celia(taysversion)

The hotel room was exactly the same as every other hotel room Formula One had dragged you to over the last two years.

Not identical, necessarily. The artwork changed. The lamps changed. Sometimes the view was better, sometimes the bathroom lighting was offensive enough to feel personal, and sometimes the coffee machine required the kind of mechanical sympathy Lando insisted you did not possess.

But the feeling was always the same.

Temporary.

A space that belonged to nobody, filled with half-open suitcases and charging cables and the quiet evidence of a life lived in transit. Your makeup bag sat on the desk beside Lando’s sunglasses. One of his hoodies had been abandoned over the back of a chair. Your shoes were lined up near the door, his thrown somewhere vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe because apparently precision only mattered when he was driving at two hundred miles an hour.

The only thing that ever made these rooms feel remotely like home was him.

Unfortunately, Lando was currently downstairs.

Some sponsor dinner had been added to his schedule at the last minute, and because the words quick appearance in Formula One only applied when they were on track, you had been left alone with a blanket, a hotel room service menu, and far too much time to entertain yourself.

Which was how you ended up curled into the corner of the couch with Prime Video open on the television.

If anyone asked, you would deny everything.

The books. The movies. The edits.

The extremely inconvenient way romance content had taken over your entire algorithm during the last few weeks.

It had started innocently enough, as these things always did. One book recommendation had appeared on your feed. Then another. Then someone had posted a dramatic edit of a fictional man leaning against a car, and before you knew it, your phone seemed to believe you had no interests outside of emotionally intense men with sharp jawlines and questionable communication skills.

You had finished Off Campus two nights ago.

Then you had gone back and reread the scenes you liked best, which was not technically illegal but did feel like the kind of behavior that should be hidden from loved ones.

Especially from Lando.

Not because he would judge you in any cruel way. He wouldn’t. That was almost the problem. He would find it funny. He would find it fascinating. He would ask questions with that horrible little grin on his face, then remember every single detail forever and weaponize it at the worst possible time.

Lando forgot where he put his phone three times a day, but he never forgot anything that embarrassed you.

Never.

So, naturally, you had kept this particular guilty pleasure to yourself.

The plan for tonight had been simple. You would find something harmless to watch, eat snacks in bed, and pretend you were a person with normal hobbies.

Then you saw the thumbnail for My Fault: London.

You didn’t really know what it was about.

Not properly.

You had seen enough clips to know there was a girl, a boy, and a lot of tension. Beyond that, the details were fuzzy.

That made it safer, somehow.

It was just curiosity.

Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, and then you could move on with your life with the satisfaction of understanding one more internet obsession.

That had been the plan.

Unfortunately, nearly an hour later, you were still watching.

Worse, you were invested.

Worse than that, you had discovered a problem.

The problem was not the movie itself. The movie was doing exactly what it was supposed to do, which was be dramatic and addictive and just a little ridiculous in a way that made it impossible to stop watching.

The problem was Nick Leister.

More specifically, the increasingly irritating realization that Nick reminded you of someone.

At first, it had only been small things. The dark hair, maybe. The confidence. The way he seemed to stand in every room like he had already decided he belonged there, even if he had no intention of saying so out loud.

Then the details kept stacking up.

He’s British. Cocky. Car obsessed. Even a little far too smug for his own good.

The kind of man who could irritate you and attract you in the same breath, which you personally believed should be illegal.

You tried not to compare him to Lando.

Lando was not some mysterious fictional bad boy from a romance movie, no matter how much the internet liked to edit him in slow motion. He was the man who left socks in hotel bathrooms, got emotionally attached to hoodies, talked to you in weird voices when you were annoyed, and once spent fifteen minutes trying to convince you that a bowl of cereal counted as dinner because it had “all the important food groups if you believed hard enough.”

Still, every time Nick smirked at the screen, something in your brain betrayed you.

Every time he slid into a car with too much ease, you thought of Lando folding himself into something low and expensive, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absentmindedly against his thigh while he talked about cars in a way that made no sense to you and yet somehow always made you want to keep listening.

You were so busy being annoyed with yourself that you completely missed your phone lighting up beside you. Then again. Then a third time.

The hotel room door opened with a soft click.

You missed that too.

Lando stepped inside, shook a little rain from his curls, and paused near the door with two bottles of water tucked under one arm and a paper bag from the hotel shop hanging from his fingers. He took in the room in the space of a second, the abandoned blanket edge dragging on the floor, the glow of the television, you curled into the couch like you had been caught doing something you absolutely should not have been doing.

Except you had not noticed him yet.

Which, in retrospect, was the first mistake.

The second mistake was allowing the movie to continue playing.

The third was making a small, entirely involuntary sound at whatever happened on screen next.

Lando heard that. Of course he did.

You had learned over the last two years that your boyfriend could miss a call from his engineer, misplace his keycard, and walk past his own shoes without seeing them, but the second you reacted to something you were trying to hide, his awareness became devastatingly sharp.

The couch dipped beside you.A gasp tore out of you as you jolted upright, one hand clutching the blanket to your chest, your head snapping toward him so fast it was a miracle your neck survived.

Lando was already grinning.

The specific grin that had ended arguments, started arguments, gotten him kissed, gotten him shoved away, and occasionally saved him from consequences he absolutely deserved.

“Jesus, Lando.”

He laughed as he dropped the shop bag onto the coffee table and stretched his legs in front of him like he had every right in the world to sit there, which, annoyingly, he did.

“I texted you.”

His tone was light, but there was something deeply satisfied beneath it, as if your reaction had already confirmed his suspicion that whatever he had interrupted was worth investigating.

You looked toward your phone.

Three missed texts.

One asking if you wanted anything.

One asking if you were still awake.

One that simply said, Should I assume you’ve been kidnapped or are you just ignoring me romantically?

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back into the cushions, the scent of rain and cologne settling around you as he made himself comfortable. “Oh.”

You wanted to be normal about this. You truly did.

The problem was that Lando’s attention had already shifted toward the television.

The movie was still playing.Nick Leister was still on screen.

Because apparently the universe had decided this was the perfect moment for him to look especially smug.

Lando’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What are we watching?”

Nothing about the question should have been dangerous. It was casual, almost lazy, spoken by a man who had just come back from several hours of smiling politely at people and probably wanted nothing more than to switch his brain off beside you.

But you knew him too well.

You knew the angle of his head when something interested him. You knew the slight narrowing of his eyes when he was putting together a thought he had not yet decided to share. You knew the way his mouth softened right before it sharpened into teasing.

You reached for the remote.

Lando reached faster.

His fingers closed around it before yours could, and for one suspended second, the two of you simply looked at each other, his expression bright with victory and yours full of betrayal.

“It’s just a movie,” you said, already aware that you sounded too defensive.

“I can see that.”

“It’s not important.”

“That’s not usually what people say about things that aren’t important.”

You sank back into the couch with as much dignity as you could manage while wearing his hoodie and hiding beneath a blanket.

“It came up in recommendations.”

“Mm.”

You hated the little sound he made.

Lando was taking this information, placing it carefully in the part of his brain reserved for future torment, and you could do absolutely nothing to stop him.

For a few minutes, he watched in silence.

That was somehow worse than immediate teasing.

You sat stiffly beside him, aware of every point where your body almost touched his. His thigh was close enough to brush yours beneath the blanket. His arm rested along the back of the couch behind you. He smelled faintly like rain, expensive hotel soap, and the kind of evening you were glad you had skipped.

On screen, Nick moved through another scene with the kind of cinematic confidence that made your stomach twist because you could already feel Lando noticing things.

You did not look at him.

Looking would be an admission.

Instead, you stared at the television with the expression of someone who had never once had a thought in her life.

Lando’s attention drifted from the screen to you, then back again.

You felt it.

The slow assembly of evidence.

Then, beside you, he shifted.

Not much. Just enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The single syllable filled you with dread.

You closed your eyes. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I might not.”

“You absolutely are.”

The smile in his voice was unbearable.

For a moment he let you sit in the suspense, which was cruel of him and very on brand. Then he nodded toward the television, where Nick had appeared again, all dark hair and smug charm and British arrogance packaged into a romance movie frame.

“He’s British.”

You dropped your head back against the couch.

There it was.

The first clue.

“He is a British man.”

Lando’s mouth curved, slow and delighted.

“One British man you’re apparently very focused on.”

“I was focused on the plot.”

He looked back at the television just in time for Nick to do something that was absolutely not plot critical but was, unfortunately, very effective.

Lando’s silence became louder.

You could feel him turning toward you.

You kept your eyes forward.

If you did not acknowledge him, maybe he would disappear.

He did not.

“You’ve got a type.”

The smug satisfaction in his voice made your whole face heat.

“I date a British person.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not how types work.”

“It’s a strong sample size.”

You finally looked at him, mostly so he could witness the full force of your glare.

It did nothing.

If anything, it made him happier.

That was the trouble with Lando. He had spent years being loved by people who enjoyed him even when he was being insufferable, and unfortunately you had become one of them. He knew exactly how far to push. He knew when your annoyance was real and when it was the kind that meant you were two seconds away from hiding a smile.

This was the second kind.

He knew it.

You knew he knew it.

Which somehow made the whole thing worse.

The movie continued.

For a short while, you allowed yourself to believe the danger had passed.

That was foolish.

The danger had not passed.

On screen, a devilishly handsome Nick Leister climbed into a McLaren.

Lando sat forward so quickly the blanket shifted on your lap.

“Hang on.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my God.”

“That’s a McLaren.”

“I know.”

“That is literally a McLaren.”

“Yes, Lando, I can identify the brand of car you drive for a living.”

He turned toward you slowly, his face shifting from casual amusement into something far more focused.

It was almost funny how quickly the pieces clicked together.

You watched it happen.

British. Cocky. Car obsessed.

McLaren.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in accusation, but in fascination. The same look he got when he found out you had been pretending not to like one of his hoodies while wearing it three nights in a row. The same look he gave you when you claimed you were not tired, then fell asleep against him ten minutes later.

“Oh, this is interesting.”

“It is not.”

“It is very interesting.”

“Lando.”

He leaned back again, but now his attention was split evenly between you and the film, which somehow felt infinitely worse than when he had been watching the screen. His arm slid from the back of the couch around your shoulders, warm and familiar, and even though you considered resisting on principle, your body betrayed you by settling slightly closer.

He noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His thumb moved once against your shoulder, absentminded and affectionate, the way it always did when he was pleased with himself.

“So,” he said, far too casually, “let’s review.”

“No.”

“Your fictional man is British.”

“Lando.”

“ He’s driving a McLaren .”

“You also drive a McLaren. It’s not exactly rare in this household. Plus I’m pretty sure there was also a Mercedes.”

“Oh so he really is car obsessed.”

“You are proving nothing except that men in movies sometimes have hobbies.”

“He’s a little smug, don’t ya think?”

You turned to glare at him.

He looked delighted.

“Careful.”

“What? I didn’t say myself.”

“You were thinking about it.”

His grin widened.

“You think I’m smug?”

“I think you’re about to be single.”

He laughed then, a proper laugh, bright and warm and deeply irritating because it made it impossible to stay embarrassed in any clean, dramatic way. He tipped his head back against the couch and squeezed your shoulder, pulling you closer like he had no intention of letting you retreat from either the conversation or him.

The romantic tension on screen continued building, which was inconvenient because Lando was now fully alert.

You could feel the exact moment he stopped watching as a casual bystander and started watching as a man personally invested in discovering how embarrassing this could become for you. 

Nothing sexual even really happened. Not yet.

It was all glances and not so innocent touches and the kind of silence that romance movies stretched until it became its own language. You were painfully aware of Lando beside you, of the warmth of his arm, of the way he had gone just still enough to mean he was paying attention.

Then he made a quiet sound.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket.

“Don’t.”

He did not take his eyes off the screen.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a noise.”

“Am I not allowed to breathe?”

“Not like that.”

His mouth twitched.

He was enjoying this too much.

You could feel your own embarrassment climbing with every second, which was ridiculous because you were an adult woman in a long-term relationship with the man sitting beside you, and there was nothing inherently humiliating about watching a romance movie.

Except there was.

Because he knew.

Not everything, maybe, but enough.

He knew that you had been alone in a hotel room watching some fictional British car guy smirk his way through a plot you barely understood, and he knew that you had gotten caught so absorbed you missed three texts and the sound of him entering the room.

That was evidence. Damning evidence.

Lando turned his head slightly, studying the side of your face with the kind of open amusement that made you want to crawl beneath the couch.

“So this is what you do when I’m gone.”

“I watch movies?”

“You ignore me for fake British car boys.”

You pressed your lips together.

He saw the smile trying to break through.

His expression softened, not into less teasing, but into something warmer beneath it. A kind of quiet fondness that had developed gradually over the last two years, built from shared hotel rooms and airport lounges and mornings when neither of you knew what country you were in until someone checked the itinerary.

He was laughing at you, yes.

But gently. Lovingly.

In the way someone could only tease when they already knew where the soft spots were and had no intention of hurting them.

Now he was close, and warm, and smug, and watching a movie character who reminded you too much of him, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like embarrassment and more like being seen in a way you had not prepared for.

You shifted beneath the blanket.

Lando’s eyes dipped briefly to the movement.

Then returned to your face.

The smile changed.

Only slightly.

Enough.

“Oh,” he said again, quieter this time.

Your stomach flipped.

“No.”

He leaned a little closer.

“You like this.”

“I like many things.”

“This specifically.”

“It is a film. People are meant to like films.”

“Not what I meant.”

You grabbed the nearest cushion and pressed it against your face.

His laughter came immediately, muffled only when he tried to tug it away.

“Come on,” he said, voice warm with amusement. “I’m not judging.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m appreciating.”

“That’s worse.”

“It might be.”

When you finally lowered the cushion, he was watching you with that stupid, affectionate grin, the one that always made him look younger and softer and unfairly pleased with you. It was the expression he wore when you wore his Quadrant hoodie without asking. The one he had when you fell asleep during movies and insisted you had been watching. The one that said he had discovered something about you and would now be unbearable about it forever.

The movie, apparently sensing the exact moment it could do the most damage, chose then to escalate.

Lando’s attention snapped back to the screen.

His brows lifted.

For one blissful second, you thought he was merely processing the romantic tension.

Then the story context caught up with him.

His entire body went still. Not an amused sort of still.

Horrified still.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned toward you.

“Wait.”

Your stomach dropped through the floor.

“No.”

“Wait.”

“Lando, no.”

His voice rose slightly.

“Is that his sister?”

You had known this moment was coming eventually, but knowing did not prepare you for experiencing the full force of Lando Norris discovering a romance movie plot in real time.

You sat up quickly, the blanket sliding down your lap.

“Step sister.”

“That is not helping as much as you think it is.”

“They are not related.”

“They live in the same house.”

“They met after their parents got married.”

His expression shifted from horror to disbelief.

“After?”

“Yes.”

“As adults?”

“Yes.”

“From different countries?”

“Yes.”

“Never met before?”

“Correct.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

The silence stretched.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“You knew that very fast.”

You closed your mouth.

Opened it.

Closed it again.

Unfortunately, there was no good answer.

“It’s like the first 10 minutes of the movie you missed.”

Lando’s face transformed.

The horror did not disappear, exactly, but it became layered with something less offensive.

“This is insane.”

“It makes sense in context.”

“That is what people say when things do not make sense.”

“You weren’t even here for the beginning.”

“I feel like I got here for the important part.”

“You got here for the worst possible part.”

“Best possible part for me.”

He settled back into the couch again, still chuckling under his breath, and despite everything, despite the teasing and the horror and the fact that he would absolutely be bringing this up again, you found yourself relaxing against him.

That was another thing about Lando.

He could make embarrassment feel survivable.

He could walk straight into something you were trying to hide, poke at it until you wanted to smother him with a pillow, and somehow still make you feel less ashamed than you had before.

Maybe because he never made it feel serious.

Maybe because he liked discovering the weird little corners of your brain.

Maybe because, somewhere along the way, you had learned that his teasing was almost always just another form of affection.

For all his commentary, for all his dramatic horror at the plot, he did not ask to turn the movie off. He did not reach for his phone. He did not make you switch to something safer or easier or less embarrassing.

Instead, he tucked you closer into his side, stole a pretzel from your snack pilel, and kept watching.

And because Lando did not know how to be a passive viewer of anything, he became invested.

Annoyingly invested.

He asked questions.

He made predictions.

He argued with character decisions under his breath.

At one point he paused mid-snack to frown at the screen and mutter, “That is a terrible idea,” with enough seriousness that you had to hide your face in his shoulder to stop yourself from laughing.

The longer he watched, the softer the teasing became.

It turned into something domestic.

Something easy.

The kind of night you loved most with him, where the rest of the world narrowed down to the two of you tucked away from the paddock noise and cameras and schedules. His hand rested on your knee beneath the blanket, thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric as if he did not even realize he was doing it. Every so often, he glanced down at you, like he was checking whether you were still embarrassed or whether he could safely make another comment.

You always saw him check.

That was the thing people missed about Lando sometimes.

They saw the noise first.

The jokes. The chaos. The energy.

They did not always see the way he watched the people he loved, how carefully he learned their limits, how quickly he noticed when a joke had landed wrong or when your silence had shifted from comfortable to overwhelmed.

He had spent the first few months of your relationship pretending not to be careful because careful felt too vulnerable.

Now he was careful without hiding it as much.

Now he touched your knee under blankets in hotel rooms and let his thumb move in slow circles while pretending he was too focused on a movie to know exactly what he was doing.

By the time the credits rolled, the rain had softened against the windows and the city beyond the glass had blurred into streaks of light.

You expected immediate teasing.

You braced for it.

Lando, however, remained quiet for several seconds, staring at the screen with an expression that suggested he was still processing several things at once.

Then he looked down at you.

“You know,” he said, voice thoughtful, “I still think the step sibling thing is weird.”

You groaned and shoved at his chest.

His laughter returned instantly.

“But,” he continued, catching your hand before you could escape, “I understand the appeal.”

You froze.

That was worse. Far worse.

Because he said it softly, with a hint of amusement but also with enough warmth to make your face heat all over again.

“You understand the appeal,” you repeated carefully.

His grin came back slowly.

“Yes.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

He shifted, turning toward you more fully, one arm still around your shoulders, the other settling comfortably over your blanket-covered legs as though keeping you pinned in place without actually trapping you. His eyes moved over your face with open fondness, lingering on the warmth in your cheeks, the suspicious way you avoided looking directly at him.

“The appeal,” he said, like he was preparing a very serious presentation, “is obviously very simple.”

You already regretted letting him speak.

“I’m British,” he began.

“Lando.”

“I drive McLarens.”

“Please stop.”

“I might also be a little bit car obsessed.”

“I’m begging.”

“Some may say I’m confident.”

You pulled the blanket higher.

“Smug, even.”

“That part is not a compliment.”

“It is when you like it.”

“I do not like it.”

His eyes flicked over your face.

Your silence betrayed you.

The satisfaction that spread across his expression was unbearable.

He leaned slightly closer, voice lowering in that way he only used when he knew he had you cornered and was enjoying every second of it.

“And handsome.”

You gave him the flattest look you could manage.

“Interesting that you made that connection.”

You hated him.

You loved him.

The two feelings were frequently indistinguishable when he looked at you like that.

The laughter came gently this time, both of you sinking into it rather than breaking apart with it. He pressed his smile into your temple, and you let yourself lean into him because there was no point pretending you did not want to. Not after two years. Not after all the little ways you had become familiar to each other.

He knew how you took your coffee when you were tired versus when you were pretending not to be. He knew that you hated being teased in front of other people but secretly loved when he did it like this, tucked away where no one else could see. You knew he pretended to be offended when you misidentified his cars, even though he secretly enjoyed explaining them to you every time.

This was yours. This room.

This ridiculous movie.

This mortifying realization.

This man beside you, warm and far too pleased with the fact that a fictional British driver had somehow led you right back to him.

Eventually, the night started pulling at both of you.

Lando yawned first, though he denied it immediately when you pointed it out.

You turned off the television, and the room fell into a softer kind of darkness, lit only by the bathroom light and the glow of the city beyond the curtains. The hotel felt smaller without the movie playing. More intimate. The rain continued tapping at the glass, slow and steady, while the two of you moved through the familiar routine of getting ready for bed.

It was always strangely comforting, those small routines in unfamiliar places.

Lando plugged in both your phones because he insisted you were “a threat to battery percentages everywhere.” You gathered the snack wrappers from the coffee table while he wandered into the bathroom. He left the door open, because he always did when it was just the two of you, and you could see him in the mirror as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush.

There was something painfully domestic about it.

The kind of mundane intimacy you had not expected to love so much when you first started dating him.

In the beginning, everything had felt bigger. The races. The travel. The attention. The fact that he was Lando Norris and you were trying to learn what it meant to be loved by someone whose life seemed to move faster than everyone else’s.

But somewhere between the first year and the second, the grand gestures had become less important than this.

Sharing space. Stealing chargers. Falling asleep on planes.

Knowing when he needed quiet after a bad session.

Knowing when you needed him to make you laugh before your thoughts spiraled too far.

You were still thinking about that when you stepped into the bathroom beside him and reached for your own toothbrush.

Lando glanced at you through the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste, curls slightly damp and flattened in odd places from the hood he had worn earlier. He looked tired now, softer around the edges, the sponsor dinner version of him fading back into the version that belonged to you.

You should have let the night end there.

You should have brushed your teeth, crawled into bed, accepted that you had survived being caught watching your kind of guilty pleasure movie, and moved on.

Instead, your brain chose betrayal.

“Hey Lan,.”

Lando looked up.

“Hm?”

You kept your eyes on the sink.

“When we get home...”

The pause was small.

Not dramatic.

But after almost two years together, he knew your pauses the same way you knew his expressions.

His brushing slowed.

“Yeah?”

You focused very hard on putting toothpaste on your toothbrush, even though you had already done that.

“Do you think we could take the GT3 RS out?”

Lando’s toothbrush paused halfway to his mouth.

It wasn’t an immediate reaction. If anything, it was the complete stillness that gave him away. One second he had been rinsing toothpaste from the sink, and the next he was staring at you through the mirror with a look that suggested you had just spoken fluent Mandarin.

You immediately regretted opening your mouth.

“The GT3 RS?” he repeated.

There was nothing particularly dramatic about the question, but after nearly two years together, you knew exactly what that tone meant. It was the same tone he used whenever he was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t quite make sense.

“Maybe,” you mumbled.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

That was somehow worse than if he’d laughed.

“Interesting.”

“Lando.”

He set the toothbrush down carefully, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter. The amusement was already spreading across his face, impossible to stop now that he had found something to tease you about.

“I’ve spent years talking about cars around you,” he said. “Years. I’ve explained horsepower, suspension setups, engine notes. Do you know how many times you’ve voluntarily brought up one of my cars?”

You already knew where this was heading.

Unfortunately, so did he.

“The answer is zero, by the way.”

“That’s not true.”

“You called it the loud green one for six months.”

“Because it is loud and green.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, and suddenly you were reminded of exactly why this conversation had been a mistake. Because now he was looking at you with that stupid grin, the one that always appeared whenever he thought he had uncovered something.

“And now,” he continued, taking a step closer, “you’re requesting specific Porsches.”

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.

The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You weren’t about to tell him that.

You certainly weren’t about to tell him that somewhere between the movie, the cars, and a certain dark-haired British idiot sitting beside you for the last hour, the idea had simply sounded appealing.

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

The smile that spread across his face was pure satisfaction.

And judging by the way he looked ready to bring this up for the next decade, you had a feeling you were never going to hear the end of it.

“I just thought it might be nice,” you said, aiming for casual and landing nowhere near it.

“Nice.”

“Yes.”

“The GT3 RS.”

“Yes.”

He took another step toward you, close enough now that you could smell toothpaste and rain and him. The amusement in his face softened slightly as his hands found your waist, thumbs settling naturally against the fabric of your hoodie.

“You know,” he said, voice lowering just enough to make your stomach flip, “you could have just said you wanted me to drive you around.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You heavily implied it.”

“I asked about a car.”

“You asked about my car.”

“I asked about one of many cars.”

“You asked about the one that might even belong in your little romance movie.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Lando’s grin became devastating.

“There it is.”

“There is nothing.”

“That face says there is absolutely something.”

You tried to step away, but his hands tightened just enough to keep you there, gentle and warm and laughing before either of you made a sound.

The teasing could have embarrassed you if it belonged to anyone else.

From him, it only made you feel caught in the safest possible way.

Like he had found a secret you had been hiding and decided to hold it carefully instead of making it sharp.

His thumb brushed over your side once, slow and affectionate.

“You’re cute when you’re guilty.”

“I’m not guilty.”

“You missed three texts because of fake me.”

“He is not fake you.”

Lando looked deeply unconvinced.

“British.”

“Stop.”

“Dark hair.”

“Lando.”

“Cars.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Unfortunately, you did.

Terribly.

Obviously.

So much that it made your chest ache sometimes in small, inconvenient moments like this, when he was standing barefoot in a hotel bathroom with toothpaste at the corner of his mouth, looking at you like you were the best thing that had happened to him all day.

You reached up and wiped the toothpaste away with your thumb.

His expression softened.

Just a little.

Enough to make the teasing falter.

That was the thing about Lando. He could be unbearable for fifteen minutes straight, then look at you like that and make it impossible to remember why you had ever wanted him to stop.

The bathroom seemed quieter suddenly, the rain muffled behind the windows, the city distant beyond the room. His hands remained at your waist, and yours rested lightly against his chest, close enough to feel the steady beat beneath your palm.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then his mouth curved again, smaller this time.

“So when we get home,” he said, “you want a ride in the GT3 RS.”

You sighed.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

“No, no. I’m very supportive.”

“You are not.”

“I am. I’m thrilled. My girlfriend finally cares about cars.”

“I care about plenty of things.”

“Apparently fictional British men have done more for automotive enthusiasm than I ever could.”

You pressed your forehead against his chest to hide your laugh.

He wrapped his arms around you immediately, chin dropping to rest lightly on top of your head, his own laughter vibrating through him.

It should have been ridiculous.

It was ridiculous.

But it was also sweet in that strange, sideways way love often was.

Because maybe the movie had been a guilty pleasure.

Maybe the comparison had been embarrassing.

Maybe you would now have to endure months of Lando casually asking if you wanted to watch “your McLaren boyfriend film” whenever he felt annoying.

But the truth was, you had not fallen for Nick Leister.

You had fallen for Lando.

For the way he noticed your secrets and made them feel less heavy.

For the way he teased without cruelty.

For the way he came back to hotel rooms smelling like rain and still chose to sit beside you through the end of a movie he did not understand just because you were watching it.

For the way he touched you like affection was muscle memory.

For the way he could turn a humiliating moment into something you knew you would laugh about later.

When you finally pulled back, he was still smiling.

Not smug now.

Not exactly.

Something softer.

Something that belonged only to the two of you.

“I’ll take you,” he said.

Your face warmed again, though this time it was not entirely embarrassment.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned down, brushing his nose lightly against yours before kissing you once, soft and quick and full of laughter he had not quite let go of.

Then he pulled back just enough to ruin the moment.

“But if you ask me to repeat his lines while driving, I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

You shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back into the counter, laughing again.

And later, when the lights were finally off and the hotel room had gone dark around you, Lando pulled you into him beneath the blankets with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged.

You were almost asleep when his voice brushed against your hair.

“British, McLaren, cars,” he murmured.

“Go to sleep.”

“Just saying. Very on brand.”

“Lando.”

His arm tightened around your waist, his smile pressing against the back of your neck.

“Can’t believe I was replaced by a step sibling with a sports car.”

You groaned into the pillow.

He laughed quietly, holding you closer.

And despite yourself, despite the embarrassment still warming your cheeks and the absolute certainty that he would bring this up again, you smiled in the dark.

Because when you got home, he would take you out in the GT3 RS.

He would pretend it was all about the car.

You would pretend you had not asked because of the movie.