rayne

That was two months ago.

Two months of Pietra's color-coded spreadsheets, vendor calls with Italian florists who didn't speak a lick of English, and approximately sixty-three emails about whether the napkins should be ivory or ecru. (They're the same fucking color. You didn't say that, though, you're a an actual professional.)

Now you're standing in Cifonelli, a tailoring house in London where the building is approximately 300 years old and the man at the door eyes you up and down about twelve times before letting you come in. You arrived fifteen minutes early because that's what professionals do, tablet in hand, ready to make sure Max Fewtrell doesn't accidentally pick the wrong shade of midnight blue and give his fiancée an aneurysm.

Max is already here, standing on the fitting platform in his shirtsleeves while a tailor who looks approximately one hundred years old circles him with pins. The groomsmen are scattered around the room—Max's his brother is scrolling through his phone in the corner, and the other three groomsmen are huddled by the window arguing about something that sounds football-related but you're not paying attention.

And Lando Norris, the best man, is in one of the leather chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, watching you.

He's been staring at you for the last twenty minutes while you've been in the checking suit orders. You felt it. Ignored it. Felt it again. Kept ignoring it, like a professional.

Now you've got his garment bag draped over your arm and you're done pretending you don't notice.

"Norris," you call out.

He doesn't move right away. Just lets his eyes drag up from wherever they were—unhurried, unbothered, like you've interrupted something he was very much enjoying. "That's me," he says, and the smile that follows is the kind that knows exactly what it does to people.

"Dressing room two," you say, already walking toward the hallway. "Let's get you fitted."

You hear him get up. Hear him follow. The hallway is quieter, away from the chaos of the main room, and dressing room two is all dark wood paneling, it's exactly the kind of place where people spend obscene amounts of money and feel good about it.

You hang the garment bag on the hook, unzip it.

"Jacket first," you say without turning around. "Then trousers. If the shoulders don't sit right or the sleeve length is off, don't adjust it yourself. Just tell me."

When you turn around, he's in the doorway. Not coming in. Just leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with this look—eyes slightly narrowed, mouth not quite smiling, like he's just confirmed something he suspected and now he's deciding what to do about it.

"You're very good at this," he finally says.

"At my job?" You raise an eyebrow. "Revolutionary concept."

"No." He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, slow, like the space belongs to him now that he's decided to enter it. "The whole—not looking at me thing." He tilts his head slightly. "You've been doing it since I walked in. It's very disciplined and I'm a little impressed, actually."

Your jaw doesn't move. Your expression doesn't either. "The suit, Norris."

"See, that." He stops close enough that you have to consciously not step back. Close enough that you catch his cologne—something clean and expensive and quietly devastating. He's taller than you clocked from across the room, and the way he's looking at you isn't rude, isn't aggressive. It's just certain, like he's already several steps ahead and he's being generous enough to wait for you to catch up. "That's the thing. You do this—" a small gesture toward you, vague, like he's indicating everything, "very professional, very unbothered. But you felt me looking at you."

"Everyone in the room felt you looking at me."

"Sure." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "But only you ignored it that hard."

The silence sits between you. He doesn't rush to fill it, just watches you with that quiet, completely unearned confidence, chin tipped down slightly, eyes steady, the kind of eye contact that doesn't shift or flicker, the kind that makes you aware of exactly where your hands are and whether your face is doing something it shouldn't be.

"Are you going to try this on," you say, "or are we wasting Pietra's fitting appointment?"

He reaches out and takes the jacket from the hanger himself. Doesn't look away from you while he does it.

"Quick question," he says and the pause that follows is long enough to be deliberate. "Are you single?"

You've got to be fucking kidding me. You shake your head, "That is not a quick question."

"It's three words." He shrugs the jacket on and takes his time with the second button. "Pretty quick to me."

You step forward and fix the collar before you've put any real thought into it. Professional and an awfully horrible fucking habit you've developed because right this second your fingers brush the back of his neck and you feel him go very still.

"Shoulders are good," you say, stepping back. This is absolutely fine. So absolutely not fine.

"You didn't answer."

"Because it's not relevant, Norris."

"To the fitting?" He turns to face the mirror, but his eyes find yours in it immediately. "Probably not. To me?" The corner of his mouth pulls again. "Little bit relevant."

You crouch down to check the trouser break. He looks down at you. You can feel it without looking up.

"You do this with all your clients?" he asks.

"Check the fit?"

"Go all quiet and professional when someone makes you uncomfortable."

You stand. "You're not making me uncomfortable."

"No?" He turns from the mirror to face you properly. You become aware of your hands. "Then why haven't you answered?"

The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. You're aware of the door behind him, the mirror to your left, the very small amount of air between you.

"The sleeve length is off," you say. It's a lie, but you reach for his wrist anyway.

He lets you take it, doesn't say anything while you pretend to check the cuff, while your fingers brush the inside of his wrist.

"You're single," he says.

You glance up and he's already looking at you, which is unfortunate considering how attractive the fucker actually is. His lip is quirked upwards at the corner, and his eyes are squinting in that specific way that tells you he is enjoying this very much.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." He's still letting you hold his wrist, still watching you with that same certainty. "You would've shut this down immediately if you weren't."

You drop his hand and step back. "The jacket fits."

"Good." He shrugs the jacket off, and you watch the fabric slide down his arms, watch the way his shoulders move underneath the sweater. He hangs it back on the hanger with more care than you expected, smoothing the lapels before turning to the mirror. His hands go to the hem of his sweater, tugging it down, adjusting it. The movement pulls the knit tight across his chest, his shoulders, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—find yours in the reflection.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't waiting for you to look. "So when are you free?"

Your throat is dry. "I'm not."

"For dinner." He's still watching you in the mirror. Still standing there with his hands resting at his sides like he's got all the time in the world.

"I know what you meant."

He turns around. The movement is slow, his weight shifts, his hips turn, and suddenly he's facing you instead of the glass. "That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either."

"But it's not a no." The smile that spreads across his face is different from before—softer, more genuine. It makes him look younger, less like him and more like someone who actually wants to know your answer. And somehow that's worse. "Which means you're thinking about it."

"I'm thinking about how to get you to try on the trousers."

His hands drop to his belt.

The metal clinks as his fingers work the buckle loose and you freeze. Actually freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as you watch his hands—tanned, long-fingered, confident—slide the leather through the silver.

"What are you—"

"Trying on the trousers," he says, like it's obvious. The belt slides through the loops with a soft whisper of leather against fabric, and his shit-eating grin only widens. "That's what you wanted, right?"

"You don't have to—" You turn around and face the wall. What the fuck is going on? "There's literally a changing screen right there."

"There is." You hear the zipper, the metallic sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. Then fabric sliding down his legs, the soft rustle of denim pooling at his feet. Oh my god, oh my god. "But you're already in here."

Your stomach drops. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You draw in a breath—too sharp, too quick—and try to compose yourself. Try to remember that you're a professional, that you've handled difficult clients before, that this is just a suit fitting.

Except it's not. You both know it's not.

"I will actually leave," you say.

"Why?" He sounds amused. You can hear the smile in his voice, can picture exactly what his face looks like right now without even seeing it. "You're the wedding planner. Don't you need to check the fit?"

Your face is on fire. Your hands are clenched at your sides and you're staring at the wood paneling on the wall like it holds the secrets of the fucking universe. "I can check it when you're dressed."

"I'm getting dressed right now." A pause. Then, quieter, "You can turn around. I'm not naked."

You shouldn't. You should walk out of this room, find another tailor, maintain some semblance of professionalism.

He's in his boxers, black Calvin Kleins that sit low on his hips, and that stupid cream sweater that's ridden up just enough to show a strip of tanned, toned stomach. The jeans are pooled at his feet and he's just standing there, holding the suit trousers, legs long and golden like he spends half his life in the sun.

Which he does. Because he's a fucking Formula 1 driver. And you're trying very hard to look at his face, at the trousers in his hands, at literally anything except the very obvious bulge straining against the black fabric of his underwear.

Your eyes drop. You can't help it. The Calvin Klein waistband sits just below his hip bones, and the fabric is doing absolutely nothing to hide how well-endowed he is. Or how hard he's getting. Jesus Christ.

"Well?" he says, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher. Like gravel and honey mixed together. "Should I put these on, or are you going to keep staring?"

Your eyes snap up to his face and the grin there is absolutely wicked. Victorious. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, knows exactly where your eyes just were, and he's loving every second of it.

"The trousers," you manage. Your voice sounds strange—tight and strained and breathier than it should be—and you quite literally want to rip your vocal cords out. "Put them on."

"Say please."

Your brain short-circuits. "Excuse me?"

"You want me to put them on?" He tilts his head, and the movement is casual, easy. Still holding the trousers in one hand, the other resting against his hip, thumb hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Still standing there like this is completely normal. Like he stands half-naked in front of wedding planners every day. "Ask nicely."

This is insane. This entire situation is insane. You're alone in a dressing room with a half-naked Formula 1 driver who's asking you to beg him to put his pants on while he's very clearly hard and very clearly enjoying watching you try not to look.

"Please," you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant it to. "Put on the trousers."

His grin widens. "See? That wasn't so hard."

He steps into them. One leg, then the other, and you watch—you can't not watch—as he pulls them up slowly and deliberately. The fabric slides over his calves, his knees, his thighs. Golden skin disappearing inch by inch beneath midnight blue wool. Over his hips. Over that bulge that's still very much visible, still obscenely obvious even through the suit fabric now.

He doesn't button them. Just leaves them sitting low on his hips, the zipper undone, the waistband gaping open enough that you can still see the black elastic of his Calvin Kleins.

"How's the fit?" he asks.

You can't speak. Your mouth is completely dry, your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you're very aware that you need to actually do your job now. Need to check the hem and the break and the waist, which means getting close to him again. Means kneeling down in front of him. Means being eye-level with—

"I need to check the break," you hear yourself say.

"Go ahead."

You move before you can think about it. Drop to your knees in front of him, and the position is—it's—don't fucking think about it.

Your hands reach for the fabric at his ankle. The hem is perfect. You both know it's perfect. Pietra sent the measurements three times, the tailors here are the best in London, there's no way it's wrong.

You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up. But you smooth the fabric anyway. Adjust it against his shoe. Check the length with fingers that are definitely not shaking.

"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.

You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.

"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I think—" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly above you, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."

Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.

Fuck it.

You let your hand slide up from his ankle. Slowly. Palm flat against the fabric of the trousers, fingers spreading wide as you move up his calf. The muscle is solid beneath your touch, tense. You feel it twitch as you pass over his knee, and you keep going. Higher. You feel his leg go rigid under your touch. Hear his breath catch—sharp and sudden.

"You think so?" you ask, still not looking up. Your hand keeps moving. Up his thigh now, and he's gone completely still above you. Not moving. Not breathing. Just frozen.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice has gone rough. Strained. "I do."

Your hand reaches the very top of his thigh. You pause there and let the moment stretch. Then you slide your palm over the bulge straining against his trousers and squeeze.

He makes a sound—sharp, shocked, something between a gasp and a groan. You stand up slowly, keeping your hand exactly where it is. Keeping pressure. His hands come up like he's going to grab you, touch you, pull you closer, but he freezes when you press harder.

"Fuck," he breathes.

You're close now. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, close enough to feel the way his breathing has gone uneven. His hips shift forward into your touch and you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.

"You were saying?" you murmur, tilting your head up. Your mouth is inches from his.

"I—" He swallows hard. Can't seem to finish the sentence. His eyes drop to your lips and you lean in closer. So close your breath ghosts across his mouth. Your hand moves slightly, rubbing through the fabric, and he actually groans this time.

"What was that about dinner?" you whisper.

"Tomorrow," he manages. "Eight. I'll—fuck—I'll pick you up."

"Mm." You lean in like you're going to kiss him. Let your lips almost brush his.

Then you let go, step back, and knee him directly in the dick.

Not hard enough to do real damage. But hard enough.

He doubles over with a choked sound, hands flying to his crotch, and you step around him calmly. You pick up your tablet from where you left it on the chair, and take one final look at Lando Norris.

"The trousers fit perfectly," you say, voice perfectly professional. "I'll let the tailor know we're done here."

You ignore Lando Norris for the rest of the fitting.

It's not difficult. He stays in the dressing room for a solid ten minutes after you leave, and when he finally emerges—fully dressed, thank fucking god—his face is doing something between amused and aroused and genuinely shocked.

You don't look at him. You focus on Max's final adjustments, on coordinating with the tailor about the timeline, on making notes in your tablet about pickup dates and alteration appointments. When Lando tries to catch your eye in the mirror, you turn away. When he opens his mouth like he's about to say something, you start talking to the elderly tailor about mother-of-pearl versus horn buttons.

Your hands only shake once you're in the car back to your flat. That evening, you send Pietra a follow-up email:

You don't mention Lando. There's nothing to mention, it was a fitting. He tried on a suit, everything went fine. Pietra responds within an hour with twelve exclamation points and a gif of someone crying happy tears. You close your laptop and don't think about Lando Norris for the rest of the night.

Or the next day.

Or the day after that.

Three weeks pass.

Three weeks of vendor calls and seating charts and a truly deranged argument with the florist about whether "white" and "ivory" roses are actually different. (They are, apparently.) Three weeks of normal, professional wedding planning work where you successfully do not think about Lando Norris or the fact that you kneed him in the dick in a Cifonelli dressing room.

You're good at compartmentalizing. It's a necessary skill in this job. You've dealt with difficult clients, bridezillas, grooms who show up drunk to their own rehearsal dinners. One overly confident racing driver who doesn't understand professional boundaries is nothing.

Except he keeps showing up in your email thread with Max and Pietra. Little comments on the group chain about the bachelor party planning, questions about the timeline, a truly chaotic suggestion that they do sparklers at the reception that Pietra immediately vetoed. You don't respond to him directly. You address Max only.

You're fine. Everything is completely fine. It's a Wednesday night—11:00 PM, to be exact—and you're on your couch in your pajamas with a pint of Häagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream that you've been working through for the better part of an hour. Some reality show is playing on your TV. You're not really watching it, too busy scrolling through the seating chart for the reception, trying to figure out where to put Pietra's uncle who allegedly had an affair with Max's aunt's best friend in 1987.

Your phone rings. Unknown number. London area code and you ignore it, taking another spoonful of ice cream. It rings again thirty seconds later. Same number.

You sigh, set the pint down on your coffee table, and answer. "Hello?"

"So, I've been thinking about you."

You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth. That voice. You know that fucking voice. "Norris?"

"Lando," he corrects, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Hear the way he's settling into this conversation like he's got all fucking night to terrorize you. "And before you hang up—which I know you're about to do—I need to tell you something."

"How did you get this number?"

"Max," he says easily. "Told him I needed to coordinate some best man stuff. He gave it to me, no questions asked. Great guy, but a bloody terrible judge of character."

You close your eyes. "It's eleven o'clock at night."

"I know. I waited aaaaalllll day to call you." He pauses. "Didn't want to seem too eager, ya'know."

"You're calling me at eleven PM. That's the definition of eager."

"Fair point." He sounds amused. "Sooo, are you wearing panties right now?

You choke on your ice cream. Actually choke, coughing and sputtering into your fist while he laughs on the other end of the line. The pint nearly tips over on your coffee table and you have to grab it with your free hand, still trying to catch your breath. "Are you—" More coughing. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Completely serious," he says. "It's a yes or no question. Pretty straightforward."

You set the ice cream down. Hard enough that the spoon rattles. "I'm hanging up."

"No you're not." And the worst part—the absolute worst part of all of this is that he's right. You're still sitting here, phone pressed to your ear, face burning, while this man asks you about your underwear at eleven o'clock at night like it's a perfectly normal thing to do.

"Why are you like this?" you ask.

"Like what?"

"Insane. Mmm, iInappropriate, I don't know maybe the completely lack of boundaries."

"I prefer 'direct,'" he says. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"I'm not answering that."

"So that's a yes." He sounds pleased with himself. "Good to know."

"That's not—I didn't say—" You stop and take a breath. "What do you want, Lando?"

"I told you. I've been thinking about you."

"Then stop thinking about me."

"Can't." He says it simply, like it's a fact he's already accepted, like it's a facet that you're supposed to also accept. "Believe me, I've tried. Spent three weeks trying to forget about the dressing room. Didn't work. So now I'm calling you at eleven PM like a psychopath because apparently that's what you've reduced me to."

Your stomach does something stupid. You cannot do this right now. Seriously, you cannot. "I reduced you?"

"Yeah." There's rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. You picture him sprawled out somewhere—on a couch, maybe, or in bed—phone pressed to his ear, that insufferable grin on his face. "You put your hand on my dick and then kneed me in it. That's not something a person just forgets."

"You deserved it."

"I did," he agrees immediately. "Completely deserved it. I was inappropriate and pushy and I basically stripped in front of you. Very poor form. My mum would be horrified."

Despite yourself—despite everything—your lips twitch. "Your mum doesn't know?"

"God, no. She thinks I'm a perfect gentleman." He pauses. "She'd probably like you, actually. You seem like the type who'd keep me in line."

"No one can keep you in line."

"You did a pretty good job with your knee."

You close your laptop. Pull your knees up to your chest, phone still pressed to your ear, ice cream forgotten on the coffee table. This is insane. You should hang up. You should block this number and email Pietra tomorrow and tell her you can't work with her best man. But you don't, because despite every alarm blaring in your brain, you're enjoying this. "What do you actually want?" you ask quietly.

"Dinner," he says. No joke this time. No flirting, just honesty. "One meal. You pick the place, you pick the time. If you hate it, I'll never bother you again."

"You'll bother me anyway. You're the best man."

"Fine. Then I'll be professional. And completely appropriate. I'll call you 'ma'am' and everything."

"You're not calling me ma'am."

"See? You care." He sounds pleased. "That's progress."

"That's me stopping you from being weird."

"I can be weirder." He pauses. "Much weirder. Want me to prove it?"

"No."

"No, I think I can," he goes silent for a brief second. Then, "Uhhhhhhh, oohhhhhhh, mmmmm—" Your brain short-circuits. "What the fuck are you—"

"Oh god, yes," he moans into the phone, and it's so obscene, so deliberately pornographic that your face catches fire. "Just like that!"

"Stop!"

"Okay, okay! Say you'll will go with me!" he says in a higher pitched voice, clearly imitating you, before dropping back to that low groan. "Oh yeah, baby, just like that!"

"Oh my GOD, Lando!"

"Right there, don't stop, don't fucking stop."

"Goodbye, Lando!" You're already pulling the phone away from your ear, face burning so hot you might actually combust.

"Friday, eight PM!" he shouts before you can hang up. "Wear something nice! I'm taking you somewhere expensive!"

You hang up. Sit there on your couch, ice cream forgotten, staring at your phone like it personally betrayed you.

Friday comes too soon.

You spend Thursday trying to convince yourself to cancel. Draft three different texts saying you can't make it, that something came up with work, that this was a mistake. Delete all of them. Pietra sends you an email with fourteen exclamation points about linens. You have a call with the florist that somehow turns into a forty-minute argument about garden roses versus peonies. You confirm the string quartet for the ceremony and the DJ for the reception and the backup generator for the lights because Pietra is convinced there will be a power outage even though Villa d'Este has never had a power outage in its three-hundred-year history.

You don't think about Lando Norris. (You think about Lando Norris constantly.)

Friday morning, you have a dress fitting in Knightsbridge for another bride who can't decide between two nearly identical shades of white. Friday afternoon, you meet with a new client in Mayfair to discuss color palettes for their engagement party—"We're thinking sage and blush, but like, elevated sage and blush, you know?" You nod. You take notes. You smile and say yes, you can absolutely source elevated sage napkins.

You don't cancel. By the time you get back to your flat in Monaco—you live here because half your clients are here and the tax benefits are obscene and you can pretend it's a practical decision and not because you've always wanted to live somewhere beautiful—it's 6:47 PM and you have one hour and thirteen minutes to get ready.

You shower. Stare at your closet for fifteen minutes. Pull out four different dresses and hate all of them. Settle on a black slip dress that's simple and elegant and shows just enough without being obvious. Nice black Manolo heels, with your hair down and makeup that looks effortless but took thirty minutes. You look at yourself in the mirror and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing. Your phone buzzes at 7:52 PM.

After rushing down the elevator, you push through the glass doors and step outside into the warm evening air. And there it is.

A Porsche GT3 RS. Forest fucking green, parked directly in front of your building like it belongs there, which it absolutely does not. The engine is running, that distinctive Porsche rumble that turns heads even in Monaco where supercars are background noise. The driver's side door opens and Lando Norris unfolds himself from the car, and—fuck. He's wearing a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into dark trousers that fit him obscenely well. No tie. Top two buttons undone. His hair is slightly messy in that way that's definitely intentional, and when he sees you, his entire face lights up.

"Hi," he says.

You stop on the pavement. "How did you know where I live?"

His grin is shameless. "Max."

"Of course."

"Also—" he gestures at you, vague and all-encompassing, "—wow. You look incredible."

"Your selfie was terrible."

"I know." He doesn't look embarrassed. "But you responded, so it worked." He walks around to the passenger side, opens the door for you. The interior is all tan leather and you might come just from sitting inside of it.

"Shall we?" he asks.

You should turn around. Go back upstairs and text him that this was a mistake. Instead, you get in the car, he closes your door, walks back around to the driver's side. Slides in and the door shuts with that solid, expensive thunk that only German engineering can achieve.

"Seatbelt," he says, already reaching for his own.

You buckle in. The belt clicks into place and he's already pulling away from the curb, the Porsche responding to the slightest touch of the accelerator like it's been waiting for permission to move. The streets of Monaco blur past. He drives fast—not recklessly, but definitely confidently. Like he knows exactly what the car can do and exactly how far he can push it. His right hand rests on the gear shift, fingers drumming against the leather. The left is on the wheel, relaxed, assured.

Then his right hand moves and lands on your thigh. It rests there, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing against the inside of your leg. You look down at it. Then at him. He's watching the road. Completely focused like his hand isn't currently on your thigh, like this is totally okay to do upon meeting someone for the second time.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Driving." He glances at you briefly, grin tugging at his mouth. "Why, what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Your hand?"

"What about it?" He squeezes gently, once, then goes back to that light, proprietary touch. "Problem?"

"Yes, actually."

"Hm." He doesn't move it. "Want me to stop?"

You should say yes. You should absolutely say yes. "I didn't say that."

His grin widens. "No, you didn't." He shifts gears and his hand moves with it, then returns to your thigh. Higher this time. Not quite at the hem of your dress, but close enough that you're very aware of how little fabric there is between his skin and yours.

"You're very presumptuous," you manage.

"Uh-huh," He takes a turn smoothly, the Porsche hugging the curve like it's on rails. "Also, you haven't moved my hand. So clearly I'm doing something right."

"You're doing something, that's for sure."

"Is it working?"

"Is what working?"

"This." His thumb moves, a slow stroke against your inner thigh that makes your breath catch. "Me being charming and forward and completely shameless."

Your face is burning. "You're not charming."

"Liar." He glances at you again, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you. Something that makes your stomach flip. "You wouldn't be in this car if I wasn't at least a little bit charming."

He's right. You hate that he's completely right. "I didn't agree to let you feel me up in your car."

"You didn't disagree either." His thumb moves again, and this time you can't quite suppress the small inhale. He notices, and you want to grab the wheel and crash the fucking car. "Besides, I'm being a gentleman. My hand is barely moving."

"Where are we going?" you ask, trying to redirect.

"Dinner." His hand stays exactly where it is. "I made reservations at Le Grill. You know it?"

"At the Hotel de Paris?" Your stomach drops. "Wait—aren't people going to see us?"

He looks at you. Actually looks at you this time, taking his eyes off the road for longer than is probably safe. "People?"

"You're—" You gesture vaguely at him. "You're you. You're Lando Norris. People know who you are."

"So?"

"So, we'll be seen together. You and I."

"Good." He says it simply, turning his attention back to the road. His hand doesn't move from your thigh. "That's the point."

"The point?"

"Of taking you to a nice restaurant. In public. Where people will see us." He shifts gears smoothly, accelerating through a turn. "I'm not hiding you in some basement bistro. You agreed to dinner with me, so we're doing it properly."

"I didn't agree to being photographed."

"Then don't smile at the cameras." He grins. "Or do. You'll look good either way."

"Lando, please."

"Relax." He squeezes your thigh again. "It's just dinner. People eat dinner all the time. It's a very normal human activity."

The light ahead turns red. He slows to a stop, turns to look at you fully. His hand is still on your leg, thumb still doing that maddening stroke against your inner thigh. "Besides," he says, eyes locked on yours, "I already told Max I'm into you. He laughed. Said I should go for it. So if anyone asks, we're just two single people having a meal. Nothing scandalous about that."

"You told Max—"

The light turns green. He's already accelerating before you can finish the sentence.

There were photos taken outside the Hotel de Paris. At least six people with their phones out, asking for pictures, calling his name. Lando handled it the way he probably handles everything—with that easy charm that makes people feel like they're the only person in the room, even when he's already moving on to the next one. His hand never left yours except to pose for photos, and when he was done, it came right back.

Dinner goes well. Too well, actually. The restaurant is all art deco elegance and Lando is—fuck, he's good at this. Charming without being smarmy, confident without being obnoxious. He orders wine without looking at the list, pulls out your chair, makes the kind of casual conversation that feels effortless even though you know it's not. He asks about your work, actually listens when you answer, remembers details from Pietra's emails that he has no business remembering. And he's gorgeous in the dim lighting. That's the worst part. The candles catch the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when you say something that amuses him. His shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar and you keep noticing his throat, his collarbones, the way his hands move when he talks.

He catches you looking. Grins like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "See something you like?" he asks.

"Don't push it."

"That's not a no." His hand finds your knee under the table. Stays there through the rest of dinner. Through dessert—which he insists on ordering even though you're full. Through the coffee. His thumb traces lazy circles against your leg and you're very aware of every single point of contact. By the time you're back in the Porsche, it's past eleven and the streets of Monaco are quieter. He drives slower this time, his hand back on your thigh like it belongs there.

"I had a good time," he says.

"Shocking."

"You did too. Don't lie." You don't answer, and instead you look out the window instead at the city lights blurring past. He pulls up to your building too soon. Puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine.

"So," he says.

"So."

"Can I come up?"

You look at him. He's watching you with that same intensity, that same certainty, like he already knows what your answer is going to be. "That's very presumptuous," you say.

"I prefer forward." His hand squeezes your thigh. "And you haven't said no yet."

"I haven't said yes either."

"But you're thinking about it." He leans closer, and you can smell his cologne again, that same expensive scent that's been driving you crazy all night. "Aren't you?"

You should say no. You should thank him for dinner, get out of the car, go upstairs alone. "Just for a drink," you hear yourself say.

His smile is dangerous. "Just for a drink."

He turns off the engine and the encompassing sudden silence is loud. You hear your own breathing, hear the way his shifts slightly as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

"Come on then," he says finally.

You get out before he can come around to open your door. He manages it anyway, meets you on the pavement, and his hand finds the small of your back as you walk toward the entrance. The lobby is empty, just silence and the night security guard who nods at you as you pass. The elevator is at the far end, and your heels click against the floor with each step. Lando's hand stays on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress.

You press the button. Wait, and the elevator arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open. You step inside. He follows anf the doors close and suddenly the space feels much smaller. You're very aware of how close he's standing, how you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"Which floor?" he asks.

"Seven."

He presses the button. The elevator starts moving.

You watch the numbers climb. One. Two. Three.

"You're quiet," he says.

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

You look at him. He's already watching you, leaning against the elevator wall with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely too comfortable. "About whether this is a terrible idea," you say.

"It definetly is." He doesn't sound concerned. "But you're still bringing me up."

Four. Five. Six.

The elevator slows. Stops. The doors open. You step out into the hallway. He follows, close enough that you can feel him behind you as you walk to your door. Your hands are shaking slightly as you dig for your keys in your clutch.

"Need help?" he asks, and his voice is closer now. Right behind you.

"I've got it." You find the keys. Unlock the door. It swings open into your flat—dark except for the light you left on in the kitchen. You step inside and he follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.

He doesn't move further in. Just stands there in your entryway, hands still in his pockets, watching you. "Nice place," he says.

"You haven't even looked at it."

"I'm looking at you."

Your face heats. You turn away, set your clutch down on the console table by the door. Slip off your heels. The relief is immediate but also makes you shorter, more aware of how much taller he is. "I'll get us something to drink," you say.

"Sure."

You walk toward the kitchen. Hear him follow. When you glance back, he's looking around now—at the open floor plan, the windows overlooking the other buildings, your cream-colored Cloud couch and the art on the walls.

"Wine?" you ask, opening the fridge.

"Whatever you're having."

You pull out a bottle of white. Realize your hands are still shaking when you try to open it.

"Here." He's suddenly right behind you, taking the bottle from your hands. "Let me." He opens it easily. Pours two glasses then hands you one.

"Cheers," he says. You take a sip and the wine is cold and crisp and does nothing to settle your nerves. Lando leans against your counter, glass in hand, still watching you with that same look.

"You're staring," you say.

"I know."

"It's rude."

"I know that too." He takes a sip of wine. "But you look good so good right now, I can't help myself." He sets his glass down. "Come here."

It's not a question. Not quite a command either. Just—an invitation. A test and you should tell him to leave. Should remind him this is a terrible idea. Should do literally anything except walk toward him. You walk toward him and he doesn't move. Just watches you close the distance, watches you stop right in front of him. Close enough to touch but not touching.

"Hi," he says quietly.

"Hi."

His hand comes up. Slowly. Gives you time to move away if you want to. Cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I'm going to kiss you now," he says. "If that's not okay, you should probably say something."

You don't say anything and he leans in. His mouth finds yours and it's—fuck. It's nothing like you expected. Softer at first, almost careful, his lips moving against yours like he's learning you. His hand stays on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, and his other hand comes up to your waist, pulling you closer. Not demanding. Just guiding.

You kiss him back and feel him smile against your mouth.

"There she is," he murmurs, and then the careful is gone.

He kisses you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his hand tightening on your waist. You make a sound—something embarrassing and needy—and he swallows it, uses it as permission to crowd you back against the counter. The marble is cold against your lower back but he's warm, solid, pressed against you from chest to hips.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, angling your head exactly how he wants it. The other hand moves lower, gripping your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there through your dress. You can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing against your stomach, and when you shift slightly he groans into your mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips already swollen, and there's something feral in the way he's looking at you now. "Bedroom. Where's your bedroom?"

You point vaguely toward the hallway. Can't quite form words.

"Show me." You take his hand. Lead him down the hall, past the bathroom, to your bedroom door. It's dark inside but you don't turn on the light. Don't need to. The city lights through the windows give enough illumination to see the bed, to see him closing the door behind you with one hand while the other pulls you back against him.

He kisses you again. Hungrier this time, one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your ass through the silk. He walks you backward toward the bed, doesn't break the kiss even when your legs hit the mattress.

"This dress," he says against your mouth. "Been thinking about taking it off you all night."

"Then take it off."

His hands find the zipper. Slides it down slowly, deliberately, knuckles dragging against your spine. The dress loosens, falls open, and he peels it off your shoulders. It pools at your feet and you step out of it, standing there in just your underwear—black lace, matching set, the expensive kind you told yourself you definitely didn't wear for him.

He steps back. Looks at you.

"Jesus Christ," he says quietly.

You reach for his shirt. Start unbuttoning it, fingers fumbling slightly because he's watching you so intently and it's making your hands shake. He lets you get three buttons undone before his patience runs out and he pulls it over his head, sends it somewhere across the room. And—fuck. You knew he'd be fit, he's an athlete, but seeing it is different. Tanned skin, defined muscles, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into his trousers. You put your hands on his chest, feel his heart racing under your palms, feel the way his breathing has gone uneven.

"Your turn," you say, fingers going to his belt.

He doesn't help. Just stands there watching you unbuckle it, unzip his trousers, push them down his hips. He steps out of them and then it's just his boxer briefs—black, tight, doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. You look up at him. He's grinning now, that same cocky grin from the dressing room.

"See something you like?"

"Shut up."

"Make me." You kiss him again and he makes this sound—low and pleased—before his hands are on you, one sliding up your back to unclasp your bra while the other grips your ass, pulling you flush against him. The bra falls away and then his mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, trailing lower.

"Bed," he says against your skin. "Get on the bed."

You do. Climb onto the mattress, lie back against the pillows, and watch him watch you. He hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, pushes them down, and—

Oh. He's—fuck, he's big. Thick and hard and already leaking at the tip, and when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, you forget how to breathe.

"Still want to tell me to shut up?" he asks, climbing onto the bed, caging you in with his arms.

You can't speak. Can only stare at him—at the way his muscles shift as he moves, at the cocky tilt to his smile, at the heat in his eyes. His hand slides up your thigh. Slowly. Taking his time. Fingers tracing patterns against your skin until he reaches the edge of your underwear.

"These," he says, snapping the lace against your hip, "need to come off."

He doesn't wait for permission. Just hooks his fingers into the lace and drags it down your legs, tosses it somewhere behind him. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, and the way he's looking at you—hungry and focused and completely shameless—makes heat flood through your entire body.

"Fuck," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Look at you."

His fingers trace up your inner thigh, feather-light, getting closer and closer to where you need him. But he doesn't touch you yet. Just keeps tracing these maddening patterns against your skin while you try very hard not to squirm.

"Lando—"

"Yeah?" He's grinning now. Knows exactly what he's doing. "Something you need?"

"Touch me."

"I am touching you."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" His fingers move higher, so close now you can feel the heat of his hand. "You might need to be more specific."

You grab his wrist. Guide his hand where you want it. His palm cups you and you both make a sound—yours is relief, his is something darker. "Fuck, you're already wet," he says, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds, finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. "Is this what you've been thinking about? All through dinner?"

You can't answer. Can only arch into his touch as he works you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, learning exactly what makes you gasp.

"Answer me," he says, leaning down to kiss your neck. Teeth scraping against your pulse point. "Have you been thinking about this?"

"Yes." It comes out breathless. "Yes, fuck—"

"Good." He slides one finger inside you and you both groan. "Because I've been thinking about it since the fucking dressing room."

He adds a second finger, curls them just right, and you see stars. His thumb finds your clit and works it in rhythm with his fingers, and you're already embarrassingly close, already fisting the sheets because it's too much and not enough all at once.

"That's it," he murmurs against your throat. "Let me feel you."

You come hard, sudden and sharp, your back arching off the bed. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, prolonging it until you're shaking and trying to push his hand away because it's too sensitive. He pulls his fingers out slowly. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while maintaining eye contact.

"Jesus Christ," you manage.

"We're not done." He's already reaching for his trousers, digging through the pockets. Pulls out his wallet, then a condom. "Not even close."

He tears it open with his teeth, rolls it on, and then he's positioning himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance and you both freeze for a second.

"You good?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question. Like he actually cares about the answer.

"Yeah." You pull him down into a kiss. "I'm good."

He pushes in slowly. Just the tip at first, letting you adjust, and fuck—he's thick. Thicker than his fingers, stretching you in a way that's just on the right side of too much. "Breathe," he says against your mouth. "Just breathe."

You do. He pushes in deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you and you both have to take a moment because it's overwhelming. He feels enormous like this, filling you completely, and when he shifts slightly you make a sound that's almost pained.

"Okay?" His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Talk to me."

"Move." Your hands grip his shoulders. "Please move."

He does. Pulls out slowly, pushes back in, sets a rhythm that's measured and deliberate. His eyes don't leave yours, watching every reaction, every gasp, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks, doing it again.

"Yes—fuck—there—"

He grins. Picks up the pace, driving into you harder now, and the bed frame starts hitting the wall with each thrust. His hand slides down between your bodies, finds your clit again, and the combination of his cock and his fingers is going to kill you.

"Come on," he says, voice rough. "Want to feel you come on my cock."

You're already close, can feel it building at the base of your spine. His rhythm never falters, just keeps hitting that spot inside you over and over while his fingers work your clit, and when you come this time it's harder than before, your whole body seizing up as you clench around him.

"Fuck—" He groans, hips stuttering, and then he's coming too, burying himself deep and grinding against you as he rides it out.

For a moment, neither of you move. Just breathe hard against each other, hearts racing, skin slicked with sweat. Then he pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and collapses next to you on the bed.

"So," he says, still catching his breath. "That was—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're about to say. Just—don't."

He laughs. Rolls onto his side to look at you. "I was going to say that was worth the three-week wait."

Despite yourself, you smile. "It was pretty good."

"Pretty good?" He looks offended. "I just made you come twice."

"Twice isn't that impressive."

"Give me ten minutes." His hand slides up your thigh. "We'll go for three."

For a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together last night. The restaurant. The car. Your apartment. Your bed. Lando.

You sit up. The sheets are tangled, your dress is still pooled on the floor by the door, and there's a dull ache between your legs that confirms last night definitely happened. But Lando's not here. His clothes are gone. His shoes. The only evidence he was ever here is the faint smell of his cologne on your pillows and a note on the nightstand.

You reach for it. Hotel de Paris stationery, which means he had it in his pocket.

You shower. The hot water does nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in your stomach. When you get out, you pull up his contact—the number he texted you from with that blurry selfie—and type out a message.You hit send. The message sits there for a second, then: Not Delivered

You stare at it. Try again. Not Delivered

He blocked you. Or his number's disconnected. Or something. You wait a day. Try calling. It rings once, then straight to voicemail. The generic kind.

"The person you are trying to reach is not available." You hang up. Stare at your phone and think, what the fuck?

The weeks blur together in a haze of spreadsheets and vendor calls and forcing yourself not to think about Lando Norris.

You throw yourself into work, you finalize the floral arrangements for the ceremony—white roses and peonies, exactly as Pietra specified. Confirm the string quartet for cocktail hour and the DJ for the reception. Coordinate with the Villa d'Este staff about the timeline, the seating chart, the fucking napkin placement. You email Pietra approximately four hundred times about details that probably don't matter but keep you busy enough that you don't have time to feel pathetic.

You don't tell anyone what happened. Not your friends, not your assistant, definitely not Pietra. What would you even say? I slept with the best man and then he ghosted me? It sounds stupid even in your head. You see his name in the email threads. Max and Pietra's group messages about the bachelor party, about travel arrangements, about the rehearsal dinner. Lando responds to everything—quick, efficient, and never directly to you. Always just replies-all to the group.

You stop trying to text him after the first week. Stop checking his Instagram after the second. By week three, you've almost convinced yourself it was just a one-night thing that you both silently agreed to forget about.

Almost. Then Pietra sends the email.

Wonderful, this is going to be absolutely fucking wonderful.

You arrive at Villa d'Este on Sunday afternoon with your tablet, three different backup chargers, and a determination to be so fucking professional that Lando Norris will feel like an absolute idiot for whatever game he's playing.

The villa is stunning—which is not surprising given that Pietra wouldn't settle for quite literally anything less. Terracotta and cypress trees and Italian sunshine that makes everything look like a painting. The staff greets you at the entrance, and you're shown to your room: a corner suite with a view of Lake Como that would be romantic if you weren't here to work.

You unpack. Check your timeline. Confirm with the florist about tomorrow's delivery. Send Pietra a message letting her know you've arrived. She responds immediately with approximately forty heart emojis. The welcome dinner is at 8 PM on the terrace. You spend an hour deciding what to wear, which is stupid because this is a work event and you should just throw on something professional and call it done. Instead you try on four different dresses before settling on a linen midi dress in cream—elegant, appropriate, and coincidentally (totally not planned) makes you look incredible.

At 7:38 PM, you step onto the terrace. It's exactly as beautiful as you expected. String lights overhead, long tables set with flickering candles, the lake shimmering in the background. Pietra spots you immediately and practically runs over, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and champagne. "You're here! Oh my god, thank you for coming early, I know it's a lot but I just—I needed you here, you know?"

"Of course," you say, and you mean it. Pietra's one of the good ones. "Everything's going to be perfect."

"I know. Because you're here." She squeezes your hand, then gets pulled away by one of her bridesmaids. You grab a glass of wine from a passing server. Scan the terrace. Max is by the bar with his brother. The bridesmaids are clustered near the railing, taking photos. And then—

There.

Lando's at the far end of the terrace, leaning against the stone wall with a beer in his hand, laughing at something one of the groomsmen just said. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he's been on the beach. Even from here you can see the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders when he moves. Beautiful bastard.

He hasn't seen you yet. You turn away and head toward the opposite side of the terrace. You can do this. You can be in the same space as him for one week without it being a thing. You're a professional for fucksake.

"There she is!"

Max appears at your elbow, grinning. "The woman who's going to make sure my fiancée doesn't have a breakdown over napkin colors. We owe you our lives."

You laugh despite yourself. "Just doing my job."

"Well, you're doing it incredibly well." He gestures toward the bar. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone. Well—everyone you haven't met yet."

Your stomach drops. "Max, I've already—"

But he's already steering you across the terrace, toward the group of groomsmen, toward the bar, toward him. "Lando, mate, have you met—" For half a second—just half—something flashes across his face. Something that looks almost like oh fuck. But then it's gone, smoothed over, replaced by that easy smile, and he's extending his hand like you're strangers.

"Don't think we've been properly introduced," he says. His voice is perfectly friendly. Perfectly casual. "Lando."

You stare at him. At his outstretched hand. At the complete absence of acknowledgment in his eyes. "I know who you are," you say.

"Right. Wedding planner." His smile doesn't waver. "Pietra talks about you constantly."

He's still holding out his hand. Waiting. You shake it. His grip is firm, professional, and he lets go immediately—no lingering, no recognition, nothing. Max is already talking. Something about the bachelor party itinerary, about the boat they rented, about someone's girlfriend who couldn't make it. You're not listening. You're looking at Lando, at the way he's nodding along to Max's story like this is completely normal, like he didn't fuck you three months ago and then disappear.

"—right?" Max finishes.

You have no idea what he just said. "Absolutely."

"Perfect! I'll let you two sort out the logistics." Max claps Lando on the shoulder and wanders off toward Pietra, leaving you standing there with a man who's currently pretending he doesn't know what you look like naked.

The silence stretches. Lando takes a sip of his beer. You grip your wine glass hard enough that you're mildly concerned it might shatter. "So," he says finally. "Bachelor party logistics, huh?."

You stare at him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"What?" He has the audacity to look confused. Concerned, even. "Did Max not fill you in on the timing? I can send you the—"

"Stop."

He stops. The casual mask slips just slightly—something sharper underneath, something that looks almost like guilt but you're not sure because it's gone before you can name it. "You blocked my number," you say quietly. The terrace is loud enough that no one else will hear, but you keep your voice low anyway. "You left a note that said you'd call. And then you blocked my fucking number."

"I didn't—" He stops. Looks away. Jaw working. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." You laugh, and it comes out brittle. "Right. So complicated that you couldn't send a single text that said 'hey, this was a mistake' or 'I'm not interested' or literally anything besides complete silence for three months."

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" You step closer, and he actually takes a step back. Good. "Because from where I'm standing, you spent weeks pursuing me, convinced me to have dinner with you, fucked me, and then disappeared. So please, Lando, tell me what it was actually like."

His hand tightens around his beer bottle. "Can we not do this here?"

"Oh, now you want to talk?"

"I—" He glances around. The terrace is full of people, but no one's paying attention to you. "Yes. Just—not here."

"Why not?"

"Because—" He stops. Runs his free hand through his hair, and there it is—the first crack in the facade. He looks actually frustrated, like an actual fucking human being. "Because Max and Pietra don't know. About us. About—" He gestures vaguely between you. "Any of it."

"There is no us," you say. "There was one night. That you pretended never happened."

"I'm not pretending."

"Then what do you call this?" You gesture at the space between you. "The handshake? The 'don't think we've been properly introduced'? What the fuck was that?"

"I was trying to—" He stops. "I didn't know what else to do."

"You could've been honest, Lando."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to be honest right now."

"Three months late."

"I know." He steps closer and his voice drops, quiet enough that it's just for you. "I know, and I—look, can we please just talk about this somewhere that isn't the middle of Pietra's welcome dinner with forty people around us?"

You open your mouth to tell him no, to tell him there's nothing to talk about, to tell him he had three months to have this conversation and he chose silence instead. But before you can get a single word out, someone calls his name.

"Lando!"

You both turn. There's a woman walking toward you—tall, blonde, short hair, absolutely stunning in a lilac slip dress. She's smiling, bright and easy and completely unaware that she's just walked into the middle of something, and when she reaches Lando she rises up on her toes and kisses his cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Your stomach drops so fast you actually feel dizzy.

"There you are," she says, her hand landing on his arm. The touch is light, casual, but it stays there, definitely stays there. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Pietra wants to do a champagne toast before dinner and she's panicking because she can't find the speech she wrote."

Lando's face does something that looks like dread and resignation and guilt all at once. "Magui, I—"

And that's when it clicks. When your brain finally catches up to what you're seeing, to who this is, to what this means. Magui. Magui Corceiro. Portuguese model, Lando's ex-girlfriend, and—according to Pietra's meticulously organized bridal party spreadsheet that you've reviewed approximately three dozen times in the last two months—the maid of honor. She turns to you now, still smiling, still completely oblivious to the fact that you're currently having an out-of-body experience. "Hi! You must be the wedding planner. Pietra showed me all your photos of the ceremony setup—it's going to be absolutely gorgeous."

You can't speak. Your brain has completely short-circuited because Lando's ex-girlfriend is standing in front of you being lovely and friendly and probably a genuinely nice person, and she has no idea that you slept with him three months ago. That he left a note on your nightstand and then blocked your number. That he's standing here right now looking like he wants the terrace to open up and swallow him whole.

"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds strange, like it's coming from very far away. "Yes. The planner."

"I'm Magui." She extends her hand and you shake it on autopilot, and her grip is warm and her smile is genuine and you kind of want to die. "I'm so excited for this week. Pietra's been planning this wedding since I met her, I swear."

"Yeah," you say. Very articulate. "She has."

Magui's hand is still on Lando's arm. She's not holding on tight, not being possessive, but it's there—a casual point of contact that speaks to history, to familiarity, to the kind of comfort you only get with someone you've known for years. And suddenly, with a clarity that makes you feel physically sick, everything makes sense. The Hotel de Paris, where he took you to dinner. Where people saw you together, where phones came out, where he very deliberately chose somewhere public and high-profile instead of some quiet bistro where you could've had privacy. The ghosting that came after. The blocked number. The three months of complete silence. He took you there to make her jealous. He fucked you and then he went back to her. And you were stupid enough to think it meant something.

Wow, what a fucking joke.

You look at Lando and he's staring at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he can see the entire realization playing out on your face. There's something desperate in his expression now, something that looks almost like panic, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, like he's going to try to explain or defend himself or ask you to just wait, just give him a second to—

You don't wait. "Excuse me," you say, and your voice comes out perfectly level, perfectly professional. "I need to check on the seating arrangements."

You turn and walk away before either of them can respond. You don't run—running would draw attention, would make it obvious that something's wrong—but you walk fast enough that you're through the terrace doors and into the villa's cool interior within seconds. The hallway is blessedly empty. You make it around the corner, out of sight of the terrace, and then you stop. Just stop, press your back against the wall, close your eyes, and try very hard to remember how to breathe.

Fuck.

You avoid Lando Norris for the next four days. Monday is vendor deliveries and a conveniently timed florist crisis. Tuesday is spa day for the bridal party, which you skip because you're "confirming final counts with catering." Wednesday is the rehearsal dinner and you plant yourself next to Pietra the entire night, keep Max's brother between you and Lando during dinner, and do not make eye contact. Not once. Not when he gives his speech and everyone laughs. Not when you feel him watching you from across the table. Not when Magui's hand is on his thigh and you have to pretend you don't see it, don't care, aren't replaying that night in your apartment on a fucking loop.

It works. For four days, it works.

Then it's Thursday night—the night before the wedding—and you're alone in your room. You've showered, changed into an oversized t-shirt, pulled your hair into a messy knot. Your tablet is open on the bed next to you, tomorrow's timeline pulled up even though you've memorized every minute. Ceremony at 4:30. Cocktail hour at 5:45. Reception at 7:00. Everything is confirmed, everything is perfect, and you should be asleep because tomorrow is sixteen hours of nonstop work.

Instead you're staring at the timeline trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow you'll have to watch Lando stand at the altar in that Cifonelli suit. Watch him give a speech about love and commitment while Magui sits at the head table looking beautiful and oblivious.

There's a knock at your door. 11:47 PM. More likely than not, it's Pietra panicking about something last-minute, or hotel staff with towels you didn't ask for.

It's one of the groomsmen. Tom, maybe, or the one whose name you keep forgetting—one of Max's childhood friends who has been aggressively normal all week and therefore completely indistinguishable from the others. He's still in his dinner clothes with his tie loosened and he's holding his phone out to you.

"Sorry, do you have the groomsmen timeline for tomorrow? Mine cuts off after the ceremony and I can't find the—"

"Yeah," you say. "One second."

You go back to your tablet. Pull it up. AirDrop it to him. The whole thing takes forty seconds. "Brilliant, cheers," he says. "Sorry for bothering you."

"It's fine."

You close the door. Stand there.

The room is exactly as you left it. Tablet on the bed, timeline pulled up, lamp on the nightstand casting the same warm light it's been casting for the last two hours. Nothing has changed. Everything is fine and confirmed and in its place and you did not just spend the walk to the door composing your face into something that wasn't—

You were going to fix your hair. Your hand was actually moving toward your hair. You go back to bed. Turn off the lamp and stare at the ceiling for a while in the dark like a normal person who is completely fine and definitely not lying in a five-star suite on Lake Como having feelings about a man who couldn't be bothered to text.

You're asleep by one. Probably.

You're up at six. The florist calls at 6:04 because she's psychotic, and there are, apparently, too many peonies. You stand on your balcony in yesterday's t-shirt and handle it, because that's what you do, and also because handling it means you can't think about anything else, which is the closest thing to a coping mechanism you have right now.

By eight you've redistributed the surplus flowers, confirmed the string quartet's arrival, talked Pietra down from a weather spiral (partly cloudy is not rain, it has never been rain, clouds are not an emergency), and eaten something standing over the sink. By ten you're in your dress and moving through the villa with your tablet and your timeline and your entire personality held together by a thread.

It works. Right up until the ceremony. The groomsmen are already at the altar when you do your final sweep from the back of the terrace. You're checking sightlines. Checking the musicians. Checking that the flower girl hasn't eaten the petals out of her basket again.

You find him anyway. You weren't looking and you find him anyway, which is really just your life now. The suit fits exactly as well as you knew it would. You stood in that dressing room and checked every seam yourself. Midnight blue, peak lapels, the mother-of-pearl buttons Pietra specified in the email she sent at 11 PM on a Tuesday. His hair is neat for once. He's laughing at something Max just said, head tilted, and he looks, well, he looks beautiful.

You look back down at your tablet. He looks up. You feel it without seeing it, that same thing you felt across the room at Cifonelli four months ago, and you keep your eyes on your screen and breathe.

The ceremony starts one minute late. You note it and say nothing. Pietra comes down the aisle and she looks so genuinely, stupidly happy that something in your chest does a thing you weren't prepared for. Ten meters of Italian lace and she's crying already and Max looks like a man who cannot believe his luck, and you're standing at the side of this terrace with your tablet and your earpiece and your professional remove, and it still gets you. It always gets you. It's the only part of this job that still surprises you every single time.

You watch from the periphery, same as always. That's where you live at weddings—just outside the frame, making sure everything inside it stays perfect. You check the musicians. Check the timing. Check that the rings are where they're supposed to be.

You don't mean to keep finding him in the crowd. It just keeps happening. He's watching Max the whole time. That's the thing—there's no performance to it, no awareness of how he looks. Just him, actually present, actually feeling something, and when Max's voice breaks slightly on his vows Lando looks down at his shoes for a second like he's trying to get it together.

You write 4:47—ceremony concluded in your notes.

When they kiss the whole terrace erupts and Lando is the loudest, clapping with his whole body, grinning like an idiot, and Max grabs him first before Pietra and they do that thing men do where they hug and immediately try to make it funny and Pietra throws her arms around both of them and the photographer is getting all of it and you are standing fifteen feet away writing transition to cocktail hour—on schedule.

Completely fine. Cocktail hour is yours. This is where you live—moving between vendors, checking the canapé timing, making sure the string quartet transitions correctly, solving the three small disasters that happen at every single cocktail hour without exception. You're good at this part. You're good at all of it actually, that's the whole problem, because being good at your job means you're always just present enough to notice things you'd rather not.

Like Lando, at the edge of the terrace, with a drink in his hand, not talking to anyone. You notice it the way you notice everything—peripherally, catalogued, filed away. He's been stopped twice for photos, laughed at something Max's brother said, done a full loop of the terrace. But right now he's standing at the stone railing looking out at the lake and he looks like someone who is also trying not to look at something.

You go check on the canapés. The reception starts at seven on the dot, which you will feel smug about for at least a week. The room is everything Pietra wanted and you knew it would be—candlelight and white flowers and the lake through the open doors, and when the bridal party is announced and everyone floods in you let yourself have exactly four seconds of satisfaction before you're back on your tablet checking the dinner service timeline.

You're at the coordinator's table near the kitchen entrance. Good sightline, close enough to intervene, far enough to be invisible. You've eaten half a bread roll. You have a glass of water and a glass of wine and you've touched neither of them in forty minutes. This is normal. This is what weddings look like from your side of them.

The speeches start at eight. Max's father goes first. Then Pietra's sister, who cries through the whole thing in a way that is genuinely charming and gets the room crying with her. Then the maid of honor—Magui, composed and warm and funny in exactly the right measure, and you watch her at the microphone and feel nothing except a vague and distant acknowledgment that she is, irritatingly, very likeable.

Then Lando stands up. The room shifts the way rooms do when someone walks into them with a specific kind of energy. He gets a cheer before he's even said a word, someone whoops from the back, and he grins and waits for it to die down with the patience of someone who has been in front of crowds his entire adult life.

"Right," he says. "So I've been told to keep this under ten minutes."

Someone shouts something. He laughs. "Which is generous, actually, because I had a whole thing prepared and then Max told me Pietra's sister was going first and I watched her speak at the rehearsal dinner and I've scrapped it completely because there's no following that."

More laughter. Pietra is already crying again. You are looking at your tablet. "I've known Max since we were kids," Lando says, and his voice shifts—still easy, still him, but quieter now. This was more real. "And I can tell you that for a long time he was the most annoying person I'd ever met, which is saying something because I work with some genuinely difficult people—"

Laughter.

"—but the thing about Max is that he has never once, in fifteen years, pretended to be someone he isn't. Not for anyone. And I always thought that was just—I thought that was just who he was. That it was easy for him."

He pauses. Looks at Max.

"And then I watched him meet Pietra."

The room has gone very quiet. "And I realized it wasn't that it was easy. It was that he was waiting. For someone who made it—not easy. Just—worth it." He picks up his glass. "I've never said this to your face because you'd be insufferable about it, but you're my best friend and I love you, mate. And Pietra." He turns to her. "Thank you for making him this annoying to be around. He smiles all the time now, it's disgusting, we all hate it."

Pietra laughs through her tears.

"To Max and Pietra." The room rises and you raise your water glass and you do not look at him and your throat is doing something completely unreasonable that you are going to ignore. By nine-thirty the dancing is in full swing and your job has mostly become logistics maintenance—checking the cake is ready, confirming the late night snacks are on schedule, fielding a minor situation involving someone's elderly aunt and the wrong seat assignment. Small things. Manageable things.

Which means you have too much space in your head. You slip out through the side door onto the smaller terrace, the one that wraps around the north side of the villa. It's quieter here, just the music drifting out from the reception and the lake below and the night air which is warm and still and completely wasted on you. You lean against the railing and look at the water and let yourself have five minutes of not performing.

You hear the door behind you. You know before you turn around and turn around anyway. Better to get it over with. He's loosened his tie at some point, top button undone, and he's holding two glasses of wine which is either presumptuous or optimistic or both. He holds one out to you.

You take it. You're too tired not to. He comes to stand next to you at the railing, not close enough to be a thing, just—there. Looking at the lake. You look at the lake too. The music from inside is muffled out here, something slow, and the water is doing that thing it does at night where it looks completely still even though it isn't.

"Good speech," you say, because you're a professional and it was.

"Thanks."

Silence. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just weighted. "The flowers looked incredible," he says.

"They did."

"Pietra cried when she saw the ceremony setup. Like, before anyone arrived. Just walked in and started crying."

"I know. I was there."

"Right." He turns his glass in his hand. "You're always there."

You're not sure what to do with that so you don't do anything with it. The lake does its thing. The music does its thing. You finish half your wine and let the silence sit because you're too tired to perform and apparently so is he.

"Magui and I have been on and off for four years," he says finally. Not looking at you. Looking at the water. "On when it was easy, off when it wasn't, back on because it's familiar and familiar felt like enough when you're never in the same place for more than two weeks." He pauses. "It wasn't enough. It hadn't been for a long time. We both knew it."

You don't say anything.

"The night I took you to dinner," he says. "We were off."

There it is. "And after," he says. "When I left yours. We were still off." He pauses. "And then I got back and she called and we were," he stops. "We were on again. By the time I thought to reach you it had been two weeks and I didn't know how to." He exhales. "There's no good version of this."

"No," you say. "There isn't."

"I should have told you. Before dinner, before any of it, I should have told you it was complicated and let you decide if you wanted to be anywhere near it." He turns his glass in his hand. "I didn't because I didn't want you to say no."

The music inside swells for a moment then settles. Someone laughs, loud and bright, and then it's quiet again out here.

"So right now," you say. Carefully. "You and her."

He doesn't answer immediately, which is its own answer. "It's complicated," he finally says.

"You said that already. At the welcome dinner."

"I know." He looks at you then. Really looks at you, and you wish he wouldn't because it's much easier to be angry at someone when they're not looking at you like that. "I'm sorry. For the record. Not because I need you to forgive me or because we're stuck at the same wedding. Just—you didn't deserve any of it. The dinner, the note, the silence. None of it was fair to you."

You look at him for a long moment. He means it. That's the worst part. He's standing here in the suit you watched being fitted four months ago and he means every word of it and it doesn't change a single thing.

"No," you say. "It wasn't. You should sort it out," you say. "Whatever it is. Just—sort it out."

You mean it as exactly what it is. Not an opening, not a door left ajar. Just the truth—that four years of on and off is no way to live and you can see it on him and whatever else he is he doesn't deserve that either.

You pick up your tablet. Turn toward the door.

"Hey."

You stop. He's stepped closer. Not by much—just enough that you're aware of it, the same way you've been aware of him all night, all week, across every room you've had the misfortune of sharing. His tie is loose and his eyes are doing the thing they do and he has absolutely no business looking like that.

"What," you say.

"Nothing." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "Just — you look really good tonight."

"Lando."

"I'm just saying."

"You're just saying," you repeat.

"The dress is—" he gestures vaguely, "— it's a good dress." You look at him. At the half smile and the careful eyes and the very deliberate closing of distance that he's doing so slowly you're almost supposed to not notice.

"Don't," you say.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing something."

He takes another half step. You don't move back, which is either confidence or stubbornness, and at this point you genuinely can't tell the difference. He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, the same one from the dressing room, from your kitchen, from the one night you've been trying to stop replaying for four months.

"Sort it out first," you say quietly.

He stops. Something moves across his face. The half smile fades into something more honest, and he looks at you for a long moment in the dark with the lake behind him and the music leaking through the doors and forty people thirty feet away who have no idea.

"Yeah," he says finally. Quietly. "Okay."

You hold his gaze for one more second and then you go back inside.

The cake goes out at nine fifty-two, eight minutes behind schedule, which you will think about for days. Pietra doesn't notice. Nobody notices. The room is candlelight and dancing and white flowers and everything she asked for, and you stand at the edge of it with your tablet and your earpiece and watch it all run exactly the way you built it to.

Max dips Pietra on the dance floor and she shrieks and the whole room cheers.

You write 2147—reception on track in your notes. You don't look for him. That's the thing—you don't look. And somewhere between the cake and the late night pizzette and the moment Pietra throws her bouquet directly at her maid of honor's face, you realize you've stopped bracing for it. Stopped waiting for him to appear in your peripheral vision. Stopped doing the thing where you feel him in a room before you see him.

Maybe that's something. Maybe that's enough for tonight. You're in the car to the airport by noon on Monday. Your inbox has forty-three unread emails, a voice note from Pietra that is mostly crying and the word perfect repeated several times, and nothing else.

You fly home. You make coffee. You open your laptop.

You don't check for anything specific.

He calls on a Wednesday. Three weeks after the wedding, 9 PM your time, and you answer on the second ring which you will think about later with some irritation.

He calls two weeks after that, and then two months later.

It's October when you finally have the balls to properly ask.

You don't mean to. You've been on the phone for forty minutes about nothing—his race in Japan, your nightmare client in Paris, an argument about whether peonies are actually better than roses which you're winning handily—and it just comes out.

"Are you and Magui still off?"

Silence. Two seconds, maybe three.

"Yeah," he says. "We're off."

"Okay."

"Okay," he repeats, and he's quiet again

Neither of you says anything for a moment. "The peonies thing," you say. "I'm right."

"You're not right."

"I'm always right."

"Okay, you're right about flowers and wrong about everything else."

"Name one thing."

"You told me Austin was always loud and last weekend it was completely fine actually!"

You're laughing before you can stop it and he sounds pleased about that, insufferably pleased, and you talk for another twenty minutes about nothing and when you hang up you sit with yeah, we're off for a long time in the dark.

He doesn't call for another two months.

You don't call him either. That's the thing you come back to, later—you could have. You have his number, he has yours, there's no rule that says it has to be him. But you wait, and he doesn't call, and you tell yourself it's fine because it is fine, it was always going to be fine, you knew what this was.

You get through November on spreadsheets and a particularly chaotic engagement party in Cannes. December on a destination wedding in Marrakech that nearly kills you professionally but produces the best photographs you've ever seen. January on sheer spite and very good coffee.

He calls in February. A Sunday, 11 AM, like no time has passed at all.

You answer on the third ring. Progress.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"I'm in London."

"Okay."

"It's raining."

"It's always raining."

A pause. "I know I went quiet."

"You don't have to do this, Lando."

"I know I don't have to." His voice is even. "I just wanted to say it. I went quiet and I'm sorry."

You look out your window at Monaco in February, grey and still, the harbour flat and cold.

"Is everything okay," you ask.

"Yeah." A beat. "It's getting there."

You believe him. You always believe him, which is its own problem.

"I have a bride in Tuscany," you say. "She wants the entire wedding in shades of terracotta."

"Is that bad?"

"It's not bad it's just—it's a lot of terracotta, Lando."

He laughs and something in your chest unknots quietly and you talk for an hour about nothing and when you hang up you don't sit with it this time. You just go make coffee and open your laptop and get on with your day.

He calls the following Sunday. And the one after that.

By spring it's just—a thing. Your thing. He calls on Sundays when he can, Wednesdays when he can't wait until Sunday, random Tuesday nights from airports when his flight is delayed and he's bored and you're the person he wants to talk to apparently, which you have filed under not my problem and left there.

You know his schedule better than you mean to. You know Bahrain is always chaos and he hates the Monaco GP for reasons he won't fully explain and that he's been trying to learn to cook since January with limited success.

"The pasta was fine," he says, from his kitchen in Woking on a Wednesday in April.

"You said that last time and then you told me you ate cereal for dinner."

"The pasta was fine and then I had cereal for dessert. Two separate things."

"That's not what dessert means."

"That's exactly what dessert means."

"Lando."

"What, it was good cereal."

You're smiling at your kitchen table over a glass of wine and you are absolutely not thinking about what this is.

He doesn't call on Sunday.

Or the Sunday after that. You don't call him either. You tell yourself you're busy, which is true—there's a wedding in Vienna in November and a corporate event in Paris that's somehow become your problem and a bride who has changed her color palette four times in three weeks. You're busy.

You're always busy, so it's fine.

October becomes November. November becomes December and you're at your parents' house on Christmas Eve standing in the kitchen when your phone rings.

Your stomach does the thing before you've even looked at the screen.

"Merry Christmas," he says.

"It's not Christmas until tomorrow."

"Merry Christmas Eve then."

"That's not a thing."

"I'm making it a thing." A pause, warm and easy. "Are you with your family?"

"Yes."

"Good." Simply. Warmly. "Good."

You're standing in your childhood kitchen with two glasses of wine in you and Lando Norris is wishing you a Merry Christmas Eve from wherever he is and you are so far from fine it's almost funny.

"Merry Christmas Eve," you say.

He laughs. Soft and real. You talk until your mum calls you for dinner. You hang up and go and you don't think about it and you are not fine and that's just where you are now apparently.

He doesn't call in January.

Or February. Or March. Or April or May.

You stop expecting it around March, which feels like its own small achievement. You get through February on a wedding in Marrakech and sheer stubbornness. March on a nightmare engagement party in Geneva and very good chocolate. April on nothing in particular, just the ordinary machinery of your life clicking along without him in it, which is how it was before and how it will be after and that's fine.

You're fine.

It's June. A Thursday afternoon, sun coming through your kitchen window at that specific Instagramable angle, coffee going cold on the counter. You have fourteen unread emails and a call with a florist in an hour and approximately zero feelings about anything.

Your laptop pings.

You stop. Go back.

Read the CC line again like it's going to say something different the second time.

It doesn't.

You close the laptop.

Sit there.

The florist call is in thirty-eight minutes. The seating chart is still a disaster. Your coffee is cold and the sun is coming through the window and Monaco is doing its thing outside completely unbothered by the fact that you are sitting at your kitchen table doing the math again and this time it's adding up to something very fucking specific.

Six months of silence and this is what he was sorting.

You sit with that for a while. Let it go where it needs to go. The Christmas Eve call. The easy Wednesday. Sort it out first. Him saying yeah, okay on a terrace in July like it was a promise.

And maybe it was. Maybe this is just what okay looked like from where he was standing.

Your laptop pings and you open it without thinking.

From: Lando Norris To: You Subject: Re: Wedding Planning Inquiry

One line.

I can explain.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you close it. Open a new email. Type:

Hi Magui, lovely to hear from you—congratulations on your engagement!

He can fucking wait.

"YOU KNOW IF YOU LEAVE, I AIN'T GONNA STAY"

Monaco, May 2023

The yacht party spilled down four floating decks, each level louder than the last. Lando had started at the top, champagne sponsors, velvet ropes, took selfies with guys who owned teams they’d never drive for, and worked his way to the open bar like it was a qualifying session, find the gap, brake late, survive the chaos.

He was still in his team polo, collar bent from half a dozen back-slapping congratulations for P3 in FP2. The fabric clung to the small of his back, Mediterranean air so thick it felt like breathing someone else’s sweat. Somewhere below deck a DJ played that synth song Carlos had been humming all week. Every drop felt engineered to remind him the race was still three days away and everyone was pretending they weren’t already exhausted.

He texted her at 12:47 because the itch had arrived right on schedule, an electric crawl under the ribs that no amount of booze or paddock hype could scratch.

you awake or being a grandma again?

Three dots appeared, vanished, reappeared. Then the only reply that ever mattered,

room 602. doors propped. dont trip on your ego on the way up,

He grinned like an idiot, pocketed the phone, and bummed a cigarette he wouldn’t smoke just to have something to do with his hands in the elevator.

Sixth-floor corridor was quieter, carpet thick enough to swallow footsteps and maybe confessions, if he ever planned on making one. Her door stood ajar exactly two centimetres, the triangle of light slicing across hallway like a wedge of lemon in one of those overpriced cocktails he’d abandoned upstairs.

He slipped inside without knocking. Rule: they didn’t do greetings; they did inevitabilities.

The suite was a standard Monaco rectangle, one wall of windows, one wall of mirrors, enough gold accents to remind you none of it was real gold. Her kit bag lay open on the luggage rack, trainers paired like cadets, clipboard stacked with tyre-pressure notes she’d pretended to read at dinner. She’d kicked off her jeans somewhere, they lay half inside-out, cuffs still rolled, like she’d stepped clean out of them and kept moving.

The bathroom light was on, extractor fan humming. He followed the sound, peeling the polo over his head as he walked, freckled shoulders already pink from afternoon sun.

She stood at the marble sink brushing her teeth, wearing his old hoodie, the sleeves swallowed her hands, hem hit mid-thigh. The mirror fogged at the edges, someone had run a shower minutes ago. Her hair was piled on top of her head, damp curls sticking to the nape of her neck the way his gloves stuck when humidity spiked on track.

She didn’t jump when his arms slid around her waist, just spat foam, rinsed, and met his eyes in glass.

“FP3’s in seven hours,” she said. Voice low, half amused, half warning.

“Plenty of time.” He pressed lips to the slope where neck met shoulder, tasted mint and salt and something indisputably her. “You smell like the sea.”

“You smell like Red Bull and bad decisions.”

“That’s the paddock cologne, very exclusive.”

She laughed, short, surprised, the sound cracking his chest open three ribs wider. Then she pivoted, looping arms round his neck, pulling him into the shower before he could invent a clever reply. Cold spray shocked a gasp out of him, she swallowed it with a kiss that tasted of toothpaste and recklessness.

Water scalded eventually. They stayed anyway.

He mapped her spine under drenched cotton, hoodie ballooning with water until she yanked it off and let it slap to the tile. Skin-on-skin echoed louder than music from the yacht. Her back hit the wall, bottles rattled. He felt her smile against his mouth, feral, victorious—like every time they did this she proved gravity negotiable.

After, she killed the taps. Steam rolled out in thick waves as she stepped into a towel. He watched water bead down the line of her shoulder blades, felt the familiar post-adrenaline dip, like exiting parc fermé and realising the race still hasn’t solved a single real problem.

Towel-drying his hair, she nodded at the door. “Ten minutes, superstar.”

He hated the countdown but loved earning it, loved that she gave him any buffer at all. While she lotioned elbows and repiled curls, he scooped his polo off the floor, fabric inside-out and clinging in damp folds.

“Hey.” He caught her wrist. “You’ll crush the debrief. You always do.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Zero expectations, remember?”

There it was, motto, shield, inside joke turned weapon. He swallowed, tasting metal. Wanted suddenly to say I expect everything from you, actually. Instead he pecked her forehead, dry, quick, the way you thank a hostess, then walked out before the sentence could travel from brain to tongue.

The hallway was colder than he remembered. The elevator took forever, he counted ceiling spots, twenty-four, then gave up and stabbed the button again. The doors slid open on a couple arguing in french, perfume thick enough to chew. He rode down staring at his own reflection, pupils blown, collar askew, strawberry gloss smudged at the corner of his mouth like a neon citation.

Seventh floor dinged, couple exited. Alone, he let his forehead thunk against the mirrored wall. The thud vibrated through bone, a tiny impact penalty for a crime he couldn’t name.

His phone buzzed. Carlos.

where are u?

He typed coming, deleted, typed be there soon, hit send.

The elevator hit fourth, then third. Somewhere between floors he lifted his fingers to his lips, rubbed off the pink she’d left, and told himself the hollow in his gut was only hunger.

Back in his suite, Carlos had passed out sideways across the couch, one shoe dangling, snoring like a broken generator. Lando stepped over him, peeled the damp polo, and flopped onto crisp hotel sheets that smelled of bleach and unlived hours.

His phone screen glowed 02:11. No new messages. He opened their chat, thumb hovering.

thx for tonight

stay?

what are we doing?

He deleted each draft, one Mississippi at a time, until the screen blurred. Locked the phone, rolled face-first into pillow.

Across the room, Monaco’s harbour lights painted red pulses on the ceiling, same rhythm as heart-rate telemetry, flat, spike, flat. He counted them until numbers lost meaning, listening to Carlos snore and the faint, impossible echo of shower water still rushing in his ears.

Zero expectations, he reminded the dark.

The dark didn’t answer.

Tomorrow he’d wake up, strap in, and smile for fifty cameras. She’d stand on the pit wall with a clipboard and a polite nod, and no one would ever know he’d left half his pulse in room 602, along with a hoodie that no longer belonged to him and a three-word confession he’d never quite managed to send.

"WHEN I'M DOIN' GOOD, YOU GET ME OFF TRACK"

Silverstone, July 2022

The paddock never truly sleeps, but by 01:00 it at least lowers its voice. Generators hum like distant bees, flood-lights bleach the last colour from the branding banners, and every shadow smells of spilled beer and scorched clutch plates.

She's twenty-four, two seasons into her first proper F1 strategist gig, still naive enough to believe data can predict every variable. He's twenty-three, fourth season driving, already famous for laughs that arrive a millisecond before heartbreak. They've spent the entire week in professional orbit, her with laptop and clipboard, him with helmet and hedged smiles, until tonight, when gravity forgets its job.

It starts with a meme. She’s sat on the hospitality bus steps, ankles crossed, reviewing sector-speed printouts by phone-torch. The meme arrives at 11:52: a pixelated goose wearing sunglasses, captioned “when you realise the only person laughing at your jokes is you and maybe that one strategy nerd.”

She snorts loud enough to startle a security guard.

location? she texts back.

medical car garage.

She should ignore it, she doesn’t.

The garage is dark except for the single strip-light left on for late tyre checks. He stands beside the FIA medical car, driver door open like an invitation, radio crackling low with Hungarian commentary from some distant feeder series.

“Breaking curfew?” she asks, eyebrows up.

“I’m practically staff,” he shrugs. “Want a tour of the backseat? Very ergonomic.”

She laughs, steps closer. The air smells of disinfectant and hot brakes. He offers a plastic cup, beer, lukewarm, logo half-peeled. She takes it, pinky brushing his knuckle, static shock snaps between them, tiny blue spark visible in fluorescent gloom.

They both pretend it didn’t happen.

The conversation drifts, tomorrow’s forecast, worst DRS zones (turn fifteen), favourite cartoon growing up. Every sentence is a breadcrumb leading nowhere useful and everywhere exciting.

At 12:47 the circuit PA clicks off, final generator shutting. Silence rushes in, huge and sudden. They hear each other breathe.

He nods toward the rear of the garage. “Blankets. FIA stocks them for shock victims. Could steal one, stargaze on the old helipad.”

“Very romantic, Norris. Blanket theft and potential trespassing.”

“You in or out?”

She’s already walking.

The helipad is a disused rectangle of cracked asphalt behind the old pit garages, weeds pushing through fissures like slow-motion fireworks. No stars, cloud blanket instead, but wind carries engine-oil perfume from the museum cars parked nearby.

They spread the stolen fleece. He sits cross-legged, she mirrors. Knees touch, retreat, touch again, third time they stay.

01:39. The wind picks up, carries drizzle fine as aerosol. The blanket becomes a shared hood, heads ducked underneath, torchlight bouncing off polyester lining. They're suddenly very close, breathing humid air that smells of hops and toothpaste.

He whispers, “We could go inside—” She answers by closing the last inch.

The first kiss is cautious, closed-mouth, a question mark. Second kiss is open, exploratory, exclamation. His hand finds her jaw, her hand finds the nape where hair meets hoodie, skin furnace-warm.

They break apart only to breathe, foreheads touching. Circuit lights reflect in his pupils like starting grids.

“Blow off steam?” he asks, voice rough. “Just tonight,” she clarifies. “No strings.” “No paddock gossip.” “Exclusive—till summer break?” “Exclusive,” she echoes, surprised how much the word steadies her.

They shake on it like teammates, then laugh at the absurdity. The laugh morphs into another kiss, this one hungrier, urgent, all tongues and shared oxygen.

Standing, he pulls her up, the blanket falls, soaked and forgotten. Hand-in-hand they jog, half giggling, half sprinting, back through the service road, past darkened merch stalls, down the steps of the old media centre whose keypad he somehow remembers.

Inside, the corridor smells of dust and old coffee. He tries three doors, store-room, broom cupboard, fourth opens into a windowless office, two swivel chairs, a desk, stacks of obsolete timing sheets. Lock clicks. They are alone with the echo of their own breathing.

Clothes come off in layers, hoodies first, then shoes kicked into opposite corners, socks soggy and peeled away. When her T-shirt lifts, he stops her wrists.

“Sure?” She answers by dragging the shirt over his head first, palms skating down the ridge of ribcage, mapping new territory she’s only ever seen clothed.

He's leaner than expected, veins visible along forearms, freckles constellated across collarbones. She presses lips to the warm skin, tastes salt and rain. A shudder runs through him.

He lifts her onto the desk. Papers crinkle. His mouth trails neck to shoulder to her bra strap, teeth graze, not quite biting. She arches, legs wrapping his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Chair wheels squeal as he braces.

Her bra comes off, front clasp, efficient. He exhales a shaky laugh. “Jesus, you’re—” “Shut up,” she murmurs, and drags his mouth to her chest.

The laugh dies, replaced by low groan that vibrates through her sternum.

Jeans next, buttons pop, zippers sigh. He kneels to drag denim free, presses open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, tracing a path along trembling thigh. When fingers hook under cotton knickers she stops him.

“Together,” she says, voice ragged. Fair is fair.

They shimmy remaining fabric off, eyes locked, no spotlight but the overhead fluorescent that hums like distant grandstands. Nakedness is sudden, absolute, and somehow easy.

He fishes a foil packet from his wallet, because of course the boy-scout comes prepared. She takes it from him, tears it open, rolls it on, every movement deliberate, unembarrassed. When she squeezes his base to secure, his breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed.

“Concentrate, driver,” she teases. “Yes, strategist.”

He lifts her again, thighs around hips, and lowers them onto the cleared desk. The surface is cold making her gasp. He enters slowly, watching her face for micro-expressions like she’s a dashboard of warning lights. When she nods, he moves, tentative at first, then deeper, rhythm building.

The desk protests, wooden legs stuttering across tile. She laughs, he swallows the sound with a kiss. The chair rolls away, so he braces feet, and angles his hips. Pleasure spikes bright, unexpected. She clutches his shoulders, nails leaving half-moons she’ll notice tomorrow and secretly pride over.

Time blurs, could be minutes, could be a full safety-car period. The fluorescent tube flickers in time with thrusts, strobing their bodies like slow-motion replays. When she feels her climax gathering, she whispers there, and he shifts just enough to send her over, quiet, shaking, forehead pressed to his collarbone.

He follows seconds later, muffling groan against her neck, whole body taut as a qualifying lap.

Stillness. Only the hum of light and the wet sound of breathing. He withdraws carefully, deals with condom, then folds her into arms without asking. They stand there, skin cooling, hearts decelerating.

She breaks silence first. “So… that happened.” He huffs laughter into her hair. “Definitely off-strategy.” “Worth the penalty?” He looks at her, really looks, and something soft settles behind his irises. “Yeah. Ten-second stop-go and still worth it.”

The cleanup is utilitarian, tissues from desk drawer, shirts shaken out, timing sheets re-stacked in crooked pile. They dress in companionable quiet, sneaking glances, testing whether embarrassment exists. It doesn’t, only a fizzy wonder.

Before unlocking the door he catches her hand. “Same page?” “Page eighty-eight of the sporting regs—appendix on confidential equipment,” she smirks. He squeezes her fingers once, releases. “Summer break expiry,” he reminds. “Zero expectations,” she counters.

They step into the corridor, suddenly professional again, just colleagues on a midnight coffee run if anyone asks. No one does.

Outside, the drizzle has stopped. The tarmac shines like a newly laid ribbon. They walk side-by-side, not touching, but every few steps their shoulders brush, static sparks lighting the dark, tiny blue confirmations that physics still allows what regulations won’t.

At the crossroads between hospitality units they pause. “See you at the briefing,” she says. “See you,” he echoes, and means so much more.

She watches him disappear around the corner, hood up, hands in pockets, whistling something off-tune. Only when the sound fades does she exhale, long and trembling.

Back in her room she opens the team calendar, hovers over Sunday’s square. Instead of notes she types a single asterisk: * No context, no label, just a private checkpoint.

Then she shuts the laptop, peels off her clothes that smell of rain and him, and stands under a hot shower until her skin turns pink.

Under the spray she replays every second, the way he asked sure?, the way desks feel colder than beds, the way summer break suddenly seems an eternity and an instant away.

Three doors down he lies on his back, phone aloft, re-reading their earlier texts. He types, deletes, types again, finally settles on...

still alive btw. see u at 9. wear that same smile.

He hits send before cowardice can intervene.

When the reply arrives, thumbs-up emoji plus go to sleep, Norris, he grins at the ceiling, adrenaline re-spiking.

He doesn’t sleep. He charts the remaining races like tally marks, counts down to summer break, and wonders if asterisks can outrun feelings.

The calendar records nothing explicit, but both wake up with the same timestamp behind their eyelids, Silverstone. Old media centre. Desk. 02:17.

Unspoken, inked in skin and synapse, the countdown begins.

"ALL MY FRIENDS KNOW WHERE TO LOOK EVERY TIME I GO MISSIN'"

Zandvoort, August 2023

The North Sea is the colour of wet concrete and it’s slamming the coast like it wants to be let in. Flags on the dunes snap horizontal, gulls fly sideways. In the paddock everyone’s hair stands on end from salt wind, and every conversation tastes of batter-fried cod.

She feels the first twinge during the strategy meeting—an uneasy swirl low in her gut that she blames on the questionable shrimp croquettes at last night’s sponsor dinner. By the time qualifying starts she’s swallowing nausea the way other people swallow gum, ignore, proceed, hope for the best.

Q1 ends with Lando P7. He bounds into the engineering hut expecting high-fives; instead he finds her bent over a laptop, knuckles white around a bottle of warm ginger ale.

“You good?” he asks, voice low enough that no one else looks up.

She nods, then thinks better. “Stomach’s off. Probably jet-lag.”

He frowns, she never misses debrief snacks. “You’re green, literally.”

“Thanks.”

He starts to reply; she cuts him off with a hand. “Go film your pen-stick interview. I’ll live.”

He hesitates, but media waits, so he goes.

Twenty minutes later she’s in the paddock medical room on a folding cot, IV line taped to her arm, antibiotics dripping slow. Doctor confirms what her body already screamed, acute food poisoning, mild dehydration, no trackside duty for 24 hours. She argues, the doctor threatens hospital admission. She folds.

A marshal offers to walk her to the hotel. She accepts, mostly so she can vomit in private.

Back in hospitality he’s still doing media pen-sticks, smiling, spinning platitudes about tyre prep. Between takes he scans the room for her silhouette, finds empty space where strategy bustle should be, and something cold settles under his ribs.

The team physio passes, pats his shoulder. “Your girl’s sick—sent her back to the hotel. Doc’s orders.”

He nods like he knew, but panic flickers. The interview wraps, he’s supposed to head to fan-stage for 45-minute promo slot. Instead he pockets the lanyard, ducks behind the energy-drink fridges, and texts her.

room number?

312. don't you have fans to entertain?

they'll survive. i'll be there in 10.

He sprints to the drivers’ carpark, signs one autograph, refuses selfies with polite “family emergency.” The phrase tastes dramatic and dishonest, but it gets him gone.

The tunnel echoes with his footsteps. He buys electrolyte water at the staff kiosk.

Outside, the wind whips beach sand against glass doors. He pulls his hoodie strings tight, ducks into the storm, and jogs the covered walkway to the team hotel.

She answers on the third knock, face pale, lips colourless, hair twisted into a knot that’s already frizzing from sea humidity. She’s wearing the complimentary white robe over team shorts, belt cinched like she’s trying to keep her organs from escaping.

“You look—” he starts. “If you say ‘rough’ I’ll slam the door.” “—like you could win a horror-movie audition.”

She snorts, winces, clutches her abdomen. He steps inside without invitation, kicks the door shut behind.

The room is standard European business: beige everything, desk too small, window rattling in gale-force gusts. The bin liner is tied shut, he can guess the contents.

He sets supplies on the nightstand. “Doctor says no track for a day.” “I heard,” she mutters. “I also heard I’m replaceable.” “Not to me.”

The words slip before he can coat them in sarcasm. They hang naked between them. She looks away first.

He busies himself, uncaps broth, pours it into a chipped mug, microwaves it thirty seconds at a time so steam doesn’t scald. He arranges towels, lines up remote controls, closes curtains to block strobe of lighthouse beam sweeping coast.

Each small act feels like changing tyres blindfolded, necessary, clumsy, vital.

When the broth is ready he perches on the mattress edge, offers the mug. She lifts a shaky hand, he pulls back.

“Let it cool. You’ll chuck it straight up if you rush.”

She exhales shaky laugh. “Since when are you the expert?” “Since I puked in my own helmet, 2019. Learned gastric pacing the hard way.”

A cramp hits, she doubles, groans. Instinctively he moves behind, gathers her hair, holds it at nape the way his mum did when he was eight and had norovirus. She resists half a second, then leans into the support, forehead beaded cold sweat.

Nothing comes up, dry heave. He rubs slow circles between her shoulder blades, feels each vertebra through her robe, counts them like rosary.

When the spasm passes she slumps against him, exhausted. For a full minute neither speaks.

Eventually he coaxes two sips of broth, she keeps them down. Colour creeps back to her lips. He considers that a podium.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice raw. Eyes soft, liquid, stripped of usual armour.

Something inside him flips terrifying, tender. He panics, defaults to factory-setting deflection.

“Don’t get sentimental. You’ll ruin my brand.”

He means it as joke, it lands like a shove.

Her face shutters, eyes flatten, mouth firms, walls slam up so fast he almost hears them clang. She shifts away, takes the mug herself, wraps both hands like insulation.

Silence stretches, elastic then metallic. He back-pedals mentally but words are already out, smoking wreckage.

“I didn’t mean—” “It’s fine,” she says, tone calibrated to neutral-dead. “You’re right. Sentiment is unprofessional.”

Unprofessional. The word stings worse than seawater on a grazed knee. He watches her withdraw inch by inch until distance between them could be whole continents disguised as a bedsheet.

He wants to fix, to rewind, to unscrew the filter from his mouth. Instead he sits frozen, palms open on his knees like a driver waiting for the stewards’ decision he already knows will ruin his race.

She sips broth, stares at the television playing mute Formula 2 highlights. Reflection in screen shows nothing of the woman who let him hold her hair.

After ten minutes she sets the empty mug down, folds robe tighter. “You should go. Fans are probably rioting.”

“They’ll cope.” “Still. Media will ask questions.” “Let them.”

But he stands, because her tone offers no parking space. At the door he pauses, hand on handle, searching for vocabulary that doesn’t exist in his mother tongue of banter.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally—simple, small, honest.

She nods without looking over. “Get some sleep, Lando.”

Use of first name, not nickname, formal line in the sand. He hears it, feels it slice.

He leaves. The corridor is too bright, too quiet. His reflection in elevator chrome looks like someone who just under-steered into a wall he pretended wasn’t approaching.

Downstairs he considers texting

I didn’t mean don’t feel, I meant don’t make me responsible for your feelings.

He deletes. Types..

I want to be here. Tell me how.

Deletes again. Sends nothing.

Inside 312 she waits until footsteps fade before exhaling a shuddery breath. She opens her phone, schedules an alarm, 05:45, feelings check, compartmentalise. Then she curls onto her side, hugging her pillow that still smells faintly of his cologne, citrus, ozone, regret.

The crack is microscopic but definite, like a stress fracture you can’t see until the whole chassis fails at 300 km/h.

She tells herself it’s better this way, attachment equals liability, sentiment equals skid-mark across strategic logic.

Still, her hand finds the spot on her back where his palm drew circles, and she lets it rest there until sleep finally arrives, broth-warm and dreamless.

Outside, the North Sea keeps hitting the dunes, relentless, rehearsing tomorrow’s assault on the coast, and on every wall they’ve built to keep things professional.

"SEVEN TEXTS AND TWO MISSED CALLS"

September, September 2023

The calendar says twenty-three days since Zandvoort. It feels like twenty-three races.

She's reduced communication to the linguistic equivalent of a pit-lane speed limit, concise, enforced, non-negotiable.

landed safe?

yup.

debrief done?

soon.

you good?

fine.

No emoji, no punctuation that could be misconstrued as warmth. She still delivers his strategy notes with professional polish, but the hand-off is clipboard-only, eye contact optional, smiles extinct.

He tells himself it’s the food-poisoning fallout, that space is the cure. But by Singapore FP1 the distance feels intentional.

Thursday night he posts an IG story, night-run across Marina Bay, skyline neon reflecting in his sunglasses. He angles the camera so the viewer almost sees who’s jogging beside him, hopes she’s watching.

She isn’t. Viewers list scrolls forever, her account never appears.

After FP2 he corners her by the engineering hut. “Drink?” “Busy.” She keeps walking, laptop clutched like riot shield. He stands in the corridor feeling like a dropped wheel-nut, useless, spinning.

Saturday, Singapore humidity turned up to wet-bulb. He qualifies P3, best of the season. Euphoria detonates, mechanics cheer, confetti of data sheets, the national flag thrust into hands.

He grabs his phone, thumbs the only victory that matters:

P3 mate. you saw?

No read receipt.

Ten minutes later, still nothing. He sends a follow-up,

wing change worked. your call on rear flap = magic

An hour: silence.

He triple-texts, something he swore he’d never do, voice-note this time, breathless, half-shout over the crowd.

seriously thank you. couldn’t have nailed sector two without your delta target. come celebrate? anywhere you want.

He plays it back, sounds desperate even to himself. He sends it anyway.

She reads all three at 02:14. Replies at 04:08 when she’s certain he’ll be asleep:

Proud of you Lan.

He wakes at 06:30 to that sentence glowing like a reprimand. Throws his phone so hard it ricochets off the headboard, lands face-up, still displaying the gut-punch.

Carlos, roommate by lottery of travel, pokes head from bathroom steam. “You okay, mate?” “Fan fell,” he mutters, retrieving the cracked screen.

He spends the rest of Sunday replaying scenarios:

1. Maybe she never got the previous messages (lie).

2. Maybe she’s swamped with fuel-calc updates (possible).

3. Maybe the crack in Zandvoort widened into a canyon while he wasn’t looking (probable).

He drafts apologies longer than technical regs, deletes each. Nothing fits the character limit of acceptable vulnerability.

Race day he finishes P5. The media pen asks about tyre drop-off, and he answers on autopilot. Eyes keep drifting to the pit wall, she stands beside the head strategist, expression neutral, clipboard raised like a privacy screen.

The post-race debrief room is all high-fives, she offers polite nod, and exits first.

That night the team throws a rooftop party at Marina Bay Sands. Neon infinity pool, DJ spinning house, skyline doing its sci-fi impression. He shows up late, sunglasses masking the fact he’s scanning for her.

She isn’t there. Official excuse, preparing Japan travel manifests. Unofficial truth, avoidance level expert.

He drinks one beer, leaves half, ghosts back to his hotel.

.

Tokyo, six days later.

They fly commercial, team policy after budget blow-out. He’s business class window, she’s in the aisle three rows back, headphones in, laptop open.

He contemplates walking back, imagines every eye on the plane tracking F1’s latest drama. Pride roots him to his seat.

Mid-flight he asks the steward for coffee, “extra milk one sugar” knowing she’ll hear his order, recognise specificity. The Steward delivers it, and theres no reaction from row twelve.

Japan FP1, Suzuka's humidity is softer, more polite. Car balance issues keep him in the garage for an extra twenty minutes. She stands behind, voice calm over the radio...

“We’ll extend run two, adjust front wing half-turn.”

Professional. Distant. He wants that voice whispered in the dark, instead it feeds him setup deltas.

Night in the team hotel, traditional ryokan style, thin walls, communal onsen. He spots her heading to baths, towel-wrapped, hair high. Instinct kicks, he follows from a distance, stopping outside the sliding door. Steam rolls out, cedar-scented.

He imagines stepping inside, apology, conversation, maybe reconciliation under guise of shared culture. Instead he returns to his room.

Instagram becomes a weapon:

Posts story from the bullet train—caption “clear head, full heart” (hers remains unseen).

Photo of ramen with Carlos—tags location, hopes. Nothing.

Analytics show she hasn’t opened his profile in twelve days. The app may as well report a DNF.

.

Qatar appears on the horizon like a mirage, floodlights, night race, desert heat that still reaches 35 °C at midnight.

He qualifies P6, frustrated. In the cooldown room the TV camera catches him glancing toward the pit wall, she’s looking at monitors, not him. The clip goes viral, fans speculate over a break-up they never knew existed.

Thursday night before the Qatar race he corners her in the gym corridor, steel walls echoing treadmill thuds.

“Can we talk? Five minutes.” “I'm busy.” She tries to pass, he blocks her. “Please.”

Eyes meet, hers glass-calm, his wild. She exhales through nose, and nods toward the fire-exit door.

Outside, desert air blasts furnace-dry. They stand under floodlight halo, engines of cargo plane droning overhead.

He speaks first, words tumbling: “I messed up at Zandvoort. The joke was defence. I Didn’t mean—”

She lifts palm. “We’re fine. Work is fine.” “Work isn’t us.” “There is no us, Lando. There’s a memo we never signed.”

The sentence lands like wheel-gun to gut. He swallows sand. “So we pretend nothing?” “We professionalise it.”

He laughs bitter, short bark swallowed by turbine roar. “You can’t spreadsheet feelings.” “Watch me.”

She reaches for the door, he grabs her wrist, gentle, desperate. She looks at the contact, then at him. No anger, only resignation.

“Let go,” she says quietly.

He does. The door clangs shut between them, metal vibrating like a failed impact test.

He doesn’t sleep that night. Instead he scrolls through their old chat, thousands of messages, memes, voice-notes full of laughter. He lands on Singapore “Proud of you Lan”, and the screen blurs.

For the first time he understands radio silence not as absence but as an answer, We're done talking.

Race day in Qatar he finishes P4, drives like the car owes him money. Post-race interview Will Buxton asks about improved pace, he credits team strategy, voice flat.

On the pit wall, she allows herself one exhale, relief or regret, she refuses to label it, then closes the clipboard, and walks toward the data truck without looking back.

They board separate flights home.

He posts no stories. She watches none.

The calendar rolls into October, blank, unasterisked, silent as fresh tarmac waiting for someone brave enough to brake late and confess.

"MY CLOTHES ARE ON YOUR FLOOR AGAIN"

Austin, October 2023

The Texas sky is big, arrogant, the colour of faded denim stretched over too many washes. Heat comes in shimmers off the tarmac, smells of burnt rubber and taco trucks. After three races of desert and humidity, the paddock exhales into cowboy boots and sponsored plaid.

She arrives on an earlier flight, cheekbones sun-kissed from a weekend in Santa Fe with someone who isn’t him. She hasn’t decided how to announce that part.

Thursday morning, in the hospitality tent. He’s nursing an iced coffee the size of a steering wheel when she drops into the opposite chair, laptop clutched.

“Hey,” she says—neutral tone, PR-grade smile. “Hey stranger.” He tries casual, leans back, sunglasses hiding the once-over he promised himself he wouldn’t give.

Her hair’s longer, parted different. She wears a civilian hoodie, no team logo, no national stripes. The blank cotton feels like a billboard that reads independent.

He’s about to crack a joke when she clears throat. “So… I’m seeing someone. Nothing serious. Thought you should hear it from me.”

The words hit like late-brake dive-bomb, no warning, door closed. He laughs, too loud, too long, iced coffee sloshing over knuckles.

“He's a Photographer,” she continues. “We met at a gallery pop-up. We’ve done coffee, maybe drinks tomorrow.” She shrugs, aiming for casual, landing somewhere near careful.

He recovers with a grin that feels plastic on his teeth. “Look at you, dating outside the circus. Does he know the difference between under-steer and underwear?”

She smiles thin, tightrope walk. “He shoots film, not Formula One. It’s… nice.”

Nice. The adjective detonates in his skull. Their history has been many things, loud, breathless, secret, but never nice.

The conversation ends when a marketing coordinator drags him to content shoots. He leaves laughing again, can’t remember why.

All day the sentence loops, I’m seeing someone. Like a radio on scan, never quite locking frequency.

FP1 passes in a blur of installation laps and meaningless grins. Every time he rounds turn twelve he glances at the empty spot on pit wall where she usually stands, she’s inside, data logging, or maybe texting film guy about espresso martinis.

He posts a fastest lap, he still feels last.

The evening falls neon. Sixth-Street bars throb with live music and petrol-head spill-over. The team arranges a private section in a rooftop beer hall, longhorns on walls, fairy lights, a mechanical bull in the corner.

She shows up late, civilian photographer in tow. Introductions ripple,

“Eli, this is Lando. Lando, Eli.”

Eli is tall, sun-hat tan line, hands that look like they’ve never held a torque wrench. He offers a nice to meet you, big fan with the easy confidence of someone who doesn’t live or die by thousandths.

Lando shakes, smile baring too much enamel. “Likewise. Enjoy the chaos.”

The conversation drifts, Eli mentions a desert road trip, shooting on 35 mm, “chasing light, not lap times.” Everyone coos at the artistic romance. Lando downs beer like it’s an FIA-mandated flush.

Mr. Photographer excuses himself to the bar. She lingers. Eye contact finally happens, hers apologetic, his reckless.

“Cute,” Lando says, nodding toward Eli’s retreating form. “Very… monochrome.”

She sighs. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Turn charming into a weapon.”

He lifts brow. “New rule: we can’t comment on each other’s choices?” “New rule,” she confirms, voice soft, “we remember we’re coworkers first.”

Coworkers. The downgrade feels like dropping from P1 to P19 under a red-flag restart.

Midnight edges closer. Eli proposes early coffee before Saturday track activity, she accepts. Lando’s jaw aches from smiling.

Bus ferries the team back to hotel. He sits alone three rows behind her, watches streetlights paint shifting bars across her shoulders.

02:14. He stands outside her door, 312, different city, same number roulette the travel agent keeps assigning. His hand hovers, knuckles refusing to knock.

The door opens anyway, she’s fetching ice. The ice bucket drops, cubes scatter.

“Lan—” “Don’t.” He steps in, closes the door with his heel. “Just… don’t.”

The air thickens, ozone before a storm.

Words fail, bodies don’t. He backs her against the mini-bar, mouth finding hers hard, desperate, tasting leftover of margarita salt. She resists half-heartedly, hand to his chest, then fingers curling into the fabric, pulling instead of pushing.

Furniture rattles, tiny bottles clink like wind-chimes. He lifts her onto the fridge-top, hips slotting between her thighs. Her robe parts, and he discovers skin still warm from a shower, still her.

She tears his shirt over his head, nails scrape down his ribs, punishment and permission. Belt buckle pops, jeans shoved to his knees. There’s no choreography, only race-pace urgency.

The condom appears, from his wallet, fumbled, ripped. She rolls it on, eyes locked, challenging. When he enters, the challenge becomes a gasp.

The mini-bar digs into her lower back, but the pain is distant, irrelevant. He thrusts like he's trying to prove a point neither can articulate, I was here first, I know you best, I can still make you forget him.

She meets him stroke for stroke, silent except for breath hitching, until her climax crashes, mutual, sudden, furious.

After, still pulsing, he realises he’s gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise. He loosens fingers, presses his forehead to hers. “Stay,” he whispers, meaning overnight, meaning don’t choose him, meaning fix us.

She slides off the fridge, straightens her robe, and wipes spilled ice with her foot.

“I Can’t.” “Why not?” “Because this didn't mean anything.” Voice steady, final.

She dresses, underwear, leggings, hoodie with no logo. He stands naked, condom discarded, dignity teetering.

At the door she pauses, hand on the handle. “New rule number two: we don’t do this again.”

He laughs, brittle, cracked. “Bit late for boundaries.” “Better late than addicted,” she fires back, soft enough to sound sorry, sharp enough to cut.

The door clicks. He’s alone with the hum of the fridge and the scent of sex mixing with hotel disinfectant—a cocktail he’ll taste every time he opens a mini-bar for the rest of the season.

He doesn’t sleep. Instead, he counts ceiling panels, replays every gasp, wonders if the photographer’s niceness includes mornings-after where coffee is brought in bed.

At dawn he showers until the water runs cold, he scrubs his skin raw, tells himself under steam that professional is a language he can learn, even if the fluency feels like swallowing gravel.

She texts at 07:06

We good for the debrief?

He stares at his screen, types, deletes, then finally answers

All good. See you there.

Read. No emoji.

The calendar turns another invisible page, blank, brutal, brand-new rulebook written in bruises and almosts.

"TOMORROW I'LL BE SICK, BUT TONIGHT I'M NUMB"

Las Vegas, November 2023

The Strip is a neon artery pulsing with rented Lamborghinis and influencer yachts on wheels. Every casino exhales cigarette-smoke perfume and the mechanical cling of slot machines. She steps out of the elevator into the rooftop club like walking onto a grid that never sees a red flag, relentless, loud, winner-takes-all.

Eli is beside her, hand casually at the small of her back, thumb stroking the fabric of the midnight-blue slip dress she bought earlier because the tags said “Made in Italy,” not “Made in maybe he’ll notice.”

They're barely through the velvet rope when she sees him.

Lando. He leans against the LED-lit bar, one elbow on marble, the other draped around the shoulder of a girl in chrome vinyl shorts and a crop top that flashes synchronized adverts for the energy drink sponsoring the party. His laugh cuts through the bassline, familiar, bright, careless.

Her stomach free-falls twelve floors to the valet parking.

She tells herself to look away, instead she counts details like penalty points...

The girl’s hand splayed across his ribcage, territorial.

The way he accepts the touch, hips angled, no sideways glance for permission.

He hasn’t seen her yet. She could retreat, hide behind a column of sub-woofers. Instead she straightens spine, and slides into the crowd as if proximity is just another data point to master.

They drift, she and Eli, through a gauntlet of strobe and dry-ice. Photographer friends wave, Eli stops to chat. She nods, smiles, hears nothing over the white noise of him.

A cocktail appears, tequila, smoke-infused, rimmed with edible glitter. She downs half, welcomes the burn, then slips the glass to a passing server. Alcohol will not drive tonight, adrenaline already has pole.

On the mezzanine, she finally loses her view of Lando. Relief and disappointment wrestle. Eli squeezes her hand. “You okay?”

“Crowded,” she lies. “Need air.”

They find a quieter cabana overlooking the pool, cabanas numbered like grid spots, irony not lost. They sit. Strip lights shimmer below, a circuit map of cold fire.

The conversation meanders, Eli’s upcoming exhibit, the way desert stars feel closer than European ones, how shooting on film teaches patience, “You wait for the moment, you don’t manufacture it.”

She hears the subtext, real things can’t be forced.

Her phone buzzes, message icon. Lando: “you here?”

She locks her screen without answering.

Another drink appears. She sips slower, lets the music drown out thought. Eli’s palm slides to her knee, thumb drawing idle circles, asking without words. She covers his hand, acknowledging, non-committal.

Across the pool a cheer erupts, champagne spray. Through the mist she spots him again, now on a day-bed, energy-drink girl straddling his lap, both laughing as phones capture the moment for stories she will never watch.

Something inside her shifts, an axle breaking after too many silent stress cycles.

She stands. “Let’s get out of here.”

Eli doesn’t question. They weave through VIP wristbands and velvet, down private elevator to hotel corridor carpeted in casino crimson. Her heartbeat syncs with slot-machine throb.

Room 2846, his suite, higher floor, view of the Bellagio fountains. The door clicks. Quiet crashes in, huge after nightclub decibels.

He moves to switch on the lights, she stops him, pulls him by his belt-loops, mouth finding his in the grainy dark. Need disguised as spontaneity.

They stumble to the sofa, not his bed, too deliberate, too symbolic. He tastes of cranberry vodka and camera-flash adrenaline, she kisses harder, trying to overwrite another flavour she can’t forget.

Clothes shed like tear-offs,

Dress pooled at her ankles, she steps out, kicks it aside.

His shirt buttons scatter, one pings off the window glass.

Lace underwear snapped at her hip, she doesn’t care, she wants speed not seduction.

When he pauses—“You sure?”—she answers by rolling protection on him herself, owning the mechanics.

She climbs astride, guides him in, sets a pace brutal, piston-quick. The sofa creaks in protest, she rides it into silence. Eyes closed, she sees neon shorts on a stranger, hears distant laughter, and pushes harder, using friction as an eraser.

Her orgasm arrives sharp, almost painful, like crossing the finish line on three wheels. She collapses forward, forehead to his collarbone, breath ragged.

After, they stay joined a moment, then separate, cool air rushing between their bodies. She expects relief, instead she feels… empty stadium empty.

Eli brushes sweat-damp hair from her cheek. “Stay?”

She shakes her head, stands, and hunts for her dress.

In the bathroom mirror she finds mascara constellations, lipstick casualty. She wipes it with a hotel cloth, and doesn’t meet her own eyes.

Dressed, she steps toward the door. He catches her wrist, gentle, photographer soft.

“Hey… talk to me.”

Words jam in her throat. What is there to say? I used you to delete someone else’s fingerprints? Instead she kisses his knuckles, apology in gesture.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, empty calendar, placeholder word.

He lets go.

The corridor stretches silently. The elevator descent is thirty-two floors of mirrored walls reflecting a woman who looks victorious and hollow in equal measure.

Inside her own room she finally cries, quiet, shoulders shaking, tears hot. Not because of Eli. She cries because she doesn’t regret choosing distance from Lando. The realization lands like parc-fermé disqualification, irreversible, official.

She has crossed finish line of feelings and kept throttle pinned.

She sets her alarm: 08:00 – Briefing. Bring professionalism, leave luggage.

The shower runs cold before she notices. She stands under the icy spray until her skin numbs, until neon shorts and sunglasses and careless laughs swirl down the drain with soapy water.

Towel-wrapped, she peers through curtain at the Strip below, traffic still flowing, lights still screaming, world still spinning without regard for one woman’s heart.

She breathes, for what feels like the first time in months.

Sleep arrives heavy, dreamless. When her alarm erupts she wakes clear-eyed, throat raw but heart steady.

Sunday schedule, race, debrief, airport. She dresses in the team polo, hair high, armour on. No trace of the nightclub, no scent of another man’s cologne, only cotton and purpose.

At the track, she exits the bus one step behind him. He turns as if sensing radar-lock; she meets his gaze, nods once, cordial, colleague. No smile, no salt.

Something in his expression flickers, surprise, maybe regret, maybe relief. He opens his mouth, she’s already walking toward the engineering hut, clipboard raised like a new national flag.

She doesn’t look back. Not because she’s cruel, but because she’s done with almosts, with mini-bar competitions, with being someone’s unspoken exception.

The crack has become a clean break. And clean breaks, she knows from data, heal faster if you don’t keep poking the fracture.

"UH-OH, NOW WE CAN JUST PRETEND"

São Paulo, November 2023

The restaurant is all glass and samba, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing ribbon of Marginal Tietê, a live trio battering out syncopated rhythms that throb under tailored suits and sponsor lanyards.

He’s late on purpose, because punctuality feels like obedience and tonight he wants none. When he steps through the etched-brass doors the air hits humid, perfumed, charged.

She’s already there, of course, seated between Eli and the head of brand marketing. She laughs at something Eli whispers, hand covering her mouth, eyes creasing in that way that used to be his exclusive domain.

The sight detonates behind his ribs.

All week he’s watched the difference

Her stride longer, shoulders looser.

Eli appearing at circuit with laminate that reads “Creative Guest”, camera slung, claiming artsy candids but mostly shooting her.

The way she no longer side-glances when Lando enters a room.

He tells himself he doesn’t care, fails, doubles down on failing.

The sponsor dinner progresses in choreographed courses, ceviche, wagyu, and more. He’s placed opposite her, someone’s idea of symmetry, maybe cruelty. Eli to her left, Lando to her right but one chair down, brand manager buffer.

During mid-main-course Eli’s hand finds her knee under the table, casual. Lando sees the micro-twitch of fabric, the half-second squeeze, she answers with a smile that isn’t for public consumption.

Something inside him snaps, no fireworks, just a clean fracture, stress mark finally giving way.

He stands abruptly. “Rest-room,” he mutters to no one, voice rough.

Eli glances up, concerned, she doesn’t meet his eyes.

The corridor is quieter, lit amber, samba muffled to a heartbeat. He paces, three steps, pivot, three back, like a driver waiting for penalty confirmation.

When she appears minutes later, probably checking on him out of residual courtesy, he’s ready, words loaded, safety off.

He drags her into the restroom, the door closes behind her, cutting music to murmur.

“You left him fuck you, yeah?” The sentence tumbles out, ugly, juvenile, verbatim from the part of his brain that operates at 02:00 a.m. when he’s stared too long at photos of them in Las Vegas.

Her chin lifts. “Lower your voice.” “Answer me.” “That’s not your business anymore.”

He laughs, sharp, humourless. “Business. Cute. Did you spreadsheet that too? pros, cons, orgasm probability?”

Colour floods her cheeks, anger, not shame. “Grow up.” “Tried to forget me, yeah?” He steps closer. “How’d that work out?”

She turns to leave, and he blocks, palm flattening against the door above her shoulder. Breath mingles, his ragged, hers controlled.

For five thundering heartbeats neither moves. Then she shoves his chest, half-hearted, more ritual than resistance. The contact ignites.

Their mouths crash, no tenderness, all teeth and accusation. He kisses like punishment, she meets like retribution. Hands fight for position, his at her jaw, hers fisted in his shirtfront, fabric straining.

He spins them, backs her against marble wall opposite the sinks. Her dress rides up silky, thigh skin hot under his fingertips. She hitches one leg around his waist, heel digging, urging without words.

His belt unbuckles like quick-release toggles, they clatter loudly in the tiled space. He shoves his trousers far enough to free himself.

When he lifts her fully off the ground she wraps both legs, arms around his neck, holding eye contact, challenge, defiance. His entry is rough, immediate, bodies colliding with the slap-sound that echoes off stone.

Each thrust is an interrogation, Still think of me? Feel me now? Her answering gasp is a confession, Yes, damn you, yes.

The sink taps dig into her back; she doesn’t care, uses leverage to push back, meeting pace. The mirror reflects them, flushed, furious, a beautiful disaster.

Their climax barrels in fast, unavoidable, she crests first, teeth clamping his collar to muffle her cry, he follows two strokes later, groan swallowed against her neck, whole frame shuddering like a car under heavy braking.

Stillness. Only a dripping faucet and distant samba. He lowers her slowly, her legs wobble when her feet touch ground.

Reality rushes in cold. He expects regret, finds something closer to oxygen after fire.

She smooths her dress, rights her underwear, and avoids the mirror. “Fix yourself,” she whispers, a command, not plea.

He disposes of the condom in the sanitary bin, tucks his shirt, and washes his hands without meeting his reflection.

The door opens a crack, music floods, laughter spills. They’re invisible for three seconds more.

She speaks first, voice low. “That changes nothing.” “Didn’t ask it to.” “You can’t keep crashing into me every time you feel replaced.” “Then stop leaving space on the racing line.”

The metaphor lands stupid, honest. She almost smiles, almost, then walks out, posture perfect, no glance back.

He waits a full minute, lets his blood pressure descend, heartbeat decelerate. When he re-enters the dining room, conversation continues uninterrupted, no one notices temporary vacancies.

Eli leans to her, concerned, she pats his hand, mouths fine. Lando sits, picks up his fork, finds his steak cold, appetite gone.

Later, dessert, passion-fruit mousse. He can’t taste it, adrenaline lingers metallic.

A toast is proposed, “To partnerships, on track and off.” Glasses rise, he clinks without drinking, eyes locked on hers across crystal sparkles.

She raises a glass, sips, and sets it down, every movement precise, professional. But in the flicker of the candle he sees the faint bruise blooming at the base of her throat, his unintentional signature.

The car ride to the hotel is silent except for Carlos rambling about set-ups. Lando stares out the window at São Paulo lights blurring like LEDs in wet qualifying.

He replays the bathroom collision, the way she held eye contact even at her climax, refusing him the luxury of anonymity. She branded him back while pretending to be conquered.

The elevator dings. She exits three floors before his, Eli beside her, hand at her elbow. The doors close on the image like a final sector snapshot.

He tells himself he won’t text. It only lasts until he’s inside his room, then his phone is in his hand, thumb hovering.

He types..

I’m sorry. And I’m not. And I miss you.

Deletes. Types.

tonight was out of line. but stop pretending you don’t feel it too.

He deletes it. Locks his screen, throws the device onto the bed, watches it bounce like a dropped wing mirror.

The shower runs scalding. He scrubs his collarbone where she bit, small crescent, purple rising. Proof, accusation, souvenir.

Under the spray, he whispers to the steam,“Rock bottom, mate. Now dig or spin.”

Across town, she lies awake beside sleeping Eli, gentle breathing, untroubled conscience. She touches her neck bruise, winces, not physical, but memory.

For the first time, she admits the gap isn’t between them, it’s inside her, crack widened tonight, not sealed. And cracks that grow under pressure eventually demand either retirement… or redesign.

She doesn’t cry. She plans, new parameters, stronger materials.

Outside, São Paulo traffic never quite stops, like engines always running somewhere, waiting for green that may never fall.

"WE WON'T DO IT AGAIN, AGAIN, AGAIN"

Abu Dhabi, December 2023

The sun drops behind the grand-stand roof like a red brake-disc cooling after a hot lap. Twilight here is theatrical, violet flood-lights, gold sand bleeding into tarmac, yachts bobbing on carbon-black water.

He stands on the pit wall, visor up, heartbeat still vibrating through the carbon shell. P1 in Q3, pole position by two-hundredths, the difference a breath makes. Microphones jostle under his chin.

Martin asks the ritual question, “Who do you dedicate this one to?”

Cameras zoom. He swallows once, tastes fuel and consequence.

“To the strategist who taught me timing matters. You know who you are—thank you.”

The paddock doesn’t miss a beat, social media ignites in thirty seconds. But his eyes are already scanning the wall for her silhouette, gone, probably downloading telemetry, probably pretending she didn’t hear.

She did. In the engineering hut she freezes, stylus hovering over a delta graph that suddenly looks like Morse code. Around her, colleagues cheer, unaware the message was a private hand grenade.

Eli stands beside her, civilian pass, camera slung, supportive smile. He’s flown in for the finale, he calls it “closing night of the circus.” He squeezes her shoulder, the weight feels foreign, borrowed.

Race day passes in heat haze. He leads every lap, controls pace like a metronome. Crosses the line champion of the night, nothing larger than this moment, except the thing he hasn’t fixed.

On cool-down lap team radio erupts, he thanks everyone by name, ending with, “Strategy—cheers for keeping me honest.” Again, cameras catch his eyes flicking to the wall. Again, she's missing from the frame.

The podium erupts under fireworks, anthem, champagne. He drinks, sprays, smiles for brands, but the whole time a separate race runs in his head, laps to complete before the season of them is officially over.

The night deepens. The team moves to a yacht-lined marina for an annual end-of-year gala, open bar, string quartet, dress code labelled “desert chic.” Linen suits, gold jewellery, sand in stilettos.

He arrives showered, suited, still smelling of podium champagne. He declines selfies, refuses shots, pockets one wristwatch gift and loses the box immediately. His objective, find her.

She appears on the wooden dock between two super-yachts, white dress, team lanyard traded for a simple silver chain, Eli a step behind holding two glasses of something sparkling.

The sight pauses him, approach correctly or lose everything. He chooses correctly.

He approaches slowly, eyes locked on her, not hostile, not cocky, just there. Ei sees him first, straightens, sets the glasses on a ledge, and excuses himself.

She finally sees him and straightens, her hands, folding in her lap as some form of restraint.

“I can’t promise I won’t screw up,” he begins, voice low enough the string quartet covers it. “But I can promise I’ll say it out loud from now on, I love you. I want you in my lap times, in my bad days, in my 4 a.m. overthinking. I want us—messy, labeled, public, whatever you need. I’m done running around the topic.”

Words tumble, some rehearsed, most not. He doesn’t puff chest, doesn’t smirk. For once there is no joke waiting at the end of the sentence.

Tears well, angry, hot. She swipes quickly, embarrassed at the audience. “You get one lap, Norris. Yellow flags and I’m gone.”

He hears opportunity, not ultimatum. “Then I’ll push flat-out the whole race, no lift, no coast, no saving tyres.”

They stand alone on the decking, violin strings swelling. He waits, palms open, heartbeat audible above music.

She folds arms, hugging herself against sea breeze. “You think a speech erases months of silence, bathroom stunts, public jokes at my expense?”

“No,” he says immediately. “But maybe it buys me a green light to start over and be better.”

A laugh escapes, half-sob, half-relief. “You’re an idiot.” “An idiot who just set the fastest lap of his life for you.”

She studies him, freckles faded from summer, eyes rimmed tired, sincerity foreign and fragile. She sees effort, not entitlement.

“You’ll have to prove it in the open,” she warns. “No more shadow contracts. No more ‘don’t get sentimental’ deflections.”

“Copy,” he breathes. “Public press release if you want. Instagram grid post. Your call.”

She almost smiles. “Start smaller. Hold my hand where people can see.”

He obeys, fingers slotting between hers, palm to palm, no hesitation. Heat lightning flashes across distant dunes, nobody else claps, but inside his chest, a whole grandstand roars.

They walk, barefoot now, heels in hand, along the floating dock. Conversation trickles

At the end of the pontoon, they stop under a red port light. Yachts creak, water smells of diesel and celebration.

She turns, places free hand over his heart. “You crash this again and there’s no safety car, understood?” “Understood. I’ll build my own run-off if I have to.”

He leans in, kiss soft, exploratory, like first time in the Silverstone garage, but without urgency of secrecy. It tastes of salt, champagne, promise. When they part, foreheads stay touching, eyes closed, sharing oxygen like drivers sharing a cool-down room.

Behind them, fireworks erupt, the finale of weekend, or maybe the beginning. Gold reflects off water, sparks painting their faces with victory lap light.

He whispers against her lips, “Pole position is mine. But the race? That’s ours.”

She answers with another kiss, green flag dropped, throttle wide open.

Much later, back on the dock, the team erupts in drunken sing-along to a 90s anthem. Someone thrusts two glasses of champagne into their hands. They toast, not to world titles or bonuses, but to timing finally chosen, not calculated.

Cameras click, tomorrow headlines will speculate. Tonight they don’t care.

The season ends, but their race begins, lap one of a calendar they will write in public ink, no asterisks, no hidden deltas.

Yellow flags may come, media storms, bad days, off-track gravel. But the rule is simple now, flat-out until the chequered flag falls, together.

And somewhere beyond Yas Marina’s lights, the desert stretches wide and open, the run-off enough for two people learning how to steer into the same corner, side by side, no lift.

incoming mail┆ ⤿ 💌 ⌗ © flvr4yne ─── pls do not steal my works or graphics and use on other platforms without my permission!

this idea has been brewing for a whileee

phew finally got this monster of a fic all down

♡

you don’t realize your shoes are on the wrong feet until you’re three blocks from the building. (it tracks. you’re not exactly making stellar choices this morning.)

the hoodie isn’t yours. it swallows your hands and smells like something expensive you don’t recognize—clean, sharp, a citrus bite you’ll remember later when you’re trying to fall asleep (like his teeth on your neck, you remember, you swear you remember).

you’ve done the walk of shame before, but not like this. not with your pulse trying to jump out of your throat. (he was in the shower when you left. you didn't want to see his face.)

you swore you weren’t this person. you didn't do one-night stands. you didn't get drunk off tequila that cost more than your salary. you didn't let the man across the bar pick up your tab. and you didn't go home with him.

your phone buzzes as you pass a florist setting buckets of tulips on the sidewalk. you don’t look.

(not at first.)

you let the vibration settle, spurring a fresh wave of nausea. buzz. buzz. buzz. three consecutive texts. fine.

come pick up your clothes. i have them folded. you left in a hurry. should've asked me to call you a car.

you stop dead in front of a window full of wedding cakes and ironically laugh—one short, ugly sound that fogs the glass. there's a couple inside, pointing at the sixteen-inch red velvet. you want to throw up.

the number isn’t saved, because why would it be? it's not like you were expecting him. there's no name next to the contact. no photo, either. your fingers shake as you type three letters and delete them. your reflection stares back at you from the window. (there's mascara smudged under your eyes, and a sneaky shot of electricity goes down your spine as you realize there's a purplish bruise right under your jaw.)

you switch to your camera roll. there’s a photo from last night you didn’t mean to take—your manicured hand on a marble countertop, his wristwatch in the corner, out of focus. black face, steel bracelet. you tap the time stamp like it’ll tell you something useful. 1:07 am. your brain does the slow crawl of connecting dots it should’ve connected twelve hours ago. the apartment building (too nice). the elevator (keyed access). the watch (oh god, his hand had been around your throat—). the magazine-catalog bedroom.

the citrus bite catches in your nose again.

you switch back to messages, holding your breath.

i'm really sorry i really wasn't expecting last night could we just pretend it never happened?

you resist the urge to empty the contents of your stomach on the street when bubbles emerge.

do you remember who i am?

he doesn’t send a name. of course he doesn’t. he's going to make you ask. (he likes that. making you squirm.) you take the bait, responding within seconds.

who are you?

he doesn't respond to that. instead, he says:

you also left your earrings in the bowl by the door.

your free hand lifts, grazing the end of each earlobe. bare. you swallow. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. you could ignore him. you could block the number. you could go home, shower until your skin feels new, and pretend the last ten hours didn’t happen.

you open your email just to have something to do with your hands.

your editor's name greets you first. the subject line (ASSIGNMENT: Red Bull feature: season open) makes your head spin.

he included a list of due dates, bullet points, interview targets. a note at the bottom: we’ll try for on-the-record with MV if PR allows—play it straight, keep your distance, you know the drill.

you reread those two letters like they’re not a full person. like they’re not a face on every screen, a set of stats you could recite half-asleep. his fastest lap time, his season points, his grand prix wins.

your phone buzzes again.

did you make it home?

you swallow thickly.

i can't come back i have work

you pause, because your hands won’t stop shaking. you lean your forehead against the cool glass. on the other side of it, a woman in a hairnet places sugar flowers along the edge of a tiered cake with steady hands. you want to break something. you want to sink into the ground. you want his fingers in your mouth and his tongue doing that thing against your neck—

his response is short.

what do you do?

you could lie. you don’t.

i'm a journalist

a beat passes.

for what exactly?

your heart slams so hard you feel it in your teeth.

sports

longer beat. then:

motorsport?

you picture last night. the quiet, assessing way he listened like he was cataloguing you, like he’d separate you into sectors and hunt blood in each one. the way you didn’t ask a single real question because you didn’t want to hear a real answer. then again, you weren't exactly focused on finding answers.

there had been one thing you wanted. (you'd gotten it.)

you don’t respond immediately. you open a new tab and type max verstappen watch into the engine like a lunatic. you don’t even have cell data turned on for safari because you’re trying not to blow your whole paycheck, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of the city sidewalk wondering if a watch worth your entire life had been pressed to your neck last night. the page buffers, then loads.

the logo in the pictures matches the blur in your photo. your heart snowballs into your stomach.

you type, delete, type again. then:

how did you know?

he's quick with his response.

you know how.

you let your head hit the glass very gently. okay. there it is. no denial left to hide in. you slept with max verstappen last night, and you liked it, and now his number is in your phone. your assignment's number is in your phone.

and he folded your clothes.

did you really fold my clothes?

you imagine him laughing.

of course i did. you were in a hurry, evidently.

(a mercy. or an insult. you can’t tell which.)

you shake your head as if he can see you.

i can’t come back now

when?

you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a live wire. your editor’s email sits in your skull like a loaded gun. keep your distance. you lock your phone, then unlock it. lock. unlock.

your phone lights up again before you can decide.

come back tonight. i'll be expecting you.

♡

you're late to your first meeting of the day. you don’t usually get nervous on calls, but when the red bull comms coordinator joins the zoom, your throat closes just as suddenly as your editor rushes to introduce you. you mute yourself, try to even out your breathing as the PR voice reigns bright and flat in your headphones. media windows, no personal questions, keep to racing topics, we’ll let you know about one-on-ones.

"and max's availability?" your editor asks, and you want to bury yourself under the track to keep from hearing that name ever again.

"ten minutes after FP2 if the run plan allows. no promises. and please submit your topics in advance."

you hear your voice like it belongs to someone else. "understood."

the black screen you're left with after you hang up highlights the bareness at your earlobes, the tiredness lingering in the subtle shift of your shoulders. you stare at your reflection in silence, wondering about the state of your earrings, in a bowl by some stranger's front door. (but he's not a stranger. stop saying that.)

you open the document you'd been working on: RB – SEASON OPENER – DRAFT 1. you always write the boring sentences first. car looks planted. long run pace. tire deg. your fingers find autopilot the way they always do. your brain keeps slipping—back to the countertop, the watch, the hand braced beside your hip when you said you should go and didn’t move.

the way he didn’t crowd you. the way you wanted him to. the way his hands lingered in your hair, the way he leaned in to smell the perfume you'd dotted on the column of your neck. the way your eyes had rolled back in your head when he'd moaned.

you last twenty-four minutes before you retrieve your phone.

can i come by at 7?

there is relief in your exhale when he responds.

i’ll have the door open.

you should say no. you should say, leave them with the doorman. you should say nothing at all. the best you can manage is:

thank you

i didn’t do it to be thanked.

you don't ask what he did it for.

♡

the paddock smells like rubber and sunscreen and coffee that’s been burned since dawn. it’s louder than you want it to be (and you’re too aware of your own hands. nothing fits right in them anymore).

you flash your pass, and you're in. (but not even ten seconds later, you feel him. not touch—just awareness. that small tilt in the air, the way everyone else orbits without meaning to. you feel sick. you're wet. you're wearing lace panties. you wish you didn't know why.)

you focus on your job. you ask a mechanics lead about updates. you record quotes. you smile, and wave, and ask your coworker about his new baby. your editor texts a thumbs-up when the comms girl waves you into a scrum. ten minutes or less, she says. you stand where you always stand: second row, third person from the left, recorder angled up. his cap blocks his eyes for the first few answers. neutral. efficient. he says the usual things in the usual tone.

then he looks at you.

not a double-take. not a scene. just a direct, unblinking look that pins you to the asphalt. you feel it in your spine. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t look away. he answers the next question like you’re not there and like you’re the only person there. (stop looking at me, says the angel on your right shoulder. keep looking at me, says the devil on your left.)

a gap opens. nobody jumps on it. you do.

"you said after testing the car feels 'predictable,'" you start, steady. “isn’t predictability exactly what kills adaptability in race trim?”

(your editor will love this. you love this. max, however, looks like he wants to shove his fingers down your throat.)

the cap tips a fraction. "depends who’s driving it." his voice is low. clear. you want to strangle him.

"that would be you," you respond.

"yes, it would be."

"so what do you think?"

the corner of his mouth twitches. "i think i make the car do what i want." the group laughs politely, eyes darting between the two of you. you don’t join them. you can’t look away. (were his eyes always this blue? was his hair always this gold?)

PR thanks everyone, calls it. six minutes, fifty-three seconds.

your phone buzzes before you’ve even stepped aside.

nice to see you again. in daylight.

♡

you tell yourself you’re only going for your clothes. nothing else.

you tell yourself that again in the elevator, watching the numbers climb—17, 18, 19, 20. your heart overpowers the chime of each floor: you still haven’t changed out of the paddock clothes, press badge clipped to your lanyard, hair stiff from sun and lazily-applied dry shampoo. the irony isn’t lost on you; this is your job, and you’re walking straight into its worst complication.

the hallway is quiet, carpet soft enough to swallow your shoes. his door is already cracked open, just like he said. (like he'd promised. you give yourself a moment to collect your shaking breath, finding that even your hands mirrored the shattering quiver of your diaphragm.)

he’s at the counter when you step inside, henley sleeves pushed to his elbows, glass of water sweating onto the marble. same watch. no cap this time.

"hi," you manage.

"you’re late." no smile. not unkind, either. just fact.

"traffic," you lie. (you're getting good at it, the lying.)

he nods once, tilts his chin toward the folded pile on the leather sectional: wine-red dress, lace tights, your bra laid in half on top, neat as origami. the sight is obscene in its politeness. you stiffen, deepening each breath that enters your lungs.

you cross the room, shove the bundle into your tote. (you're going to burn these clothes later.) "guess that’s it, then."

"guess so." he leans back against the counter. it would take you five steps to be right in front of him, to lean up and nip at the junction between his neck and jaw. to have your lips be exactly where you want them to be even though it's the worst idea you've ever had—

"you ask good questions."

(you wish he'd just let you leave, because every word that comes out of his mouth pushes you closer and closer to a bad decision.) "that's your professional feedback?"

"it’s my personal one."

you turn too quickly, pulse scraping your ribs. your shoes squeak as they drag across the floor. "well, i try not to mix the two."

his mouth twitches again, that terrible half-smile that never reaches his eyes. you want to bite it. "uou already did."

the air goes thinner, if that's even possible. he takes one step off the counter, then two. not threatening. deliberate. like everything he does. like how he drives, like how he kisses, like how he fucks. you should walk away. instead, you let him come close enough that you can count the flecks of green in his irises. (one, two, three—)

"i'm serious about my job," you say. it sounds smaller than you meant.

"i know that." you never realized just how soft his voice goes when he speaks to you. like he's coaxing a spooked animal. "i do."

"okay," you whisper, and you swear his eyes flutter. "that's good."

he’s so close the air tastes like his cologne, the same sharp citrus that’s been living in your lungs all day. he reaches out, and for a beautiful second, you think he’s going to touch you. he doesn’t. his fingers stop an inch from your shoulder, flexing like he’s arguing with himself. (don't do it, you tell yourself. don't lean in. don't, don't, don't.)

then his hand makes a detour, and presses to the bruise under your jaw.

you go catatonic. his thumb stays there, a light pressure against the skin he left marked. recollection comes into his face at the same time it does into yours, vivid images of the night before testing the space between you. you forget how to breathe for a whole second, and when you finally exhale, he watches the column of your neck expand with it.

"does it hurt?" (he's clinical with it, but you know better.)

you shake your head. "not really."

he hums, thumb moving once, slow, like he’s making sense of your answer. making sense of you. "you didn't cover it earlier."

you wince. "rough morning."

"yeah?" he clicks his tongue. "wonder why."

you bristle. "i can handle myself."

“i know.” his breath catches on your collarbone. "you did last night, too."

(his hands on your hips, rough and sure, steering you backward until your spine hit the wall. the shock of cold plaster, his dominant huff of laughter against your throat. his fingers sliding under the strap of your dress, under your bra, under your panties. the wet drag of his mouth down your jaw. the ache crawling up your throat as he pressed his fingers to it, muffling the wet sound of your mouth making room for him. he wasn't even halfway down and you were already choking on it, "poor girl—")

you blink hard and the image is gone. except it isn’t. he’s still there, watching your pupils flicker, watching your breaths shallow. his gaze drops—once, twice—to your mouth, remembering what it felt like. what it could still feel like, if he just... came closer. the thought hits you so hard you nearly sway.

"you should go," he says finally. it's almost kind. almost. his hand drops, and you resist the urge to whimper. he’s still close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes—wanting. waiting. how easy it must have been for him to have you back here. how easy it must have been to make you want him.

(you just can't help yourself.)

he steps back first. (of course he does.) the space he leaves behind is cold, buzzing with everything unsaid. "good luck with the article."

you freeze. "that’s the job," you suddenly feel the need to clarify. "it’s not personal."

he exhales through his nose, half-smile cutting deeper lines into his cheek. "everything with you feels personal."

you shake your head, insistent. "it doesn’t have to."

"no," he says, voice low. "but it already does."

♡

the club lights strobe hard enough to sear your retinas, all blue and green and acid pink, hundreds of bodies pressed too close, someone’s elbow digging into your ribs. you really shouldn’t have come out: you’re on your third drink and the second occurrence of your left shoe in some ancient, sticky patch on the floor.

but it was better than sitting at home staring at your empty document. you'd gotten three sentences in this morning before excusing yourself to take a forty-five minute, ice-cold shower. which, in your opinion, did nothing to quell the breathtaking urge you had to march right over to max's apartment and slap him in the face.

(and then kiss him. in that order.)

you make an excuse to your friend ("i gotta pee, gimme a second") and escape to the bathroom. the thick bass from outside punches through the walls, fluorescent bulbs flickering just in time to catch you ugly—cheeks splotchy, mouth bitten raw, mascara wet and smudged under your eyes. (no surprise after the week you've had.)

you drop your bag sideways onto the counter beside the sink, and everything inside spills: lipstick, phone, crumpled receipt, those damned silver hoops. you curse under your breath, dragging a hand down your face so hard you nearly scrape mascara onto your chin. you're tempted to burn it. you're tempted to scream. how the things you wish you could do haunted you.

the burning in your throat is a warning: do not text him, do not let him see you like this, sweating out the ghost of his hands.

you open his thread anyway. type:

are you awake

(delete)

where are you

(delete)

come get me

(delete)

god. have some pride. have some self-respect. of course you get dicked down once and can't function for the rest of eternity. of course he's out there fucking god knows who, god knows when—your inner monologue is rudely interrupted when the door swings open, then falls shut. you glare at yourself in the mirror, and there’s no max there. just you. just you, and this viscous want swirling in your irises like a taunt.

your phone throbs in your hand. you don’t think—you haven’t been all night—and before you know it you’re pressing the 'call' button beside his number, pressing the speaker to your ear so hard it aches.

it rings. and rings. and rings.

(you should hang up. you never should have called.)

but he picks up.

fifteen fucking seconds later, he picks up.

static breath, then: "hello?"

your whole body locks, frozen from the neck down. you almost hiccup, swallow a sound that might be a sob, might be laughter, might be his name. you have absolutely nothing to say. you have everything to say.

"hello?" he says again, voice sleep-rough. you imagine someone else's mouth on his, someone else laying next to him, and almost smash the phone on the cracked ceramic next to your shaking hand. you suck in a breath. now or never.

"i—" your voice catches. "i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—this is really—" a laugh crackles out of your throat, hoarse and broken. "this is really stupid."

he doesn’t laugh in return. (somehow, that’s worse.) "where are you?"

you swallow. "out," you say. "doesn’t matter."

another beat, longer this time. "did something happen?"

your exhale is pathetic. "no—not really. i just—" miss you. want you. need you so bad i can't sleep at night, and when i try, all i do is dream of you, so come back and make me see stars. come back and put me to sleep. come back and just be with me.

he says your name into the receiver, just once, and you nearly melt into the floor. "do you need me to come and get you?"

that certainly gets your attention. "what?"

his breath fuzzes through the line. you picture his fingers tight around his phone and remember what they felt like around your throat. your mind floods with shame, then defiance. "no, i’m—i’m not drunk." a lie, technically. "i’m fine."

there’s barely a pause. "then why are you calling me?"

silence follows. why were you calling him? (because he’s the only thing that’s felt real all week, because no one else even comes close, because you’d risk your pride and your job and every last shred of dignity just to be near him, to maybe—no, not maybe. you’d do anything. anything to have him.)

"i don’t know," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant. "i couldn’t—i couldn’t help it."

even through the phone you know he’s already smiling, that impossible almost-smile that drives you up the wall. you hear him shift with a low rustle, the sheets shuffling as he sits up.

"come over."

“now?” you ask, shocked by how quickly you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"yes, now." he doesn’t tease you for it. the line goes dead before you can respond—you're left standing with your phone slipping out of your sweaty hand, your body a traitorous mess alongside it. shame settles sweet at the base of your neck as you stumble out of the bathroom, shuffling toward the exit sign blaring warning-red. you want to blame the vodka, the week, your own lack of willpower, but there’s no point.

there's no one to blame but you.

♡

he's just... there.

you hover inside the doorway, half in and half out, silence stretching between you. max is across the room—back to you, pouring water at the counter like nothing in the world could hurry him. (because he's so damn unhurried, he could care less—)

"come in, at least."

your heart skips. you set a single toe further inside, nerves slicing through your center. your fingers fumble for the lock, the bolt thudding home too loud in the dark. (you wish he'd turn on on a light. you wish he'd look at you.) he doesn’t move. doesn't give any indication that he even knows you're inside his house save for the slight tightness of his fingers around his glass.

"put your bag on the couch." voice flat, a cool command—like you’re interviewing him, not about to fuck him.

you do as he says. the bag drops, leather sighing. your hands hover around your thighs, unsure what to do next. (he's trained you to wait for a command, you realize.)

"shoes too," he says, and his eyes flick up—one glance, blistering. "leave them by the door. you'll track dirt."

you kick them off, sucking in a sharp breath. the floor is cold, nerves raw along the arches of your feet. you tense then relax them, feeling for the cracks in the hardwood. you're barely two steps in when he holds up a hand.

"coat, too." (you could scream. you're not a houseguest, for god's sake—)

"what else do you want me to do?" you lament (to no avail) as you fuss with the buttons of your coat, slipping the fabric off to lay it beside your bag. "come closer? kneel? crawl, even?"

max stills, and for a single second, you regret having said anything at else. he sets the glass down, turns at last—full height, full attention. calm on the surface, of course. he always is. but you know better.

"do you want that?" he asks half-seriously. "kneeling? crawling?"

you huff, righteous all of a sudden. "of course not."

"you had no problem the other night."

you want to slap him. you want to kiss him. "that was different," you snap, arms crossed, chin up. "i was drunk, and you were—"

"what was i?" he cuts in, crossing the room in two slow, deliberate steps. "go on. say it."

beautiful. dangerous. mine, mine, mine. "i-i don't know."

he hums, slow and mean. "i think you do." he takes another step, crowding into your space—not touching you despite the fact that every cell in your body was nearly screaming for him to. you wondered if he could hear the goosebumps emerge on the exposed skin of your arms, the back of your neck, the base of your spine.

"maybe you'd rather leave," max continues, and he could be talking to air with how still you were standing, how slowly you forced yourself to breathe. "maybe you want to fight instead of fuck."

the word lands between you. (so he knows, too. he knows what you want, he knows what you need, and yet, he's making you work for it. a stronger woman would hate him for it.) you glare at him, hope he sees the tremble in your jaw and knows you blame him for it. "yeah. i came all this way to yell at you."

he snorts, mouth ticking. "as expected."

your fists ball at your sides. "you don't know me."

"no." his voice is soft, almost taunting. you could trick yourself into believing the look in his eyes was kindness, sympathy, but you knew exactly where that would lead. you'd traveled this road once—only god knew why you wanted to do it again. "but i want to."

"this is unprofessional," you say to avoid kissing him right then. "a hundred versions of wrong."

"true."

"i just needed my earrings back." you jut your chin, arch your back to stand taller than you are. (it's of no use.) "you didn't need to make it into a thing."

"you're right."

"and—" you inhale when a lock of hair falls across his forehead, train of thought lost. (he needs a haircut. you hope he never gets one. you hope he lets you pull it tonight.) "and you should sit down for a one-on-one with me next week, because my—"

he moves, quick, hand catching your jaw. not hard. not soft, either. his thumb at your cheek, the warmth of his palm sinking into your skin, laced with something mean. "do me a favor," he murmurs, too close. his breath ghosts your lips. "and shut up now."

"don't tell me what to do," you manage, but your voice is barely a whisper. taken. caged.

he leans in, nose brushing yours, and you swear you see stars. "take off your shirt."

(you want to argue. you want to win. you also want to let him fuck you halfway to hell. the choice is easy.)

you tilt forward, balance tipping as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, teeth scraping against his as you pull him towards you, and he grins against your mouth, because he lives for the anger in every slip of your tongue against his, every ugly snarl he muffles with his mouth. he's wearing his watch, the watch, and you shiver when the face meets the underside of your throat.

(he likes that. you know he does.)

one second his hand is on your jaw, the next his other hand is sliding around your waist, dragging you backward until the back of your legs hit the couch. you gasp at the sudden change in height, his palms resting flat on the curve of your hips, pushing you downward, forcing you to stare up at him.

(blue, are his eyes. blue as the ocean, blue as the sky—)

"shirt," he murmurs, almost condescending. "don’t make me say it again."

your fingers tremble, but the lace of your shirt meets the leather of his couch cushions in one pull. (you swear he's categorizing you, then—will you listen? will you fight him? will you make him work for what you both already know you'll give him if he asked?) you barely have time to breathe before he’s lowering himself between your knees, thumb pressed into the delicate 'v' of your trachea. not to cut off your circulation, no, he'd never do that, he likes hearing you talk. (more than he'd like to admit.) your eyes roll back—because you like this. because he remembers what you like.

"no more attitude?" he asks, laugh a broken breath at the back of his throat. "how sad."

"i wasn't giving you attitude," you snap. "you were being a—"

"—polite host." he finishes, mouth meeting your sternum first—open, hot, deliberate. (god, he's doing that thing with his tongue again, that swirling you swear you can feel everywhere.) he's slow enough to make you dizzy, fast enough to make you clench around nothing. (you're so empty, so lonely, so needy, and you're not ashamed, because he's going to fix it, he's going to fix everything—)

his free hand slides up your thigh, slow, almost lazy, until his fingertips find the edge of your skirt. he doesn’t lift it yet. he just toys with the hem, brushing the fabric over your hip. "shaking," he mutters under his breath, a light tsk underscoring your humiliation. "after all that talking."

"i wasn’t—"

"talking?" he arches a brow. "you're right. you were whining. different."

you glare at him, chest rising too fast (too much, too quickly, he's playing with you like a stupid puppet on a string, snap out of it, goddammit). "i wasn’t whining."

"you are now," he says, breath warm against your bare stomach. "poor thing." his knuckles just barely brush between your legs, skimming right over the damp spot he hasn’t even touched properly yet. your exhale leaves you in a rush, unexpected.

"hm," he muses. "all this for me?" you think he's finally going to touch you when your hips twitch upward toward his hand, but he only laughs once, a sharp, incredulous sound. he's delighted. "god, you’re easy."

you shove at his shoulder—more offended than you should be—but he catches your wrist mid-air, grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch halfway out of your mouth. "bad idea," he warns softly. "very, very bad."

your knees weaken. fast. “i’m not scared of you.”

"i know.” his eyes flick up, intoxicated. you gradually realize he's flushed cherry in the dim light, color lining his cheekbones. “that’s why this is fun.” (fun for him. fatal for you. if he gets any closer you’re going to do something really, really stupid—)

"open your legs."

"what?" you make a broken sound you definitely did not authorize (mortifying) as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, bunching the fabric in his palm like he owns it. like he owns you. (he doesn’t. he shouldn’t. too late.)

"you heard me." max's thumb drags up the inside of your wrist, slow enough to count the seconds, slow enough to make you want to sink right to your knees in front of him. "c'mon." he taps the inside of your thigh, like he's berating you. "you can do it."

(you are fighting him. you really are. you're trying, but the air is so thin, and you can barely inhale without drinking down the citrus scent of his skin.)

two seconds.

that’s all it takes for every reasonable thought to vanish. you obey before you process the command, shifting your hips to open around his like he’s wired straight into your spine.

he makes a low sound of pleasure, hooking a finger under the lace waistband of your panties, tugging it aside just enough to expose the soft, soaked center. then he stares. and stares. he stares so long you lift your head to peer down at the way his eyes darken under his mused hair, the way his entire body has gone pointedly... still.

"max?" you whisper, gripping the couch so hard your knuckles ache. "what are you...?"

he doesn't answer you. not at first. not for a solid, terrifying, dizzying five seconds where he just… stares. (stares like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to solve you, like he’s trying to bite you—)

his brows draw together, faint at first, then deeper, like want, then disbelief, then something darker, heavier, something you can’t name.

"max" you repeat, softer this time, chest tightening. you shift, suddenly self-conscious, thighs twitching inward, but his hands fly to your knees in an instant—firm, holding you open exactly how he had you. (you don't even realize how quickly he'd moved until your breath catches. motorsport reflexes, you manage to remember.)

"don’t," he says, and it's the first word he's said in nearly a minute. "just... stay like that."

(you’ve broken him. you've actually broken him. dear god.)

"you’re staring," you whisper.

"I know." his eyes flick up, wide and unbelievably blue, pupils blown enough to swallow half the color.

you flush deeper. "you’re—you’re staring like you haven't already—"

"don’t finish that sentence."

his gaze snaps back to your cunt, breath falling out of him on a sound you’ve only ever heard from him inside you. he bites down on nothing, jaw locking. (you want to give him the invitation to bite you, instead, but you know he needs no permission.)

"are you—" your throat bobs with your swallow. "are you gonna eat me out, or are you gonna just sit there and stare?"

silence.

electric silence.

max's eyes lift, just barely, and the look on his face is hunger carved into bone, offense lining the crevices of his mouth. (oh, you think faintly. oh, i've done it now, haven't i.)

"say that again," he whispers, voice wrecked quiet.

you regret every decision that brought you to this very point in your life, resisting the urge to bolt. "max—"

“no, no.” his fingers tighten around the insides of your knees, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. “go ahead and say it again."

your mouth goes dry. "are—are you going to—"

his jaw ticks. once. twice. it’s the only warning you get.

"—eat me out, or—"

the air punches out of your lungs when he grabs your hips, yanking you forward so sharply your spine curves off the couch. the friction of the leather squeaks under you, his watch smacking lightly against the inside of your thigh, cold burning a path over overheated skin. his mouth is an inch from where you need him, so close you swear you can feel the slick slip of his tongue running over his bottom row of teeth.

his voice is mean when it hits you. "you came into my house," he says, low. "then you picked a fight—" his palms slide higher, brushing the crease of your thighs, holding you open wider than before— "and now you want to rush me?"

your face burns. "that’s not—"

"yes, it is." the phrase is worse than mean: it's tender. affectionate. as if he expects a fight from you. as if he wants it, too. "poor girl, thinking she can tell me what to do." (you're not sure if he's even talking to you at this point.) "she should've just kept her mouth shut."

you're about to respond when his mouth finally seals over your clit.

just like that.

the sound you make isn’t human. you clamp a hand over your mouth on instinct—mortified, overwhelmed—but his fingers wrap around the breadth of your wrist with a warning squeeze. stay, you can swear he whispers into your cunt. stay, sit, that's a good girl—

he sucks your clit between his teeth—slow, deep, obscene enough that your spine arches violently off the couch, head snapping back against the armrest. he groans as you shove weakly at his shoulder, scrambling for hot, immovable muscle before your hand flies to his hair, tugging at the strands at the base of his neck.

(he moans. the bastard.)

he pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet, his breath hot against your cunt. "you have a smart mouth," he says quietly, almost conversational. "but this—" his thumb drags through your slick, circling your clit with humiliating precision. "this is what shuts you up."

your throat goes tight around a sound you don’t release in time. "don’t stop," you gasp, and he laughs, a low, dark, fuck-you of a sound that you feel between your legs.

he slides one hand up your stomach—slow, deliberate—until his palm rests flat between your ribs, holding you down with humiliating ease. he clicks his tongue when you whimper, slapping the flesh of your inner thigh with an acute flick of his wrist. (like you're misbehaving.) you yelp, residual embarrassment singing sweetly down your spine.

"i—" (oh, desperation makes you easy.) "i think i'm—"

"no." he licks you once—slow, long, dragging the tip of his tongue along your slit so carefully you feel every microsecond of contact—then pulls back again.

"but—"

"no." his thumb taps your clit twice—scolding, precise.

your breath breaks, vision whiting out. “max, please—” his tongue slides inside you mid-sentence, sudden enough that your mind goes blank—a bright, electric short-circuit behind your eyes. "oh—!"

"god." his tongue freezes mid-kiss to your slit, lifting to huff a breath against your thigh. "you really don’t listen."

"i'm gonna come—" your hips jerk (habitual, at this point), and he immediately places a palm flat on your lower stomach, pressing you down into the couch like he’s pinning a trembling animal.

he opens his mouth, and for one, devastating second, you think he's going to appease you.

he doesn't.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your slick across his knuckles. then he stands. "get up."

your pulse stutters. "…what?"

"up." he gestures once with two fingers—sharp, impatient. "now."

you want to listen to him. you do. but your legs don't work. you pitch forward as you push yourself upright—vision spotting—and max's hand snaps around your upper arm, turning your body with zero effort, guiding your back straight into his chest. (oh, right. motorsport reflexes.)

"careful," he murmurs behind your ear, infuriatingly calm. "don't fall."

your palms slam flat into the wall as he settles a knee between your thighs. your cunt throbs (painful, perfect) against the cotton of his pajamas as he positions his naval to your spine, and you almost choke on your own saliva. his and snaps to your stomach when you twitch, and you swear you can feel his smile.

"relax," he mutters into the curve of your neck. (it’s not a suggestion. it’s a reprimand.)

your breath catches when he presses closer—chest to your back, the weight of him undeniable, the heat of him dangerous. he fits himself along your spine like he’d planned this exact angle, this exact contact. this exact moment, a million times.

"max—"

"that's my name." he nudges your cheek forward with his jaw, guiding your face back toward the wall. his other hand slides lower over your stomach, then your navel, then the waistband of your panties still stretched awkwardly around your thighs.

"these," he says, fingers slipping lazily beneath the band, "are useless."

he drags them down to your knees with one smooth pull.

your pulse skids into overdrive, fingers clawing at his forearm in response, nails catching in the soft fabric of his sleeve. he tsks, gathering your wrists to press them against the plaster of the wall once more. "stay here."

you nod too fast, too eager. pathetic.

max scoffs, pressing a soft, too-tender kiss to the base of your neck. his hands toy with the elastic waistband of his pants, and you nearly shiver hearing the fabric hit the floor. "say, 'yes, max.'"

a shot of something electric goes down your spine. "yes, max."

"say, 'yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall.'"

you swallow. "y-yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall."

there’s another rustle of fabric behind you, soft and efficient, and even without looking you know he’s stripping with that same maddening calm he applies to everything else. no hurry. no nerves. just decisions. he makes them; you live with them.

you feel him before you see anything—heat at the small of your back, the bare drag of his chest against your shoulders, the solid line of his thighs bracketing yours.

"stand up straight," he says.

you force your spine to lengthen, shoulder blades pulling tight, fingers stretching against the wall. (tight, tight, like a live wire, like a puppet. you squeeze your eyes shut.)

"wider." a tap of his knee between yours, guiding, not gentle. "don’t make me do it for you."

you shuffle your feet, muscles trembling with the effort. the position is obscene: you're presenting for him, and he's making you, and you don't have a single bone in your body that has the right mind to turn him down.

"there we go." you hear the smile in his voice more than you see it. “look at you.”

your cheeks burn. "don’t—"

"don’t what?" he crowds closer, his hand flattening at the base of your spine, nudging your hips the tiniest bit back until you’re perfectly aligned with him. (oh, god, he's molding you.) "don’t look at you? don’t touch you?"

your breath stutters. "you’re being—"

"honest," he decides for you. "for once."

his palm slides up your back, vertebra by vertebra, until his hand presses your shoulder blades, holding you there. pinned. placed. exactly where he wants you. your breath leaves you in an exhale as your upper chest meets the wall, hips angled toward him. he rests his cock against the curve of your ass as you tilt back, and your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. (oh. my god.)

"you want to come?" he asks softly, almost dangerously. his hand slides down your stomach, over the faint tremble in your navel, lower, lower, lower—

"i—yes. yes," you whisper. he hums against your shoulder in response, a sound you feel more than hear. a sound you know means good. a sound you know means finally.

"you want me to help you?"

his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back a fraction more until the head of his cock slips between your thighs—bare skin to bare skin—cruel and dizzingly hot. his mouth brushes your ear, a lethal intimacy you only let yourself enjoy for the moment. (you're addicted to him now. you can't help it.)

"yes," you breathe just as the heat of his knuckles brushes over the rounded curve of your cunt. "yes, please, help me—"

you're barely done with the phrase before he's tilting your hips upward, angling your shoulder blades towards the wall, and sinking all the way inside in one, devastating thrust.

the sound that rips out of you is high, strangled, punched from your lungs by the force of him. your hands slap harder against the wall, fingers splaying, searching for something to grip that isn’t there. max groans, like the breath has been knocked out of him, too.

"fuck," he mutters into your nape, voice wrecked and angry about it. "you’re—" he stops, inhales once, hard. "—tighter than I remember."

"no—i can't—" you gasp, the stretch burning you open from the inside, filling you so acutely you could barely feel anything but the space where his body met yours.

he chuckles shakily—cruel and approving. "you can. you have." his fingers dig deeper into the crescent-moons of your hip bones, anchoring you in place as he pulls out, the entire length of him dragging against every raw, trembling inch of you. you nearly choke, palms curling into fists.

you whine lowly (embarrassing. humiliating. involuntary), and max's breath stutters. your cunt tightens around nothing, fluttering like it’s trying to pull him back in. "oh," he murmurs, fascinated. "she’s trying to kiss me."

then he thrusts again.

hard.

your forehead hits the wall, a broken moan scrambling for purchase in the column of your throat. "max—!"

“too much already?” he asks, already pulling back for another. "that's a shame." you don't answer—you can't—and your voice breaks clean in half when his hips slam forward again, the slap of skin reverberating through your spine. his hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening you against the wall with his entire body weight behind it.

"keep your hands up," he murmurs, and it's then that you realize you're gripping his forearm for dear life. "or i stop."

that’s all it takes. your arms shoot up, looking above your head. (useless, obedient.) he rewards you with a slow, devastating grind—his cock dragging deep, kissing the spot inside of you that makes your vision spark white at the edges.

he hums in approval, fingers sliding lower until he finds the swollen bud of your clit, and you jolt violently when he circles it once, practically vibrating in his hold.

"oh?" he breaths. "sensitive."

"max," you gasp. (you can barely talk, he's got you so dumb, you wished he fucked you like this every night, you'd never have to think again.) "i—i’m close, i can’t—"

your walls flutter around him helplessly as he thrusts deeper, deeper than he's ever been. "i know," he punches out, hair tickling the base of your neck as his head bows forward. "can feel you." he presses a hand into your lower stomach for emphasis, feeling for himself underneath your skin.

your vision flickers white, tears gathering in your lashes. your whole body trembles as his rhythm turns punishing—perfect, relentless, cruelly timed to the way your walls seize around him with every drag of his cock. "max—" your voice cracks. "i’m—i’m gonna—"

"ask."

your breath fractures like glass. "what?"

"ask. me." the command slices clean. he leans in—mouth to your ear, panting against your skin. "ask me to let you come."

(you hate him. you love him. you want to cry. you want to come so bad it hurts. you'd do anything, everything.)

"please," you manage, barely a sound. "max, please, i—i need—"

"wrong." his hand slides up your front, palm closing gently—obscenely—around your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re breathing open-mouthed against the wall. "that’s not what i asked."

your pride dies right there on his floor. "max," you gasp, high and breaking and involuntary, "let me come. please. please, let me—"

max pulls out an inch before sinking deeper in response, shifting to spread your legs further. your cunt clenches then releases as you force yourself to breathe through the intrusion. (don't come, don't come, don't come, maybe the punishment is worth it, oh, god, i'm going to come—)

max looks down at the slick swallowing his shaft, breathing out a low, astonished laugh. “look at her." his hips snap forward once, brutal. "she heard you.”

you barely open your mouth before you're shaking, orgasm hitting so violently your knees buckle, vision blacking out at the edges, palms smearing down the wall, useless. a high whine leaves you as you tilt your head back, just in time to catch max's mouth in yours. your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to pull him inside your lungs, heart beating a war-drum in your chest.

“fuck—” max gasps behind you as he thrusts once, twice, then folds over you completely, breath crushed into your shoulder. warmth spreads inside your cunt, and you shiver at the familiar sensation. (inside, you'd begged him last time. come inside, always come inside.) you're still twitching when he drags his hand from your stomach to your mouth and forces two slick fingers past your lips, pulling at your inner cheek.

you're not sure if you imagined it. but you could swear he whispers 'god, i love you' into the crook of your ear as your cheeks hollow.

♡

A Weekend with Max Verstappen: Red Bull's Season Opener is One to Watch. By: [Your Name]

There’s a particular stillness around Max Verstappen that you don’t notice until you’ve spent enough time in the paddock.

When I spoke to him after Friday practice, he called the RB21 “predictable.” The word is deceptively boring. He used it casually, as if describing a weather forecast, not the machine he relies on at more than 200 miles per hour. But watching him drive, you understand that predictability, for Verstappen, is not about ease. It is about obedience.

The car doesn’t just respond to him; it anticipates him. Most drivers adapt to instability. They learn to feel the tremors in the floor, the twitch in the steering column, the subtle warning signs that a corner might bite. Verstappen reads those signs, too, but with something closer to disdain than fear. It is not aggression. Aggression is sloppy. What Verstappen does is assured. He takes the track in pieces—sector by sector, curve by curve—until the circuit becomes something he understands viscerally.

You get the sense he does this with everything in his orbit.

Even in interviews, his restraint is not caution—it’s confidence. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t elaborate unless he chooses to. He gives nothing he doesn’t intend to, and somehow, it feels like enough.

That control—measured, unhurried, unapologetic—is what sets Verstappen apart. Not just as an athlete, but as a presence. You walk away from him with the distinct impression that he knew exactly what you were going to ask before you opened your mouth. That he’d already decided which parts of himself you were allowed to see.

And perhaps that’s the most telling thing about him: the certainty. The quiet, unnerving certainty of someone who has mastered not just speed, but himself.

♡