Charles for the disruption to his event–"

"Really, not necessary," Charles interjected, but Monsieur Rousseau was on a roll.

"–and most importantly, we are ensuring this never happens again. The locksmith has disabled the faulty system entirely." He turned specifically to Ariane, Lando, and Thomas. "And for you three, who bore the brunt of this disaster, we want to offer our most sincere apologies and any assistance you need. Medical attention, transportation, accommodation if you need to rest before traveling–anything."

"I'm okay," Thomas said quietly, still wrapped in his blanket. "I just–I'm really sorry this happened."

"You have nothing to apologize for!" Monsieur Rousseau looked genuinely distressed. "This was a system failure, not a personnel failure. Your job is secure. In fact, your handling of a crisis situation was exemplary."

Thomas looked like he might cry from relief.

"And Ariane," Monsieur Rousseau continued, "your professionalism throughout this ordeal–maintaining calm, ensuring everyone's safety–that is exactly the kind of crisis management we value. This will not reflect poorly on you or your work. If anything, you've proven yourself invaluable."

Ariane felt a weight lift off her shoulders that she hadn't fully acknowledged carrying. She'd been so caught up in what had happened with Lando that she'd almost forgotten to worry about the professional implications. Almost.

"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate that."

"The least we can do." He clapped his hands together. "Now! We have hot food waiting, and wine of course, though perhaps you've had enough wine for one evening–"

"Definitely enough wine," Lando agreed, and Carlos snorted.

"–but please, come, eat, warm up. The dining room is ready."

The group started moving toward the main house, people talking over each other, the energy somehow both exhausted and wired. Ariane found herself swept along in the crowd, Sophie on one side, Alexandra on the other, both peppering her with questions she was only half-answering.

She caught glimpses of Lando ahead of her, surrounded by Carlos and Charles, clearly being given the third degree based on the gestures and laughter. At one point, Carlos said something that made Lando shove his shoulder, grinning, and Ariane wondered what was being said. Wondered if he was telling them about her.

The dining room had been transformed since the tasting–the formal table settings replaced with a more casual buffet setup. Staff circulated with trays of food and hot drinks. Someone had started a fire in the massive stone fireplace, and the warmth was very welcomed.

Ariane accepted a cup of tea from a server, wrapping her hands around it gratefully. She hadn't realized how cold she'd gotten in the cellar until now, with the warmth of the fire and the hot tea reminding her body what a comfortable temperature felt like.

She found a seat near the fireplace, letting the heat seep into her bones. Sophie sat beside her, mercifully quiet for once, just offering her presence.

"You okay?" Sophie asked after a moment.

"Yeah. I think so." Ariane took a sip of tea. "Still processing."

"That's fair. It was a weird night."

"Understatement."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the room. Charles and Alexandra were talking to Monsieur Rousseau, probably discussing damage control for the partnership. Carlos was loading up a plate with enough food for three people. Thomas had been ensconced in a chair near the fire and seemed to be slowly returning to life.

And Lando...

Lando was looking at her.

He'd gotten separated from Carlos and Charles, had somehow ended up on the opposite side of the room, and he was just... looking at her. Not trying to hide it, not being subtle about it. Just looking.

She looked back.

The room seemed to fade slightly–all the noise and movement becoming background static. For a moment, it was just the two of them, connected across the space by whatever had sparked between them in the darkness.

Then, Carlos appeared in her line of sight, blocking her view of Lando, and the moment broke.

"Right," Sophie said beside her, her voice knowing. "Just talked. Sure."

Ariane elbowed her. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Despite everything, Ariane laughed. It felt good, normal. She was here, she was safe, she was warm. The night had been bizarre and stressful and completely unexpected.

And also kind of wonderful.

She looked for Lando again, but he'd been pulled into conversation with some of the other guests. That was probably good. They needed space, perspective, time to think about what had happened and what it meant outside the weird bubble of the cellar. She should go talk to Monsieur Rousseau, do damage control, make sure the partnership was still intact. Should check on Thomas, make sure he was really okay. Should probably call her boss, who'd definitely heard about the situation by now and was likely panicking. Instead, she sat by the fire with Sophie, drank her tea, and let herself just...be. For a few more minutes. She'd earned it.

An hour later, Ariane was standing outside the main house, phone pressed to her ear, reassuring her boss for the third time that yes, she was fine, no, there was no liability issue, yes, the partnership was intact, no, she didn't need to take tomorrow off.

"I'm telling you, Laurent, it's handled. Monsieur Rousseau has taken full responsibility. Charles is being incredibly gracious about it. The media doesn't even know it happened–"

"Yet," Laurent interjected. "They don't know yet. But if it gets out that Charles Leclerc was at an event where guests got trapped–"

"Then we spin it as a testament to the exclusivity and security of the collection. Historic wine cellar with historic security measures. Very authentic." She was making this up as she went, but it sounded good. "Besides, Charles loved the wine. The partnership is solid."

Laurent sighed on the other end. "Fine. But I want a full report first thing Monday morning."

"You'll have it."

"And Ariane? Good work tonight. Handling a crisis like that, that's why you're one of our best."

Warmth spread through her chest. "Thank you, Laurent."

She hung up and leaned against the stone wall of the building, tilting her head back to look at the stars. The night air was cool and fresh after the stuffiness of the cellar, and she breathed deeply, trying to process everything.

Three hours ago, she'd been trapped underground with Lando Norris and a panicking facilities manager. Now she was standing under the stars, her job secure, her boss praising her crisis management, and her body still humming with the memory of what had happened in the darkness.

"There you are."

She turned to find Lando approaching, hands in his pockets, that crooked smile on his face. He'd been given his jacket back–she'd reluctantly returned it once they'd gotten upstairs and she'd stopped being cold–and he looked frustratingly put-together despite the evening's chaos.

"Here I am," she agreed. "Needed some air."

"Same. It was getting a bit intense in there." He moved to stand beside her, close but not touching, both of them looking out at the vineyard stretching into the darkness. "Carlos wouldn't stop asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"The kind I couldn't answer." Lando glanced at her. "He thinks something happened down there."

"Did you tell him something happened?"

"I told him we talked. He didn't believe me." A pause. "He's very perceptive when he wants to be. Annoying, really."

Ariane smiled despite herself. "Sophie's the same. She took one look at me and knew."

"Knew what?"

"That something had changed." She turned to face him properly. "She's right, isn't she? Something changed?."

Lando was quiet for a moment, studying her face in the light spilling from the windows. "Yeah. It did."

The acknowledgment hung between them, weighty and real. In the cellar, everything had felt suspended–outside of normal rules, separate from their regular lives. But here, under the stars, with the sounds of the party filtering out through the open doors–this was real life. This was where they had to figure out what happened next.

"So," Ariane said carefully. "What now?"

"Now..." Lando stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of green in his eyes again. "Now I ask if you meant what you said. About seeing where this goes."

"I meant it."

"Even now? Out here in the real world where I'm about to leave for another race and you're going back to your normal life and everything that happened down there could just be written off as a weird situation that made us feel closer than we actually are?"

The vulnerability in his voice made her chest ache. He was giving her an out, a way to step back and pretend the cellar had been an isolated incident.

She didn't want an out.

"Even now," she said firmly. "Lando, I don't do this. I don't let people in easily. I don't make impulsive decisions. I don't–" She gestured helplessly. "Any of this. But with you, it felt right. It still feels right."

His smile was incandescent. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. So yes, I meant it. I want to see where this goes. Even if it's complicated and your life is chaotic and I have no idea how we'd make the logistics work."

"I'm very good at logistics," he said, moving even closer. "I navigate race tracks for a living. I think I can navigate a relationship."

"Is that what this is? A relationship?"

"I don't know. What do you want it to be?"

Ariane thought about deflecting, keeping it casual and undefined. But they'd been honest with each other all night–vulnerably, sometimes painfully honest. She wasn't going to stop now.

"I want it to be something," she admitted. "Something real. Not just a weird night we laugh about later. Something we actually try for."

"Good. Because I want that too." He reached for her hand, linking their fingers. "I like you, Ariane. A lot. You're smart and funny and genuine and I don't feel like I have to be anyone but myself."

"Just you. No context."

"Exactly." He squeezed her hand. "So here's what I'm thinking. I have three days before I fly out for the next race. You're in Lyon, which is what, two hours from here?"

"About that."

"So tomorrow, I could drive to Lyon. Take you to dinner. A proper date, with actual lighting and wine we're allowed to drink and no risk of being locked in anywhere." His eyes searched hers. "If you want that."

"I want that." The words came easily, no hesitation. "But Lando, after tomorrow...you're going to be gone. Racing, traveling. And I'm here. How do we–"

"We figure it out. Video calls, texts, visits when we can. I'm in Monaco a lot between races–that's even closer. And the season ends eventually. We'll have more time then." He lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. But I think you're worth it."

Ariane felt tears prick her eyes, which was ridiculous. She didn't cry. Especially not over things like this–new things, uncertain things, things that could fall apart as easily as they came together, but the sincerity in his voice, the certainty in his expression–it made her believe that maybe this could work.

"Okay," she said, her voice slightly rough. "Okay, we'll figure it out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulled her into a hug, and she went willingly, wrapping her arms around him and breathing in the scent that had become familiar over the course of the night–cologne and wine and a musk that might’ve just been him or a very nice cologne. His arms around her felt right, safe, like coming home to a place she hadn't known existed.

"For the record," he murmured into her hair, "this has been the weirdest and best night of my life."

"Same," she admitted. "Definitely same."

They stood like that for a long moment, just holding each other under the stars. From inside, Ariane could hear laughter, music, the sounds of the party continuing. Eventually, they'd have to go back in. Face questions, manage perceptions, return to their professional roles.

But not yet.

For now, they had this–just the two of them, no audience, no pressure. Just the quiet certainty of something beginning.

"We should probably go back in," Lando said eventually, but he didn't let go.

"Probably."

"People will talk if we're both gone too long."

"They're already talking."

"Fair point." He pulled back just enough to look at her. "One more thing before we go back?"

"What?"

Instead of answering, he kissed her–soft and sweet. Different from the desperate kisses in the cellar, but no less affecting. This was a beginning, not an ending. A promise of more to come.

When they pulled apart, they were both smiling.

"Okay," Ariane said. "Now we can go back."

"Together?"

She thought about it. They could slip in separately, try to be subtle. Or they could just own it–walk in together, hand in hand, and let people think what they wanted.

"Together," she decided.

His smile was brilliant. "I like how you think."

They walked back toward the entrance, hands linked, shoulders brushing. As they reached the door, Ariane caught a glimpse of their reflection in the glass–disheveled and tired but undeniably happy, leaning into each other like magnets.

We look like a couple, she thought. And instead of panicking at the thought, she felt only a quiet certainty.

Maybe they were.

Or maybe they were about to be.

Either way, she was excited to find out.

They pushed through the door together, stepping back into the warmth and light and noise of the party. Heads turned, as she'd known they would. She saw Sophie's delighted grin, Alexandra's knowing smile, Carlos's exaggerated eyebrow raise at Lando. Monsieur Rousseau was approaching with more apologies, Charles was waving them over to try some special vintage he'd been saving, and reality was reasserting itself in all its complicated glory.

But Lando's hand was still in hers, solid and certain.

And somehow, that made everything else feel okay.

By the time people started making moves to leave, it was past midnight. The adrenaline from the cellar incident had worn off, replaced by a bone deep exhaustion that Ariane felt in every muscle. She'd spent the last hour doing the professional things–thanking Monsieur Rousseau profusely, ensuring all the final details were handled, making notes on her phone for Monday's report. Sophie had finally left after a promise for brunch tomorrow where Ariane would ‘tell her everything’ complete with air quotes and a meaningful look. Now, the venue was mostly empty. Charles and Alexandra had departed twenty minutes ago, Charles pulling Lando into a hug and saying something in rapid French that made Lando laugh. Carlos had left shortly after, but not before cornering Ariane near the door.

"Take care of him," Carlos had said, his usual playful demeanor shifting to something more serious. "He doesn't let people in easily. It’s hard for him to be vulnerable."

"I will," Ariane had promised, touched by his protective instinct.

"Good. And if he's an idiot about anything, you text me. I'll set him straight." Then the grin was back.

Now it was just her and Lando, standing by the valet area, and the reality of goodbye was settling in with uncomfortable weight.

"So," Lando said, hands in his pockets, "you're driving back to Lyon tonight?"

"That's the plan. It's only about forty-five minutes from here." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the mild night. "You?"

"Monaco. Carlos offered me a ride, but I didn’t want to leave my car here." He paused. "Which is a lie, I would’ve been fine leaving it here but I didn't want Carlos's interrogation for the entire drive home."

Despite her exhaustion, Ariane smiled. "Smart."

"So I guess I need to call the valet." He pulled out his phone, but didn't immediately open any apps. Just stood there, looking at her. "This is weird, right? The goodbye part?"

"Very weird."

"We spent the better part of a night trapped together, had what I'm pretty sure was the most honest conversation of my life, and now we just...say goodnight and drive in opposite directions?"

"I think that's what is happening, yeah."

"I don't like it."

"Me neither."

They stood in silence for a moment, neither quite ready to be the one who left first. A staff member walked past, offering them a polite "bonne nuit," and they both murmured responses, waiting until he was out of earshot.

"Tomorrow," Lando said firmly, like he was making a decision. "I'm coming to Lyon tomorrow. I'll text you when I get there, and we'll figure out a time. For dinner. Our actual first date."

"Our actual first date," Ariane repeated, testing the words. They felt surreal. "Not in a cellar."

"Not in a cellar," he confirmed. "Somewhere with proper lighting where I can actually see your face the entire time. Maybe somewhere with terrible wine, just for the novelty."

"I draw the line at terrible wine."

"Fine. Mediocre wine."

"Better."

He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between them felt charged again–that same electric awareness from the cellar, tempered now by exhaustion and the knowledge that they were about to part ways.

"I'm going to kiss you goodbye," he said, his voice low. "In public, where anyone could see. Is that okay?"

Her heart did that stupid flipping thing it had been doing all night. "Okay," she whispered.

He closed the distance, one hand coming up to cup her cheek as he kissed her. It was briefer than the kisses in the cellar–more appropriate the public setting, for staff potentially watching–but no less affecting. Tender and full of promise.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for a moment. "Tomorrow," he said again.

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

"And then in a few days I have to leave for the race, but we'll figure it out. Video calls and texts and–"

"Lando." She pulled back to look at him properly. "We don't have to plan everything right now. Let's just...take it as it comes. One step at a time."

"Look at you, being practical."

"Someone has to be."

"Fair point." He kissed her once more, quick and light. "Okay. I'm going to call a car now, before I do something ridiculous like ask if I can just follow you to Lyon."

"That would be ridiculous."

"Very ridiculous. And slightly stalkery."

"Definitely stalkery."

"Right. So. Car." But he still wasn't moving, wasn't opening his phone, wasn't creating any actual distance between them.

Ariane laughed, the sound slightly giddy with exhaustion and emotion. "You’re terrible at this."

"The worst." He finally, reluctantly, stepped back. Pulled out his phone for real this time. "Okay. Calling for my car. Actually doing it. Right now."

She watched him, the app's blue glow illuminating his face. When he looked up, catching her watching, he smiled–that soft, private smile that was becoming familiar.

"Five minutes," he announced. "So we've got five more minutes of this awkward goodbye."

"We could sit?" She gestured to a bench near the entrance.

"Sitting is good. Very practical."

They settled on the bench, close enough that their shoulders pressed together. Above them, the stars were brilliant, unfaded by city lights. Ariane tilted her head back, taking in the vastness of the sky.

"It's beautiful out here," she said quietly.

"It really is." But when she looked over, he was looking at her, not the sky.

"That's very cheesy."

"I'm very tired. My filter's gone."

"I like you without a filter."

"Good. Because you're going to get a lot of that via text over the next few weeks. Fair warning–I'm very chatty over text. Like, excessively chatty. Some might say annoyingly chatty."

"I'll manage."

"Will you though? Because I sent Carlos fifty-three messages yesterday. He said I'm like a teenage girl after getting a phone for the first time."

Ariane laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Fifty-three messages?"

"In my defense, a lot of them were memes. Memes count less."

"I don't think that's a real rule."

"No, that’s definitely a thing." He shifted on the bench, angling toward her more fully. "So what I'm saying is, be prepared. You're going to learn a lot about my very specific sense of humor very quickly."

"I might have to rethink this whole thing then,"

"Too late. You already agreed to this. No backing out now."

"When did I agree to excessive texting?"

"When you agreed to see where this goes. It's a package deal. Me, my terrible jokes and my inability to not share every thought I have."

"What have I gotten myself into?"

"Honestly? I don't know. But I think it's going to be fun."

Ariane looked at him–at his bright eyes, his easy grin, the way he seemed so genuinely excited about the prospect of annoying her with text messages. And she felt something settle in her chest, warm and certain.

"Yeah," she said. "I think it will be too."

A car pulled up–sleek and black, fitting for a driver of his caliber. 

Lando sighed, "That's me."

"That's you."

Neither of them moved.

"This is the part where I get in the car," Lando said.

"This is the part where I let you get in the car."

"And yet we're still sitting here."

"Apparently we're both bad at this."

Finally, Lando stood, offering her his hand. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. They stood there, hands linked, neither quite ready to let go.

"Text me when you get home?" he asked. "So I know you got there safe?"

"You'll be in the car. You won't get there before me."

"So? Text me anyway."

"Okay." She squeezed his hand. "You too. Text me when you get to Monaco."

"I will." He pulled her in for one more hug, this one longer, tighter. When he spoke, his voice was muffled against her hair. "This isn't weird, right? That I already miss you and you're still standing here?"

"It's weird," she confirmed. "But also kind of nice."

"Good weird?"

"Good weird."

He pulled back, kissed her once more–quick and sweet–and then, before either of them could drag it out further, he walked to the car. The valet opened the door, and Lando paused, one hand on the frame, looking back at her.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

The door slammed shut again.

In the sudden darkness, Ariane felt Lando's hand find her back, steadying her on the stairs.

"Did the door just–" she started.

"SORRY!" A voice from above–the locksmith, she thought. "The mechanism is–it's not stable! Give us a few more minutes!"

"A FEW MORE MINUTES?" Thomas sounded close to tears. "We were RIGHT THERE!"

"I know, I'm sorry! The electronic component keeps–just stay there! Don't come up the stairs yet, the door might–"

He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear. The door might slam shut again and they didn't want to risk anyone getting hurt.

"This is unbelievable," Thomas said from somewhere above them on the stairs. "This is absolutely unbelievable. I'm going to be fired. I'm definitely going to be fired."

"You're not going to be fired," Ariane called up to him, trying to inject confidence she didn't feel into her voice. "This isn't your fault."

"Monsieur Rousseau is going to–oh god, what if Charles Leclerc complains? What if this becomes an international incident? Formula 1 driver trapped in cellar due to faulty security system–"

"Thomas." Lando's voice was firm but kind. "Mate. You need to breathe. This isn't on you. The system malfunctioned. That's not your responsibility."

"But I should have checked–"

"When? Before every single event, you personally inspect every electronic lock in the building?" Lando started climbing up toward where Thomas was presumably having a panic spiral. "That's not reasonable, mate. Come on, let's go back down. Sitting on the stairs in the dark isn't helping anyone."

There was some shuffling, and then Lando was guiding a clearly distraught Thomas back down the stairs. Ariane pressed herself against the wall to let them pass, then followed them back down to the cellar floor.

Lando's phone light was dimmer now–definitely running low on battery–but it was enough to see Thomas's face, pale and stressed in the glow.

"This is a disaster," Thomas said, running his hands through his hair. "An absolute disaster."

"It's an inconvenience," Ariane corrected gently. "Not a disaster. A disaster would be an actual fire. This is just a really unfortunate technical malfunction."

"But the guests–"

"Are fine. They got out. We're fine down here. A little cold, but fine." She tried to channel the competent, calming energy she used in crisis meetings at work. "We just need to wait a bit longer. They're working on it."

Thomas nodded miserably but didn't look convinced. He slumped against the nearest wall and slid down to sit on the floor, looking utterly defeated. Lando caught Ariane's eye and tilted his head toward their crate-couch arrangement in the back chamber. She nodded, understanding. Give Thomas a moment to collect himself.

"Well," Lando said, settling back onto the crates, "that was an emotional journey. Freedom and then immediately un-freedom."

"I feel bad for Thomas. He’s really freaking out."

"He's not going to lose his job. This is clearly a systemic issue with the security setup, not a personal failure." Lando adjusted his phone light, angling it so it lit the space between them without draining the battery too fast. "Though I get the spiral. When you think something's your fault, logic doesn't really apply."

"Voice of experience?"

"I've had plenty of races where I convinced myself I'd ruined everything, only to find out later that it was the car, or the strategy, or just bad luck. But in the moment? Definitely thought I was the worst driver in history." He smiled ruefully. "Comes with the territory."

From the front of the cellar, they could hear Thomas on his phone–he must have been close enough to the door to get a signal, or maybe he was trying to text with no service. Either way, he seemed occupied with his own crisis management.

"So…" Ariane said after a moment. "We're back to waiting."

"Seems like it."

The awkwardness from before was back, but different now. They'd been seconds from freedom, seconds from whatever Lando had been about to say or do before Thomas interrupted. And now they were trapped again and the moment had passed and Ariane didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed.

Both, maybe.

"Before," Lando started, then stopped.

"Before what?"

"Before Thomas shouted about the door opening. I was going to–" He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I was going to ask you something."

Ariane's heart rate picked up. "What were you going to ask?"

"If I could kiss you."

The words hung in the air between them, direct and honest and completely derailing any thought Ariane had been trying to form.

"Oh," she managed.

"Yeah." He was looking at her steadily now, no trace of his usual humor. "I know we just met. I know this is weird timing. I know you're technically working and this whole situation is already unprofessional. But I was going to ask anyway."

"Was?"

"Am. I am going to ask." He shifted to face her more directly. "Can I kiss you?"

Ariane's mind was doing gymnastics. This was insane. She'd met him hours ago. This was a work event–granted, a work event that had gone completely sideways, but still. She didn't do things like this. She didn't kiss people she'd just met in wine cellars.

Except she wanted to.

God, she wanted to.

"This is a terrible idea," she said.

"Probably."

"We barely know each other."

"I know enough."

"Thomas is literally right there." She gestured vaguely toward the front of the cellar.

"Thomas is having an existential crisis and can't see us back here in the dark." Lando's voice was soft, patient. "But if you don't want to, that's completely fine. I'll never mention it again. We can just sit here and talk about wine or racing or anything else until they get that door open."

He was giving her an out. An easy way to laugh it off, redirect, maintain whatever professional boundaries hadn't already been completely demolished by their situation.

She should take it.

"Ask me again," she heard herself say instead.

Lando's expression shifted–surprise, then something warmer. "Ariane, can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

He moved slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to pull back, to remember all the very logical reasons they shouldn’t. But Ariane didn't pull back. She leaned in, meeting him halfway.

The kiss started gentle, tentative–a question and an answer all at once. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, and Ariane felt something in her chest crack open. When they pulled apart, they were both breathing a little harder.

"Okay," Lando said, his voice slightly rough. "That was…"

"Yeah."

"Can I do it again?"

Instead of answering, Ariane kissed him this time. Less tentative now, more certain. His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer, and she responded by threading her fingers into his hair.

This kiss was deeper, more urgent. All the tension that had been building between them since they’d sat next to each other, locked in the cellar–maybe even before that–was finally finding an outlet.

When they broke apart this time, Ariane was half in his lap, his jacket had slipped off one of her shoulders, and they were both flushed and breathless.

"Jesus," Lando said, pressing his forehead against hers. "You're–"

"IS ANYONE THERE?" Thomas's voice echoed from the front, making them both freeze. "I THINK I HEARD SOMETHING FROM THE DOOR!"

They sprang apart like teenagers caught by parents. Ariane hastily adjusted his jacket, smoothing her hair. Lando ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself.

"WE'RE HERE!" Ariane called back, pleased that her voice sounded relatively normal. "WHAT DID YOU HEAR?"

"I'M NOT SURE! I'M GOING TO GO CHECK!"

They listened to Thomas's footsteps moving away, back toward the stairs.

In the wake of his departure, Ariane and Lando looked at each other. In the dim phone light, she could see his expression–somewhere between dazed and delighted.

"So…" he said.

"So…" she echoed.

"That happened."

"It did."

"Any regrets?"

Ariane did a mental inventory. Regrets? She'd just kissed a Formula 1 driver she'd met today, in a wine cellar, while technically working an event. By all logical standards, this was impulsive and unprofessional and completely out of character.

"No," she said, surprising herself with how certain she sounded. "No regrets."

Lando's smile was blinding. "Good. Because I'd like to do it again. Soon. Preferably very soon."

"We should probably–"

"I know, I know. Thomas. The door. Reality." But he was already leaning in again, unable to resist. This kiss was briefer, softer. A promise instead of a question. "Okay. I'm good. Totally composed. Professional."

He absolutely did not look professional. His hair was messed up from her fingers, his lips were slightly swollen, and his eyes had a dazed expression that Ariane suspected matched her own.

"Your hair is–" She reached up to fix it without thinking, smoothing down the curls she'd disrupted.

"Don't." His hand caught her wrist gently. "If you touch me right now, I'm going to kiss you again, and then we're never going to stop, and Thomas is going to come back and have even more of a crisis."

Ariane pulled her hand back, tucking both hands safely in the jacket pockets. "Right. Restraint. I can do restraint."

"Can you? Because I'm not sure I can."

"You're the one who said–"

"I know what I said. I'm already regretting it." But he was grinning, that playful energy back but with an added edge now–heated and hardly restrained. "This is going to be torture, you know. However much longer we're stuck down here, just sitting here, not kissing you."

"It was your idea to stop."

"Worst idea I've ever had."

From the stairwell, they heard Thomas's voice again, this time with actual excitement: "THEY'RE REALLY WORKING ON IT NOW! I CAN HEAR THEM! MAYBE TEN MORE MINUTES!"

Ten more minutes.

Ariane looked at Lando. Lando looked at Ariane.

"Ten minutes," she said.

"That's..." He seemed to be doing calculations. "That's definitely enough time to–"

"Don't finish that sentence."

"I wasn't going to say anything inappropriate. I was going to say 'enough time to have another conversation.' A very important conversation. About..." He gestured vaguely.

"About?"

"About what happens when we get out of here."

The playfulness in his voice had faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. Ariane felt her stomach flip.

"What do you want to happen?" she asked carefully.

"Honestly? I want to see you again. Like, properly. Not trapped in a cellar. Somewhere with actual lighting and wine we're allowed to drink more than one sip of and no emergency situations." He paused. "Is that crazy? To want that?"

"A little bit," Ariane admitted. "But also...no. Not crazy."

"No?"

"I want that too." The words felt brave and terrifying and completely true. "I don't usually do this. Any of this. But you're..." She struggled to find the right words. "You make it feel easy. Like there’s nothing else to worry about."

"Just you. No context."

"Just me." she agreed.

Lando reached for her hand again and this time it felt different. Not charged with the electric anticipation of what might happen, but grounded. Certain.

"I'm in Monaco a lot," he said. "Between races, training. And I know you're based in France, so that's not too far..."

"Two hours by train."

"You looked that up?"

"I–no. I just know. From work." But she was blushing, grateful for the dim lighting.

"Right. From work." He was grinning again. "So it's doable. We could make it work. If you wanted to."

"I might want to."

"Might?"

"Okay, I do want to. But Lando..." She squeezed his hand. "Your life is complicated. The travel, the media, the attention. I'm not–I don't know if I'm built for that kind of stage."

"You don't have to be in the spotlight. That's my job. You can just be...you. The person who hides in bathrooms at events and has a judgmental cat and tells me when I'm being ridiculous."

"You'll need that a lot."

"I know. And I want it to be you."

Ariane felt something in her chest unfurl–hope, maybe, or anticipation. Things she didn't usually let herself feel because they required vulnerability and risk and the chance of getting hurt.

But looking at Lando in the dim light, his hand warm in hers, his expression open and honest and wanting–it felt worth the risk.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay?"

"Okay, let's try. Let's see where this goes."

His smile was incandescent. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But if you turn out to be secretly terrible, I reserve the right to–"

He kissed her before she could finish the threat. This one was different again–celebratory, joyful, full of promise.

When they pulled apart, they were both grinning like idiots.

"I'M COMING DOWN!" Thomas's voice echoed from the stairs. "I HAVE AN UPDATE!"

They sprang apart again–getting good at this now–and tried to look casual as Thomas appeared at the entrance to their chamber, phone light in hand.

If he noticed their flushed faces or messed-up hair, he didn't comment. He was too focused on his news.

"They've got a backup system working!" he announced, looking more animated than he had in the last hour. "The locksmith says maybe five more minutes and they'll have the door open. For real this time!"

"That's great!" Ariane said, genuinely meaning it even as part of her felt that same pang of disappointment from earlier.

"Yeah, and Monsieur Rousseau wants me to apologize profusely and assure you both that this has never happened before and will never happen again and–" Thomas seemed to realize he was rambling. "Sorry. I'm just relieved this nightmare is almost over."

"It wasn't so bad," Lando said, catching Ariane's eye with a meaningful look. "Could have been worse."

"Much worse," Ariane agreed, fighting a smile.

Thomas looked between them, clearly confused by their good moods, but too relieved about the door situation to question it. "Right. Well. I'll go wait by the stairs. In case they need to communicate anything else."

He disappeared back toward the stairwell, leaving them alone again.

"Five minutes," Lando said softly.

"Five minutes," Ariane repeated.

They didn't kiss again. Instead, they sat close, hands linked, shoulders pressed together, existing in the comfortable silence of people who'd said the important things and were content to just be. Just them. No context. For five more minutes. And then reality would return, and they'd figure out how to navigate whatever this was in the real world, with actual lighting and other people and all the complications that came with two very different lives trying to find common ground. But for now, in the dim glow of a dying phone light, surrounded by centuries-old wine and ancient stone, Ariane let herself believe that maybe they'd figure it out.

The five minutes came and went.

Then ten more minutes.

Then fifteen.

From the stairwell, they could hear increasingly frantic conversations between Thomas and the people on the other side of the door. Something about the backup system not interfacing properly with the primary system. Something about needing a different tool. Something about calling someone from the security company.

"I'm starting to think we're going to be down here forever," Ariane said, only half-joking.

"Like that myth," Lando replied. "The one with the guy in the underworld."

"Orpheus?"

"Is that the one where he can't look back?"

"That's the one."

"Then no, not that one. I was thinking of a different myth. One where people just live underground forever with wine."

"That's not a myth. That's just French culture."

Lando laughed, the sound echoing slightly off the stone walls. "See, this is what I mean. You're funny. Like proper silly."

"You think I’m silly?"

"I think you don’t try to be funny. Like some people try way too hard. You just say things and they happen to be hilarious."

Ariane felt warmth spread through her chest again–the kind that had nothing to do with the wine from earlier and everything to do with being seen.

"Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment.

"Always."

"Earlier, you said you're tired of being 'Lando.' What did you mean?"

He was quiet for a beat, and she wondered if she'd pushed too far, asked for more vulnerability than he was willing to give.

"It's not that I don't like being Lando," he said finally, his voice more serious than she'd heard it all night. "I love my job. I love racing. I love that people enjoy watching me, that I can make them laugh or whatever. But sometimes..." He paused, searching for words. "Sometimes I feel like I'm not allowed to have a bad day. Or a quiet day. Or just a normal, boring, human day."

"Because people expect the loud version."

"Exactly. Like, if I'm not joking around or being energetic, people think something's wrong. Carlos will text me like 'you good mate?' if I'm quiet for five minutes. My trainer gets worried if I'm not upbeat. Even my mum sometimes–" He stopped, laughed softly. "My mum definitely worries if I'm not my usual self."

"So you perform. Even when you don't want to."

"Yeah." The word came out heavy. "And the thing is, most of the time I do want to. I genuinely enjoy being that person. But when I don't...I still have to be. Because if I'm not, everyone thinks I'm depressed or having a crisis or something. When really, I'm just tired."

Ariane understood this. It was the inverse of her own experience–he was exhausted from being too present, she was exhausted from trying to be present at all–but the core feeling was the same. The weight of other people's expectations. The inability to just exist without context or judgment.

"That sounds really lonely," she said quietly.

"It is. Sometimes." He shifted beside her, and she felt his shoulder press more firmly against hers. "But right now? I don't feel lonely. I feel like I can just...be. Whatever, whoever that is."

"Even tired."

"Even tired." He turned his head toward her, and in the low light from his phone, she could see the look on his face–relieved. "You're the first person in a while who's let me just be quiet. Who didn't immediately try to fix it or make it better or cheer me up."

"I figured if you wanted to talk, you would."

"See, that's–most people don't get that. They think silence is something to fill." He paused. "You're comfortable with silence."

"I live alone with a cat. Silence is my normal."

"I'm jealous. I'm never alone. Even when I'm alone, I'm not really alone. There's always someone who needs something–media, sponsors, the team. I’m always on."

"What would you do," she asked, "if you could have a day where no one needed anything from you? Where you didn't have to perform at all?"

"Honestly?" He considered this. "Sleep in. Make a terrible breakfast. Maybe play some video games. Watch a movie I've seen a hundred times. Just...nothing. Gloriously boring nothing."

"That sounds perfect."

"What about you? Perfect day, no obligations?"

"Similar, actually. Sleep in, definitely. Coffee in bed with a book. Take Chardy to the vet because she's overdue for her checkup but I keep putting it off because she's a nightmare in the carrier–" She stopped, laughing at herself. "Sorry, that's not relaxing at all."

"No, but it's real life. That's better." Lando's hand found hers again in the darkness. "I like the real stuff. The boring, everyday stuff. Tell me more. About Chardy's vet anxiety."

So she did. And somehow that led to talking about her apartment in Lyon, which led to talking about his place in Monaco, which led to comparing their completely different daily routines and finding strange similarities in the mundane details.

He told her about his coffee order (oat milk latte, extra shot, slightly embarrassing about how specific it was). She told him about her morning ritual (three alarms, snooze all of them, finally get up when Chardy starts knocking things off the dresser). He told her about his trainer's insistence on green juice (disgusting) and meal prep (practical but depressing). She told her about her habit of making elaborate meals for just herself and then eating them standing at the counter while scrolling her phone. They traded stories about bad dates (his: someone who spent the entire dinner taking selfies; hers: someone who spent an hour explaining wine to her, despite her literally working in wine). About family dynamics (his: supportive but slightly overbearing; hers: loving but disappointed she wasn't more ambitious socially or married yet).

"Wait," Lando interrupted, "your mum thinks you should be more social?"

"She thinks I should go to more events, network more, 'put myself out there.'" Ariane made air quotes around the phrase. "She doesn't understand that my job requires me to be at events constantly and by the time I get home, I want to never see another human."

"Except your judgmental cat."

"Except Chardy, who barely counts as company since she ignores me most of the time."

They dissolved into laughter again. At some point, they had gravitated together like before and their shoulders pressed together as they shook with laughter. His hand grabbed her knee and her hand found it’s way to his arm. Neither noticed, their minds and bodies completely at ease with each other.

From the stairwell, Thomas's voice: "THEY'RE TRYING SOMETHING NEW! MAYBE ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES!"

Twenty more minutes had somehow become good news.

"You know what's weird?" Ariane said after a moment. "I'm supposed to be panicking right now. This is a work event. I'm trapped underground. My boss is probably having a meltdown. And I just...don't care."

"Is that bad?"

"It should be. I usually care about everything. Too much. Every detail, every possible thing that could go wrong." She leaned her head against his shoulder without thinking about it, the gesture now familiar. "But right now, I'm just...here. With you. And it feels okay."

"More than okay?"

"Maybe more than okay."

Lando was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice had that serious quality that made her heart skip. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I wasn't going to come tonight. To this event."

Ariane lifted her head to look at him. "What?"

"Charles invited me weeks ago, and I kept putting off confirming. I almost bailed this morning. I had a dozen excuses ready–training, recovery, needed to prep for the next race." He met her eyes in the dim light. "But something made me come. I don't know what. Just this feeling that I should be here."

"Fate?" Ariane echoed his word from earlier, teasing but also half-serious.

"Maybe. Or just dumb luck." His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "But I'm glad I came. Even with the whole trapped-in-a-cellar situation. Especially with the trapped-in-a-cellar situation."

"You're glad you got trapped?"

"I'm glad I got trapped with you." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "This has been the most honest conversation I've had in months. Maybe longer. You don't want anything from me. You're not trying to get content or an autograph or an introduction to someone else. You're just...talking to me."

"I'm definitely not trying to get an autograph. I don't even know if you’re doing well."

"I know. It's amazing." He was grinning now, that brightness back in his expression. "You have no idea how refreshing that is."

"I could pretend to be more impressed if you want. 'Oh wow, you drive cars fast? That's so crazy.'" She put on an exaggerated voice.

"Please never do that voice again."

"Why, you don't find it charming?"

"It's possibly the least charming thing I've ever heard."

"Rude."

"Honest." But he was laughing, and she was laughing, and somehow they'd shifted even closer together on the crate-couch, his arm around her shoulders now, her side pressed against his. The cold of the cellar had faded into background awareness. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to it. Or maybe Lando was just warm enough that it didn't matter anymore.

"Your turn," he said. "Tell me something you don't usually tell people again."

Ariane thought about deflecting, keeping things light. But he'd been honest with her and she found she wanted to match that.

"I'm scared," she said quietly. "Like, constantly. That I'm not good enough, that I'm going to fail, that people are going to realize I'm just making it up as I go."

"Imposter syndrome."

"Is that what it's called?"

"Very common." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "I definitely have it. Every time I get in the car, there's this voice that says 'what if this is the race where everyone realizes you're not actually that good?'"

"But you are good. You're one of 20 seats in the world."

"And you're literally a lead brand strategist for an international company. But the thoughts don’t care about facts."

"The thoughts are assholes."

"Those thoughts are definitely assholes." He tilted his head to look at her more directly. "But here's the thing. You are good at your job. I've watched you tonight–before the cellar situation. The way you managed that event, handled all those personalities, made sure everything ran smoothly. That's not luck. That's being good at your job."

"You barely saw me–"

"I saw enough. You're competent and professional and you care about the details. Those aren't small things." He paused. "Plus you pulled together a wine event that trapped two people in a cellar, which is honestly unforgettable from a marketing perspective. Very guerrilla."

"Please don't make this a branding opportunity."

"Too late. I'm already planning the social media content. 'Wine Tasting Turned Survival Scenario.'"

Despite herself, Ariane laughed. "You're terrible."

"I'm honest." He said it with that same sincerity from before. "I mean it, Ariane. You're good at what you do. The scared voice in your head is a liar."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For saying that. I needed to hear it."

"Anytime. I'm good at pep talks. It's one of my hidden talents."

"What are your other hidden talents?"

"Well, I make an excellent cup of tea. I can quote basically all of The Office–"

"UK or US?"

"Both, obviously. I'm a man of culture." He was warming to the topic now. "I can juggle, but only with three balls. Four is where I lose it. And I'm surprisingly good at jigsaw puzzles."

"Jigsaw puzzles?"

"Don't judge. They're meditative."

"I'm not judging. I love that." And she did–the image of Lando Norris, Formula 1 driver, sitting quietly doing jigsaw puzzles was both absurd and endearing.

"Your turn. Hidden talents."

"I can recite every French wine region and their primary grape varietals from memory."

"That's not hidden, that's literally your job."

"Fine. Um..." She thought about it. "I can bake. Like, well, I think. It's my stress relief."

"What kind of things?"

"Bread, mostly. It’s satisfying with the kneading, the waiting for it to rise. The whole process is very..." She searched for the word. "Grounding."

"I would like to try your stress bread."

"It's not stress bread, it's just bread that I happen to make when stressed."

"So...stress bread."

"You're annoying."

"I've been told that too." He shifted slightly, and she felt his hand move from her shoulder to play gently with the ends of her hair. The gesture was absent, comfortable, like something he'd done a hundred times before. "This is nice."

Ariane understood exactly what he meant. There was no performance here, no expectation. Just two people who'd stumbled into each other's orbit and found something unexpected–ease, connection, the rare comfort of being understood.

"IT'S WORKING!" Thomas's voice shattered the quiet, full of genuine excitement. "THEY'VE GOT IT! THE DOOR IS–I CAN SEE LIGHT!"

Ariane felt Lando tense slightly beside her, then deliberately relax.

"Guess that's our cue," he said, but he didn't move.

"Guess so," she agreed, also not moving.

They sat there for another beat, neither quite ready to end this strange, intimate bubble they'd created in the darkness.

"WE SHOULD GO!" Thomas called down to them. "THEY'RE HOLDING THE DOOR!"

"Coming!" Ariane called back, then looked at Lando. "We should actually go."

"I know." But his hand was still in her hair, his eyes still on her face. "One more thing."

"What?"

"This–whatever this is–I don't want it to end just because we're leaving the cellar. I meant what I said before. I want to see you again. Properly."

"I meant it too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She smiled, feeling brave and terrified and strangely certain all at once. "But Lando, you should know–I'm probably going to freak out about this later. About all of it. About how fast this is, about whether it's real or just the situation, about all the very logical reasons this is complicated."

"That's fair. I'll probably freak out too." He grinned. "But maybe we can freak out together?"

"You’re so annoying"

"I'm so romantic. I just offered to have mutual panic attacks. That's basically a proposal."

"That's definitely not a proposal."

"Fine, I'll work on my romance game." He stood, offering her his hand to help her up. "But the offer stands. Mutual freaking out. Maybe over dinner?"

She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, let's have dinner. And freak out." She looked up at him, this person she'd met hours ago who somehow felt like someone she'd known much longer. "But also maybe not freak out. Maybe just...see what happens."

"I like that plan." He didn't let go of her hand as they started walking toward the front of the cellar, toward where Thomas was probably vibrating with impatience, toward the light from the finally open door. "For the record, though, I don't think this is just the situation. I think this is real."

"How can you know that?"

"I don't know. I just feel it." He squeezed her hand. "But I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

They would. They'd walk out of this cellar and back into their real lives–his complicated and public and constantly in motion, hers structured and private and carefully controlled. And they'd figure out if whatever had sparked between them in the darkness could survive in the light. But as they climbed the stairs together, hands still linked, Ariane found herself believing–against all her usual pragmatism and anxiety and careful risk assessment–that maybe it could. Maybe they could. With all the context this time, but still somehow just themselves.

They were halfway up the stairs when the door slammed shut again.

This time, no one even bothered to shout explanations. The collective groan from the other side of the door said it all–the mechanism was still unstable, still fighting them, still determined to keep them trapped.

"You have GOT to be KIDDING me!" Thomas's voice cracked with frustration. He was ahead of them on the stairs, close enough to the door that he'd almost made it through. Almost.

"Thomas?" A voice from the other side–Monsieur Rousseau. "Thomas, just stay calm. We're going to–"

But whatever they were going to do was lost in the muffled distance.

Thomas turned around on the stairs, and in the glow from Lando's phone, Ariane could see his face–utterly defeated, on the verge of tears.

"I can't," he said, his voice small. "I can't do this anymore. This is–I'm–"

"Hey, mate." Lando moved past Ariane up the stairs, putting a hand on Thomas's shoulder. "It's okay. We're alright."

"But we were coming! It was working! And now–"

"And now we go back down and wait some more. It's not ideal, but it's fine." Lando's voice was calm, grounding. "Come on. Standing on the stairs isn't helping anyone."

He guided Thomas back down, Ariane following behind. When they reached the bottom, Thomas immediately slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor with his head in his hands.

"I'm so tired," he said miserably. "I'm so tired and I'm going to lose my job and this is the worst day of my entire life."

Ariane crouched down beside him, her dress making the movement awkward but she managed. "Thomas. Look at me."

He looked up, eyes red-rimmed.

"You're not going to lose your job. And this isn't your fault. And we're all tired–" She glanced at Lando, who nodded in agreement. "But we're going to get through it. They're working on it. It's just taking longer than expected."

"But what if–"

"No whatifs. Just facts. Fact: there's no fire. Fact: we're safe. Fact: people are actively working to get us out. Everything else is just anxiety."

Thomas took a shaky breath, nodded. "Okay. Okay, you're right. I just–I need to calm down."

"You need to rest," Lando said. "When's the last time you sat down and just...relaxed?"

"I don't know. This morning?"

"That was hours ago. Come on." Lando offered his hand, pulling Thomas to his feet. "There's a chamber back here with some crates. Not comfortable, but better than the floor. Go sit down, close your eyes for a bit. Let us worry about the door situation."

"But I should–"

"You should rest. We'll come get you if anything changes. Promise."

Thomas looked between them, clearly torn between responsibility and exhaustion. Exhaustion won. He nodded, let Lando guide him to the back chamber where they'd arranged the crate-couch earlier.

Ariane watched as Lando got Thomas settled, his manner gentle and patient. Within minutes, Thomas's eyes were drooping, his body finally giving in to the accumulated stress and fatigue of the past few hours.

"Just close your eyes for a minute," Lando said quietly. "We'll be right here, mate."

Thomas mumbled something incoherent, already half-asleep.

Lando returned to where Ariane stood near the entrance of the chamber, and together they watched Thomas's breathing even out, his body relaxing into something resembling actual sleep.

"Poor guy," Ariane whispered.

"Yeah." Lando kept his voice low, matching her whisper. "He needed to crash. Better that he does it now, somewhere safe, than up there trying to manage everything."

They stood in silence for a moment, both acutely aware that they were now, effectively, alone. Thomas was unconscious, dead to the world. The distance to the stairwell was enough that unless they shouted, no one would hear them.

It was just the two of them again.

In the darkness.

Ariane felt the atmosphere shift–that charged quality returning, the awareness of proximity and privacy and all the things that had been building between them before Thomas's crisis had interrupted.

"So," Lando said quietly, still standing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. "We're back to waiting."

"Seems like it."

"And Thomas is asleep."

"Very asleep."

"Which means..." He trailed off, but the implication hung in the air between them.

Which means they were alone. Really alone this time. No interruptions imminent. No Thomas to worry about overhearing or witnessing anything.

Just them.

Ariane's heart was doing acrobatics in her chest. This was dangerous. This was the kind of situation where bad decisions got made, where the strange intensity of forced proximity could spiral into something neither of them had planned.

She should suggest they sit separately. Keep distance. Maintain some semblance of appropriate boundaries.

Instead, she heard herself say: "We should probably find somewhere to sit. Away from Thomas. So we don't wake him."

"Good thinking. Very considerate." But there was heat in Lando's voice, a roughness that hadn't been there before. Like he needed to clear his throat.

They moved back through the cellar, past the rows of wine racks, into one of the smaller chambers they'd explored earlier. This one had a single crate against the far wall and nothing else–just stone and shadows and the dim, dying light from Lando's phone.

He set the phone down on the crate, angling it to provide ambient light without draining the battery too fast. The glow was barely enough to see by, casting their faces in dramatic shadows.

"This is probably a terrible idea," Ariane said, but she didn't move away.

"Which part?"

"All of it. Being alone. In the dark. After—" She gestured vaguely at everything that had happened between them.

"After I kissed you?"

"After we kissed each other," she corrected. "And agreed to see each other again. And had all those honest conversations that made me feel things I probably shouldn't feel about someone I just met."

Lando stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "What kind of things?"

"Lando–"

"I'm just asking. What kind of things?" His voice was soft, almost teasing, but underneath was something more serious. "Because I'm feeling things too. Have been all night. And I'm trying to be respectful and not rush anything, but I also–" He paused, seeming to gather courage. "I also really want to kiss you again."

Ariane's breath caught. "Thomas is right there."

"Thomas is unconscious. And in a different chamber. And we'd hear him if he woke up–those crates are noisy."

"That's not–that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

The point was that she was supposed to be professional. That this was still technically a work event. That they barely knew each other. That this was moving too fast. That she didn't do things like this–didn't kiss strangers in wine cellars, didn't feel this pull toward someone she'd just met, didn't let herself be reckless and impulsive and utterly unconcerned with consequences. But looking at him in the dim light, his eyes dark and intent on her face, his body radiating warmth she wanted to lean into–she couldn't remember why any of those points mattered.

"The point is," she said carefully, "that if you kiss me again, I don't think I'm going to want to stop."

"And that's a problem because...?"

"Because we're trapped in a cellar. And there's someone sleeping twenty meters away. And we're supposed to be waiting to be rescued, not–" She gestured helplessly between them.

"Not what?" He was closer now, close enough that she could see the rise and fall of his chest, slightly faster than normal. "Not acting on this thing that's been building all night? Not admitting that this situation, as weird and terrible as it is, has also been the best night I've had in months?"

"Lando–"

"Tell me you don't feel it too. Tell me I'm imagining this." He still hadn't touched her, giving her space to say no, to pull back, to be sensible. "Tell me you don't want this as much as I do."

Ariane looked at him. At the way he was holding himself carefully separate despite clearly wanting to close the distance. At the vulnerability in his expression, the genuine uncertainty underneath the confidence. At the way he was giving her the choice, the power, the ability to define what happened next. She could be sensible. She could suggest they sit and talk and maintain appropriate distance until the door opened and reality reasserted itself.

Or she could be honest.

"I can't tell you that," she said quietly. "It would be a lie."

Something in his expression shifted–relief and heat and that bright, unguarded joy she'd seen from him in flashes all night. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She took a breath, feeling brave and terrified and absolutely certain. "I want this. I want you. Even though it's insane and fast and probably a bad idea."

"It's definitely a bad idea," he agreed, but he was moving closer now, his hands coming up to frame her face. "The worst idea. Completely reckless."

"We should be sensible."

"We absolutely should." His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she felt the touch like electricity. "Are we going to be sensible?"

"No."

"Good."

He kissed her then–but different from before. Those earlier kisses had been tentative, curious, sweet. This one was none of those things. This was want and certainty and the release of hours of building tension. Ariane responded immediately, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His hands slid from her face to her waist, backing her up against the stone wall. The surface was cold against her back but Lando was warm and solid and real. When they broke apart for air, they were both breathing hard.

"Okay," Lando said, his voice rough. "That–"

Ariane didn't let him finish. She pulled him back in, kissing him harder, deeper. His hands tightened on her waist, then slid up her sides, careful but possessive. She responded by threading her fingers into his hair, tugging slightly, and was rewarded with a low sound from his throat that made heat pool in her stomach.

"Ariane–" Her name came out like a prayer and a question.

"Don't stop," she said against his mouth. "Please don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it." His lips moved to her jaw, her neck, finding sensitive spots that made her gasp. "But we should–we need to–"

"What?" She was having trouble forming thoughts with his mouth on her neck like that.

"Move. This wall can't be comfortable."

It wasn't, actually. The stone was cold and slightly rough, and she was pressed against it awkwardly. But she also didn't care, didn't want to stop long enough to relocate.

Lando apparently disagreed. He pulled back–she actually whimpered at the loss, which should have been embarrassing but wasn't–and took her hand, tugging her toward where he'd set his phone on the crate.

"Here," he said, settling himself on the floor with his back against the crate. He pulled her down into his lap, and she went willingly, straddling him in a way that would have felt absurdly forward if they hadn't already been kissing like the world was ending.

"Better?" he asked, his hands settling on her hips, his thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of her dress.

"Much better." She leaned in to kiss him again, but he stopped her with a hand on her cheek.

"Wait. Just–one second." His eyes searched her face, serious despite the obvious want in his expression. "Are you sure? About this? Because we can stop. We can just sit here and talk. I don't want you to feel like–"

"Lando." She put her hands on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath her palms. "I'm sure. I want this. I want you. Now please, please stop being respectful and kiss me."

His laugh was breathless, delighted. "Yes ma'am."

This kiss was slower, deeper. Without the urgency of restraint finally breaking, they could savor it–the taste and texture of each other, the way their bodies fit together, the slide of tongues and teeth and breath.

Lando's hands roamed more freely now–up her back, into her hair, down her sides. When his fingers found bare skin where her dress cut away at her shoulders, they both shuddered.

"You're so soft," he murmured against her mouth. "You're–god, Ariane–"

She rolled her hips slightly, experimentally, and he groaned, his hands tightening on her waist.

"That's–you can't–if you do that, I'm going to–" He couldn't seem to finish the thought, too distracted by the friction between them.

"You're going to what?" She did it again, enjoying the power, the way his control was clearly fraying.

"Lose my mind. Completely." His hands slid down to her thighs, beneath the hem of her dress, and she gasped at the contact. "Is this okay?"

"Yes. God, yes."

His mouth found her neck again, that spot just below her ear that made her see stars. His hands were warm on her thighs, his touch gentle but firm, and she was acutely aware of every point of contact between their bodies.

"We should–" She couldn't think. His teeth grazed her collarbone and thinking became impossible. "Lando–"

"Tell me what you want." His voice was rough velvet against her skin. "Use your words."

"You. Just you. More of this." She tugged at his hair, bringing his mouth back to hers. The kiss was messy, desperate, perfect.

His jacket–her borrowed jacket–had slipped off one shoulder. Lando's mouth followed the path of exposed skin, pressing kisses along her collarbone, her shoulder, the sensitive skin of her upper arm. His hands continued their exploration, mapping the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the soft skin of her thighs.

Ariane had lost track of time. They could have been kissing for minutes or hours, she had no idea. All she knew was heat and want and the feeling of his body against hers, solid and warm and utterly consuming.

"You're going to be the death of me," Lando said at one point, his forehead pressed against hers, both of them breathing hard. "Absolutely the death of me."

"Good," she managed. "That's good."

"Is it?" But he was smiling, that bright, unguarded smile that made her chest ache.

"Fair trade. You're killing me too."

"Also good."

They kissed again, and again, and somewhere in the haze of touch and want, Ariane became aware of voices from the stairwell. Distant, muffled, but there.

She froze. Lando felt it, pulled back immediately.

"What–"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Listen."

They both held still, straining to hear. Yes–voices. And the sound of metal on metal. Work being done on the door.

"They're still trying," Lando whispered.

"We should–" Ariane started to move off his lap, but his hands on her hips stopped her.

"They're not through yet. We'll hear when they are–the door's loud." His eyes searched hers in the dim light. "Unless you want to stop? We can stop."

Did she want to stop? The sensible answer was yes. They should compose themselves, check on Thomas, prepare for the door to actually open this time. But sensible had gone out the window approximately an hour ago.

"I don't want to stop," she admitted.

"Thank god." He pulled her back in, kissing her with renewed urgency. "Because I really, really don't want to stop either."

His hands slid higher on her thighs, his thumbs tracing patterns on her inner thighs that made her squirm against him. She could feel him hard beneath her, could feel her own body responding with an urgency that should have been embarrassing but felt natural, inevitable.

"Ariane," he breathed against her neck. "We need to–if we keep doing this, I'm going to–"

"What?"

"Want more than we can have in a wine cellar with someone asleep nearby."

He had a point. They were already pushing the boundaries of what was remotely appropriate given their situation. Going further would be...actually, she couldn't think of a good reason not to. Only bad reasons. Sensible reasons. Reasons that had stopped mattering somewhere around the third or fourth kiss.

"Maybe we just..." She shifted against him deliberately, and his breath hitched. "See how far we can go? While still technically being appropriate?"

"I like how you think." His mouth found that spot on her neck again, the one that made her gasp. "Very practical. Very responsible."

"I'm known for my responsibility."

"I'm going to corrupt you so thoroughly."

"Promise?"

His laugh was breathless. "Promise."

They lost themselves in it again–the slide of hands and mouths, the building pressure, the sweet torture of wanting more but having just enough. His fingers traced higher, brushed against her through her underwear, and she nearly came apart right there.

"Lando–" His name was a plea and a prayer.

"I know. I know." His thumb traced slow circles, not enough pressure to satisfy but enough to drive her absolutely insane. "You're so perfect. So responsive. I want–god, I want–"

Whatever he wanted was lost in her mouth as she kissed him desperately, rocking against his hand, chasing the friction she needed. His other hand slid up to cup her breast through the dress, his thumb finding her nipple through the fabric, and the dual sensations made her head spin.

From somewhere distant, a louder sound–metal clanging, voices raised. The door.

They should stop. Should check. Should prepare.

Instead, Lando increased the pressure of his thumb, his mouth hot on her neck, and Ariane felt herself tip over the edge she hadn't realized she'd been approaching. The orgasm hit her unexpectedly, quietly. She bit down on her lip to keep from making noise, her body shuddering against his as waves of pleasure rolled through her.

"Holy shit," Lando breathed, his arms coming around her, holding her through it. "That was–you're–"

She couldn't form words yet. Could only press her face into his neck, breathing hard as her body shook, trying to remember how her limbs worked.

When she could finally think again, she pulled back to look at him. In the dim light, his expression was awed, almost reverent.

"That," he said carefully, "was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Ariane felt her face flame. Now that the fog of want had cleared slightly, reality was reasserting itself. She'd just–they'd just–in a wine cellar–with Thomas sleeping nearby–

"Oh my god," she said. "Oh my god, we–"

"Hey." Lando's hand cupped her cheek, gentle. "Don't spiral. That was–that was amazing. You're amazing."

"But we–and Thomas is–and the door–"

"Thomas is still asleep. The door is still locked. And we just had possibly the best worst idea moment of my entire life." He kissed her, soft and sweet. "No regrets. Okay?"

Ariane took a shaky breath. Looked at him–at his mussed hair, his swollen lips, his eyes dark with want and satisfaction and genuine care.

No regrets.

"Okay," she said. "No regrets."

"Good." He shifted beneath her, and she became acutely aware that while she'd had her moment, he definitely hadn't. "Though in the interest of fairness–"

"Oh." She looked down between them, at the obvious evidence of his want. "Do you want me to–"

"God, yes. But also–" He glanced toward where voices were still occasionally audible from the stairwell. "We should probably be ready in case the door actually opens this time."

He was right. As much as she wanted to return the favor–and she did, surprisingly intensely–getting caught in a compromising position when the door finally opened would be...problematic.

"Later?" she offered. "When we're not trapped?"

More muffled conversation from the other side. Then Jacques again: "An hour? Maybe two? The locksmith is in Marseille, and with the electronic component damaged–I'm so sorry, we're doing everything–"

The rest was lost. Either he'd moved away from the door or was talking to someone else or the door was just too thick to make out details.

Ariane stepped back, her mind racing. They were trapped. In a wine cellar. Underground. With no phone signal. For potentially two hours.

She looked at Lando. He looked at the staff member. The staff member looked like he might throw up.

"This is bad," the staff member said unnecessarily. "This is very bad. Monsieur Rousseau is going to–my job, I should have–I–"

"Hey." Lando's voice was surprisingly calm. "It's not your fault. These things happen. Probably a system malfunction or something, yeah?"

"But I'm responsible for–"

"For what? An electrical problem during a freak alarm situation? That's not on you, mate." Lando turned to Ariane. "You okay?"

Was she okay? She mentally checked in with herself. Panic: moderate but manageable. Breathing: slightly fast but not hyperventilating. Thoughts: racing but coherent.

"I'm fine," she said, then looked at the staff member. "What's your name?"

"Thomas."

"Okay, Thomas. Deep breath. We're all fine. No fire, just an inconvenient lock situation." She tried to channel the calm competence she used in brand strategy meetings when things went sideways. "Do you know if there's another exit from the cellar?"

Thomas shook his head miserably. "Just the main door. These cellars are original to the estate–hundreds of years old. They weren't exactly thinking about building codes."

"Right. Okay. So we wait." Ariane pulled out her own phone again, even though she knew it was useless. Zero bars. She tried typing out a text to Sophie anyway–maybe it would send when they got out. "Thomas, you should try to get close to the door, see if you can communicate with them about the timeline."

Thomas nodded, looking grateful for instruction, and moved back up the stairs to press himself against the door, shouting questions that Ariane couldn't quite make out.

She looked at Lando. In the emergency lighting, his face was cast in red shadows, but she could still see his expression–concerned but not panicked. Probably better in crisis situations than her, which made sense given his profession.

"So," he said, with a crooked smile that was clearly meant to lighten the mood. "This is going well."

Despite everything–the locked door, the underground situation, the professional disaster this represented–Ariane felt a laugh bubble up. It came out slightly hysterical.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "This is–this is literally my nightmare scenario. My event. My responsibility. And now guests are trapped in a wine cellar because the security system is–"

"Hey." Lando stepped closer, his hand landing on her arm. His touch was warm, grounding. "Breathe. This isn't your fault. You didn't design the security system. You didn't trigger the alarm. You're just the person who planned a nice event that got crashed by faulty electronics."

"But Charles is up there, and the investors, and–"

"And they're fine. They got out. We're the only ones who got the exclusive 'extra time in the cellar' experience." His smile widened. "Very VIP. They're probably jealous."

"You're ridiculous."

"I've been told that. Multiple times. By many people." He was still holding her arm, and she realized she was leaning into the touch slightly. "Look, we have two options. We can panic and make this miserable. Or we can accept that we're stuck here, make the best of it and tell a very entertaining story later."

Ariane took a breath. Then another. He was right, annoying as that was. Panicking wouldn't change anything. They were safe–no fire, just locked in. People knew they were here. It was an inconvenience, not a catastrophe.

Even if it felt like a catastrophe for her career.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Make the best of it."

"There we go." Lando released her arm and looked around, assessing their situation. "So. Let's see what we're working with. We've got emergency lights–"

As if on cue, the emergency lights flickered ominously.

"–for now," he amended. "And we're in a cellar full of very expensive wine."

"That we absolutely cannot drink," Ariane said quickly.

"I wasn't suggesting–"

"Some of these bottles are worth thousands of euros."

"I know, I was at the tour." He grinned. "Though if we're going to be stuck here for two hours, seems a shame not to–"

"Lando."

"I'm joking! Mostly." He started back down the stairs. "Come on. Let's at least find somewhere comfortable to wait this out. These stairs are not ideal for long term standing."

Ariane glanced back at Thomas, who was still pressed against the door, apparently deep in a shouted conversation with someone on the other side. The poor guy looked miserable.

"Thomas?" she called. "You good up there?"

He gave her a thumbs up without turning around, still talking to the door.

Right. Okay. So it was just her and Lando, then.

She followed him back down the stairs, her heels clicking against the ancient stone. The emergency lighting made everything look strange and vaguely ominous–shadows in wrong places, the wine racks looming like sentries.

They reached the bottom and Lando immediately started exploring, peering into the different chambers with the kind of curiosity that probably served him well in a profession where split-second environment assessment was crucial.

"Okay, so we've got the main chamber here," he narrated, moving around. "Some smaller offshoots. That one looks like just storage. This one has the really old bottles–" He paused in an archway. "Oh, this is interesting."

Ariane joined him. He'd found a small side chamber she'd forgotten about–it was used for storage, mostly, but it had some old wooden barrels stacked against one wall and a few crates that probably held supplies.

"Not exactly five-star accommodations," Lando observed, "but it's got surfaces we can sit on." He walked over to one of the barrels–the old-fashioned kind that had probably aged wine decades ago–and gave it an experimental pat. "Solid. This'll work."

He hoisted himself up onto the barrel with ease. "See? Perfectly comfortable. Well, not perfectly. But better than standing for two hours."

Ariane eyed the barrel dubiously. In dress and heels, this was going to be a less-than-graceful maneuver.

"Here." Lando hopped down and positioned himself next to the barrel. "I'll give you a boost."

"I don't need–"

"Ariane. You're wearing heels and a fitted dress. Just let me help."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. He was right. Pride wasn't going to make this easier.

"Fine."

She positioned herself next to the barrel, and Lando offered his linked hands as a step. She placed her hand on his shoulder for balance–his very solid shoulder, her brain helpfully noted–and stepped into his hands.

He lifted her easily, and she managed to get herself onto the barrel with only minimal wobbling. Once seated, she looked down at him.

"Thanks."

"Anytime." He vaulted back up onto his own barrel, settling in like this was completely normal. "See? We're basically having a rustic wine country experience. Very authentic. People pay good money for this kind of thing."

"I don't think people pay to be locked in cellars."

"You'd be surprised. Escape rooms are very popular."

Despite herself, Ariane laughed. The sound echoed slightly in the stone chamber, and something about that–about the absurdity of their situation–made it funnier.

"Oh god," she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I'm losing it. I'm stress-laughing in a wine cellar."

"Hey, stress-laughing is better than stress-crying. And we've got time to kill." Lando shifted on his barrel, getting comfortable. "So. Tell me about the worst work event you've ever had. And before you say 'this one,' I need you to reach deeper."

"Why?"

"Because I'm nosy. And because we're going to be here a while. Might as well get to know each other." He paused. "Unless you'd rather sit in silence? I can do silence. I'm not great at it, but I can try."

Ariane looked at him–his easy posture, the way he seemed completely unfazed by being trapped underground, the genuine interest in his expression. And she thought about the alternative: sitting here in anxious silence, counting down the minutes, spiraling about what this meant for her job.

"There was a product launch in Paris," she heard herself say. "Two years ago. Very high-profile. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong."

"Tell me everything."

So she did. And as she talked, describing the disaster of the Paris launch–the venue's electricity cutting out, the caterer showing up with the wrong order, the CEO's presentation slides somehow replaced with someone's vacation photos–she felt the tension in her shoulders start to ease.

Lando listened with intent, interrupting with questions and comments that made it clear he was actually engaged, not just waiting for his turn to talk. When she got to the part about having to give her presentation from her phone while standing on a chair because the microphone was too short, he laughed so hard he nearly fell off his barrel.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, "but that's incredible. You're just up on a chair, squinting at your phone, and everyone's trying to take you seriously?"

"It was humiliating."

"It was brilliant. Did it work?"

"Actually...yeah. The CEO said it made us look 'scrappy and resourceful.'" She smiled at the memory. "We got the contract."

"See? Sometimes disasters turn into wins." He settled back against the stone wall behind his barrel. "Though I hope this one doesn't take two years to become a funny story."

"We're locked in a cellar. How is this going to be a funny story?"

"Are you kidding? This is already hilarious. 'Remember that time we got trapped in a wine cellar?' That's gold. Your grandkids will love it."

"My grandkids."

"Everyone's grandkids. I'm not picky about whose grandkids hear this story."

Ariane shook her head, but she was smiling. How did he do that? Make everything seem lighter, more manageable, less like the end of the world?

From the stairwell, they could hear Thomas still shouting through the door, his voice echoing down to them. Occasionally, there'd be a muffled response from the other side, but it was impossible to make out details.

"How long do you think it's actually going to be?" Ariane asked.

Lando pulled out his phone to check the time, even though there was no signal. "Well, it's been about ten minutes since we got locked in. If they said an hour or two..." He did the mental math. "Could be anywhere from fifty minutes to nearly two hours still."

Two hours. Trapped underground. With Lando Norris.

There were worse fates, objectively. But this was supposed to be a professional event. She was supposed to be working. Not sitting on a wine barrel in the dim emergency lighting, having what was starting to feel dangerously like an actual conversation with someone she'd met three hours ago.

Someone who kept looking at her with those expressive eyes like she was saying interesting things.

Someone who made her laugh despite the situation.

Someone she was definitely, absolutely not supposed to be having any sort of feelings about.

"Your turn," she said, partly to distract herself from that thought. "Worst work day."

"Oh, that's easy. Monza, 2021." He launched into the story with the same enthusiasm she'd had, describing a race where everything had gone wrong–technical issues, strategy mistakes, a near collision that had aged him ten years in ten seconds.

As he talked, Ariane found herself studying him. In the red emergency lighting, his features were dramatic, shadowed. But his voice was animated, his hands moving as he described the race, and she could hear the passion underneath the humor. This wasn't just a job to him. It was everything.

She knew that feeling.

"–and then, to top it all off," he was saying, "I had to do media interviews for an hour afterward and pretend like it was all fine. Just smiling through the pain."

"That must be exhausting," Ariane said quietly. "Always having to be 'on.'"

Lando's expression shifted, something more serious sliding across his features. "Yeah. Sometimes." He looked at her directly. "But right now? I don't feel like that. It’s nice."

The air between them felt suddenly charged, heavy with something Ariane didn't want to name.

She cleared her throat, looking away. "Well, we're locked in a cellar. Not exactly a high-pressure social situation."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just easy to be around."

There it was again. That directness that made her heart skip.

Before she could figure out how to respond, Thomas's voice echoed down from the stairwell: "They said at least another hour! The locksmith is on his way but there's traffic!"

"OKAY!" Ariane called back. "THANKS!"

She looked at Lando. "An hour."

"At least an hour," he corrected. "Could be longer."

"Could be longer," she repeated, and despite everything–or maybe because of everything–she started laughing again.

And this time, Lando joined her, the sound of their laughter filling the ancient cellar like it belonged there. Like maybe being trapped wasn't the worst thing that could have happened tonight.

The emergency lights flickered again, more aggressively this time, and both Ariane and Lando looked up at them with matching expressions of concern.

"Those are going to die, aren't they?" Lando said.

"Probably." Ariane pulled out her phone again. Still no signal, but at least it had a flashlight function. Battery at 67%. "How's your phone battery?"

Lando checked. "Eighty-two percent. I charged it in the car."

"Okay. So we have a backup light if these give out." She tried to think strategically, her brain shifting into problem-solving mode. "We should conserve phone batteries though. Only use them if the emergency lights completely fail."

"Look at you, already planning for survival scenarios."

"Someone has to be practical."

"I'm practical," Lando protested. "I'm just also optimistic. Those lights will probably last. And even if they don't, we'll be out of here before it matters."

As if the universe had a sense of humor about his optimism, the emergency lights flickered once more and then died completely.

Total darkness.

The kind of absolute, disorienting darkness that only exists underground, where not even a sliver of natural light can penetrate. Ariane couldn't see her hand in front of her face. Couldn't see the barrel she was sitting on. Couldn't see Lando, even though she knew he was less than two meters away.

"Well," Lando's voice came through the darkness, admirably steady, "that's not ideal."

"Phone lights?" Ariane was already fumbling for hers, her hands shaking slightly. She was fine. This was fine. She wasn't afraid of the dark. Except apparently she was when the dark was this complete and she was trapped underground and–

Light bloomed from Lando's phone first, pointed at the ceiling to diffuse the glow. A moment later, Ariane got hers on too.

"There we go," Lando said. "See? Not so bad."

Ariane took a breath. The light helped. She could see the stone walls again, the wine racks, Lando's face in the strange upward-cast glow from his phone.

"We should probably conserve these though," she said, her practical side reasserting itself. "Maybe keep just one on?"

"Good call." Lando adjusted his position on the barrel, setting his phone down carefully so it lit the space between them. "This one can be our communal light source. Very campfire-esque."

Ariane turned off her own flashlight, plunging her side of the space back into relative darkness except for the glow from Lando's phone. The single light source created weird shadows, made everything feel smaller and more intimate.

"So," Lando said after a moment. "At least an hour. Maybe more."

"At least."

"We should probably..." He trailed off, then grinned. "I was going to say we should find a way to pass the time, but that sounded potentially inappropriate in my head."

Despite her anxiety about the situation, Ariane laughed. "Everything sounds a bit inappropriate when you're trapped in a dark cellar."

"Right? Very horror movie-esque. Or like a bad romance novel."

"Let's aim for neither."

"Agreed. So…conversation? We were doing well with that before the lights died." He shifted on his barrel, and she heard the fabric of his shirt rustle. "Tell me something."

"That's very vague."

"On purpose. Tell me anything. First thing that comes to mind."

Ariane thought about it. The wine from earlier was still warm in her system, making her thoughts looser, less filtered than they'd normally be. "I have a cat named Chardonnay."

"What's Chardy like?"

"Judgmental. And she only acknowledges my existence when she wants food." Ariane smiled in the darkness. "She's perfect."

"You're a cat person."

"Very much. You?"

"I like cats. Never had one though–too much travel. Wouldn't be fair to the cat." He paused. "I had a fish once. It died."

"How did you kill a fish?"

"I didn't kill it! It just...died. Fish do that. They're very fragile."

"They're really not if you take care of them properly."

"Okay, so maybe I killed it a little bit. But I was thirteen and very irresponsible." He laughed. "My mum was so disappointed. Not because of the fish, but because I'd promised I'd take care of it and it only lasted like two weeks."

"What happened after two weeks?"

"I forgot to feed it. Multiple times. In my defense, I was busy with karting."

"That's not a defense."

"You're right. I'm a fish murderer. It's my dark secret." His voice was light, teasing. "Your turn. Dark secret."

"I don't have dark secrets."

"Everyone has dark secrets. Come on. Give me something."

Ariane considered. The darkness made it easier, somehow–not having to see his face while she talked. "Sometimes I go to work events and hide in the bathroom so I don’t have to keep talking to people."

"That's not a dark secret. That's relatable."

"You asked for a secret. You didn't specify how dark."

"Fair point." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Although now I'm imagining you at fancy wine events ducked in a loo stall."

"It's a very effective strategy."

"I believe it. People are exhausting."

"Says the person who's constantly surrounded by people."

"Exactly. I know from experience." Lando shifted again, and she heard him jump down from his barrel. "Okay, new plan. These barrels are not comfortable for long term sitting. I'm going to do some exploring."

"Exploring? We've already seen everything down here."

"Not everything. There are like three other chambers we didn't fully check out. Maybe there's a secret exit. Or at least somewhere better to sit."

"There's no secret exit."

"You don't know that." His phone light started moving, and Ariane realized he was taking it with him. "Come on. Unless you want to sit alone in the dark?"

He had a point. Sitting alone on a barrel in complete darkness sounded significantly worse than exploring with him.

"Fine. But if you break a priceless bottle, I'm telling Monsieur Rousseau."

"Noted."

Ariane climbed down from her barrel–much less gracefully than Lando had, nearly turning her ankle in her heels–and followed the glow of his phone light as he moved toward one of the archways.

"Watch your step," he called back. "Some of these stones are uneven."

"Thank you, I hadn't noticed while walking on them for the past thirty minutes."

"Wow, sarcasm? I like this side of you."

"The wine is wearing off. My filter is going with it."

"Good. I prefer people without filters." He stopped at an archway, shining his light through. "Okay, this one is just storage. Boxes and...more boxes. Riveting."

They moved to the next chamber. This one Ariane remembered–it was where they kept the very old vintages, the ones Jacques had shown them earlier. The bottles gleamed dully in the phone light, labels yellowed and faded.

"This is the fancy one, right?" Lando asked, moving his light across the racks. "The hundred year old stuff?"

"Some of them, yes."

"Wild that something can sit here for a century, just waiting." He stepped closer to one rack, examining a bottle with the same curiosity he'd shown everything tonight. "Your grand-père would probably love this, right?"

The fact that he mentioned it so casually–such a personal detail from a conversation they'd had forty minutes ago–did something to Ariane's chest.

"He would," she said softly. "He used to say that wine was proof that good things take time."

"Sounds like a wise man."

"He was."

Lando looked at her then, the phone light casting his face in dramatic shadows. "Was?"

"He passed away a few years ago. Cancer."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you." She wrapped her arms around herself–it was getting colder down here, or maybe it was just the absence of the emergency lights' minimal warmth. "He would have found this situation hilarious, actually. Me, trapped in a cellar, surrounded by wine. He'd say it was fate."

"Maybe it is."

"Fate doesn't trap people in cellars."

"You don't know that. Fate works in mysterious ways." He grinned, then seemed to notice her shivering. "You're cold."

"A little. I didn't exactly dress for underground imprisonment."

Without hesitation, Lando started shrugging out of his jacket–a perfectly fitted navy bomber that made his shoulders look incredible.

"Here," he said, holding it out.

"You don't have to–"

"Ariane. Take the jacket. I'm warm-blooded to the point of overheating regularly. You're literally shaking."

She was, she realized. The adrenaline from earlier was wearing off, and the cellar's temperature–probably carefully maintained around 13 or 14 degrees Celsius for the wine–was starting to really sink in through her slinky dress.

"Okay," she conceded, taking the jacket. "Thank you."

She slipped it on and immediately felt better. The jacket was warm from his body heat and smelled like expensive cologne mixed with something that was just...him. She tried not to think about how comforting it was.

"Better?" Lando asked.

"Much, but now you're going to be cold."

"I'll survive. British people are very stoic about discomfort." He rubbed his hands together in an exaggerated gesture. "See? Already warming myself with friction."

"That's not how thermodynamics works."

"Are you sure? I feel like I learned something about friction creating heat in school."

"You did, but rubbing your hands together for two seconds isn't going to–" She stopped, seeing his grin. "You're messing with me."

"Little bit. But also genuinely trying to warm up. Come on, let's keep moving. Movement generates heat, that's real science, yeah?"

They continued their exploration, moving through the remaining chambers with Lando providing running commentary on everything they saw. He was naturally entertaining–making up elaborate backstories for some of the older bottles, wondering aloud what it would be like to taste wine from the 1800s, asking increasingly ridiculous questions about the winemaking process that Ariane should have found annoying to answer but frustratingly found incredibly endearing.

"So when you say the wine 'breathes,'" he said at one point, "you don't mean it has tiny lungs?"

"Correct. No tiny lungs."

"But it's alive? Kind of?"

"It's...active. There are still chemical processes happening in the bottle, especially in older wines. The tannins soften, the flavors evolve–"

"So it's aging like we age."

"More gracefully than we age, usually."

"Speak for yourself. I plan to age excellently." He struck a pose, phone light illuminating his face from below like a particularly dramatic selfie. "What do you think? Distinguished?"

"You look like you're about to tell a scary campfire story."

"I could do that. Want to hear about the ghost of the wine cellar? Legend says he's still down here, searching for the perfect vintage–"

"Stop."

"–his spectral form drifting between the racks, occasionally knocking over expensive bottles–"

"Lando."

"–and his mournful cry echoes through the chambers: 'Where is the Château d'Yquem?'"

Despite herself, Ariane was laughing again. "You're ridiculous."

"I've been told." He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "But I got you laughing, so it’s a win."

They'd completed their circuit of the cellar and ended up back near their original barrels. Lando's phone was still serving as their only light source, casting long shadows across the stone.

"Okay," Lando announced, surveying the space. "Executive decision. These barrels are terrible for sitting. The floor is stone and cold. Our best option is..." He moved toward a corner where several empty wooden crates were stacked. "These. We can maybe arrange them into something almost comfortable."

"Almost comfortable is really selling it."

"I'm an optimist." He started moving crates, arranging them into a makeshift seating area. "Help me out here? Two minds are better than one."

Ariane joined him, and together they created something that resembled a very rustic, very uncomfortable couch–crates stacked and arranged so they could at least lean back against the wall. It wasn't luxury, but it was better than the barrels.

"There," Lando said, surveying their work with satisfaction. "Chateau Cellar, five-star accommodations."

"You have a very loose definition of five-star."

"Semantics." He settled himself on the crate-couch, patting the space beside him. "C’mon, let’s share some body heat. For survival purposes, of course, darling."

Ariane hesitated for approximately two seconds before the cold made the decision for her. She sat down beside him, acutely aware of how small the space was, how close they were. His shoulder pressed against hers. She could feel the warmth radiating from him even through his shirt and her borrowed jacket.

"See?" he said quietly. "Much better."

It was better. Warmer. More comfortable than the barrel had been.

Also significantly more dangerous to her ability to think clearly.

"How long has it been now?" she asked, trying to focus on practical matters.

Lando checked his phone. "About forty-five minutes since we got locked in. So probably another fifteen to forty-five minutes? Depending on how accurate their estimate was."

Fifteen to forty-five minutes. Sitting this close to him. In the dark. With his jacket wrapped around her and the lingering warmth of wine still in her system.

This was fine. Totally fine.

"You okay?" Lando asked, tilting his head to look at her.

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because you have this thing I think you do when you're anxious. Your jaw tenses and you get this little line between your eyebrows." He reached up like he might touch her face, then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hand. "Just wondering if you're okay or if I should distract you with more incredible jokes."

"I'm okay," she said, and was surprised to find it was mostly true. "This isn't how I expected tonight to go, but...I'm okay."

"Good." He settled back against the wall, his shoulder still pressed against hers. "For what it's worth, this also isn't how I expected tonight to go. But I'm not mad about it."

"You're not mad about being trapped in a cellar."

"I'm not mad about being trapped in a cellar with you," he corrected. "Important distinction."

There it was again. That directness that made her heart skip and her brain short-circuit simultaneously.

"Lando–"

"Sorry, is that too much? Carlos says I have no filter sometimes. Well, all the time. I definitely have no filter all the time."

"It's not too much, it's just..." Ariane tried to find the right words. "You don't know me. We met a few hours ago."

"I know some things." He shifted slightly, angling toward her. "I know you're smart and you care about your work. I know you're funny when you relax. I know you'd rather hide in a bathroom than make small talk. I know you loved your grand-père and you have a judgmental cat and you get anxious at events but you're really good at your job anyway." He paused. "That's more than I know about some people I've known for years."

Ariane's throat felt tight. "You got all that in a few hours?"

"I'm observant when I want to be."

"And you wanted to be. With me."

"Yeah." His voice was softer now, more serious. "From the second you started talking during your presentation and then got all flustered when I walked in late. Something about you just...I don't know. Made me want to pay attention."

This was the wine talking. The situation. The forced proximity and the weird intimacy of being trapped together. It had to be.

Except he was completely sober now. They both were, the adrenaline and time having burned through the pleasant buzz from earlier. And he was looking at her with those stupid big eyes and everything he was saying sounded sweet in a way that made her chest ache.

"I don't know what to say to that," Ariane admitted.

"You don't have to say anything." Lando leaned his head back against the stone wall, staring up at the dark ceiling. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. Just being honest. Trapped in a cellar feels like a good time for honesty, you know? No pretense. Just...us."

Just us.

Ariane let herself lean into him slightly, resting her head against his shoulder. It felt natural, easy. Like something she'd done a hundred times before instead of something she definitely shouldn't be doing with someone she'd met hours ago.

"This is probably the wine," she said quietly.

"We're sober."

"The memory of the wine then."

She felt him laugh, his shoulder shaking against her cheek. "Okay. The memory of the wine. We can go with that if it makes you feel better."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound being their breath and the occasional distant thump from upstairs–probably people working on getting the door open.

"Lando?" Ariane said eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not freaking out. For making jokes. For..." She gestured vaguely at everything. "This. Making it less terrible."

"Anytime you need someone to be trapped in a cellar with, I'm your guy." He paused. "Though hopefully we won't make a habit of this. Once is charming, twice might be cause for concern."

Ariane laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. "Agreed."

His hand found hers in the darkness–tentative, questioning. She should pull away. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that this was still technically a work event, even if it had gone completely sideways. Instead, she squeezed his hand back. They'd figure out what this meant later. When they were out of the cellar. When reality reasserted itself. For now, she let herself have this–the warmth of his shoulder, the solid presence beside her, the easy comfort of someone who made her feel seen in a way that should have been terrifying but somehow wasn't.

Just us, she thought.

And for fifteen to forty-five more minutes, that was enough.

They'd been sitting in comfortable silence for maybe five minutes when Thomas's voice echoed down from the stairwell, making them both jump.

"THEY SAID THE LOCKSMITH IS STUCK IN TRAFFIC! PROBABLY ANOTHER THIRTY MINUTES AT LEAST!"

Ariane pulled back slightly from Lando's shoulder, suddenly aware of how close they'd been. In the moment, it had felt natural. Now, with Thomas's voice reminding her that they weren't actually alone, it felt...different.

"OKAY, THANKS!" Lando called back, seemingly unbothered by the interruption.

"DO YOU NEED ANYTHING? WATER? THEY CAN'T OPEN THE DOOR BUT MAYBE–"

"WE'RE GOOD!" Ariane shouted, then added more quietly to Lando, "Poor guy sounds hoarse."

"He's been shouting through three inches of oak for like an hour. I'd be hoarse too." Lando shifted on their makeshift crate/couch, and Ariane became acutely aware that their hands were still linked. "Another thirty minutes at least. We should probably..."

"What?"

"I don't know…something? Sitting in silence feels weird now that we know we've got a while longer."

He was right. The comfortable quiet from before had been replaced by something more charged, more awkward. Like they'd both become suddenly aware of themselves and each other and the strange intimacy of their situation.

Ariane pulled her hand away, tucking both hands into the pockets of his jacket. "We could...talk more?"

"About what?"

"I don't know. Anything. Everything." She was babbling now, nervous energy making her chatty. "You could tell me about racing. I’ve been in charge of a few different sponsorship initiatives at some races, but I don't really understand all of it. Like, what's the appeal of going in circles very fast?"

"Okay, first of all, we don't go in circles. That's NASCAR. We go in circuits."

"That's the same thing."

"It's absolutely not the same thing." But he was grinning, settling back against the wall. "Circles are round. They only turn left. Circuits have corners and straights. Very different."

"Semantics."

"Important semantics." He launched into an explanation of racing that was very technical, talking about apex speeds and tire degradation and "the racing line" that apparently made all the difference. Ariane found herself actually engaged, asking questions, and Lando answering with equally engaged enthusiasm.

"So you're like solving a physics problem," she said at one point. "But at 300 kilometers per hour."

"Yeah, pretty much. Most people just think it's about going fast, but it's actually–"

"THEY'RE BRINGING A SPECIAL TOOL! THE LOCKSMITH HAS TO–SOMETHING ABOUT THE ELECTRONIC COMPONENT–"

Thomas's voice cut through their conversation again. He sounded progressively more stressed with each update.

"WE HEAR YOU!" Lando called back. Then, quieter, "He's really committed to keeping us informed."

"He's probably terrified he's going to lose his job over this."

"That would be harsh. It's not like he personally sabotaged the security system."

"Tell that to Monsieur Rousseau." Ariane pulled the jacket tighter around herself. Despite sitting next to Lando's warmth, the cold was seeping in. "God, I can't believe this is happening. This morning, my biggest worry was whether the canapés would be too cold after the first tasting."

"And now you're trapped in a cellar with a Formula 1 driver and a very stressed facilities intern. What a day."

"What a day," she echoed, then surprised herself by laughing. "This is insane. This whole thing is completely insane."

"Little bit, yeah." Lando's phone light flickered slightly–battery probably getting lower. He adjusted the brightness down a notch. "But also kind of fun? In a weird, this-will-be-a-great-story-later way?"

"Fun is a strong word."

"Okay, not fun. But not terrible? I mean, present company excluded from the terrible category."

There it was again. That casual flirtation that felt very intentional. Ariane's face felt warm despite the frigidness of their environment.

"You're very smooth," she said, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere closer to flustered.

"I try." He paused, tilted his head toward her. "Is it working?"

"I'm not answering that."

"That's basically a yes."

"It's not a yes, it's a 'I'm maintaining professional boundaries.'"

"We're sitting on wine crates in the dark sharing body heat. I don’t know that professional boundaries should be of concern at this point."

He had a point. A very valid point. Whatever this was–this conversation, this closeness, this weird bubble they'd created in the cellar–it had stopped being professional somewhere around the time she'd taken his jacket and he'd held her hand and they'd started talking like they'd known each other for years instead of hours.

"Okay, fine," Ariane conceded. "It's working. A little. Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. My head is huge now. Massive ego incoming."

"I take it back."

"Can't. It's been said. Recorded in the official cellar transcript."

Despite everything, Ariane was smiling. How did he keep doing that? Making everything feel lighter, easier, less like a disaster and more like an adventure?

"GUYS!" Thomas's voice again, but this time there was a new quality to it–maybe excitement? "They said they're making progress! Maybe twenty more minutes!"

"THAT'S GREAT!" Ariane called back, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice.

Twenty minutes. They'd be out soon. Back to reality. Back to professional boundaries and appropriate behavior and all the reasons why sitting this close to Lando Norris was a terrible idea. She should be relieved. Instead, she felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"Twenty minutes," Lando said quietly, like he'd read her mind. "That's not so bad."

"No. Not bad at all."

"We should probably figure out what to do with these last twenty minutes. Make them count."

"Make them count?"

"Yeah. I mean, when are we going to get another chance to be trapped in a wine cellar together? This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience."

"Hopefully once-in-a-lifetime."

"Right, so we should...I don't know. Do something…memorable." He seemed to realize how that sounded. "Not like that. I mean–just–something other than sitting here counting down the minutes."

Ariane considered this. He was right, in a way. This was absurd and weird and completely outside her normal experience. She could spend the last twenty minutes being anxious about work and consequences and what people would think.

Or she could just...be here. In this moment. With him.

"Okay," she said. "What did you have in mind?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. I'm making this up as I go." He shifted to face her more directly, and in the dim phone light, she could see his expression–open, curious, a little uncertain in a way that felt very human. "Tell me something real. Doesn’t have to be a secret, but something you don't usually tell people."

"That's a big ask."

"We've got twenty minutes and nowhere to be."

Ariane thought about deflecting, making a joke, keeping things surface-level and safe. But something about the darkness, the forced intimacy, the way he was looking at her like he genuinely wanted to know–it made her brave.

"I'm lonely," she heard herself say. "Like, a lot of the time. I'm good at being alone–I actually like being alone–but sometimes I'm lonely and I don't know how to fix it because the things that would fix it–being around people, making connections–are the things that exhaust me most."

The words hung in the air between them. Ariane felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

"Sorry," she added quickly. "You asked for real, but–"

"Don't apologize." Lando's voice was soft, serious in a way she hadn't heard from him yet. "That's...very honest. Thank you for telling me."

"Your turn. Something real."

He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he'd deflect, make a joke, pull back from the vulnerable territory she'd opened up.

"I'm tired," he said finally. "Not like, physically tired. Just...tired of being 'Lando.' The fun one, the funny one, the one who's always up for anything. Sometimes I just want to be quiet and nobody lets me. They think something's wrong, or I'm upset, or I'm being difficult. But sometimes I just want to sit and not perform."

His words settled into her chest, heavy and true. She understood, in a way she hadn't expected to. They were different versions of the same isolation–him surrounded by people but feeling alone in the performance, her alone by choice but aching for connection.

"I get that," she said quietly. "The performance thing. Having to be a certain version of yourself because that's what people expect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. At work, I am the brand strategist–competent, professional, always has the answer. At family events, I'm Ariane who works at Domaine Rousseau–sophisticated, cultured…whatever. But sometimes I just want to be…I don't know. Just me. Without the context."

"Just you," Lando repeated. "What's that like? Just you, no context?"

Ariane considered this. "Honestly? I'm not sure I know."

"Maybe that's what this is." He gestured vaguely at the cellar around them. "No context. Just you and me and a lot of very expensive wine we're not allowed to drink."

"And Thomas, shouting from the stairwell."

As if on cue: "THEY'RE ALMOST THROUGH! THE LOCKSMITH IS–SOMETHING TECHNICAL–BUT IT'S WORKING!"

They both laughed, the moment of heavy honesty breaking into something lighter but no less real.

"Poor Thomas," Lando said. "His throat is going to be wrecked tomorrow."

"We should probably check on him at some point. Make sure he's okay."

"In a minute. I'm..." Lando trailed off, then seemed to decide something. "I'm not ready for this to end yet."

Ariane's heart did that stupid skipping thing again. "The being trapped part?"

"The talking to you part. Without the context." He shifted closer–just slightly, but enough that she noticed. "Is that bad to say?"

"A little."

"Should I take it back?"

"No." The word came out before she could think better of it. "Don't take it back."

The air between them felt charged again, but different than before. Not awkward this time. Expectant. Like something was building toward a moment neither of them had planned but both of them could feel coming. Lando's hand found hers again in the darkness. This time it felt less like comfort and more like intention.

"Ariane," he said, his voice lower now, quieter.

"Yeah?"

"Can I–"

"Name one."

"Charles Leclerc doesn't show up. Fire alarm goes off mid-tasting. Someone gets food poisoning from the canapés. The sommelier gets into a philosophical argument about terroir and makes everyone uncomfortable. A swarm of bees–"

"Okay, I'm stopping you at bees." Sophie laughed, adjusting one of the floral arrangements that definitely didn't need adjusting. "You know what your problem is?"

"My crippling anxiety and tendency toward catastrophic thinking?"

"Well, yes, but also you're too good at your job. This is going to be flawless because you've planned for everything. Except–apparently–bees."

Ariane allowed herself a small smile. The tasting room did look beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the vineyard, rows of vines stretching toward the mountains in neat, precise lines. The tables were set with crisp white linens, fresh flowers and enough wine glasses to keep the dishwasher busy for a week. Soft music played from hidden speakers–carefully curated, of course. Nothing too modern, nothing too classical. Just the right amount of sophistication without being pretentious.

She'd worked on the Charles Leclerc partnership for six months. As a brand strategist for Rousseau Wines, it was her job to make sure the collaboration felt authentic and mutually beneficial. That tonight's event–an intimate gathering of Charles's family and friends for an exclusive tasting–went off without a single hitch.

No pressure or anything.

"They're arriving," Sophie hissed, nodding toward the gravel driveway visible through the windows.

Ariane's heart kicked up a notch. She smoothed down her dress–a sleeveless navy midi that was professional but elegant, paired with understated gold jewelry–and took a deep breath. You've got this. You've presented to rooms full of executives. You've handled investor meetings. You can handle a few Formula 1 drivers and their friends.

The first car pulled up, a sleek black SUV that Charles Leclerc emerged from first, all easy confidence and a blinding smile, turning to help his girlfriend Alexandra out of the passenger side. They looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine–him in perfectly fitted dark slacks and a crisp white button-down, her in a flowing red, floral dress that would surely be trending as soon as pictures of tonight were posted.

Ariane pasted on her professional smile and moved toward the entrance where Monsieur Rousseau, the winery's owner and a man who'd perfected the art of distinguished elder statesman, was already greeting them with enthusiastic handshakes and cheek kisses.

"Charles! Welcome, welcome! And Alexandra, you look lovely as always."

"Monsieur Rousseau, thank you so much for hosting us." Charles's French was flawless, his smile genuine. He had that rare quality of making everyone around him feel like the most important person in the room. Ariane had seen it at the handful of Formula 1 events she'd attended for their sponsorship of Formula 1–the way he navigated the crowd, always gracious and kind.

Another car arrived. Carlos Sainz unfolded himself from the passenger’s seat, all dark hair and easy charm, immediately calling out something in rapid Spanish that made Charles laugh.

"Carlos, you're late," Charles teased in English.

"I'm fashionably delayed," Carlos corrected, embracing his friend with a slap on the back. "Blame the Navigation. Or French roads. Or both."

More guests trickled in–a mix of Charles's friends, a few paddock insiders Ariane vaguely recognized, some local dignitaries who'd been invited for unknown political reasons. Sophie appeared with trays of champagne, and suddenly the quiet tasting room filled with conversation and laughter.

Ariane hung back, observing, mentally checking off names against her list. She was good at this part–the behind-the-scenes. Making sure everything ran smoothly while staying largely invisible. It was where she felt most comfortable.

"You must be Ariane."

She turned to find Charles directly in front of her, hand extended, that famous smile directed entirely at her. Up close, he was somehow even more good-looking, which seemed unfair.

"Yes! Mr. Leclerc, welcome. We're so pleased–"

"Charles, please." His handshake was firm but not aggressive. "I've heard wonderful things about your work on this partnership. We were so pleased with how the branding came out."

"Oh! Thank you. That's–thank you." Smooth, Ariane. Very articulate. She felt heat creep up her neck.

But Charles didn't seem to notice her awkwardness, already turning to introduce Alexandra, who was warm and kind and made Ariane feel slightly less like she was going to throw up from nerves.

"Everything looks beautiful," Alexandra said, glancing around the room with genuine appreciation. "You can tell so much thought went into this."

"That's very kind. I just hope–"

"Ariane!" Monsieur Rousseau's voice boomed across the room. "Come, let me introduce you to everyone before we begin."

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of handshakes and names she'd probably forget within the hour. Carlos kissed both her cheeks in greeting and told her she had excellent taste in wine, which was ironic considering he hadn't tried any yet. A woman named Marie who worked in motorsport PR cornered her to talk about brand synergy. A local politician gave her his card and a lengthy explanation of his vineyard side-hustle that she definitely didn't ask for.

Through it all, Ariane maintained her professional demeanor, smiling and nodding and saying the right things. This was her job. She was good at it. Even if her face hurt from smiling and she desperately wanted to hide in the bathroom.

"Okay, I think that's everyone," Sophie whispered, appearing at her side like a fairy godmother. "Your turn. You've got this."

Ariane nodded, pulling up her notes on her iPad. She'd practiced her presentation a dozen times. She knew it backwards and forwards. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Except–

"Wait." She grabbed Sophie's arm. "That's not everyone. Lando Norris is supposed to be here."

Sophie consulted her own tablet. "He's on the list. Maybe he's not coming?"

"Charles’ Team said all his guests were confirmed." Ariane felt a tiny flutter of panic. She'd arranged the seating with him in mind. She'd even put him next to Carlos since they were supposedly best friends or something. If he didn't show, the whole table arrangement would be off balance.

"Well, we can't wait," Sophie said pragmatically. "Monsieur Rousseau is ready to start."

Right. Of course. They couldn't delay the entire event for one person, even if that person was arguably one of the most popular drivers on the grid. Ariane took a deep breath and stepped forward as Monsieur Rousseau clinked his glass for attention.

"My friends, if I could have your attention please..."

The room settled into an expectant hush. Ariane's heart hammered against her ribs. She hated this part–being the center of attention, all eyes on her. Give her a spreadsheet or a strategy document any day. But public speaking? Her personal nightmare.

She stepped up beside Monsieur Rousseau, iPad clutched like a shield.

"Good evening, everyone. For those we haven't met, I'm Ariane Delafose, brand strategist for Domaine Rousseau. We are absolutely delighted to welcome you this evening for an exclusive tasting as we celebrate our new partnership with Charles Leclerc and–"

The front door opened with a burst of energy and apologetic laughter.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry–"

Every head in the room turned. Ariane's words died in her throat.

Lando Norris stumbled through the entrance, slightly windswept, pulling off his sunglasses with one hand while trying to straighten his shirt with the other. He was shorter than she'd expected–or maybe everyone just looked short compared to the tall drivers–with curly dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly and a face that seemed to be set in a permanent expression of mischief.

"Traffic was mental," he announced to the room at large, then spotted Charles. "Mate, your directions were rubbish."

"My directions were perfect," Charles called back, grinning. "You just can't follow them."

"Agree to disagree." Lando's eyes swept the room, taking in the scene, and landed directly on Ariane. Still standing at the front. Still frozen mid-sentence. Still staring at him like an idiot.

His gaze held hers for a beat–bright, assessing, amused–and something in her chest did a strange little flip.

"Don't stop on my account," he said, that grin widening. "I'm great at catching up."

The room laughed. The tension broke. Ariane felt her face flush hot.

"Right. Yes. As I was saying..." She looked down at her iPad, but the words swam in front of her eyes. What was she saying? Something about the partnership. Something professional and articulate.

She forced herself not to look at where Lando was being greeted by Carlos, their voices a low rumble of friendly insults and laughter. Forced herself to focus on her notes, on the presentation she'd practiced a dozen times.

"We're thrilled to have Charles represent Domaine Rousseau as we expand into new markets," she continued, finding her rhythm again. "This partnership represents a fusion of excellence, tradition, and innovation–values that both Charles campaign and Rousseau embody. Tonight is an opportunity to experience our wines in an intimate setting, to understand the story behind each bottle and to celebrate this exciting collaboration."

She was doing it. She was getting through it. Her voice was steady, professional. No one would know her heart was racing or that she desperately wanted to be anywhere but the center of the room.

"And now I'll turn it over to Monsieur Rousseau and our sommelier, Jacques, who will guide us through this evening's selection."

Polite applause. She stepped back gratefully, letting Monsieur Rousseau take over with his booming voice and natural showmanship. Sophie gave her a subtle thumbs up from across the room.

Ariane released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and slipped toward the back of the room, content to fade into the background where she belonged. She'd done her part. Now she could just observe, make sure everything ran smoothly, and avoid any further public speaking.

She risked a glance toward where Lando had settled in next to Carlos. He was already making the people around him laugh, animated and bright, the kind of person who seemed to generate their own gravitational field. Even from across the room, his energy was palpable.

And then, as if he could feel her looking, his eyes flicked up and met hers again.

He smiled–not the big public smile he'd used when he entered, but something smaller, almost private. Then he gave her a little nod, like a secret acknowledgment.

Ariane quickly looked away, warmth flooding her cheeks.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. He's just being friendly. That's literally his job. Being charming and likeable. Don't be weird.

She pulled out her phone, pretending to check messages, trying to ignore the way her heart was still beating just a little too fast. It was going to be a long evening.

The sommelier, Jacques, was in his element. A man in his sixties with silver hair who knew wine better than anyone else in the country, he commanded the room effortlessly as he presented the first wine: a crisp Sauvignon Blanc from their newest vineyard acquisition.

"Notice the minerality," he instructed, swirling his glass with practiced ease. "The terroir here is quite unique–limestone soil, southern exposure. You should detect notes of grapefruit, perhaps a hint of elderflower..."

Ariane watched the guests taste, their faces arranged in expressions of concentration. This part always amused her slightly–the way people tried so hard to detect the "notes" that were supposedly there. She loved wine, had grown up around it, but sometimes she thought the descriptions got a bit carried away. Once, at a trade tasting, someone had insisted they detected "wet stones and leather-bound books" in a Chardonnay and she'd had to excuse herself to laugh.

"What do you think?" Sophie whispered, appearing beside her with her own glass.

"It's good. Clean. Maybe a touch too acidic for my preference but it will pair well with the seafood course."

"Look at you, all professional with your wine talk."

"I contain multitudes." Ariane took another sip, letting the wine sit on her tongue. "How's the energy? Everyone seems engaged?"

"Very. Though I think half the engagement is people trying to look sophisticated." Sophie nodded toward a guest who was swirling his wine with such vigor it nearly sloshed over the rim. "That guy's about to redecorate his shirt."

Ariane bit back a laugh.

Jacques moved on to the second wine–a Pinot Noir. Lighter-bodied. Elegant. The room had settled into a comfortable rhythm now, conversation flowing alongside the wine. Charles was holding court at the main table, telling a story that had everyone leaning in. Carlos interjected with commentary that made the group erupt in laughter.

And Lando...

Ariane's eyes found him without meaning to. He was listening to someone across the table–an older gentleman, one of the local dignitaries–nodding along with genuine interest. When he responded, the older man laughed, clearly delighted.

"He's good with people," Sophie observed, following Ariane's gaze.

"What? Who?"

"Oh please. You've been sneaking looks at him since he arrived."

"I have not–"

"You absolutely have. It's fine. He's cute. Those eyes? Very unfair."

Ariane felt heat creep up her neck. "I'm working. I'm observing the event professionally."

"Mmhmm. Very professionally observing his–"

"Sophie."

Her friend grinned wickedly but mercifully dropped it, moving away to check on the catering staff.

Ariane took a longer sip of her wine than was necessary. She was not looking at Lando Norris. She was not noticing the way his laugh made her heart beat faster, or how he'd rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, or how the top two buttons of his shirt had at some point come undone.

She was absolutely not noticing any of those things.

Jacques presented the third wine–a fuller-bodied red, their flagship Cabernet blend. "This is aged eighteen months in French oak," he explained. "You should detect notes of blackcurrant, perhaps some vanilla from the oak, a whisper of tobacco..."

Ariane accepted a glass from one of the servers, swirling it absently as she continued her observation rounds. The color was beautiful, deep garnet in the light. She took a sip.

"Thoughts?"

She nearly choked on the wine.

Lando Norris had materialized beside her, his own glass in hand, looking at her with open curiosity.

"Sorry," he said quickly, grinning at her expression. "Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Lando. We didn't get properly introduced with my dramatic late entrance and all."

"Ariane." She managed to get the word out without sounding like a complete idiot. "And no, it's fine. I was just...analyzing."

"Analyzing." He said it like it was a funny word. "What's the verdict?"

"On the wine?"

"On the wine." His eyes had flecks of green in them, she noticed. Or maybe blue. It was hard to tell in this light.

Stop staring at his eyes, you absolute muppet.

"It's excellent," she said, aiming for a professional tone. "Well-balanced tannins, good structure. The oak is subtle rather than overpowering, which can be a challenge with Cabernet blends."

Lando blinked at her. "Okay, that was impressive. You really know your stuff."

"It's my job."

"Right, but there's knowing your job and then there's actually being able to taste all those things. I'm just here like 'yep, tastes like...wine.'" He took another sip, swirling it thoughtfully. "Though I'm supposed to be detecting notes of blackcurrant. Which, honestly, I'm not entirely sure what a blackcurrant tastes like on its own. Is it just a fancy word for black grapes?"

Ariane surprised herself by laughing. "It's actually a different fruit. Similar to grapes but more tart, grows in cooler climates."

"See, this is why I needed to talk to you. Very educational." He grinned at her over the rim of his glass. "Your presentation earlier was good, by the way. Very polished. Though I feel bad I interrupted it."

"You didn't interrupt, you just...made a memorable entrance."

"Story of my life. I'm incapable of being on time. Ask literally anyone." He gestured vaguely toward where Carlos and Charles were deep in conversation. "Carlos is probably taking bets on how late I'll be to my own wedding."

"Hopefully not during your vows."

"Oh definitely during my vows. Maximum dramatic impact, of course." His smile was infectious, easy. "So how'd you end up working here? Grow up dreaming of wine?"

"Actually, kind of? I grew up in Provence. Wine country. It felt like a natural fit." She took another sip, buying herself a second to think. Talking to strangers wasn't her strong suit, but something about his genuine interest made it easier. "Plus I studied brand strategy, and wine is having this whole renaissance with younger consumers, so it's actually a fascinating market from a positioning perspective."

"I didn't understand most of those words but I respect the enthusiasm."

Ariane felt her lips twitch. "What about you? Grow up dreaming of going fast and turning left?"

"Turning left is NASCAR. We turn both directions." But he was laughing. "And yeah, pretty much. Started karting when I was tiny, never looked back. Though my parents thought I'd grow out of it."

"Did you?"

"Clearly not." He grinned.

Jacques was calling everyone's attention back for the next wine–a dessert wine, late harvest. The group was getting noticeably more relaxed now, voices louder, laughter coming easier. The wine was working its magic.

"Duty calls," Lando said, but he didn't immediately move away. "Will you be around? For the rest of the tasting?"

"I'll be somewhere. Making sure nothing catches fire."

"Literally or metaphorically?"

"Both."

He grinned again–that same easy, bright expression–and then slipped back toward his seat.

Ariane released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Sophie reappeared instantly, like a ninja. "Okay, what was that?"

"What was what?"

"That." Sophie gestured vaguely. "That conversation where you were actually smiling. Laughing, even."

"We were just talking about wine."

"You were flirting."

"I was not–" But Ariane felt heat creep up her neck again. Was she? She didn't flirt. She barely knew how to flirt. Flirting required a level of social confidence she absolutely did not possess.

"He was definitely flirting with you," Sophie continued, undeterred. "The way he was looking at you? That was not a 'casual chat about wine' look."

"You're delusional."

"I'm observant. There's a difference."

Before Ariane could protest further, Sophie was pulled away by a question from the catering team, leaving Ariane alone with her wine and her spiraling thoughts.

He wasn't flirting. He was just...friendly. That was his whole thing. Lando Norris: friendly, approachable, the grid's puppy. She'd seen the videos, the social media content. He was like that with everyone.

This was just him being him.

And she was reading way too much into it because she was stressed and the wine was already going to her head on an empty stomach–note to self, eat something–and she needed to focus on her actual job, not on whether a Formula 1 driver's smile meant anything beyond basic politeness.

She drained her glass and set it aside, pulling out her phone to check the time. They'd do one more wine, then move to dinner. Everything was on schedule. Perfect.

Across the room, she caught Lando's eye again. He raised his glass slightly, a small salute.

She looked away quickly, her heart doing that stupid flip thing again.

It was definitely going to be a long evening.

By the time Jacques presented the fifth wine–a reserve Syrah that he described with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts–Ariane had finally managed to eat something. A server had taken pity on her hovering and pressed a plate of canapés into her hands: smoked salmon on blini, some kind of goat cheese situation with figs, tiny pastries that were probably more butter than carb.

She'd retreated to her corner near the windows, juggling the plate and her wine glass, trying to look professional while essentially stress-eating her feelings.

The event was going well. Better than well, actually. The guests were engaged, the wine was flowing, Jacques was in top form, and Charles had that easy charisma that made everyone feel like they were at an exclusive party rather than a business event. Even Monsieur Rousseau had relaxed, his booming laugh punctuating the conversation every few minutes.

So why did Ariane still feel like she was waiting for something to go wrong?

"You look like you're about to tackle a server," Sophie observed, materializing beside her yet again. Seriously, the woman had a supernatural ability to appear exactly when Ariane's anxiety was peaking.

"I'm not–I'm just…monitoring."

"You're vibrating. Eat another canapé. The fig ones are incredible."

Ariane obediently reached for a fig and goat cheese bite, if only to have something to do with her hands. The sweet-savory combination did help, honestly. Or maybe it was just having food in her stomach to absorb some of the wine she'd been dutifully tasting all evening.

"Everything's going perfectly," Sophie continued. "You can breathe."

"I'll breathe when everyone's gone home safely and the event is officially over."

"So in like three hours?"

"Exactly."

Sophie shook her head, fond but exasperated. "I'm going to check on the dinner setup. Try not to have a panic attack while I'm gone."

"No promises."

Left alone again, Ariane turned her attention back to the group. Jacques was explaining the aging process for the Syrah–something about oak barrels and temperature control–but honestly, at this point, most of the guests were more interested in drinking than listening to the technical details.

She couldn't blame them. The wine was very good. And very strong.

"Notes of dark cherry," Jacques was saying, "black pepper, perhaps a hint of–"

"Okay, but does anyone actually taste all these things?" Lando's voice cut through again, playful but with genuine curiosity.

The room erupted in laughter. Even Jacques looked amused rather than offended.

"I assure you, the flavor profiles are quite distinct," Jacques replied with good humor. "Though I will concede that not everyone's palate is equally trained."

"Thank god. I was starting to feel like my tongue was broken." Lando took another sip, swirling it the way Jacques had demonstrated earlier. "Though actually, I do taste something...kind of spicy? Is that the pepper thing?"

"Exactly! Yes, that's the characteristic note of Syrah. Well done."

Lando looked genuinely pleased with himself, like a student who'd gotten the right answer. Something about his unguarded enthusiasm was endearing in a way Ariane hadn't expected.

Stop it. Stop finding him endearing. This is a professional event. You are working.

"The spice comes from compounds in the grape skin," Jacques continued, clearly warming to having an engaged student. "When you age Syrah properly, those notes become more pronounced, more integrated with the fruit."

"So it's not actually pepper in the wine."

"No, just–"

"It just tastes like pepper."

"Precisely."

"Wild. Wine is weird." But Lando was grinning, and the whole room seemed to relax another notch.

Carlos leaned over and said something in Spanish that made Lando laugh and shove his shoulder. Charles was shaking his head, smiling into his wine glass. Alexandra caught Ariane's eye across the room and rolled her eyes in a good-natured "boys will be boys" expression that made Ariane smile despite herself.

"Alright," Jacques announced, setting down his glass with ceremony. "I have something special for you all. A private selection from our oldest cellar–bottles that are not available to the public, some not even for sale at any price."

This got everyone's attention. Even the guests who'd been half-listening perked up.

"If you'll follow me, I'll take a small group down to see the collection. Perhaps six or seven of you? The cellar is quite intimate."

Hands shot up immediately. Of course everyone wanted to see the exclusive bottles.

Jacques surveyed the room, clearly enjoying his role as gatekeeper to the secret wine vault. "Charles, naturally. Alexandra, if you'd like? Carlos–"

"Obviously," Carlos interjected.

"The Chambre’s," Jacques nodded to an older couple who were significant investors. "And...ah, Lando, you seem quite engaged this evening. Would you like to see where the magic happens?"

"Is that a euphemism?" Lando asked innocently, then grinned. "Yeah, absolutely. I'm very interested in...wine cellars."

More laughter. The man could apparently make anything sound like a joke.

Jacques looked around for one more person, and his eyes landed on Ariane, still tucked in her corner. "Ariane, you should come as well. You know the collection as well as I do."

Oh no.

"I should probably stay up here," Ariane started, gesturing vaguely at the room. "In case–"

"Sophie can handle it," Jacques said firmly. "Come. You've worked hard on this event. You should enjoy some of it."

There was no polite way to refuse without looking weird. Ariane set down her plate and moved toward the group, trying to ignore the way her heart rate kicked up at the prospect of being in a small space with all these people.

Well, not all these people. One person in particular.

Stop it.

"Exciting, right?" Sophie whispered as Ariane passed her. "Private cellar tour with the cute driver?"

"I hate you," Ariane whispered back.

"No you don't."

The group assembled near the doorway that led to the lower levels–a heavy wooden door that looked like it had been there since the estate was built in the 1700s. Jacques produced an old-fashioned key, because of course the ancient wine cellar had an ancient key even though the doors had been updated with electronic mechanisms and key fobs.

"Watch your step," he cautioned as he opened the door. "The stairs are original to the building. Very atmospheric, but not exactly up to modern safety codes."

The stone staircase descended into darkness, lit only by small wall sconces that gave off a warm, amber glow. The temperature dropped immediately, the cool air rising to meet them. It smelled like stone and age and wine–earthy and slightly sweet and completely intoxicating.

"This is gorgeous," Alexandra breathed, starting down the stairs carefully in her heeled sandals.

The group followed in a loose line. Ariane ended up toward the back, which was fine by her. Better to observe than be observed.

Except somehow–through what was probably just the randomness of people moving in a group–Lando ended up right beside her as they descended.

"You okay?" he asked quietly. "You look nervous."

"I'm fine. Just making sure no one trips and breaks their neck. Lawsuits are bad for brand partnerships."

He laughed, soft and genuine. "Very practical. I like it."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Ariane's breath caught despite herself. She'd been down here before, of course, several times during the planning process. But there was something about experiencing it with a group, in the evening light, with wine already warming her blood–it hit differently.

The cellar was a series of connected stone chambers, each one housing rows upon rows of bottles in custom racks. The ceilings were low, arched, creating an intimate, almost secret atmosphere. More of those amber wall sconces provided just enough light to see, casting everything in a romantic, antiqued glow.

"Wow," Lando said beside her, and she realized he'd moved closer, probably so they wouldn't get separated in the group. "This is like...a wine museum."

"Some of these bottles are over a hundred years old," Jacques was explaining up ahead, his voice echoing slightly off the stone. "This section here is our collection of pre-war vintages. This bottle–" he indicated one with particular reverence, "–is an 1893 Bordeaux. One of perhaps twelve remaining in the world."

"How much is that worth?" Carlos asked.

"We've never sold one, so it's difficult to say. But at auction? Perhaps fifty thousand euros. Perhaps more."

Low whistles from the group. Even Charles, who probably had wine collections worth more than Ariane's apartment, looked impressed.

They moved deeper into the cellar, Jacques pointing out various treasures, telling stories about harvests and vintages and the families who'd originated the wines. The group spread out slightly, people examining different sections, Alexandra taking photos with her phone.

Ariane drifted toward a rack she particularly loved–bottles from the 1960s, labels faded but still legible, each one representing a specific moment in time. There was something magical about that, she thought. The idea that someone had made this wine sixty years ago, had carefully bottled and stored it, never knowing who might eventually drink it or under what circumstances.

"Heavy thoughts?" Lando appeared beside her again, studying the bottles she was looking at.

"Just thinking about time. How weird it is that these bottles have been sitting here, waiting, while the whole world changed around them."

"That's kind of beautiful." He leaned closer to read a label. "1967. That's like...before my parents were born."

"Before mine too."

"Wild." He straightened, turned to look at her directly. "You really love this stuff, don't you? Not just the job part. The actual wine."

Ariane felt exposed under his attention, but in a way that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. "I grew up around it. My grand-père had a small vineyard in Provence. Nothing like this–" she gestured around, "–just a few acres. But he'd take me around, teach me about the grapes, the seasons. He said wine was like sunshine. Each bottle was a whole summer, preserved."

"That's poetic."

"He was a romantic." She smiled at the memory. "He'd probably have a heart attack if he saw me working for a massive commercial operation like this, but I think he'd get it. The bigger the operation, the more people get to experience the sunshine."

Lando was quiet for a moment, just looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Then: "I take it back. You're not just good at your job. You actually care. That's...different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Different good. Definitely good." His smile was softer now, less performative. "Most people I meet in corporate stuff, they're just going through the motions. But you actually give a shit."

"Is that your professional assessment?"

"It is. I'm very perceptive." He turned back to the bottles, but she could see him still smiling. "For the record, I think your grand-père would be proud. The captured sunshine thing–you're helping more people feel that. That counts."

Ariane felt something warm unfold in her chest, and it had nothing to do with the wine. "That's...thank you. That's very nice of you to say."

"I have my moments."

"Between the jokes?"

"Between the jokes," he confirmed, grinning again.

"If I could have everyone's attention!" Jacques called from deeper in the cellar. "I want to show you our most prized possession. This way, please!"

The group shuffled forward, moving through an archway into another chamber. This one was smaller, colder, with a locked iron gate protecting what was clearly the most valuable section.

Jacques produced another key–he had an entire ring of them, like a medieval jailer–and opened the gate with a satisfying clank. "In here, we keep our rarest vintages. Bottles that are, frankly, priceless."

Everyone crowded around, trying to get a view. Ariane hung back, content to let the others ooh and ahh over bottles she'd already cataloged and photographed for insurance purposes.

Lando, she noticed, also hung back. He caught her eye and shrugged, a small gesture that said he was happy to let others be more enthusiastic.

Jacques was pulling out a specific bottle, cradling it like a baby. "This is a 1947 Château d'Yquem. The vintage of the century, many say. There are perhaps thirty bottles left in existence."

"Are we going to taste it?" one of the investors asked hopefully.

"God, no." Jacques looked scandalized. "This bottle alone is worth more than my car. But I'll open something special for you–a 1985 that will surely surprise your palette delightfully."

He moved to a small table in the corner–Ariane hadn't even noticed it in the dim light–where wine glasses and a decanter were already set up. The group converged around the table like moths to a flame. Jacques began the careful process of opening the old bottle, and Ariane found herself genuinely interested despite having seen this routine before. There was something ceremonial about it, the way he handled the aged cork, the way he decanted the wine with precision.

"We'll let it breathe for a moment," Jacques announced. "The wine has been asleep for nearly forty years. We must wake it gently."

"If I'd been asleep for forty years, I'd want someone to slap me awake," Lando murmured beside Ariane, making her bite back a laugh.

"That's because you have no respect for tradition," she whispered back.

"True. But I respect a good nap."

She shouldn't be enjoying this–this easy back-and-forth, the way he kept finding reasons to stand near her, the way his humor felt like it was aimed specifically at making her smile. She should be professional, detached, focused on the event. But, the wine was in her system now, a pleasant warmth that softened her usual anxiety. And the cellar was beautiful. And Lando kept looking at her with those stupidly expressive eyes, like she was saying interesting things instead of just stating facts about wine.

It was dangerous. All of it.

Jacques began pouring small tastes for everyone, passing glasses around with the solemnity of a priest distributing communion. When Ariane received hers, she lifted it to the light, admiring the color–still remarkably vibrant for a wine pushing forty years old.

"What should I be tasting?" Lando asked her quietly, holding his own glass up with exaggerated care.

"Whatever you want. That's the secret. There's no wrong answer."

"But Jacques said–"

"Jacques says a lot of things. Just taste it and tell me what you think."

He took a sip, clearly trying to be thoughtful about it. His face went through several expressions–concentration, surprise, consideration.

"Well?" Ariane prompted.

"It's...lighter than I expected? Like, not as heavy as the other reds. And kind of...smooth? Is smooth a wine word?"

"Smooth works."

"Okay good. And there's something..." He took another sip. "Something kind of sweet but not like sugar sweet. Like...fruity, but duller?"

"That's the age. As wine gets older, the fruit flavors often evolve into dried fruit, leather, tobacco–"

"There's the tobacco thing again. I'm telling you, these wine descriptions are wild."

But he was smiling, and so was she, and somewhere in the background Jacques was explaining the vintage to the more serious wine enthusiasts while Ariane and Lando had their own private tasting.

"It's really good though," Lando said, more seriously. "Like, I can tell this is special even if I don't have the words for why."

"That's all that matters, honestly. The experience of it."

"Captured sunshine," he said, echoing her earlier words.

"Exactly."

Their eyes caught and held for a beat too long. Ariane looked away first, taking another sip of wine to give herself something to do.

This was fine. This was just friendly conversation at a work event. It didn't mean anything. He was probably like this with everyone–charming, engaged. That was his whole thing.

Except the way he was looking at her didn't feel practiced. It felt curious. Intentional.

Stop overthinking. Just enjoy the evening.

"If I could steal Mr. Leclerc for a moment," Jacques was saying, gesturing Charles toward a specific section. "I wanted to show you the bottles we're considering for the anniversary release..."

Charles excused himself from his conversation with Alexandra and the investors, moving to join Jacques deeper in the cellar. Carlos drifted over to examine a different section, phone out, probably taking photos to send his girlfriend. The group had naturally spread out again, people following their own interests, conversations breaking into smaller clusters. Alexandra was asking one of the staff about shipping logistics for rare wines. The investors were debating vintages with an intensity that suggested they cared more about the value than the history. Ariane realized with a start that she and Lando had drifted toward the back of this chamber, away from the main group. Not intentionally–or at least, not consciously. But here they were, in the dimmest corner of an already-dim cellar, still holding their glasses of forty-year-old wine, still talking in low voices like they were sharing secrets.

"So," Lando said, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall, completely at ease. "Scale of one to ten, how much do you hate these events?"

"I don't hate them."

"That's not an answer."

Ariane considered. The wine was making her honest. "Six? Seven? I'm good at them, but they stress me out. Too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong."

"But nothing's gone wrong."

"Yet."

"You're very glass-half-empty for someone who works with wine." He grinned at his own joke.

"That's terrible."

"But you're smiling."

She was. Dammit.

"What about you?" she asked, deflecting. "These events must be exhausting. Everyone wanting your attention. Asking  you questions you’ve answered a million times."

Something flickered across his face–surprise, maybe, that she'd noticed. "Sometimes. But this one's actually not bad. Smaller group. Good wine. Present company is particularly good."

There it was again. That directness that felt like flirting but could just be friendliness. Ariane's pulse kicked up a notch.

"You're very smooth," she said, aiming for light, teasing.

"I try." But then his expression shifted, became more genuine. "I mean it though. You're easy to talk to."

"I barely talk."

"Exactly. You listen. Most people are just waiting for their turn to speak." He swirled his wine, watching the light play through the liquid. "Plus you're funny. In this quiet, sneaky way. I like it."

Ariane's face felt hot. Thank god for the dim lighting. "You don't know me well enough to say that."

"Maybe not. But I'd like to."

There was no ambiguity in that. No way to interpret it as anything other than what it was.

Ariane's heart was doing gymnastics in her chest. She should say something professional, something that gently redirected without being rude. She should–

The lights went out.

Complete, total darkness. The kind of darkness that only exists underground, in stone chambers with no windows, where even the concept of light seems foreign.

Someone screamed. Several someones, actually.

And then, piercing through the shocked silence:

The fire alarm.

The alarm was deafening in the enclosed space–a mechanical shriek that seemed to ricochet off the stone walls and bore directly into Ariane's skull. Emergency lights flickered on, weak and red, casting everything in an eerie, horror-movie glow.

"Everyone stay calm!" Jacques's voice, trying for authoritative but landing somewhere near panicked. "It's just the alarm system, there's no–"

But his words were drowned out by the chaos. People were shouting questions, moving toward the stairs, the red emergency lighting making it hard to see clearly. Alexandra had her phone flashlight on. Someone bumped into a wine rack and bottles clinked ominously.

"Ariane?" Lando's voice, close to her ear, his hand suddenly on her elbow. "You okay?"

"Yes, I–we need to get everyone upstairs." Professional mode engaged, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. "Follow the group, I'll–"

"This way!" Jacques was calling, already moving toward the archway that led back to the main cellar chamber, toward the stairs. "Quickly now, but carefully! Watch your step!"

The group surged forward–well, surged as much as a group can when navigating a dark, ancient wine cellar in emergency lighting. Charles had Alexandra's hand, leading her carefully. Carlos was right behind them. The investors were moving with surprising speed for people their age.

Ariane started to follow, but then stopped. "Wait, did everyone–"

"I've got this section," one of the staff members called, emerging from a side chamber. "All clear here!"

"Good, let's–" Ariane turned toward the stairs just as the group ahead of her–Jacques, Charles, Alexandra, Carlos, and several others–reached the heavy wooden door at the top.

Jacques pushed it open and everyone flooded through, the sound of the alarm somehow even louder from the stairwell. The emergency lighting made the stairs treacherous, everyone gripping the railing, moving as fast as the space allowed.

Ariane's heel caught on a worn stone step and she stumbled. Lando's hand was there immediately, steadying her.

"Careful," he said, his voice cutting through the noise.

"Thank you, I'm–"

Behind them, she heard the staff member who'd checked the side chamber: "Go, go! I'll get the lights!"

They were maybe three quarters of the way up the stairs when Ariane heard it.

A heavy, metallic CLUNK that cut through even the screaming alarm.

The door at the top of the stairs–the door their group was almost through–suddenly swung shut with the kind of finality that made her stomach drop.

"No, no, no–" Jacques's voice from the other side, muffled. "The door, it's–"

CLUNK.

The sound of an electronic lock engaging.

Ariane and Lando were still on the stairs, maybe six steps from the top. The staff member who'd been checking the cellar was a few steps below them.

"What happened?" Lando called up, moving forward quickly, Ariane right behind him.

They reached the door. Ariane's hands hit the heavy wood at the same moment Lando's did. They pushed. Nothing. The door was solid, ancient oak, and it wasn't budging.

"Jacques?" Ariane called through the door, trying to keep her voice steady. "What's happening?"

"The lock!" Jacques's voice came through muffled and distant–the door had to be at least six inches thick. "The fire alarm triggered the–it's the security system! The electronic lock, it–"

His voice cut in and out. The alarm was too loud, the door too thick.

"WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Lando shouted, pounding on the door.

The staff member who'd been below them on the stairs had caught up. "Oh no. Oh no, this is–when the alarm system trips, sometimes the electronic locks engage. It's a security feature, to protect the valuable–"

"To protect the WINE?" Ariane stared at him. "While we're INSIDE?"

"It's not supposed to lock if the door is open! It must have–the circuit must have–" He was pulling out his phone, hands shaking. "No signal. We're too far underground, the stone walls–"

Lando had his own phone out. "Yeah, nothing. Not even one bar."

From the other side of the door, more muffled shouting. Ariane pressed her ear against the wood, trying to make sense of it.

"–not a real fire–"

"–get maintenance–"

"–the lock is fried, the electrician–"

"JACQUES!" Ariane shouted through the door. "IS THERE A REAL FIRE?"

“Darling, I would be better if you stopped holding my daughter captive.” She said with a glare that eerily matched her daughter’s. He started to respond, but she cut him off before he could interject. “It’s simply not fair that your mother sees my own daughter more than her own. Now, surely Matilda has nothing to do with your busy schedule and I expect you will make sure she takes the time to come see her family while you’re both in England.” She finished with pointed eyes and pursed lips.

Matilda had her head in her hands at this point, as if the sound of her mother’s voice was enough to cause a migraine. When they first started dating, Lando noticed how Matty would shrink herself and silence her own needs. She didn’t want to cause problems or be an inconvenience. It took a lot of reassurance and coaxing from him for her to be comfortable in his world, to accept his help, and to let him prioritize her. He thought that’s what she was doing now. He thought she was trying to be respectful of his schedule with such an important week ahead, because she knew how much this home race meant to him and how pressured he felt to perform well. He wanted to show her that even in these crazy moments of his career, he could still make time to prioritize her.

“Mrs.Lopton, as long as it’s not Sunday, you just tell me where to be and when to be there and I’ll make sure we’re both at the table.” He said proudly, not noticing the wince on his girlfriend’s face.

“See, it’s not so hard then is it, Matilda?” Her mother asked, exasperated. “I’ll send you the details.” She said curtly before promptly hanging up, not even a goodbye uttered.

Matty slunk further into the couch, looking rather defeated. Lando slung himself over her, wrapping her up his arms. “C’mon, Matty. I know it’ll be a busy week, but let me do this for you.”

She spun around in his arms to hit her forehead on his chest. “Lan, I didn’t want to go.”

“Why?” He squeezed her a little tighter. “Do you think they won’t like me? I know your family’s a bit posh, but I can really–”

“No, no, it’s not that–It’s just–” She couldn’t seem to find the words.

“Matty, please. You’ve become a part of my family and I just…want a chance to do the same.” He begged, nudging her head with his nose.

She relaxed into him with a sigh, physically and mentally giving in to his persistence. “Ok.” She relented. “You’ll have to wear a shirt with real buttons.” She muttered, face pressed into his shirt.

He softly grabbed her chin to bring her face up to his, “I’ll even wear a jacket.” He whispered dramatically. She gasped sarcastically before he closed the gap between them, kissing her softly with giggles escaping in between.

He could tell she was nervous. Even more nervous than him. She had been trying to pick at the skin around her fingers all day. He would usually give her his hand to play with to get by the harmful urge, but because he was in and out of media duties all day, he had to wrap her nailbeds with bandaids to try to combat it. It hurt him a little, that she was so nervous. Of course he was a bit nervous when he brought her home to his family for the first time, but he was more excited than anything. After he admitted to her that he was in love with her, it was all he could think about for the longest time. Sharing the person he loved with the most important people in his life. It confused him why she didn’t have the same urge. Did she doubt him? Did she doubt their relationship?

As his internal monologue made him more nervous than he already was, the door to the house in front of them opened.

Admittedly, even on the phone, her mother intimidated him. But nothing could have prepared him for meeting her father for the first time. He was a large man. Taller than Lando. His handshake was firm–firmer than it needed to be–and the expression on his face was like everyone and everything around him had personally offended him at least once and maybe even twice. 

“Good to meet you, sir.” Lando tried to say with a charming smile, but it came out as more of a wince with how hard her dad was squeezing his hand. 

“Landon.” Her dad said formally.

“Land-O” He corrected as politely as possible. “But you’d be surprised how often I get Landon, especially at coffee shops.” He joked.

“Yes, well Landon is a real name.” Her father said gruffly.

“Dad, none of that.” Matilda commanded as she pulled Lando past him and into the dining room. 

Her sister and her husband had already arrived and were seated at the large dining table. There were flowers and faux candles lining the center of the table. Tableware had already been set and there were more spoons laid out than Lando knew what to do with. He expected the sisters to greet each other, but the air remained cold as Claire, her sister, remained seated. Her husband, Richard, awkwardly rose to his feet to shake Lando’s hand across the table and murmured polite hellos to him and Matilda before sitting back down. Matilda’s mother and father entered the room from behind her, immediately finding their seats at the heads of the table. Lando took that as a cue and pulled out Matty’s chair for her before taking a seat himself. 

Dinner wasn’t awkward as much as it was curt. And empty. Lando was used to the chaos of his brother and sisters and the loud, warm laughter of his parents. Dinner with Matilda’s family felt more like a business meeting. Her mother would ask pointed questions and would nod if she received an answer that was expected or that satisfied her expectations and she would, rather obviously, turn her nose up if it was an answer she didn’t like. Her father only directed questions toward Richard, who Lando learned was a lawyer at a firm started by one of Matty’s father’s university connections. Everything just felt clinical. Impersonal. Not at all what Lando had thought a family dinner should be.

“Claire, Richard–How is house hunting coming along?” Molly asked as she daintily sawed a green bean in half with a knife and fork. 

“Nothing has felt right quite yet,” Claire responded, her lips twitching into a coy smile. “But we are looking for something a bit bigger now.” Claire’s hand found her husband’s on the table.

Lando seized this moment to squeeze himself back into the conversation. “Are you looking in London?” He asked, trying to look casual as he took a sip of water to clear his throat. “We’ve been working with this amazing realtor, Lucinda–I’d be happy to give you her contact if you're interested.” Lando offered.

Claire’s gaze immediately shot to Matilda’s as she quirked her head. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were moving back, Tilda. You were so eager to get as far away as you could.” She said, her tone innocent, but eyes obviously pointed.

Matilda’s father scoffed at the head of the table. “I knew it was only a matter of time. Used up all of your savings in Monaco, already?” 

Lando glanced confusingly at Matilda, concerned with the sudden scorn. “No… we’re looking to surprise my sisters. It gets a bit crowded at my parent’s house, so we thought it would be nice to have a bigger place that we could all use when we need it. My sisters travel a lot too, so we thought it would be nice to have a sort of home base instead of hotels y’know… or bothering Mum.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’ve got money, Dad. No need to worry.” Matilda said softly, as she mustered a smile.

“I’m not worried, Matilda, just tired of watching you waste opportunities.” He sighed, downing the last bit of Scotch in his glass. 

Lando watched his girlfriend as she stared at her father. Her face was devoid of emotion, but he could see her eyes shaking.

“Oh, you know what he means, Tilda dear.” Her mother said. “After you refused your Oxford acceptance, it’s just hard to trust your decisions these days. That’s all.” Molly said simply, as if she were talking about the weather. “Your father worked very hard to give you opportunities that others would have been very grateful for. Especially after everything that happened. It was disrespectful, the way you just up and left like that.” She scolded.

“I didn’t–” Matilda stopped herself. Lando watched her bite back her emotions before continuing. “I was never going to Oxford. That was never my plan and I’m sorry if–”

Claire slammed her fork on the table with a clang, “It was embarrassing, Matilda. You embarrassed Mum. You embarrassed Dad. You embarrassed me.” She said pointedly. “The way that we had to find out from the Duforths of all people. I mean, you disrupted our lives and then you just left.”

Lando felt helpless watching his girlfriend grow paler and paler. How was he supposed to support Matty when he had no idea what they were talking about?

“You promised.” Matilda whispered. “You swore you wouldn’t bring it up.” She sounded pained, like this was physically hurting her.

“Did you really think he wouldn’t find out? Matilda, you can’t even give him a future. Whatever this is–you following him around like a dog wherever he goes–it’s not forever. It's criminal, actually, that you’re letting him throw all of his money at you and he doesn’t even know. You’re like a whore the way you live off of him.” Claire spat.

Lando didn’t interject, not right away. He was waiting for her parents. Surely they would insist she apologize to her sister. Tell her she took it too far. That she was wrong. Surely they would defend their youngest child. When it became clear that silent agreement was all they would offer, he finally spoke.

“That’s quite enough.” He said gruffly. Matilda’s eyes shot up to meet his, clearly afraid that he would be angry finding out that she had kept something from him. He didn’t care what it was. He was more concerned that his girlfriend was being made out to be some sort of villain in her own home. His Matty, who he knew to be sweet and kind. A woman who worked harder than anyone he had ever met. Someone who was generous with her love, her time, and her spirit.

“I’m not sure what you think this is, but Matilda is my girlfriend. Honestly, I think of her more as a partner than anything. And I love her. Very much. If I had it my way, she’d travel with me everywhere. To every race. Every engagement. And the fact that you think she’s mooching off of me with no money of her own is quite laughable–”

Her hand found his, “Lando, you don’t have to–” 

He whipped his head around to face her, “No, do they not know? About your business?” He could see it in her eyes that they didn’t. Or maybe they hadn’t cared enough to know the extent of it. He turned back towards her family. “Your daughter owns a patisserie in Monaco so popular, there are lines around the block every weekend. She’s basically sold out of everything every day by noon. And she did all of that on her own. Trust me, she does not need me for anything–especially not money.” His eyes found hers again when he felt her small hand give his a squeeze.

“I need you, Lan. Of course I do.” She said sweetly, tears welling in her eyes.

He let a smile grow on his face, looking at his sweet, kind, ever so humble Matilda. “Maybe for a cuddle, love, but you hold down the fort, don’t you? You’ve got your business, you take care of the house. Hell, you might as well be my PA. I’d lose my head if you didn’t screw it on straight every day.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, almost too quietly. “Not really.”

Lando frowned, shifting in his seat to face her a little more. “Matty, of course it does–”

But she shook her head once, just barely, as if asking him not to push. Not here. Not now.

Claire was already watching her, fork poised mid-air. “So, you’re still taking those little baking classes? Or did you finally get that out of your system?”

Lando’s fingers twitched where they rested on the table. He didn’t even glance at Claire–his eyes stayed on Matilda.

“She’s not taking classes,” he said, his voice calm but clipped. “She teaches them. When she’s not managing a waitlist three months long.”

Claire gave a dry smile, reaching for her wine. “Charming. I’m sure it’s adorable.”

Matilda stood up before he could defend her again. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor, startling even her father into glancing up.

“I’ll help with the plates,” she said quickly, voice light and breathless, like she was already halfway out of the room.

“Leave them,” her mother said–not loudly, but with enough force to freeze the table. Her voice wobbled just slightly, like it had been pulled too tight. “We wouldn’t want you to get overwhelmed, Matilda.”

That word–overwhelmed–landed with a precision only years of practiced civility could sharpen.

Matilda’s hand paused on the back of her chair. Her spine was still straight, but her fingers had curled into the wood like she needed something to hold her upright.

Molly reached for her wine glass, but her hand trembled, just slightly, just enough for the rim to clink against the stem. Her eyes–sharp and shining–didn’t leave her youngest daughter.

“We plan. We prepare. We open our home to you, and somehow it’s still not enough.” Her voice was quiet but thick, like she was swallowing something heavy. “I do hope you enjoyed yourself.”

Matilda didn’t answer.

She turned and walked out, heels silent against the tile, disappearing around the corner with all the composure she could muster.

The silence that followed was jagged. Molly remained perfectly still, the tips of her fingers white against the wine glass.

Lando looked at her, then at the others. No one moved to stop Matilda. No one said a word.

And it made his stomach turn.

The silence after she left the table was almost heavier than the argument itself. Lando sat there awkwardly for a moment, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the half-empty wine glasses and the faint reflection of himself in the polished silverware.

“She’s always been sensitive,” Molly said across from him, her voice even and unbothered, like she was commenting on the weather. “Takes everything so personally. You’ll have to learn to manage it, dear.”

Lando’s head shot up, his polite smile long gone. “I don’t really think she needs managing.”

Molly raised her brows, as if she’d expected as much. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t think so now. But give it time. Matilda’s always been…dramatic. You’ll see.”

He could feel the heat rise in his chest, but he bit it back. No use starting another war when Matilda was already hurting. He just nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Right. I’ll go check on her.”

He found her sitting on the small step that led to the back garden, shoulders trembling. The night air was cool, and she hadn’t bothered with a coat. He slipped his own over her shoulders before sitting beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not looking at him. “That’s not how I wanted tonight to go.”

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing her hair away from her face. “You don’t have to apologize for them.”

“I do.” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “They’ll blame you for this now. For standing up to them. They always do. They find a way to twist it until it’s my fault.”

Lando sighed, resting his head against hers. “Then let them. You’re not a problem, Matty. You’re just not what they…wanted you to be. And that’s not something you should ever apologize for.”

Before she could respond, the sound of the back door opening made them both flinch. Claire stood there, arms folded, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

“I didn’t come to fight,” she said quietly, though her tone betrayed her. “Mum’s crying, Dad’s furious, and Richard’s pretending none of it happened. You should probably go before it gets worse.”

Matilda stiffened. “Of course she’s crying. She always cries when she’s caught being cruel.”

Claire’s jaw tightened. “You just love playing the victim, don’t you?”

Lando started to stand, but Matilda’s hand stopped him. Her voice, when she spoke again, was calm–too calm. “Maybe I do. But at least I’m not still playing the perfect daughter.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain and the faint perfume of the roses by the fence. Then Claire turned and walked back inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Lando exhaled slowly, pulling Matilda closer. “You did good, you know,” he murmured.

She let out a shaky laugh. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t,” he said, kissing her temple. “But I think you’re brave.”

The door shut behind them with a dull click–too soft for how loud everything felt.

Matilda didn’t say anything as they walked to the car. She didn’t reach for his hand. She didn’t even look up. Lando kept a careful pace beside her, close but not crowding. He opened her door like he always did, not because he was trying to be sweet–though he always was, for her–but because it was habit now. Routine. He did it without thinking, the same way he made her tea before bed or tugged a hair tie off his wrist when she forgot hers.

The silence in the car was thick. Not awkward. Just full.

She stared out the window, arms crossed tightly across her chest. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on the center console, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve–a quiet offer. She didn’t take it. Not yet.

Streetlights flashed over them as they drove, casting long shadows on her face. She looked pale. Distant. Like she was somewhere far away, retracing old wounds with every mile that passed under them.

Lando didn’t try to fill the silence. He didn’t ask questions or force comfort where it hadn’t been asked for. He just kept driving–steady, careful–checking on her every few moments without making it obvious.

When they finally turned off the motorway toward Silverstone, she shifted. Just slightly.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” she said softly, her voice rough from disuse.

He glanced over at her. “Don’t be.”

“They were horrible to you.”

“They were worse to you.”

She didn’t reply. Just nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

The hotel was quiet when they pulled in. Most of the team would already be asleep. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine as he parked the car.

Still, she didn’t move. Didn’t unbuckle her seatbelt. Just stared at the dashboard like it might give her the strength she hadn’t found all night.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He turned toward her slowly. “Matty,” he said gently, “you don’t have to hide things from me. Especially not that.”

Her hands were shaking when she finally reached for the buckle. He caught one and held it. Just held it.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said, voice low. “You need rest. You don’t have to explain anything tonight. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to.”

She nodded again, still not trusting her voice.

He didn’t let go of her hand until they were at the door of their room. And when she crawled into bed–fully clothed, mascara smudged, heartbreak hanging off her in invisible threads–he just wrapped himself around her like armor. Not to protect her from the world. Just to remind her she didn’t have to face it alone anymore.

He didn’t say ‘I love you’, even though it sat at the edge of his tongue. He just kissed the top of her head and held her while the world went quiet.

Lando was already awake when she stirred, still curled against him like she had been all night. His arm had gone numb beneath her, but he didn’t dare move. He’d held her while she cried in silence for hours–just quiet shudders and tear-soaked fabric. Not a word. Not a sound. Just pain that didn’t want to be witnessed but couldn’t bear to be alone.

Now, in the quiet of the morning, she blinked up at him, her eyes puffy but clearer somehow.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said quietly, brushing a thumb under his eye.

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to. Not until I knew you were okay.”

She shifted, just enough to sit up against the headboard. The blanket slipped off her shoulder and he reached to pull it back up, letting his hand linger on her arm.

“They always talk about Oxford like it was my one great betrayal,” she said suddenly, voice hoarse. “Like it was a door I slammed in their faces.”

Lando didn’t respond, just waited–still and patient. He’d learned she opened up when she was ready, not when asked.

“I got in, obviously. Top of my year. Full scholarship. I told my parents I wanted to go to culinary school instead, but Dad had already sent a deposit for my spot before I even saw the acceptance letter.” She let out a small, humorless laugh. “It was like my life was planned for me–degree, then law school, then…probably something arranged…and suffocating.”

She paused, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “But something happened. Just after we got our offers.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “A boy. He was in sixth form too. A year older. Really charming. The kind of boy my parents would’ve approved of.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the duvet. “He was kind to me…until he wasn’t.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.

“I told him to stop. I thought that was enough.” Her voice wavered. “But it wasn’t. And a few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.”

He felt his heart splinter. Not just because of what happened to her–but because of how she was telling it. Like it was something shameful. Like she was scared he would see her differently–damaged–because of it.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she continued. “I couldn’t. My parents would’ve forced me to keep it–raise it, probably. Or worse, made me marry him. Tie my whole life to a decision that was never mine to begin with.”

She looked up at him then, eyes glassy but fierce. “So I did what I had to do. I scraped together what I could, lied about where I was going, and I got it done. Quietly. Alone.”

Her voice faltered, a catch she couldn’t swallow. She looked down, twisting the edge of the blanket in her hands.

“There were complications,” she whispered, barely meeting his eyes. “With the abortion. The doctors told me… if I ever wanted to, it might be really hard…to conceive. That I might not ever be able to carry a baby to full term.”

She swallowed hard, then looked up, vulnerability softening her fierce gaze. “I know… you’ve always wanted to be a dad, Lan. And I’m scared–scared that this changes things between us. That my sister’s right and I can’t give you a future you deserve.”

Lando’s hand tightened around hers, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles on her skin.

“Matty,” he said softly, voice low and steady like a promise, “you could never not be enough. None of that–none of it–changes how I feel about you. The past, the future, all the what-ifs–they don’t scare me.”

He leaned in, brushing his forehead against hers. “We’ll figure out what the future looks like, together. Kids, no kids, whatever that means–it doesn’t matter. You’re the person I want beside me. Not because of what we might or might not have. Because of who you are.”

His eyes searched hers, fierce and tender all at once. “I love you, Matilda. All of you. Every piece. And that’s the only future I want.”

She blinked back the tears that threatened again, the weight in her chest lifting, just enough to breathe.

Lando pulled her close, whispering, “You’re not alone. Not now, not ever.” Lando reached for her hand. She let him. And she continued.

“When the Duforths found out, I don’t even know how–maybe hospital gossip, maybe someone saw me–they told my parents. Or hinted. Whatever it was, it got back to them. And they knew. They knew I’d kept it from them. That I’d made a choice on my own. They said I’d ruined myself. That no one would want me. And from that moment on, I stopped being their daughter and started being their disappointment.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, silent and steady. “That’s why I didn’t go to Oxford. Not because I couldn’t. Because I wouldn’t. I needed to leave–to breathe. I just didn’t know how much they’d hold it against me.”

Lando had been gripping her hand so tightly, his knuckles had gone white.

“I’m sorry, Matty,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what they say. You did the bravest thing anyone could do. You saved yourself. And you built this beautiful life from scratch–without their help, without their support. You didn’t ruin anything. You survived. And you don’t owe them forgiveness for that.”

She sobbed then, finally. Not from shame. But from relief.

He pulled her into him and held her close, hands firm on her back, like he could hold all the broken pieces together if he just stayed still long enough.

“I love you, Matilda,” he whispered into her hair. “Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re real. And strong. And mine.” He kissed the top of her head as he tightened his arms around her.

She didn’t say anything right away–just curled into him like her body remembered how, like it was instinct. He could feel her breath shuddering against his chest, still uneven, still catching on the weight of everything she’d finally let spill out.

He leaned back just enough to see her face, to brush the damp hair away from her eyes. His voice was quieter now, steadier.

“You know,” he said, “you don’t have to go back. Not to them. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, like she hadn’t considered that could be a real option.

“You have me,” he continued. “You have my mum, my dad, my sisters. You’ve got our chaos. You’ve got the bakery, your friends, your little sunlit corner of Monaco. That’s your family too.”

He paused, brushing a tear off her cheek with his thumb. “They don’t get to keep hurting you just because they share your name.”

Her lip trembled, but she didn’t cry again. Not this time.“I love you,” she whispered, voice raw and certain.

“I know,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. “And I love you more.”