sara

THURDAY. . .

Now Playing: OSCAR PASTRY | CHICKEN SHOP DATE

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ: ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

A soft, familiar ding of a bell echoes as the camera cuts to the interior of the facility. Instantly, the mood shifts - inside, it’s warm, inviting, and humming with a quiet sort of electricity. The clink of glassware and Tupperware overlaps with the low sizzle of something frying in oil. The air smells of comfort food and possibility. There’s an unmistakable energy to the scene as this episode feels new. Refreshing, even. Like the start of something unexpected. Or like a cool beverage taken out from the fridge. 

The camera pans to Y/N and Oscar, seated across from each other at a small table. A beat passes, neither speaks. Y/N’s gaze is fixed on him, eyes subtly tracking every angle of his face: the curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrows slightly as he focuses on the food. He’s entirely unaware of her, far too invested in dipping a hot chip into sauce with quiet dedication.

Y/N finally glances toward the camera, expression unreadable except for a tiny smirk that seems to say: get a load of this guy.

". . . I have a feeling you’re only here for the food," she says at last, crunching into a chip. Her tone is light, but there’s a careful edge to it, playful, yes, but not fully settled into the comfortable rhythm of teasing. She’s testing the waters.

Oscar finishes sipping from a can of cola, slow and casual. He sets the drink down, fingers toying with the straw, twisting it slightly between two knuckles like he’s weighing the possibilities of how entertaining his answer might be.

"Really? What gave it away?" he replies, tone dry but with a hint of amusement curling into the edges.

Y/N lets out a performative sigh, shoulders dropping in exaggerated exasperation. But Oscar isn’t fooled, there’s something sharper under the surface. He’s done his homework. He knows this is more than just light-hearted banter. This is a game. And Y/N always plays to win.

"Let’s call it a gut feeling, Mr. Pasty - I mean, Pastry." She corrects herself smoothly, lips curling as she watches his face for a reaction. Her grin teeters between innocent and shameless. “I am so sorry, my mistake.” 

Oscar doesn’t even blink. He’s played this game before. Still, there's a moment, a tiny pause where he visibly fights the urge to grab the nearest plate and make a run for the exit.

". . . It’s Piastri," he corrects, deadpan, though the faint crinkle of his nose gives away just how many times he’s had to deliver that correction. It’s muscle memory at this point.

"I know," Y/N replies sweetly, as if revealing a well-kept secret. Her grin widens, clearly pleased with herself. It's not about the name, it’s about the reaction. And Oscar, despite himself, seems perfectly fine with giving her one. He turns his head slightly, pretending to ignore her, but the smile breaking across his face betrays him. His eyes flick back to hers, just for a second, and it’s enough. The subtle pink coloring his cheeks gives him away. Y/N’s grin spreads just a little too wide to be purely self-satisfied. She watches him like she’s studying an unfolding experiment and loving every minute of it.

Oscar, still feigning nonchalance, exhales a breath that’s almost a laugh. He glances at her again, warily amused.

"So," he says flatly, "how long have you waited to do that?" 

There’s a flicker of something, curiosity, maybe beneath his words, even as he tries to keep his expression unreadable. But the corner of his mouth betrays him again, tugging upward against his will. He’s intrigued. Just like everyone else watching . 

"Since the second you walked in here, Pastry," Y/N replies brightly. Her hands shoot up in mock surrender, her grin practically glowing. There’s a glint in her eyes, as if she’s entirely pleased with herself.

Oscar rolls his eyes, biting back the smile he refuses to let her earn, at least not so easily. Still, the flicker of curiosity doesn’t leave his face.

There’s a slight shift in Y/N’s demeanor. Something in her posture relaxes, her shoulders dropping a touch as the comfort of the moment settles into her bones. The spark of a genuine connection flashes through, small but fleetingly. Oscar doesn’t seem to catch it. He leans back and takes another sip of cola, gaze drifting somewhere just past her shoulder, as if trying to maintain the illusion of distance. And just like that, the camera cuts.

It’s something the audience has come to expect by now. It’s almost cruel, leaving them hanging, again. But maybe that’s the point.

✩

“Okay, rapid fire questions, are you ready?” Y/N announces dramatically, wiggling her eyebrows with a mischievous glint in her eyes. The look she throws Oscar is borderline menacing but it seems to be all in good fun. Across the table Oscar freezes mid bite, a half devoured chicken wing suspended inches from his mouth. His eyes widen at her sudden burst of energy. 

“What? I-” he starts, baffled, but she steamrolls right over him. 

“Would you say you like your job?” she asks, leaning forward with mock intensity. Her palms press to the table like an interrogator about to press all the answers from him. Oscar’s gaze flickers toward behind the camera to someone clearly lurking off screen, probably his boss. “Are you trying to get me fired?” he says, raising a brow, though the amused grin tugging at his lips betrays him. 

Y/N shrugs and leans back into her chair, casually flashing him a wink. “Maybe. Anyway, next question: pineapple on pizza. Yay or nay?”

Oscar hesitates, his expression caught between deep philosophical thought and mild panic. Though it’s unclear if it is from grappling with the pizza question or the sudden wink sent his way. He swallows hard. 

“I really don’t want to get cancelled on Twitter. Plus Italians scare me. Kimi would also 100% dive bomb me off the track if I say yes. So I’m going with . . . no.” he declares at last, sighing as if he’s answered a question that will alter the course of human history. 

Y/N cocks an eyebrow, sending him an unimpressed look. “I don’t think you understand the concept of rapid-fire questions, Pastry.”

He sends her a glare just as the cameras cut - right when things were heating up.

✩

"Okay, since you’re so bad at rapid-fire questions, I’ve prepared some more interesting ones," Y/N announces, her tone deliberately exaggerated as she leans forward, planting her elbows on the table like a game show host about to deliver the final round. She enunciates each word with theatrical flair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Across from her, Oscar remains surprisingly composed, lounging in his chair like he has all the time in the world. His shoulders are loose, head tilted just enough to give him a lopsided, curious expression. He raises an eyebrow and sighs softly through his nose, his eyes flicking up to meet hers with amused patience.

"If you insist," he mutters, a low chuckle hiding behind his words, like he's pretending to be reluctant but clearly enjoys every second of the exchange.

"Do you miss Australia," Y/N begins, her eyes narrowing slightly in mock seriousness, "or are you still recovering from the trauma of Vegemite?" Her voice is light, playful, testing the waters as she gauges his reaction with a raised brow and a half-suppressed grin.

Oscar’s reaction is immediate. He sits upright like she’s just insulted a beloved family member. "Whoa-hold on. No Vegemite slander in my presence," he declares, one hand lifting in protest while the other jabs a finger in her direction with mock offense. "Absolutely not. That’s sacred."

Y/N blinks, clearly not expecting such a fierce (if theatrical) defense. Her lips twitch with restrained laughter, but she keeps a straight face, barely. "Highly protective of foods he likes. Duly noted," she says under her breath, her eyebrows arching as she pretends to jot a note in the air with her finger.

Oscar falters for just a second, the lines between jest and curiosity beginning to blur. He watches her carefully, eyes squinting just enough to betray his interest.

"Duly noted for what, exactly?"

Without missing a beat, Y/N shrugs.

"For our wedding, obviously," she replies matter-of-factly, like it’s the most logical answer in the world. She tosses her hair over one shoulder and rolls her eyes, as if Oscar has just forgotten about their imaginary engagement and she’s had to remind him, again.

Oscar huffs a breath through his nose, lips twitching as he fights the urge to grin. He studies her, his gaze lingering a beat longer than before. "And how exactly does that come into play at our wedding?"

Y/N’s eyes practically sparkle. She leans forward like she’s about to share a secret, then pauses just long enough to build tension. "Wouldn’t you like to know, Pastry?" she says, brows wiggling, grin smug and unbothered. Oscar plays along, resting both forearms on the table and leaning in like he’s listening to the most important gossip of the century.

"I would love to know," he says, voice low and dramatic for effect, his gaze fixed on her with mock intensity. On the other side, Y/N sinks back into her chair with a sigh, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate grace, like a queen in her throne.

"Well," she says, as if unveiling a grand plan, "since the only thing you’ll be responsible for, aside from choosing the dress you’ll wear, is the food, now I know not to doubt your taste."

Oscar’s brows shoot up, a laugh escaping him before he can stop it. "Oh, I’m wearing a dress?" he echoes, feigning shock while barely containing the grin already spreading across his face. Their eyes meet again, and for a moment, something playful turns almost tender.

"I just know a tiered skirt would suit you perfectly," Y/N sighs, resting her chin on her hand as if she’s already picturing it, lace, ribbons, the whole fantasy. Oscar nods solemnly, lips twitching with effort to stay serious.

"Good to know. I’ll take that into consideration," he hums, like he’s mentally flipping through bridal magazines. Y/N breaks. A full laugh bursts out of her, loud and unfiltered, and she slumps into her chair like her ribs hurt from holding it in. Her head tilts back, hands briefly covering her face before she peeks out from between her fingers, still laughing. Oscar just watches her, eyes crinkling at the edges, his smile softer now. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at her suggests he doesn’t want the cameras to cut. Not yet.

But of course, the feed cuts there, just as things were getting really good.

✩

"Who is the most annoying person on the grid, and why is it Lando?" Y/N asks, tone casual but eyes gleaming with mischief. She delivers the question with the confidence of someone who already knows she’s stirring the pot, and doing it very intentionally. Across from her, Oscar visibly hesitates. He blinks once, caught slightly off guard by the directness of the jab. It’s clear he’s weighing his options: defend his teammate, or lean into the chaos.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, finally he answers. "Well, that’s very presumptuous of you," he says, brows raising in mock scolding, "but I’m not a liar… so I’ll tell you." He says it with a shrug, voice dry but amused, like he’s making peace with the betrayal. Y/N lights up, eyes widening as she leans in, elbows on the table, fully invested now.

"Please do. I’m considering bringing him on the show," she says, her mouth curling into a grin that’s far too satisfied. The moment the words leave her lips, Oscar’s expression drops. "Whoa, hang on a second, you're already thinking about your next boyfriend?" he says, looking genuinely affronted. "I thought we were getting married?"

He stares at her, mouth slightly parted in disbelief, and honestly? If someone walked in mid-conversation, they’d have no trouble believing this was a real couple. The conviction in his tone is too convincing. Y/N gasps, dramatically, her hand flying to her chest like she’s just been accused of treason. She scans the room theatrically, eyes wide.

"I mean, what? No! Who said that?" she exclaims, her voice rising in faux innocence. Oscar lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head slowly, like he’s actually disappointed. His fingers drum lightly against the table as he stares her down. "Unbelievable," he mutters under his breath. "Anyways-" Y/N says brightly, brushing off the imaginary tension. She picks up a chip and flicks it at him without thinking. It arcs through the air and hits Oscar square in the forehead, then bounces perfectly into his drink with a soft plop.

They both freeze.

Y/N’s eyes go so wide it looks like they’ll pop out of her head. "I did not mean to do that," she blurts out, horrified but already starting to laugh. Oscar slowly turns to look at the chip now floating in his cola, then back at her, expression blank. "Hey!" he protests, mouth agape. "That was personal."

"Swear on my life it wasn’t," she wheezes, now using her sleeve to cover her face as she tries and fails not to lose it completely. Oscar rolls his eyes, but there’s zero real annoyance in it. His lips twitch, threatening a smile as he mutters a subtle, "I hate you." that the mic juuusst picks up. 

Y/N is already halfway doubled over, silent-laughing at the absurdity. The tension between them is easy now, organic. Unforced and free. There’s a spark that’s grown just enough to feel familiar. And then, just as Oscar lifts the ruined drink and opens his mouth to say something- 

The camera cuts.

Again.

It’s the show’s signature move by now: ending just as the moment peaks. A tease, a taste. It's maddening and addictive.

✩

“How do you handle pressure? Asking for when you meet my mother.” Y/N’s voice drops just a notch, calm but with that unmistakable teasing edge. Her eyes lock onto his, sharp and curious, as if this isn’t just a question, but a test she’s been waiting to see how he handles.

Oscar takes a moment to think, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an unmistakable strength in the way he holds himself, the kind that says he’s been under pressure plenty of times before. “I drive at 300 km/h,” he says smoothly, voice steady and sure. “I think I’ll survive your mum.”

His chuckle is easy, lighthearted, as if he’s just shared a joke only they’d get. But Y/N isn’t buying it so easily. She leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing with playful skepticism, lips pressed together in a knowing smirk. “I wouldn’t be too sure if I were you.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the challenge. There’s a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he braces himself, the slight tilt of his head daring her to say more. “Oh really?” he says, voice teasing and laced with curiosity, “What makes you say that?”

She scoffs softly, a sound that’s more amused than offended, as if she’s about to reveal some secret truth. “How do you think I came to be like this, Pastry?” she says, the nickname rolling off her tongue like a playful jab.

Oscar’s grin flickers, his expression tightening just for a moment as if he regrets his next words the instant they escape. “I thought you were born like it,” he quips, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he watches her reaction closely. Y/N’s eyes flash with mock indignation, and she rolls them so dramatically it’s almost theatrical. “Wow,” she mutters, shaking her head with a faint laugh. “My mother will not like you.”

For a beat, Oscar goes quiet, the room’s energy shifting ever so slightly as those words settle in. Then, without missing a beat, he meets her gaze with unwavering calm. “That’s fine,” he says quietly, voice low and sincere, “as long as you like me.”

The warmth of his words hits Y/N in an unexpected way. Her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink, and she straightens up, trying to steady her breath. A nervous, breathy laugh escapes her lips, more of a startled shriek as she searches for the perfect comeback, one that matches his confidence without giving too much away.

“Woah, getting a little confident, are we, Pastry?” she teases, but the slight wavering in her voice betrays how much she’s trying not to be caught off guard. Oscar grins, hands shooting up in a mock surrender. “What can I say? I’m quite the charmer,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief. Y/N leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other with a slow, deliberate grace. She studies him for a moment, then counters with a challenge of her own. “That only matters if you can charm my mother.”

Instantly, Oscar’s eyes light up, the thrill of the dare clearly igniting something in him. He leans forward, voice dropping to a confident whisper. “Consider it done.”

Y/N’s lips curl into a genuine smile, a flicker of impressed amusement shining through as she watches him. There’s something in that simple promise, daring and earnest that makes the air between them electric. She shakes her head lightly, half laughing, half admiring, as if secretly wondering what she’s just gotten herself into.

And then, just as the moment reaches its peak, the camera cuts.

✩

“Would you date someone who knows nothing about Formula One?” Y/N muses aloud, her fingers lazily swirling the untouched drink before her. The glass catches the light with a soft clink against the table as the ice shifts, but she hasn’t taken a single sip since the start of their little date. In fact, most of the food placed in front of her remains untouched, crisps and finger foods sitting neatly, as if waiting for a different kind of appetite.

Oscar’s eyes flicker to the neglected plates, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Without hesitation, he leans forward, his hand reaching across the table to slide the nearest plate toward his side. Y/N watches him with a calm, almost amused expression, eyes narrowing slightly in challenge as she waits for his answer.

“It depends,” he says, his voice smooth but teasing, “is that person you?”

Her scoff is playful, a quick roll of her eyes punctuating the comeback. “Obviously.”

Oscar shrugs with a casual confidence, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then that’s the greenest flag I’ve ever seen,” he replies, words spilling out with the ease of someone who’s never doubted himself for a second.

There’s a pause, just long enough for the surprise to register on Y/N’s face. She blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the depth of his confidence, a rare loss for words that would have been unthinkable mere minutes ago. Slowly, she folds her arms across her chest and leans back in her chair, adopting a posture that’s half-defensive, half-entertained.

“Ugh, you’re so desperate. Just tell me you love me already,” she scoffs, the playful sarcasm hanging thick in the air. But it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s an undercurrent of sweetness behind the teasing sigh she lets out, as if she’s masking something softer beneath the bravado.

Oscar’s grin widens, and without missing a beat he fires back, “Moving a little fast, aren’t we?”

Y/N gasps dramatically, her hand flying to her chest in perfect theatrical exaggeration. “Just tell me you hate me then,” she counters, her voice dripping with faux offense. Oscar leans forward, matching her tone with a flourish, as if performing just for the cameras or maybe just for her. “Wait- No-” he begins, voice playful and full of mock desperation, eyes twinkling with a warmth that suggests he’s anything but serious.

She chuckles softly, shaking her head. “I mean, how can I compete with all that speed and skill anyway?” she teases, her gaze flickering to the plate he’s devouring. Oscar pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re right” he says, “but off the track? That’s different.”

Y/N leans in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you saying I might have a chance?”

He pretends to consider, tapping his chin thoughtfully before flashing a cheeky grin. “Maybe.”

✩

“Do you get annoyed if people beat you in Mario Kart?” Y/N asks, tilting her head slightly as she stirs her untouched drink with slow, deliberate circles. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, fixed on Oscar as if daring him to confess.

Oscar leans back in his chair, a cocky smirk pulling at his lips. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the table before meeting her gaze squarely. “Only if they use a blue shell. That’s personal,” he says, voice low and teasing, like recounting a deeply unfair battle.

Y/N snorts quietly, shaking her head as a playful grin spreads across her face. “That’s completely valid.” She folds her arms on the table and leans forward, narrowing her eyes with genuine curiosity. “So, who’s your go-to character?” 

Oscar’s expression softens, and he lets out a theatrical sigh. He drapes one arm over the back of his chair and props his chin on the other hand, gazing into the distance like a man reminiscing. “Luigi. He’s just so sat on as a character, always being outshined by Mario,” he says, voice thick with faux melancholy.

“Do not get sad and sentimental on me right now, Pastry,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “Do you know how much my mascara costs? Inflation is real.” She tilts her head back with exaggerated drama, as if her tears would ruin her perfectly applied makeup. She places a delicate finger to her eye and feigns wiping away an invisible tear. Oscar throws his head back, laughing. When he lowers it again, he shoots her a playful glare, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m very in touch with my emotions, thank you very much,” he retorts, leaning forward just enough to invade her space. His voice drops to a mock serious whisper. “And clearly, it seems you should be too.”

Y/N meets his gaze, eyes narrowing mischievously. Her mouth falls open as if scandalized. “Are you calling me cold-hearted?” She challenges. 

Oscar leans closer, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Maybe I am,” he confesses, voice low and teasing.

A spark ignites in Y/N’s eyes, and she straightens up abruptly, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. “Unrelated, but can you say: ‘Crikey, mate!’?” she asks, biting back a giggle, already knowing she’s got him. Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other with practiced ease. He hums thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You just crack yourself up, don’t you?” His eyes lock onto hers, amused and unbothered.

Y/N leans forward again, hands splayed on the table, her voice dropping into a mock-serious plea. “Please, it will be so funny. Don’t you want to be funny?”

Oscar raises one eyebrow, a slow smile spreading as he shakes his head. “I’m funny without trying,” he says, shrugging with casual confidence. “Doing that will just make me look desperate.”

Y/N leans back, folding her arms with a smirk that’s equal parts teasing and victorious. “But you are desperate,” she counters, eyes gleaming with challenge. “For you, maybe,” Oscar replies smoothly, his gaze lingering on hers a moment longer. “But not this.”

Y/N huffs dramatically, throwing her hands in the air with mock defeat. “Ugh, fine then. Remain unfunny, you loser.” Oscar chuckles warmly, reaching across the table to lightly tap her hand. The brief contact lingers, both of them caught in the quiet electricity of the moment before Y/N pulls her hand back with a smile and the camera cuts. 

✩

“Can I be your plus one for the next grand prix?”

“Only if you bring food.”

“Too easy. Then afterwards maybe you can introduce me to Carlos Sainz.”

“Nevermind, I take it back. I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing.”

“No wait, I was joking.”

“Tell that to Carlos Sainz.”

“So that’s a yes to introducing us?”

“I hate you.”

“Actually you love me, you said it before, no take backs.”

“I believe you were the one who said that.”

“You’re crazy, I would never. Have some shame.”

And just like that, the video concludes.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! look out for part 2 coming soon !!

taglist time!: @anamiad00msday @curlylando @verogonewild @90smania @clarksgf @knivesdoingcartwheels @ezzi-ln4 @evie-119 @strawberry-rainclouds @fastcarsgonyoem @lina505 @guacala @linneaguriii @tamimemo @hydracassiopeiadarablack @willowpains @alireads27 @gigigreens @rifran @fairyjinn @superlegend216 @cryinghotmess @esw1012

a/n: i apologise for any mix up with the taglist and if you were tagged incorrectly! Pls comment or message me to be added/taken off the taglist!

“Did you see her shoes?” Gretchen whispered. You didn’t have to ask who. “Disaster,” you said, flipping your hair. “It’s giving bargain bin.”

You’d perfected this, being the kind of girl people whispered about, admired, and feared. You weren’t mean. You were honest. And if the truth hurt people’s feelings, that wasn’t your fault.

Everything in your little kingdom was going as it should, until he leaned against your locker like he owned it.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lando Norris said, grinning all dimples and trouble. His uniform shirt was untucked, tie half-off, hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with gravity. “Didn’t think you’d grace us mortals this early.”

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “Didn’t think you knew how to tell time, Norris.”

His grin widened. “Oh, I can tell the time. I just lose track whenever you walk in.”

Karen snorted behind you, choking on her latte. You didn’t turn to glare at her, because that would give him satisfaction.

“You’re blocking my locker,” you said smoothly. “Move.”

“Sure,” he said, pushing off the metal door, but only after leaning a little too close. “You smell nice, by the way. What is that? Expensive and unattainable?”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t get it.”

“I could, if you wrote it down for me.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved past him, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding faster than it should’ve. You could feel his eyes on your back as you opened your locker, pretending your hands weren’t slightly shaking. He was the only person who could get under your skin without even trying.

“Are you two, like… flirting?” Gretchen whispered, barely containing her grin.

“Absolutely not.”

“You totally were!” Karen giggled. “You were all ‘you smell nice’ and she was like ‘ew, you wouldn’t get it.’ That’s foreplay for you two.”

You shot them a withering look. “If I ever flirt with Lando Norris, commit me.”

“Noted,” Gretchen said, smirking. “But, um… You might need to be committed soon.”

You ignored her, slamming your locker shut. Lando was still there, chatting with some guy, laughing like he hadn’t just ruined your morning equilibrium. His laugh carried down the hall, loud, unbothered, golden.

And damn it, he was good-looking. Not in a polished way like the boys you usually entertained, but in that infuriating “just rolled out of bed and still looks like trouble” kind of way. You hated that your eyes lingered.

By lunch, the entire table knew about your “locker scene.”

“So, you and Lando,” said Aaron, your ex—emphasis on ex—twirling his fork. “Something brewing?”

You didn’t even look up from your salad. “Yeah. My nausea.”

Gretchen kicked you under the table. “Come on, you’ve got to admit, he’s funny.”

“Clowns are funny,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I want to date one.”

You were expecting that to end the conversation. It didn’t. Because halfway through lunch, Lando himself appeared, tray in hand, confidence like a weapon. He slid into the seat across from you before anyone could stop him.

“Hey, Queen Bee,” he said, stealing a fry from Aaron’s plate. “Didn’t realize this was the royal court.”

Aaron glared. “No one invited you, Norris.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lando said, glancing at you. “I came for her, not you.”

Your fork froze midair. You could hear Karen trying not to laugh. “In your dreams.”

“You are in most of them,” he said casually, taking another fry. “Usually yelling at me.”

The table erupted, half gasps, half laughter. You blinked, momentarily stunned, before snapping back, “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe. But you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he teased, resting his chin in his hand. “It’s cute.”

That did it. You stood, tossing your napkin onto the table. “Enjoy your little audience, Norris.”

And you walked away, head high, pretending you didn’t hear him call after you, “See you in chem, princess!”

Your friends caught up to you halfway down the hall, laughing so hard Karen nearly tripped.

“Y/N,” Gretchen said between giggles, “you were totally throwing your panties at him.”

“I was insulting him!”

“Same difference,” Karen said, wiping tears from her eyes. “God, you two are going to either date or kill each other.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warm feeling crawling up your neck. “Over my dead body.”

“Don’t say that,” Gretchen said. “You’ll manifest it.”

By Monday morning, you’d convinced yourself that Lando Norris was a temporary glitch in your otherwise perfect life. You could ignore him, easily. You’d done harder things, like calculus.

But apparently, fate—and your math teacher—had other plans.

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Norbury announced. “We’ll be starting our new project on applied functions today. I’ll be assigning partners.”

You didn’t panic. You always worked with Gretchen. Gretchen always worked with you. You were the dream team, efficient, aesthetic, and mildly terrifying.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Norbury said. “You’ll be with… Norris.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry— what?”

Lando was already slouched in his chair, grinning like a cat who’d just eaten the canary. “Guess we’re partners, Princess.”

“No,” you said flatly.

“Yes,” the teacher said firmly. “You two balance each other out. She plans, he improvises. It’ll be good for both of you.”

Lando shot you a wink. You seriously considered dropping out.

When you sat next to him, you made sure there was an entire ruler’s length between your chairs. You weren’t going to let him charm his way into this project — or your sanity.

“So,” Lando said, spinning his pencil like it was a drumstick. “What’s our strategy, queen bee?”

“The strategy,” you said without looking at him, “is that I do the work and you don’t talk.”

He laughed softly. “That doesn’t sound very collaborative.”

“You failed the last quiz.”

“Yeah, because you distracted me.”

You turned to glare at him. “I wasn’t even talking to you.”

“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “That’s what made it worse.”

You stared at him, torn between throttling him and dropping out of school entirely. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

You hated that your lips twitched. You didn’t smile. You absolutely did not smile.

By lunch, the entire school had somehow figured out that you were paired up.

Gretchen was the first to bring it up. “So, math boy.”

You groaned. “Don’t call him that.”

“Fine,” she said, smirking. “Lando.”

Karen gasped. “Oh my god, that’s so cute though. You two are, like, academic rivals turned power couple.”

You threw a grape at her. “He’s a distraction. A loud, annoying distraction.”

“Sure,” Aaron said from across the table. “And I’m the valedictorian.”

You ignored them all, but they weren’t wrong about one thing — Lando was loud. He filled every space he entered, talked like the world revolved around his voice, and somehow made even numbers sound like a joke.

And yet, when he leaned over your desk that afternoon, squinting at the problem set, his hair slightly messy, pencil tucked behind his ear — you hated how your stomach flipped.

“What’s the derivative of this again?” he asked, brow furrowed.

You sighed and wrote it out for him. “It’s not that hard.”

He watched you write, grinning. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

“Stop trying to flirt your way into passing.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said innocently. “Just observing.”

You swore he was going to be the death of you.

The next morning, there was a sticky note on your locker.

“Math genius. Heart thief. – L”

You stared at it, torn between laughter and homicide.

Gretchen peeked over your shoulder. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s harassment.”

“It’s romance,” she countered. “In a dumb teenage boy way.”

You ripped the note off and stuffed it into your bag, muttering, “He’s impossible.”

But you didn’t throw it away.

When presentation day came, Lando—shockingly—showed up prepared. His slides were neat, his explanation was actually good, and when he spoke, the class listened. You’d never seen him so focused.

Afterward, while everyone was packing up, he leaned in and whispered, “Told you we make a good team.”

And for the first time, you couldn’t even argue.

That night, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Your friends were merciless. Gretchen swore you were glowing after class, Karen insisted you were blushing, and Aaron declared he wanted front-row seats to your wedding.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, telling them they were insane. Lando had just… walked with you. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But even as you typed out your denial, you could still hear his voice, soft, smug, and genuine: “Told you we make a good team.”

You told yourself you weren’t smiling. You weren’t thinking about him. You weren’t wondering what it would be like if he actually meant it.

You weren’t.

You weren’t.

You definitely weren’t.

You tell yourself you’re only here because of Gretchen.

That’s the first lie of the night.

The second is when you pretend not to scan the room for him the second you step inside.

It’s too hot, the lights are too loud, and someone has decided a smoke machine is an essential element of teenage chaos. The living room thrums like a heartbeat. You can taste cheap alcohol in the air. You hate it — obviously. You’re better than this, or at least you’ve spent your whole life convincing people you are.

“Relax,” Gretchen says, tugging at your sleeve as she sways to the bass. “It’s a party, not a pop quiz.”

You roll your eyes, clutching your cup like armor. “If it were a pop quiz, at least I’d pass.”

“Babe, you study for fun. You need this.”

You want to argue, but then you catch a flash of familiar brown curls near the kitchen, and the rest of her words dissolve.

Lando Norris.

Of course, he’s here.

You’d know that laugh anywhere — too bright, too boyish, the sound of someone who’s never once doubted he’d get what he wanted.

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a beer, talking animatedly to someone who looks like she might dissolve under the weight of his smile.

You hate the way your stomach twists. You call it irritation. It feels suspiciously like jealousy.

“Don’t look now,” Gretchen sing-songs. “But your favorite headache’s in the kitchen.”

You scowl. “He’s everyone’s headache.”

“Sure,” she says, already grinning. “But you’ve got the prescription.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You down what’s left of your drink, grimace at the burn, and march toward the counter because if you’re going to suffer, you might as well do it up close.

He notices you instantly. Of course, he does, he always does.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Didn’t think the queen of ‘ew, socializing’ would bless us with her presence.”

You snort. “I’m doing charity work.”

“Ah,” he says, pretending to consider. “You volunteering to make me fall in love with you, then?”

You arch a brow. “You’d need more than charity for that.”

His grin widens, dangerous, disarming. “See? You’re flirting already.”

“I’m threatening.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

You hate that he’s good at this, pushing, teasing, pulling you into a rhythm that feels almost choreographed. You hate that you enjoy the rhythm.

He slides a red cup toward you. “You look like you need this.”

You glance inside. “What is it?”

“Liquid courage.”

“I already have that.”

“Then call it liquid denial.”

You take it just to prove you don’t care, sip it, wince at the taste. He laughs, the kind of laugh that curls around you like smoke.

“Strong?” he asks.

“Disgusting,” you answer. “Like you.”

“Then you’ll love it.”

It’s stupid, but the corner of your mouth twitches. You turn away quickly, pretending to check your phone.

He leans closer, voice dropping. “You know, you’re much nicer when you’re pretending not to like me.”

“And you’re much quieter when you’re not speaking.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it softens. “You have no idea how fun it is to make you talk to me.”

You hate that he’s right.

“God, you’re impossible.”

“I prefer irresistible.”

Your friends are watching from across the room, stifling giggles behind their cups. You can practically hear the group-chat notifications already. You send them a glare sharp enough to kill, but it only makes them laugh harder.

You need an escape. Any escape.

“I’m going to get air,” you mutter, shoving your cup at him.

He tilts his head, pretending to look wounded. “Running away? That’s not very Regina-of-you.”

You stop just long enough to toss over your shoulder, “Keep talking and I’ll make your GPA disappear.”

His laughter follows you out onto the porch, low, genuine, annoyingly warm.

The night air hits colder than you expected. It smells like rain and cigarette smoke and the kind of loneliness that creeps up when the music fades.

You sink onto the porch steps, tugging your jacket tighter. Inside, people are laughing, shouting, existing in a way you can’t quite figure out how to. You tell yourself you like control, that you prefer walls to vulnerability — but sitting here alone, you wonder if the walls are closing in.

The door creaks.

“Thought you’d ditched,” Lando says, stepping out. His tone is lighter than his expression.

“Wishful thinking.”

He sits beside you anyway, close enough that your knees almost touch. “You’re really bad at hiding when something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Right. You just looked at your reflection in the punch bowl and realized even mirrors are scared of you.”

You bite back a laugh. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am.”

“Delusional.”

“Hot,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but the silence that follows isn’t hostile. It’s… quiet. The kind of quiet that fills in rather than empties out.

He kicks at a loose pebble. “You don’t have to keep the act on, you know.”

You glance at him. “What act?”

“The one where you pretend nothing ever gets to you.”

Something catches in your throat. You look away. “It’s not an act.”

“Sure,” he says softly. “Then why do you look like you’re about to cry every time someone says your name too gently?”

You blink hard. “Wow. That’s presumptuous.”

“Maybe,” he admits, “but I’m not wrong.”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to insult his shoes, his face, his everything. But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like he means it, like he’s not playing the same game you are.

You sigh, long and tired. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

The words hang between you, thin and electric. For a second, you can’t breathe.

He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move closer, but somehow it feels like he’s everywhere, the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his shoulder, the smell of clean laundry and faint cologne.

Your heart trips.

“I should go find my friends,” you whisper.

“Right,” he says, voice unreadable. “Wouldn’t want people thinking you actually like me.”

You manage a shaky laugh. “Exactly.”

He grins again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “See you around, princess.”

And just like that, he’s gone, back into the noise, the lights, the crowd that always seems to part for him.

You watch him disappear, every smart retort dying on your tongue.

Because the worst part is, he’s right.

You don’t hate him. You hate that you don’t.

You don’t remember when you decided to leave.

One minute you were inside again, pretending to laugh at a joke that wasn’t funny, the next, you were outside, the bass fading behind you like a bad memory. The air smells like rain now—real rain this time—and the streetlights blur in the mist.

Your heels click against the pavement, steady and sharp. It feels like control. It feels like pretending you have somewhere to go, even though you don’t.

You told Gretchen you’d call a car. You didn’t. Your phone died twenty minutes ago, and you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it.

It’s not even that far home, you tell yourself. Just a few streets. You can handle it.

Except your vision swims a little when you look down at your feet. You’re not drunk—you’d never let yourself get that far—but you’re buzzed. Enough that the street feels longer, emptier, lonelier.

“Should’ve just stayed home,” you mutter, kicking at a puddle. Water splashes your ankle. Perfect.

The irony doesn’t escape you that for someone who prides herself on always being composed, you’ve never felt more unput-together.

You’re halfway through your internal scolding when a pair of headlights slows behind you.

You don’t look up until a voice calls out through the open window:

“Regina George, you planning to walk the whole city in those shoes?”

You stop. Turn.

Of course, it’s him.

Lando leans across the passenger seat, arm draped over the wheel, curls messy, eyes bright even in the dim glow of his car’s dashboard.

You groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

He nods toward the empty seat. “Get in, drama queen.”

You cross your arms. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he says easily, “because walking home alone at midnight in stilettos is a genius move.”

You open your mouth for a retort, but your foot slips slightly on the wet pavement and—goddammit—he has a point.

You glare at him anyway. “If you tell anyone about this—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it to my grave.” His tone softens. “C’mon. You’re freezing.”

You hesitate only a second before yanking the door open and sliding in. The car smells like pine and something faintly citrusy, like a summer you forgot to enjoy.

He starts driving without another word. The radio hums low, some indie song that sounds too emotional for two people pretending not to care.

The silence is thick.

“You didn’t have to,” you mutter finally, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.

He shrugs, eyes on the road. “Didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and read about you getting kidnapped by a raccoon or something.”

You snort, despite yourself. “How noble.”

“I’m basically a hero.”

“You’re basically an idiot.”

He laughs, quiet but genuine. It’s unfair how good that sound feels.

You sneak a glance at him — the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the curve of his mouth when he tries not to smile. You look away quickly.

He catches it anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He grins. “You were totally staring.”

You scoff. “In your dreams.”

“Every night, actually.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet, you’re in my car.”

You want to say something scathing. You really do. But then he takes a turn a little too fast, and his arm instinctively goes out in front of you, protective, automatic.

Your breath catches.

He notices. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “It’s fine.”

For a few minutes, the only sound is the rain beginning to tap against the windshield. You watch the wipers glide back and forth like a metronome keeping time for a song neither of you knows how to finish.

Then—quietly—he says, “You okay?”

You blink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You looked… sad. Back there.”

You swallow. “Maybe I just hate parties.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“Then maybe I just hate people.”

“Except me,” he says lightly.

You turn to him. “Who said that?”

He shrugs. “Wishful thinking.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the grin from slipping out. “You’re not my type.”

“Good thing I’m everyone’s type.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. You’re too aware of the way his fingers tap the steering wheel in rhythm with the music, the way his hair curls against the side of his neck, the way he’s looking at you like you’re not the person you’ve spent so long pretending to be.

“Lando,” you say finally, half-warning, half-plea.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “Don’t what?”

“Make this weird.”

He chuckles softly. “Too late for that.”

You sigh, leaning your head against the window. The glass is cool against your skin.

The car slows as you reach your street. You point toward your house, but the words don’t come. For some reason, the thought of saying goodnight feels heavier than it should.

He pulls up to the curb, puts the car in park, but doesn’t move to unlock the doors. The rain has picked up now, soft and steady, filling the silence.

“You’re really not going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You stare straight ahead. “Why do you care?”

He exhales, eyes flicking toward you. “Because you act like no one should.”

That hits harder than you expect. You want to deflect, to make a joke, but your throat’s too tight for it.

You reach for the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

His hand shoots out, gently catching your wrist. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

You don’t mean for your voice to break when you say, “What do you want me to say, Lando? That I’m tired? That I hate how I feel around you? That I wish I didn’t care?”

He blinks, startled, not by the words, but by the crack in them.

The rain fills the silence again. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Then, quietly, he says, “You can hate me tomorrow. Just… let me make sure you’re okay tonight.”

You look at him—really look—and for the first time, you don’t see the cocky grin or the teasing remarks. You see someone who actually means it.

It’s disarming. Terrifying.

You nod, just once.

He lets out a slow breath, relief flickering across his face. “C’mon. My house is closer. You can crash there. I’ll text Gretchen so she doesn’t freak out.”

You hesitate, but the exhaustion wins. You nod again, softer this time.

“Fine. But if you try anything—”

He smiles, pulling back onto the road. “Relax, princess. I’ll behave.”

You don’t believe him.

You also don’t care.

Because for the first time that night, the thought of not being alone feels like something you might actually need.

The first thing you notice is the light.

It’s soft, gold, and wrong; it filters through curtains that aren’t yours, landing across your face in a way your own bedroom never quite manages. It feels too gentle for your hangover and too kind for your brain, which is currently piecing itself back together like a shattered mirror.

The second thing you notice is the smell. Coffee. Soap. And something faintly citrusy, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You groan quietly, rolling onto your back. Your head throbs, a dull pulse behind your eyes. There’s a hoodie draped over your torso, heavy and warm, sleeves pooled around your hands. You don’t remember putting it on.

You blink up at the ceiling, confusion settling in. This isn’t your room.

The walls are lined with posters—cars, mostly. Racing ones. The desk is cluttered with notebooks and energy drink cans. There’s a gaming headset hanging off the chair, a stack of controllers on the nightstand, and a small photo frame turned facedown.

It hits you all at once, like an aftershock.

Oh, no.

You sit up too quickly, clutching your head. The room tilts, and you groan again, quieter this time. The blanket falls to your lap. You’re still in your clothes from last night, the sequined top, the black skirt, the mascara smudged under your eyes.

And the hoodie.

His hoodie.

It’s all coming back in slow motion: the rain, the headlights, the warmth of the passenger seat. The way he looked at you when you said you hate how I feel around you.

“Shit,” you whisper.

Because it’s not the first time Lando Norris has looked at you like that.

You glance around, half-expecting him to be sitting in a chair or leaning against the doorframe with that smug half-smile. But he’s not. The room is quiet. You can hear faint movement somewhere outside the door—a pan clattering, the low hum of a kettle.

He’s up.

You press your hands to your face, trying to breathe. The night replays again, pieces clicking together, his hand catching your wrist in the car, his voice low and steady, saying you can hate me tomorrow.

Well. It’s tomorrow.

And you do hate him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You hate that he’s always there. That he knows when to push and when to stop, when to make you laugh and when to leave you alone. You hate that for the last five years, he’s been the one constant in the background — never quite close enough to call yours, but always close enough to matter.

You remember it now, clearer than you want to.

You were fifteen the first time he asked you out. You’d laughed in his face, told him to “try someone in his league.” He’d just grinned and said, “So, you’re admitting I’m aiming high?”

That was the start of it — this stupid, endless game.

He’d tease you in the halls, drop notes into your locker, sneak glances when he thought you weren’t looking. And every time you rolled your eyes, every time you told him to stop, he’d just say something ridiculous like, “One day, you’ll say yes.”

He wasn’t wrong. He just wasn’t right yet.

Because back then, it was easy to laugh him off. To act like you were untouchable. To keep your walls so high that no one could see over them.

But last night? Last night, for the first time, you let him in, even if it was just a crack.

And you remember everything.

The drive. His voice. The way his hoodie smelled when he draped it over your shoulders. The way he’d looked at you when you finally stopped pretending everything was fine.

You don’t know what scares you more: that you let yourself break in front of him, or that he didn’t take advantage of it.

He’d just… been there. Quiet. Kind.

No jokes, no teasing, no smug smile. Just steady.

It would’ve been easier if he’d made a move, if he’d flirted, if he’d said something infuriating. That’s what you expect from him. That’s the version of Lando you know how to handle.

But he didn’t. He covered you with a blanket and let you sleep.

And now, sitting here in his room, wearing his hoodie, you don’t know what to do with that version of him.

You look at your reflection in the small mirror by his desk, hair a mess, makeup smudged, eyes tired but soft in a way that doesn’t look like you. You look… human.

You hate it.

You pull the hoodie tighter around yourself anyway.

Because even though it’s too big, even though it smells like him, even though it’s every kind of dangerous, you feel warm.

There’s a quiet knock on the door. You jolt, spinning toward the sound.

“Hey,” his voice says softly through the wood. “You awake?”

You freeze. “...Yeah.”

“Coffee’s ready. You take sugar, right?”

You hesitate. “Uh, yeah.”

A pause. “Can I come in?”

You stare at the door, heart hammering. “I— yeah. Sure.”

It opens slowly, and there he is.

Hair still messy, hoodie swapped for a t-shirt that shouldn’t fit him as well as it does, a mug in each hand. He looks tired, but there’s that same small, crooked smile on his face, the one that always ruins your defenses.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You just stare.

He glances at the hoodie you’re wearing. “That looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter, pulling the sleeves over your hands.

He laughs under his breath and sets a mug on the nightstand beside you. “Didn’t think you’d remember much from last night.”

You look up at him, meeting his gaze. “I do.”

That wipes the smirk clean off his face.

You sip the coffee slowly, eyes never leaving his. “You really thought I’d forget?”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Would’ve made it easier.”

“For you or for me?”

He doesn’t answer. He just leans against the wall, watching you.

And in that quiet—between the hum of the rain outside and the steady beat of your heart—you realize something that makes your stomach twist.

He’s still looking at you the way he always has. Like he’s waiting.

And for the first time, you’re not sure you want him to stop.

You don’t realize how close he still is until you exhale, and the air catches on his collarbone. His hand—the one that had been tracing lazy circles over the duvet—stills, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach for you again. You’re both frozen there, breathing the same air, trapped somewhere between last night’s chaos and the kind of silence that feels too intimate to break.

“Still tired?” he murmurs eventually, voice gravelly with sleep.

You hum, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m trying to pretend this is a dream so I don’t have to deal with it later.”

Lando chuckles — that same stupid, boyish sound that used to make you want to throw a shoe at him. “If this were a dream, you’d be nicer to me.”

You turn your head, giving him a side-eye that’s more fond than you mean it to be. “You wish.”

He smiles — slow, lazy, utterly self-satisfied. “Yeah, kinda do.”

There’s a stretch of silence after that. It’s not awkward, exactly. It’s the kind that feels suspended, fragile, like any wrong word could break it. The morning light cuts through the blinds in stripes, falling over his face, over the sharp edge of his jaw, and the faint freckles that scatter across his nose. You hate how warm it makes you feel.

“You remember everything from last night, don’t you?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Every humiliating second.”

“Good.” He grins. “Would’ve been tragic if you forgot how you called me the ‘less annoying one’ between me and your ex.”

Your face burns. “Oh my god. You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he leans in slightly, voice dropping, “you still called me.”

You open your mouth, ready with some sharp, defensive comeback, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. You did. You called him. Out of everyone. And even though you could justify it — he was the only one awake, you were lost, you were panicking — it doesn’t change what it means.

Your voice softens, betraying you. “You really stayed the whole night?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You think I’d just leave you like that?”

You stare at him, something tender curling in your chest. You want to look away, but his expression is so steady, so open, that you can’t. “You shouldn’t be this nice to me.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You say that like you don’t love it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Lando—”

He cuts you off by tugging the edge of the blanket higher, brushing his knuckles against your arm. It’s a small, thoughtless movement, but your skin sparks where he touches you. You’re suddenly too aware of how close you are, how his breath fans over your cheek when he talks.

“You’re really bad at lying, you know that?” he says.

You glare at him half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth betrays a twitch. “And you’re really bad at shutting up.”

He grins, wide and unbothered. “That’s fair.”

He shifts a little closer, his arm brushing yours again, deliberate this time. You feel the warmth of him, the quiet thrum under your skin that’s been there since last night. You should move. You don’t.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence isn’t heavy anymore, it’s softer now, almost domestic. You can hear the faint hum of his phone charging on the nightstand, the distant noise of birds outside, and under it all, his steady breathing beside you.

When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet. “You know, I wasn’t kidding.”

You blink. “About what?”

He meets your gaze, unflinching. “I like you. I have for… a while.”

You swallow, throat dry. “You’ve been trying to get with me for years, Lando.”

“Yeah, but now you actually like me back,” he says, grin turning softer this time, more real. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

You groan, pressing your face into the pillow to hide the stupid smile spreading across your face. “You’re infuriating.”

“Cute way to say you’re falling for me.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, the sound low and warm, and before you can react, he reaches over to gently pull the pillow away from your face. Your heart stutters. He doesn’t let go right away.

For a second, it feels like everything slows, like the world outside his window stops moving, just for you two. He’s still smiling, but there’s something softer behind it now, something that feels almost dangerous.

“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing against your wrist, “I’m not gonna push you, okay? You can take all the time you want. I just… want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him—really look—and it hits you how rare it is for him to sound like that. No teasing, no bravado. Just honest.

You breathe out slowly, and when you finally speak, your voice is small but sure. “You’re not as annoying as I thought.”

He grins, dimples flashing. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

But you’re smiling now, and he sees it, the way your defenses are slipping, the way your shoulders relax, the way your hand doesn’t move when his fingers graze yours again.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “So…” he murmurs, “do I get to say I won you over, or should I wait until after breakfast?”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he repeats with a smirk, “you’re still here.”

You don’t pull away this time.

Instead, you let the silence settle again—warm, gentle, familiar—as the morning stretches out between you. And for the first time, you stop trying to pretend you don’t want it.

The light has changed by the time either of you moves again, softer, warmer, the kind of morning that feels suspended in amber. It spills across the floor, across the crumpled blanket, across Lando’s face where he’s lying half-turned toward you, head propped on his hand like he’s been studying you for hours.

You blink up at him, groggy but oddly content. “You’re staring.”

He smiles, lazy and unashamed. “You’re finally quiet. It’s fascinating.”

You make a face, reaching for the pillow and smacking him lightly with it. He laughs, catches your wrist mid-swing, and suddenly your hand is caught between both of his, your pulse thudding against his palm. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter, a steady, magnetic kind of calm.

“Careful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your hand, “you’ll make me think you actually like me.”

You snort, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice betrays you. “Maybe I just haven’t woken up enough to hate you yet.”

He grins. “That’s progress.”

He shifts closer, and it’s ridiculous how natural it feels, like you’ve been doing this for years instead of constantly throwing verbal knives at him. You can smell his cologne, faint and clean, something you recognize from every hallway argument you’ve ever had with him. The thought makes you laugh softly.

“What?” he asks, amused.

“Just… you,” you mumble. “You’re not supposed to smell this good.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound rumbling through the air between you. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

You shrug, feigning indifference, but your cheeks are warm and you know he can see it. “Don’t get used to it.”

He leans in just a little, voice dropping low. “Too late.”

The words hang there, heavier than they should be. He’s close enough now that you can see the faint golden flecks in his eyes, the curl of his smile that’s somehow both smug and stupidly soft. You could pull away—you should—but the idea doesn’t even occur to you until it’s already too late.

You don’t kiss him. Not yet. You just lie there, barely a breath apart, the weight of it filling the space like static.

“Hey, Lando?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“You’re still annoying.”

He grins, dimples flashing. “And you still like me.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile breaks through anyway, unwilling, unstoppable. “I really hate that you’re right.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You can hate it later. Stay a little longer first.”

The suggestion sits between you, wrapped in the soft hum of the morning, half a dare, half a promise. You should get up. You should grab your shoes, make some snarky remark, and leave before this turns into something you can’t take back.

Instead, you sigh and sink deeper into the sheets. “Just for a bit,” you mutter.

Lando grins, victorious but gentle, pulling the blanket higher around both of you. “Just for a bit,” he echoes.

You rest your head against his shoulder, pretending it’s because the pillow’s too far away, and he pretends not to notice. The silence that follows isn’t sharp or uncertain anymore. It’s warm, the kind that wraps around you like sunlight through a window you forgot to close.

“Lando?” you murmur after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin your life.”

He laughs, quiet and easy. “Deal.”

And when he leans in just a fraction closer—close enough that his breath skims your skin, close enough that the morning slows to a hum—you let it happen. Because maybe you’re tired of pretending you don’t want him. Maybe, for once, it’s okay to let yourself fall.

Outside, the day keeps moving. Inside, you don’t.

Not yet.

realisation hit you hard—paul was hard underneath you. simply from you sitting on his lap.

you debated whether or not you should say something, that was, until he ground his hips upwards into your ass, drawing a light groan from his plump lips.

“paul, baby?” you turned on his lap, the two of you now eye to eye on the couch.

“mm,” he groaned, voice strained as he tried not to rub against you. the friction of his jeans pressing against his cock felt almost too good, sending waves of pleasure through his body every time he shifted.

“just try focus on the movie, yeah?”

“mfuck- yeah,” he nodded once, twice, “yeah.”

you smiled, tempted to reach down and unbuckle his belt, but you waited patiently—seeing how long he could last without moving again.

which wasn't long in the slightest. within the next five minutes, his large hands were holding firmly onto your hips as you ground down into his aching cock. both of your moans echoed in the room, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the tv in the background.

“paul, oh god,” you whispered softly, eyes screwed shut in an attempt to ground yourself. “so good for me.”

he whimpered underneath you at the praise. you picked up the pace ever so slightly as you neared your orgasms. feeling paul’s cock twitch from behind his jeans against your clothed pussy was enough to have your back arching and a moan clawing its way up your throat.

“again—please, again.” paul begged, shifting your hips to rest on his thick thigh. *want you to come again.”

your legs bracketed his thigh, and your sensitive clit nudged against the fabric of your panties with every subtle shift.

“what about you, baby boy? can't have you feeling left out, can we?” you questioned.

“don't care, i want you to come again- please,” he practically choked out the last syllable.

the first movement of your hips was small, testing the waters. then, you sped up, each rock forward sending ripples of pleasure throughout your body. 

“you're so good for me, baby, always so, so good for me.” you praised as the final rock of your hips had your back arching once again, your panties beyond soaked.

“anything for you, just wanna see you feel good,” he mumbled, watching the rise and fall of your chest with every breath.

you wrapped your arms around him, bringing his face to your chest. he settled nicely, happy with his face buried between your tits.

“could die so happy here, but i really need to change my boxers . . .” his voice was muffled from your warm skin, and you tugged his hair gently to remove him.