abbie

“No, forget it.”

Your roommate’s voice echoed through the dorm room as she pointed a mascara wand at you like a loaded weapon.

“You are absolutely not spending Charles’ birthday here alone dressed like a tired substitute teacher.”

Rain tapped softly against the window beside your bed while Boston glowed gold and blurry outside, the entire campus soaked in that cold October dampness that made everyone walk around with their hands shoved deep into hoodie pockets. Somewhere down the hall, someone was blasting Taylor Swift loud enough to vibrate the walls.

Your statistics textbook sat abandoned beside you on the bed, open to a page full of formulas that had stopped making sense two hours ago. Highlighters, flashcards, empty energy drink cans, and half-finished iced coffees cluttered every available surface of your side of the room, making it painfully obvious that midterms were a week away.

Which was exactly why you had absolutely no business going to a frat party tonight.

You looked up from your laptop just in time to see Luna applying lipstick in the tiny mirror hanging crookedly beside her closet door. She looked effortlessly pretty in the most unfair way possible, dressed in dark jeans and a cream sweater slipping off one shoulder like she belonged in some indie college movie. Her hair framed her face perfectly, messy in that intentional Pinterest-girl way that should’ve been annoying but somehow wasn’t.

“I have a statistics exam in four days,” you reminded her for what felt like the tenth time.

“And you’ve been studying for twelve straight hours.”

“Because I don’t want to fail.”

“You’re not going to fail.”

You snorted quietly, earning a satisfied smile from her.

Living together for the last three years had basically turned the two of you into an old married couple. Luna could read your moods before you even opened your mouth. She knew when you were stressed, when you were overthinking, when you needed coffee, and when you were one inconvenience away from a complete emotional collapse.

And it was absolutely mutual.

Right now, apparently, she’d diagnosed you with needing alcohol and social interaction.

She crossed the room and dropped onto your bed beside you, nudging your leg with hers.

“Come on,” she said softer this time. “It’s Charles’ birthday.”

“That requires your presence, not mine.”

Luna rolled her eyes affectionately before stealing your laptop straight out of your hands and snapping it shut.

“Hey!”

“No more studying tonight.”

“You don’t understand, Lu. I have three deadlines next week, a presentation on Monday, and if I fail this statistics exam I’m actually done for.”

“What I do understand is… ”she interrupted calmly, “… that you’ve been wearing the same sweatshirt for two days and muttering about standard deviation in your sleep.”

You groaned and fell backward against your pillows while she laughed.

Luna had always been impossible not to love. There was something naturally warm about her, something soft without ever feeling fragile. She was the kind of person who left handwritten notes in your backpack before exams and bought flowers from street markets just because they “looked romantic.” A literature and poetry major who spent rainy afternoons reading Neruda by the window and somehow made it look cinematic instead of pretentious.

And of course Charles Leclerc, campus heartthrob and president of Delta One fraternity, had fallen hopelessly in love with her during freshman year orientation.

Honestly, everybody saw it coming.

You still remembered the first time you met him. Luna had barely finished introducing herself before Charles offered to carry all her boxes upstairs to the dorm building like some ridiculously attractive gentleman straight out of a Netflix series. By Halloween they were inseparable. By Christmas they were officially dating. Three years later, they were still painfully obsessed with each other.

The kind of couple people simultaneously adored and hated.

Meanwhile, every single guy you’d dated in college had somehow become an inside joke or an horror tale.

One ghosted you the week before winter formal. One called you by his ex-girlfriend’s name during some awful sex. One spent an entire dinner date explaining cryptocurrency and it felt like he was trying to lure you in some weird selling scheme.

College dating genuinely felt like a social experiment designed to humble women.

Luna stood again and immediately started digging through your closet like she owned it.

“You should wear this one.”

You stared at the black top she tossed at your face. “That top is criminally tiny.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not dressing for male validation at a frat party”

“Lando Norris will be there.”

You froze instantly and Luna’s grin widened in pure satisfaction.

Busted.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, horrified. “You’re evil. Stop using my innocent crush against me.”

“Crush?” she repeated dramatically.

“Luna.”

“I’m just saying, I’m giving you incentives!”

Your face warmed despite yourself as you looked down at the top still in your hands.

The unfortunate reality was that Lando Norris was ridiculously attractive.

Messy curls constantly falling into his blue eyes. Hoodies with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, baseball cap often thrown backwards and biceps sticking out of tight t-shirs. And not to mention his lazy smirks that always felt vaguely flirtatious even when they probably weren’t. He had this annoyingly effortless confidence about him, like he moved through life permanently entertained.

And worse of all, he was smart.

The kind of smart that didn’t seem fair. You knew it for all those times you peeked at his tests or essays.

Boy had brain.

You barely knew him outside of Statistics II and occasional run-ins at the Delta One house, but honestly, that almost made the crush worse. There was still enough mystery left for your brain to romanticize him into something unrealistic.

Which it absolutely had.

And you’d made the unforgivable mistake of admitting to Luna one time*, one single time*, that you thought Lando was hot.

That had apparently become the downfall of your entire life.

You and Lando usually sat a few rows apart during statistics lectures, though “sat through lectures” was generous in his case.

He was always in the back row with the other sport business majors, looking unfairly good in hoodies while doing literally anything except paying attention. Half the time he was on his phone. The other half he was making quiet comments to whoever sat beside him that made them laugh hard enough to get yelled at by the professor.

And somehow, despite behaving like a man who had never opened a textbook in his life, he still got good grades.

You hated people like that.

Unfortunately, you also wanted him a little bit.

“So tiny top for great boobs?” she asked, completely deadpan, holding the corset as an invitation.

An hour later, you were walking down Greek Street wearing that exactly tight black corset-style top that definitely did not respect the space your breasts needed, paired with jeans that somehow made the whole situation feel worse.

Your hair had been styled, your makeup done with Luna’s annoyingly steady hands, and you were now actively questioning all of your life choices.

“This thing is squeezing the life out of me.”

“Shut up, you look amazing.”

The cold October air clung to your skin, sharp enough to wake you up properly, while the sidewalks shimmered with rainwater reflecting neon porch lights. Frat houses lined the street like competing kingdoms, each one louder than the last, each one trying harder than the next to prove it was the place to be.

The Delta One mansion sat at the end of the street like it owned the entire campus. Big, white, obnoxiously grand in a way that made you certain half the alumni donations had gone into maintaining its aesthetic. The porch lights were warm and golden, and a massive banner stretched across the railing:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR PRESIDENT”

The second you stepped inside, the world changed completely.

Warmth hit you first, thick and immediate. Then sound. Then smell.

Beer, perfume, weed, cheap vodka, fried food you couldn’t identify, and something sweet that was probably punch but definitely not legal in any sense. Music pulsed through the floorboards so strongly you could feel it in your ribs, like the house itself had a heartbeat set to bass.

People were everywhere.

The living room was packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving under flickering LED lights. Someone was dancing like nobody was watching, which was objectively untrue because everyone was watching.

In the dining room, a beer pong game had turned into a full-blown spectator sport, complete with shouting and dramatic reactions.

It was loud. Chaotic. Overstimulating.

And painfully, stereotypically college life.

You could almost imagine it as a montage in a movie, slow motion shots and golden lighting, everyone pretending this was the peak of youth and freedom.

Somehow, it almost worked.

And just like that, Charles appeared through the crowd.

There was always something unfair about the way he looked at Luna. Like the entire room faded into background noise the second she was in his line of sight.

His face softened in a way that made you instinctively look away for privacy’s sake, even though no one was actually watching.

He wrapped an arm around her waist like it was instinct, like it was muscle memory, and leaned down to kiss her hello.

“Happy birthday,” Luna said softly against his lips.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment. Respectfully. For your own sanity. When Charles finally turned to you, he smiled.

“She bullied you into coming, didn’t she?”

“Emotionally manipulated,” you corrected immediately.

“That tracks.”

He laughed, pulling you into a quick hug before someone yelled his name from the staircase.

“I’m glad you came,” he said sincerely between distractions, before gesturing toward the kitchen. “Drinks are everywhere. Help yourself. And there’s a beer pong tournament starting soon if you’re into that kind of thing.”

And just like that, you were left standing in the middle of Delta One.

You exhaled slowly, taking in the chaos again.

Normally, parties like this drained you within ten minutes. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many versions of happiness you were supposed to pretend to match.

But tonight felt different.

Maybe because midterms had been swallowing your entire life and your brain had finally hit its limit. Maybe because the music was good, the lights were warm, and for once nobody expected anything from you except showing up.

Maybe because fuck it, Luna was right, just for once you could have fun.

You ended up drifting through the party with a plastic cup in your hand and Luna appearing and disappearing beside you every twenty minutes like an overly social ghost. Sometimes she dragged you into conversations with people from her literature seminars. Sometimes you found yourself talking to classmates from your lectures about upcoming presentations and professors everyone hated equally.

At one point you got cornered by two girls from your marketing elective group arguing passionately about whether the university should cut funding to the hockey program, and somewhere in the middle of the conversation you realized you were actually having a good time.

Real fun. Not performative fun.

Your second drink helped too.

And you were halfway through telling a story about a disastrous date you had when Luna suddenly appeared beside you out of nowhere, eyes bright with the exact kind of energy that usually meant trouble.

“Oh no,” you said immediately.

“What?”

“You did something.”

She smiled innocently. “I signed you up for beer pong.”

You blinked once. Then twice. You knew where this was going.

“With who?”

“With him.”

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost felt physical.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

“No.”

“He just got here.”

“No.”

“He looks really good tonight.”

“You signed me up without asking me?”

“You would’ve said no.”

“Exactly.”

Luna took a sip from her drink calmly, completely unbothered by your spiral. Obviously.

It wasn’t even that you couldn’t talk to attractive men. You could flirt when you wanted to. You knew how to hold conversations, how to be charming, how to act confident even when you weren’t feeling it.

But him?

That felt different somehow.

Maybe because he’d always existed slightly outside your reach. Like one of those people who naturally belonged to a different social orbit than yours. The frat parties, the confidence, the easy charisma, the girls who always seemed to hover around him without effort.

And then there was you. You had never genuinely expected him to notice you beyond statistics lectures and the occasional sarcastic comment before class.

Which was why the idea of being publicly paired with him for a game while half the frat watched made your pulse spike immediately.

Five minutes later, a shot glass was being pushed into your hand by somebody you vaguely recognized from sophomore-year economics. The burn hit immediately, sharp and warm down your throat, settling into your chest seconds later. You coughed once, grabbing a lime slice off the counter.

Next thing you noticed: a crowd had gathered around the beer pong table, people squeezing shoulder-to-shoulder with drinks raised while someone blasted music from a speaker balanced dangerously on a chair. Empty cans covered nearly every surface nearby. The atmosphere had shifted into something more competitive now, louder and messier in the way frat games always became after enough alcohol.

At the center of it all stood the birthday boy himself, holding a microphone someone had somehow found.

“Alright!” he shouted over the noise while the room erupted around him. “Beer pong tournament starts now, and before anybody accuses me of favoritism, yes, the teams were chosen completely randomly.”

Yeah, sure. Sooo randomly.

A chorus of very loud bullshit answers came from the crowd immediately. He ignored them smoothly.

You barely heard the next pair announced because your attention caught somewhere else entirely.

On him.

He stood on the opposite side of the room near the table, one hand wrapped around a red cup while talking to one of his friends. White linen shirt with sleeves pushed to his elbows. Messy curls. That stupid relaxed posture that made it seem like he never got nervous about anything in his life.

Oh, you were definitely not sober enough for this.

Luna nudged your side. “Go.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

There was no escaping anymore.

Not when Luna was practically shoving you forward with an entertained smile on her face. Not when half the room had already turned its attention toward the tournament bracket being taped to the wall. And definitely not when Lando had already started walking toward you too, red cup still in hand, looking completely relaxed while your own nervous system was seconds away from shortcircuiting.

You straightened your shoulders instinctively, forcing yourself to act normal. Which, at this point, mostly meant pretending your heart wasn’t beating ridiculously fast over a guy you’d technically exchanged maybe twenty seven conversations with in total.

The closer he got, the more unfairly attractive he became. The white linen shirt wasn’t helping either, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows, the top buttons undone just enough to make you irritated about it. His curls looked slightly damp from either rain or heat from the crowded house, and there was something so annoyingly effortless about him that it made you want to study him academically.

“So,” he said once he reached you, mouth curving into an easy grin, “Charles told me you’re the lucky girl who gets to play with me.”

You crossed your arms lightly, mostly to keep yourself grounded. “Am I lucky?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He looked genuinely offended you’d even question it. “I’ve won every beer pong tournament at every party this semester.”

That made you laugh immediately. The kind of laugh that slipped out before you could overthink it.

“Well,” you replied, “Hopefully I won’t ruin your streak.”

“Nah,” he said easily. “You look competitive enough.”

God, he was easy to talk to. That was the first thing that surprised you.

You’d built him up so much in your head that somewhere along the line you’d convinced yourself he’d be intimidating one-on-one. Too confident. Too smooth. Too cocky. Too aware of the effect he had on people.

Instead, standing next to him felt strangely natural.

Like talking to someone you already knew a little, even if technically you didn’t.

The crowd around the table erupted into shouting as the first game officially started, people squeezing closer around the players while someone dramatically commentated from the sidelines. You and him stayed near the corner of the table waiting for your turn, shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the noise.

“You’re in Statistics II, right?” he asked after a second, glancing at you. “I knew I recognized you.”

You nodded. “Unfortunately.”

He laughed softly. “I remember your presentation.”

You blinked at him. “My presentation?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip from his drink casually. “The probability analysis one. About media engagement patterns?”

Your eyebrows lifted immediately in surprise. Not because he remembered you from class. That alone already felt unlikely enough considering most people spent statistics lectures either asleep or mentally elsewhere.

But your presentation?

“You actually listened to that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“I did. It was brilliant!”

“I thought the professor was the only one paying attention.”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “I was listening. Between very important rounds of Solitaire.”

That pulled another laugh out of you. The compliment caught you off guard in the worst way because it sounded genuine. Not flirtatious. Not exaggerated. And maybe that shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did, but you’d spent most of college around guys who rarely noticed things beyond appearances. Half the people in class probably couldn’t even remember what your presentation had been about.

Yet somehow he did.

You looked away first, hiding a small smile behind your cup.

The game in front of you ended in dramatic shouting and accusations of cheating before the birthday boy loudly announced the next teams.

Yours included; and the crowd shifted around the table while you moved into position opposite another pair you vaguely recognized from the business school. Someone handed your teammate a ball.

He turned toward you immediately. “Okay, serious question before we start.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“What’s your actual beer pong skill level?”

You exhaled a laugh. “Honestly? I’ve had enough shots that I genuinely don’t know anymore.”

“That’s fair.”

Then his expression softened slightly, voice lowering just enough to cut through some of the surrounding noise.

“On that note, if you don’t feel like drinking anymore at some point, just tell me. I’ll take over the cups.”

The comment fell from his lips so casually it almost could’ve passed unnoticed.

But it didn’t.

Because there was something unexpectedly considerate about it. No pressure. No frat-boy weirdness about keeping up or getting drunker. Just a simple check-in to make sure you were comfortable. And for some reason, that tiny moment settled something inside you completely.

“Thanks,” you said honestly.

He just shrugged lightly. “We’re here to have fun, right?”

And somehow, against all odds, the game became fun almost immediately. Not because you suddenly turned into some beer pong prodigy. You absolutely did not. Your aim remained questionable at best.

But he made everything feel easy.

Every missed shot became a joke. Every successful cup turned into exaggerated celebration. He hyped you up so enthusiastically after your first actual score that you nearly choked laughing. By the middle of the game, your stomach hurt from laughing. And that surprised you most of all.

Not the flirting. Not the attraction. Not even the fact that he kept standing slightly too close every time he leaned toward you to talk over the music.

It was how comfortable he made you feel.

He teased you constantly, but gently. Easily. Like he’d known you longer than one semester of shared lectures and occasional hallway conversations. And somewhere between missed shots, sarcastic commentary, and his hand brushing yours every time you passed the ball back and forth, all the nervousness you’d carried into the party started dissolving completely.

The game continued, a whirlwind of laughter and competition that blurred the edges of the party into a warm, golden haze. The tequila shot you’d taken earlier hummed pleasantly beneath your skin, softening your focus just enough to make the flashing lights seem softer, the music a rhythmic pulse rather than an assault.

And with every passing minute, the space between you and Lando seemed to shrink, charged with a chemistry that felt less like a spark and more like a slow, steady burn.

His teasing took on a new edge. It wasn’t malicious, not even close, but it wasn’t entirely innocent either. When you managed to sink a particularly difficult shot, ricocheting the ball off the rim of a cup already half-full, he let out a low whistle of approval.

“Okay, girl….” he said, his voice a notch lower, meant only for you amidst the din. His blue eyes held yours for a beat too long. “Showing off now?”

“Beginner’s luck,” you shot back, but your smile felt wider, more knowing.

“Doubt it.” He leaned in to retrieve the ball, his shoulder brushing against yours.

You found yourself leaning into it, into him, answering his smirks with your own, your retorts laced with a flirtation you reserved for boys you were usually not attracted to.

“You’re distracting me,” you accused after missing another shot, your body angled toward his.

“Am I?” he asked, all feigned innocence, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “My bad...”.

The tournament narrowed down until it was just your team against birtday boy and your best friend in the finals. The entire frat seemed to have gathered around the table, a roaring, cup-waving audience.

And of course, when Luna sank the winning cup, the room erupted. Charles swept her up in a hug, spinning her around as she laughed against his shoulder and you felt a rush of genuine relief.

You’d had more beers than you’d planned, and the room had begun to tilt in a gentle, warm way. You weren’t drunk, not sloppily so, but you were floating somewhere pleasantly adrift, where every sensation was amplified: the heat of the bodies around you, the thump of the bass, the electric awareness of Lando’s presence.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as the crowd began to disperse. You hadn’t even realized he’d been watching you closely, his earlier sharp focus now softened into something almost gentle. “You good?”

“Yeah, just starting to feel the tequila a little.”

"Let's get you some water, yeah?" He tilted his head toward the kitchen, but his eyes lingered on yours, and there was something in them, like an invitation, a question. "Or we could find somewhere quieter. If you want."

The offer hung in the air between you, casual on the surface, loaded underneath.

You bit your lip, considering. "Quieter sounds nice."

He led you to the kitchen, snagging two cold water bottles from a cooler buried under bags of ice, his fingers brushing yours as he handed one over. The contact sent a little jolt up your arm. Then he pushed open the back door, and the cold October night rushed in, a shocking, clean contrast to the stuffy heat inside.

The porch was a wide, wraparound space littered with mismatched outdoor furniture and empty planters. Strings of Edison bulbs glowed overhead, casting everything in a soft, amber light. The noise of the party became a muffled heartbeat through the walls. You sat on a weathered wooden bench, the chill of the slats seeping through your jeans, and cracked open the water, drinking half of it in one long, grateful pull.

Lando sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could see the way the bulb light caught the gold in his messy curls. He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. “So,” he began, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Beer pong. Not your hidden talent, then.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the siding of the house. “I did warn you, tho. You chose to ignore me”

He chuckled, the sound warm in the cool air. “I thought it was a decoy strategy. Throw them off our scent.”

You shook your head laughing, sneaking a glance at him. In the quieter light, away from the performative chaos of the party, he looked different. The effortless, showy confidence was still there, but it had settled into something more relaxed, more real. The lines of his face were softer, his long fingers curled around the water bottle. He was just… beautiful. In a way that made your chest feel tight. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble along it. He wasn’t trying, and that was somehow infinitely more attractive.

A comfortable silence settled between you, filled only by the distant party sounds and the rustle of leaves in the night breeze. It teetered on the edge of awkwardness, that silence, thick with everything unsaid from the past hour.

He shifted, his knee accidentally brushing yours. He didn’t jerk away, but he didn’t press in either. He just left it there, a point of contact. “Cold out here,” he remarked, stating the obvious.

“A little.” “You want to go back in?” You thought about the wall of heat and noise, the press of bodies. “Not really.”

“Me neither.” He leaned back, mirroring your posture against the siding, his shoulder now just a hair’s breadth from yours.

You could sense the tension. And the chemistry of the situation. But the flirtation wasn’t in grand declarations or intense eye contact. It was in the shared quiet. In the way he’d noticed your attitude and mentioned it.

In the deliberate way he was staying out here in the cold with you instead of being the centre of the party inside.

It was in the way, when you finally turned your head to look at him, you found he was already looking at you. Not with a smoldering stare, but with a quiet, curious focus, as if he was trying to figure out a pleasant puzzle.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, a little almost-embarrassed smile touching his lips, and looked down at his hands. “Nothing. Just… this is nice.”

And it was. It was really, genuinely nice. And for the first time all night, the nervous, performative feeling you’d had completely melted away. You were just two people, sitting on a cold porch step, talking about nothing much at all.

“So I haven’t seen you in any of my other classes,” he said, turning his head to look at you. “Just Statistics II. So I’m guessing you’re not majoring in business right?.”

You shook your head, twisting the cap back on your bottle. “Nope. Media and Communications.”

“Ah.” He nodded, a genuine interest in his eyes. “That makes sense, actually.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. The effort you put into that presentation? Very professional.” He said it plainly, a statement of fact. “Way better than the crap most people submit.”

A warm flush spread through you, unrelated to the alcohol. “Well, don’t give me too much credit. I just picked a pretty template on Canva.”

You gathered your courage, wanting to keep the thread, to keep him talking in that low, intimate tone. “What about you? Why business? You don’t exactly strike me as the suit-and-tie type.”

He shrugged, looking out into the dark yard. “I don’t know, honestly. I love the sports industry and what’s behind it so, I guess sports business felt like the way in.” He glanced back at you, a wry twist to his mouth. “It’s less exciting than it sounds. Mostly a lot of spreadsheets and case studies about game strategies and financial management.”

It started with the easy stuff: professors you both hated, the mystery meat in the dining hall, the best place to get coffee on campus when you were running on three hours of sleep. He told you about growing up with three siblings, the chaotic, competitive energy of it that had shaped his own easygoing nature as a survival tactic.

He mentioned golf, and you couldn’t stop the snort of laughter. “Golf? Seriously? That’s not a sport, that’s older men wearing polo shirt having walks on a pretty grass.”

He clutched his chest, feigning deep offense. “It’s strategy! Precision! It’s—”

“Boring.”

“You’ve never tried it.”

“I don’t need to know it’s boring, Lando.”

He laughed, a rich, full sound that seemed to vibrate through the bench. “Fine. I’ll convert you one day. You’ll see.”

You talked about the terrifying abyss of post-graduation, the pressure to have a five-year plan when you could barely plan your next week. You talked about the snacks you loved as a kid, the movies you’d watch on repeat, the stupid, profound fears that kept you up at night:failing, being ordinary, getting stuck.

He confessed he’d tried out for the university hockey team freshman year. “Lasted two weeks of practice,” he said, a rueful smile on his face as he ran a hand through his curls. “Those guys are built different. Like, genetically modified or something”

The hours slipped by, marked only by the gradual dimming of the party’s roar behind the walls and the slow journey of the moon across the clear, cold sky.

At some point, you weren’t sure when, the space between you vanished. You were leaning into the corner of the bench, your legs tucked up, and his arm was resting along the back of it.

A particularly loud laugh from you at one of his stories had you tilting, and your head found the solid, warm curve of his shoulder as naturally as breathing. His arm settled around you, his fingers drawing absent, soothing circles on the sleeve of your top. Neither of you acknowledged it. You just kept talking, your voice lower now, the words shared in the intimate space between his chin and your hair.

Internally, you were sending silent, fervent thank-you notes to Luna.

Master manipulator. And bestest friend in the whole universe.

You’d braced for noise, for superficiality, for the awkward strain of a crush you couldn’t act on. Instead, you were wrapped in Lando Norris’s arm, sharing pieces of yourself you rarely voiced, and receiving his in return.

It felt surreal and yet more real than anything else that semester.

At this point, you felt like you both had sobered up completely, the earlier buzz replaced by a crystalline, hyper-aware clarity. You could feel every point of contact: his thigh against yours, the weight of his arm, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.

He shifted slightly, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “So I was wondering, I have this presentation for my Sports Marketing midterm next week.”

He paused, and you could feel him smiling. “And I thought… as a Media Major and a Canva pro and all… you could come upstairs and, I don’t know, judge it? Give it a professional advice? A few tips? ”

Upstairs.

The party was dying. The house was quieting. This wasn’t a public porch anymore. This was an invitation into a private space, veiled in a hilariously thin excuse.

Of course it was an excuse.

You lifted your head from his shoulder to look at him. His face was close, his eyes dark and unreadable in the low light, but his mouth held that familiar, teasing curve. The tension was back, coiled tight and potent, stripped of all beer-pong bravado and laid bare in the quiet night.

You arched an eyebrow, forcing a lightness into your voice you didn’t entirely feel. “Ah. So that’s why you kept me out here all night. You just needed free graphic design labor.”

His grin widened, unrepentant. “Busted. You saw right through me.”

You held his gaze, the playful challenge hanging between you.

You could say no. You could say you should find Luna, that you had an early study group. The safe, sensible part of your brain whispered those options.

But you weren’t feeling sensible. You were feeling the lingering warmth of his touch, the echo of his laughter, the thrilling, terrifying pull of what upstairs might truly mean.

You smiled, a slow, matching curve of your lips. “Well, okay ” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Since you asked so nicely”

His eyes flashed with something hot and triumphant. He stood, offering you his hand. You took it, his fingers closing around yours, firm and sure.

He didn’t let go as he led you back through the quiet, dim kitchen, past the remnants of the party and toward the staircase. The house felt like a sleeping beast, the silence profound after hours of noise.

Your footsteps on the wooden stairs were the only sound, echoing in the hushed darkness, each step carrying you further away from the world of the party and deeper into the unknown, electric promise of what came next.

His room was at the end of a quiet hallway. He pushed the door open, and a wave of relative peace washed over you.

It was tidy in the way of someone who cleaned up when they had to, but lived in comfortably. A king size bed was neatly made with a dark blue comforter and thousand pillows.

A desk under the window was the epicenter of chaos: textbooks stacked precariously, notebooks splayed open, highlighted pages bristling with sticky notes.

Tiny important detail: everything smelled like him. And that was dangerous.

The intimacy of being alone with him here, after the porch bench, was a different beast entirely.

It was concentrated, quiet, and palpably charged. You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, your body.

“So this is the inner sanctum of Delta One vice president?” you said, trying for casual as you peered at the books on his desk. Sports Economics, Financial Management, a well-thumbed copy of The Art of Strategy.

You smiled, continuing your exploration. You glanced at the photos tucked into the edge of his mirror: a younger Lando with his siblings, all grinning identical, mischievous grins; one with Charles, arms slung around each other’s shoulders on what looked like a ski trip. It was a normal room. A smart, focused, athletic guy’s room.

The nervous flutter in your stomach hadn’t subsided; it had just changed frequency, becoming a low, steady hum of anticipation. You turned finally, leaning back against his desk. He was still by the door, but his posture had changed. He was no longer leaning casually; he was standing straight, his gaze intent and dark.

“So,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest, mostly to give your hands something to do. “This famous presentation. What does it need?”

A slow smile spread across his face. He pushed off the door and walked toward you. Not with any hurry, but with a deliberate, quiet purpose that made the air in the room seem to thin. He stopped when he was standing right in front of you, so close you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

“Right,” he murmured. “The presentation.”

He reached around you, his body not quite touching yours, to open the laptop on the desk. The screen glowed to life, illuminating his hands as they typed in the password. He was caging you in, his arms on either side of you, his chest a mere breath away from your back. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the night air and his skin. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

He clicked a file, and a PowerPoint titled “Sponsorship ROI in Hockey Leagues: A Data-Driven Approach” filled the screen.

“See?” he said, his voice a low rumble right beside your ear. His head was bent next to yours, both of you staring at the screen, though you were absorbing exactly none of the information on it. “Slide one. Title. Very important, right?”

“Yup, you gotta start with that,” you managed, your own voice sounding strangely high.

“Mhm.” His hand came up to the trackpad, his arm brushing against yours.

He clicked to the next slide: a complex-looking graph. “This is where I talk about annual expenditure versus media value yield.”

He was so close. His breath stirred the hair at your temple. You knew exactly what he was doing.

Tease.

The presentation was a prop, a thin veneer of plausible deniability that was dissolving with every second he spent not moving away.

The tension was a live wire, humming between the press of his front and your back, in the scant millimeter of air separating his cheek from yours.

You let him. You leaned back, just a fraction, until your shoulder blades brushed against the solid wall of his chest. A silent permission. A surrender to the game.

He went utterly still for a heartbeat. Then, his voice dropped even lower, losing all pretense of discussing marketing strategies. “And this slide…” he whispered, his lips now dangerously close to the shell of your ear as he clicked again, bringing up a pie chart, “… is where I usually lose people’s attention.”

You turned your head slightly, your nose almost skimming his jaw. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He didn’t look at the screen. He was looking at you, his blue eyes dark and focused solely on your face, on your lips. “They tend to get… distracted by other things.”

The pretense was gone. The presentation was forgotten on the screen, casting a pale blue light over the two of you, frozen in the intimate darkness of his room. The only sound was the quiet whir of his laptop fan and the thunderous rush of your own blood in your ears.

His hand left the trackpad and came to rest on the desk beside your hip, his fingers splayed. He wasn’t hovering anymore. He was holding himself there, a question in the tension of his body, in the heat of his gaze.

“Maybe,” you said, the word barely more than an exhale, “you should work on making your content more engaging.”

A slow, devastating smile touched his lips. “Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes dropping to your mouth. “I’m working on it.”

You didn’t want to give in. Not yet. You wanted to stretch this moment, this delicious, aching tension, until it sang.

So you bit your lower lip, a slow, deliberate gesture you knew he was watching. You felt the sharp intake of his breath against your ear. “Oh really?” you murmured, your voice laced with a skepticism you didn’t feel.

“And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

A low, rough sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. “Less talking, for starters.”

Then his hands were on your face, his touch impossibly gentle, cradling your cheeks as if you were something fragile and precious.

The first kiss was a soft press of his lips against yours. It was gentle, achingly so, a stark contrast to the hungry tension that had built between you all night.

The softness of his mouth, the faint taste of mint and the night air, the way his breath hitched as you kissed him back, your lips moving tentatively against his.

And you couldn’t help it. A smile bloomed against his mouth, a helpless, joyous curve you couldn’t suppress. He felt it and kissed the smile, his own lips curving in response.

Your hands, which had been hovering nervously, found their purpose. They slid from his waist, your fingers seeking the warmth of his skin under the hem of his white linen shirt, skating over the taut, smooth plane of his lower back. He shuddered at the contact, a full-body tremor you felt against your front, and his kiss turned hungrier, more insistent.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Luna.

Cause this was perfect: his gentle hands on your face became one tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slid down, his palm a hot brand through your top as it traveled the curve of your spine.

Your own exploration grew bolder, your hands mapping the muscles of his back, pulling him closer until not a sliver of light could exist between you. You rose onto your toes, your arms looping around his neck, your fingers burying themselves in the soft, chaotic curls at his nape.

Kiss after kiss, you just couldn’t stop.

It was as if you’d been starved for the taste of him, for the feel of his mouth moving over yours with a slow, devastating patience that belied the hunger thrumming beneath the surface.

His lips were addictively soft, slightly pouty, and they chased yours with a devotion that made your head spin.

When you broke for a gasping breath, he’d murmur something unintelligible and sweet against your cheek before finding your mouth again, as if being apart for even a second was a minor agony.

The pace was still slow, a torturous, beautiful build. This wasn’t a frantic race; it was a savoring. His hands learned you. One remained tangled in your hair, his grip firm but not demanding, while the other journeyed down your side, over the dip of your waist, coming to rest with a possessive, gentle weight on the curve of your ass. He squeezed softly, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire press into your stomach.

A sharp, involuntary hiss escaped you, stolen directly from your lips to his. It was a sound of pure, overwhelmed sensation. He swallowed the sound, his kiss turning hotter, wetter, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that had your knees buckling. He held you up effortlessly, his arm banding around your waist, his hand still cupping you, holding you to him as if he could fuse you together.

You were devouring each other. His mouth was a drug, and you were already addicted, chasing the high of each deep, searching kiss. Your hands slid from his shoulders down the powerful lines of his arms, feeling the corded strength there, before gripping his biceps to anchor yourself in the whirlpool of sensation. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, his teeth scraping lightly, making you arch into him with a broken moan.

“Lando,” you breathed, the name a plea and a prayer.

He answered by capturing your mouth again, his kiss now a potent mix of that initial tenderness and a raw, gathering need.

His pouty lips were always searching, always returning, as if the very idea of not kissing you was incomprehensible.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. The blue light from the laptop screen painted the sharp planes of his face in stark relief, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and raw, a stark contrast to the gentle hold he still had on your face. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Tell me if I’m rushing this. If this is… too much.”

You shook your head, the motion brushing your nose against his. “You’re not,” you breathed, the words fervent. “You’re not rushing anything.”

He opened his eyes, searching yours, the playful confidence from earlier replaced by a vulnerable, sober intensity. “You’re sure? We both had… a few drinks. I just need to know you’re—”

You silenced him with another soft, lingering kiss, pouring every ounce of your certainty into it. When you pulled away, you kept your eyes locked on his.

“ I’ve sobered up” you promised with a smile, trying to reassure him.

“Okay, you sure?”

“Yeah, I promise”

He let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing. He pressed his forehead back against yours, his eyes closing for a second. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.” He opened his eyes, the blue of them almost black in the dim light. “But listen. Any minute. You change your mind, you just say it. We stop. You have the reins, yeah?”

You nodded, your throat too tight with a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion to speak.

Who was this boy?

The tenderness was so raw, so genuine, it felt like a secret side of him he kept locked away from the parties and the crowds. And he was giving it to you.

Months of imagining what it might be like to just have a real conversation with him. And now you were in his arms, his taste on your tongue, his heart pounding against yours. You were not going to waste a single second of this surreal, perfect reality.

This wasn't a drunk hookup. This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every shared laugh, every charged moment of tension that had simmered between you for months, finally boiling over in the quiet sanctuary of his room.

A new, confident smile touched your lips, born of that certainty. Your hands, which had been resting on his chest, slid lower. Your fingers found the first button of his white linen shirt and tou slipped it free. Then the next. Your movements were slow, deliberate, your eyes locked on his as you revealed more of the smooth, warm skin of his chest, the defined lines of his stomach.

His breath caught, his hands flexing in your hair. He watched your progress, his gaze heavy-lidded and full of a reverent heat. When your fingers reached the last button, you pushed the shirt open, letting your palms flatten against the hard planes of his torso.

“Your turn,” you murmured, your voice husky.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. In one smooth, effortless motion, his hands gripped your thighs and he lifted you, setting you down on the edge of his sturdy wooden desk. The surface was cool and solid against the backs of your thighs. He stepped immediately between your legs, his hands coming to rest on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. The new position brought him flush against your core, even through your clothes, and you gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. His hands slid down your neck, over your shoulders, coming to rest on the laces of your corset top at your back. His fingers traced the intricate pattern, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

“Yeah? Can I?” he asked, his voice a rough scrape against your ear. His breath was warm on your neck.

A breathless laugh escaped you. “Please.”

He grinned against your skin, a flash of that familiar, playful Lando, and began to work at the knots and laces with a surprising dexterity. It was a slow, intimate process, his knuckles brushing your spine with every pull. There was a moment of fumbling, a tangled loop that made him mutter a quiet curse, and you both dissolved into soft, shared laughter, your foreheads pressed together. The sound was light and giddy, cutting through the heavy tension, making it feel real, human, and even more precious.

“Need a hand?” you teased, your fingers joining his at the small of your back.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he insisted, his voice laced with mock indignation, and finally, with a last gentle tug, the corset loosened. He peeled it away from your body, letting it fall to the floor in a silken heap. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as it swept over you, clad now only in your simple bra and shorts. His eyes were wide, almost awestruck.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of reverence.

He kissed you deeply then, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as one hand came up to cradle the back of your head, the other roaming down your back. He found the clasp of your bra and unfastened it with practiced ease. The straps fell away, and he broke the kiss only to pull the garment off completely, letting it drop from his fingers. A low groan rumbled in his chest as his eyes drank in the sight of you, bare from the waist up, leaning back on your hands on his desk.

With his eyes locked in yours, he bent his head, his mouth finding one peaked nipple, then the other, his tongue laving, his teeth grazing with just the right amount of pressure. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his soft curls, holding him to you as shocks of pleasure radiated outwards, making you tighten your legs around him.

You were panting into his mouth, your own hands exploring the hard muscles of his back, the curve of his ass, learning the feel of him as he moved against you, a slow, agonizingly good rhythm of his hips that had you seeing stars.

Your own hands were busy, pushing at the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button. He helped you, his fingers covering yours for a second before he shucked them and his boxers down in one hurried motion, kicking them away. The air was cool against his skin, and yours. Then his hands were on the button of your shorts, but he paused, his eyes lifting from between your thighs to meet yours. In the pale blue light, his gaze was a storm of desire, but beneath it, that unwavering thread of care.

“You’re sure?” he whispered, his voice so raw it was almost painful. His thumbs stroked the skin just above your hip bones. “Tell me again. I need to hear it.”

“Positive, I’m sure Lando” you breathed, the truth of it ringing in every syllable.

A shudder of relief, of pure, unadulterated want, racked his frame. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was less a kiss and more like a vow: deep, consuming, and endlessly tender. As he kissed you, his arms slid under your knees and around your back. In one fluid, effortless motion, he lifted you from the desk, cradling you against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back, lost in the taste of him, in the solid strength of him holding you.

He carried you the few short steps to his bed, never breaking the kiss, and laid you down gently in the center of the rumpled duvet. The world tilted, the cool cotton of his sheets a shock against your heated skin. He followed you down, kneeling on the bed, his other hand sliding down your body. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and the panties beneath them, and with a single, slow pull, he stripped them from your legs, tossing them aside without a second glance.

Now you were completely bare, and he was there, between your legs, looking down at you

Every drop of beer from the pong table, every faint buzz of tequila, had evaporated from your system at this point, burned away by the intensity of your connection on the porch. In this moment, you felt nothing but a crystalline clarity settling over you. There was no haze, no filter. This was stark, breathtaking reality.

He was naked before you, kneeling on the bed, the muscles of his thighs and abdomen taut. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling from your face, down your body, with a reverence that made your heart ache. He reached down, his hand wrapping around the hard, thick length of himself, giving a slow, deliberate stroke.

The sight was so intensely erotic, so vulnerably real, it stole the breath from your lungs. The pale light from the window caught the movement, the definition of his body, the focused intensity on his face.

This was it.

This was Lando Norris, the boy you’d watched from afar for months, the man you’d discovered in small bits after a beer pong tournament , completely exposed and wanting you. The chemistry that had crackled between you since the first time your eyes met across a crowded room was now a tangible, living thing in the quiet space between your bodies.

It was in the way he looked at you: not with conquest, but with awe.

It was in the way your body arched toward him of its own volition, an ancient, undeniable pull.

It was in the profound silence, louder than any music from the party below, screaming that this was concrete. This was real. This was the beginning of something that had been waiting to happen all along.

You reached for him, “Come here,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the thunder of your heart.

A slow, devastating smile touched his lips and he leaned over you, bracing his weight on his arms, his body hovering just above yours, not touching, letting the heat radiate between you.

He lowered his head, but not to your mouth. His lips trailed a scorching path down the column of your throat, over the frantic pulse at the base, down the center of your chest. He took a moment to lavish attention on each breast, his tongue swirling around a nipple before drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth, sucking gently until you cried out, your back bowing off the bed. He soothed the sting with a soft kiss, his eyes flicking up to watch your face, a dark, pleased glint in them.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress against your damp skin. “I love it”

His journey continued south, kisses peppered along your trembling stomach, his hands smoothing over your hips, holding you down with a gentle firmness as you arched into his touch. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties—the last scrap of fabric separating you—and looked up at you, his blue eyes dark as a midnight sky, a silent question burning in them.

You answered by lifting your hips, a wordless, desperate plea. He smiled against your skin, a soft, wicked thing, and drew the lace down your legs, discarding them with a finality that made your stomach flip.

Then he settled between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him. The first touch of his breath against your most intimate skin was a lightning strike. You jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. He looked up the length of your body, his gaze locking with yours, holding you captive.

“… and so beautiful,” he murmured, the words a warm vibration against you. “All for me.”

And then he tasted you.

Oh, dear lord.

It wasn’t a tentative flick or an experimental probe. It was a deep, languid, knowing stroke of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit, slow and thorough, as if he was committing your flavor to memory. A broken, guttural sound you didn’t recognize erupted from you, your head thrashing back against the pillows.

“Oh, fuck… Lando.”

He hummed in approval, the sensation making your legs shake. And then he set to work with a focused, devastating expertise that completely dismantled you. There was no frantic race to an end. He explored you with a patient, rapturous intensity, learning what made you gasp, what made your back bow off the bed, what made you sob his name into the quiet room.

His tongue was a wicked, clever instrument. He licked broad, flat strokes that had you moaning, then focused into tight, relentless circles around your clit that had you seeing stars. He would suck gently, then soothe with soft presses of his lips, alternating patterns until you were a trembling, pleading mess beneath him.

He’d hold you down with a firm, gentle hand on your stomach, his other hand coming up to knead and palm your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple in time with the strokes of his tongue.

Lando Norris was eating you out. Properly going down on you in his bedroom. And he was devastatingly good at it.

“So good,” he muttered against you, his words muffled but clear, hot puffs of air making you shiver. “Taste so fucking good.”

The dirty words, whispered against your most sensitive flesh while he devoured you, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. You were moaning constantly now, a stream of breathless, helpless sounds: his name, yes, please, oh god, oh fuck. And you couldn’t stay still either: your hips rolled, seeking more, deeper, more.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, lifting his head just enough to speak. He gave your hip a light, playful slap.

You whimpered, trying to obey, but another expert swirl of his tongue had you bucking again. He chuckled, the sound a low, wicked vibration that you felt everywhere. He actually giggled against your cunt, the boyish, delighted sound so at odds with the intensely erotic act that it somehow made it even hotter.

“You just can’t help it, can you?” he teased, his breath fanning over your wetness. “So eager for my tongue, yeah?” Then he dove back in with renewed fervor, his tongue spearing into you before returning to lavish attention on your clit with relentless, circling pressure.

His tongue was a maestro, conducting your body to a symphony of gasps and shudders. You were so close, teetering on the very edge, your entire world narrowed to the wet, insistent heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble on your inner thighs, the delicious pressure building to an unbearable peak.

“Lando… please, I’m right there…” You begged, your voice a shattered whisper.

He hummed in response, the vibration pushing you even closer. You felt the climax gathering, a tidal wave about to crash—

And then he stopped.

He lifted his head, leaving you achingly empty, throbbing and aching with unmet need. A broken, frustrated cry escaped your lips. You were panting, your body arched and trembling, suspended in agonizing anticipation.

Before you could protest, he was crawling up your body, his weight settling over you. His lips, slick and warm from you, found yours in a deep, claiming kiss and you could taste yourself on his tongue.

Hot.

He settled more fully between your legs, the hard, hot length of him grinding against your sensitive, soaked core. The friction was maddening, a teasing promise. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him tighter against you. You could feel every inch of him, and you rocked your hips, seeking more of that delicious pressure.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he rasped against your lips.

You kissed him back, all teeth and tongue, your hands roaming the sweat-slick planes of his back, clutching him to you. You never wanted this feeling to end: the weight of him, the heat, the raw, unfiltered connection.

With a final, searing kiss, he braced himself on one arm and stretched towards his bedside table. You heard the drawer open, the rustle of foil. He pulled back, a small, square packet held between his fingers. His eyes, dark and blown with desire, held yours.

“Put it on.”

The command, delivered in that rough, needy tone, sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core. Your hands, which had been clutching his shoulders, trembled slightly as you took the condom from him. You tore the foil with your teeth, the sound loud in the quiet room. He watched you, his gaze intense, his breathing ragged as you carefully rolled the latex down the thick, hard length of him. Your touch was deliberate, your fingers smoothing it into place, and he hissed through clenched teeth, his hips giving an involuntary jerk.

Once he was sheathed, you slid your hands back up to cup his face, pulling him down for another kiss.

He pulled away slowly, his eyes searching yours one last time. You nodded, wordless, your answer in the way you arched beneath him, in the way your legs tightened around him, pulling him closer.

“Okay,” he whispered, laughing a little. “Okay.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of him nudging against you. He paused, letting you feel the pressure, the imminent breach. Then, with a slow, controlled push, he began to sink into you.

And Lord have mercy.

The feeling was exquisite: a perfect, stretching fullness that stole the air from your lungs. He moved with infinite patience, inch by breathtaking inch, giving your body time to adjust, to welcome him. Your eyes locked on his, and in the blue depths, you saw the same awe, the same staggering reality reflected back at you.

When he was fully buried to the hilt, he stilled, both of you trembling with the intensity of the connection. He was everywhere, surrounding you, filling you completely.

“Oh, god,” you breathed, the words a reverent exhale. “You’re big”

"Yeah?" A low, rough groan vibrated in his chest, a sound of pure male satisfaction and strained control. “You can take it”, he whispered against your lips, his voice a gravelly rasp.

He began to move.

The first withdrawal was a slow, deliberate drag that made you whimper, the sensation of him filling you again even more intense. He set a pace that was deep and measured, not frantic, each thrust a deliberate claiming of the space he’d found within you. It was a rhythm that spoke of a desire to savor, to feel every single inch of the connection. The stretch was profound, a perfect, aching fullness that had your inner muscles fluttering around him in shocked, involuntary clenches.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping to yours, his rhythm faltering for a second at the sensation. “If you keep squeezing me like that… Christ baby, we not gonna last…”

You could only moan in response, a high, breathy sound that was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, deep and messy. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the sweat-slick skin of his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle there. You were clinging to him, your anchor in the rising tide of sensation.

He shifted his weight, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of your head and sinking his knees into the mattress, and the new angle drove him even deeper. A sharp, gasping cry was torn from you. “There… oh, god, Lando, right there…”

He zeroed in on that spot with the focus of a racer finding the perfect line.

His thrusts became more purposeful, each one grinding against that delicious, sensitive place inside you that made your vision blur at the edges. The slow, savoring pace began to quicken, fueled by your desperate moans and the way your body arched to meet his every move.

The room filled with the sounds of you: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, your ragged, pleading whines, his guttural, punched-out groans. You were a chorus of need.

One of his hands slid from the mattress to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding, his fingers massaging your scalp. The other hand roamed down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your thigh and hiking it higher around his waist, opening you up to him even more.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted into your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re so tight… fucking heaven.”

The dirty praise, growled directly into your ear while he moved inside you with such devastating precision, unraveled you further. You turned your head, seeking his mouth, and he kissed you hungrily, swallowing your moans. When you broke for air, you buried your face in the sweaty crook of his neck, your lips against his skin.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice muffled against him. “Please Lando, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he grunted, his thrusts gaining a new intensity, a building ferocity that spoke of his own control beginning to fray. His hips snapped against yours, the force driving you up the mattress. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, trying to pull him deeper with every plunge.

“You like that?” he rasped, his voice shredded. “Like it a little rough, baby? Tell me.”

“Yes,” you sobbed, your body coiling tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its absolute limit. “Yes, Lando, just like that… fuck…”

He was relentless. He fucked you through the building storm of your orgasm, his pace never faltering, his words a continuous, filthy stream of encouragement and awe. “I can feel you getting so close, squeezing me so fucking good… Come baby, let go for me”

It was the command in his voice, the perfect, punishing friction of him hitting that spot over and over, and the overwhelming reality of him pouring all of his focus into wrecking you, that finally shattered your last shred of control.

The climax detonated without warning, a supernova of pleasure that ripped through every nerve ending. You screamed, a raw, broken sound, as your body convulsed around him, wave after wave of blinding ecstasy tearing through you. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers digging into his skin so hard you knew you’d leave marks, your inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses.

“That’s it… fuck, yes… god, yes…” he chanted, his own rhythm becoming erratic, brutal, as he was pushed over the edge by the violent clutch of your body. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that buried him to the root, he stilled, a harsh, guttural cry tearing from his throat as he found his own release.

Fucking wow.

For long moments, there was only the sound of ragged breathing, the frantic hammering of two hearts slowing into sync. He collapsed onto you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in your neck. You could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse against your chest, the sweat cooling on both your skins.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were curled against his chest. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips, his touch now tender, reverent again.

“Okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

You could only nod, nuzzling into his chest, your body humming with a bone-deep satisfaction. You were utterly spent, every muscle liquid, your mind blissfully blank. The stretch and ache between your legs was a perfect, cherished souvenir.

You were blissfully fucked out. By Lando Norris.

He held you close, one hand stroking lazy patterns up and down your spine. The pale morning light had grown stronger, painting the room in shades of gold and gray. Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed, and the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner started up: the real world beginning its Sunday morning resurrection.

“Well,” he said, the single word heavy with implication. “Thank you Luna, I guess?”

“No, forget it.”

Your roommate’s voice echoed through the dorm room as she pointed a mascara wand at you like a loaded weapon.

“You are absolutely not spending Charles’ birthday here alone dressed like a tired substitute teacher.”

Rain tapped softly against the window beside your bed while Boston glowed gold and blurry outside, the entire campus soaked in that cold October dampness that made everyone walk around with their hands shoved deep into hoodie pockets. Somewhere down the hall, someone was blasting Taylor Swift loud enough to vibrate the walls.

Your statistics textbook sat abandoned beside you on the bed, open to a page full of formulas that had stopped making sense two hours ago. Highlighters, flashcards, empty energy drink cans, and half-finished iced coffees cluttered every available surface of your side of the room, making it painfully obvious that midterms were a week away.

Which was exactly why you had absolutely no business going to a frat party tonight.

You looked up from your laptop just in time to see Luna applying lipstick in the tiny mirror hanging crookedly beside her closet door. She looked effortlessly pretty in the most unfair way possible, dressed in dark jeans and a cream sweater slipping off one shoulder like she belonged in some indie college movie. Her hair framed her face perfectly, messy in that intentional Pinterest-girl way that should’ve been annoying but somehow wasn’t.

“I have a statistics exam in four days,” you reminded her for what felt like the tenth time.

“And you’ve been studying for twelve straight hours.”

“Because I don’t want to fail.”

“You’re not going to fail.”

You snorted quietly, earning a satisfied smile from her.

Living together for the last three years had basically turned the two of you into an old married couple. Luna could read your moods before you even opened your mouth. She knew when you were stressed, when you were overthinking, when you needed coffee, and when you were one inconvenience away from a complete emotional collapse.

And it was absolutely mutual.

Right now, apparently, she’d diagnosed you with needing alcohol and social interaction.

She crossed the room and dropped onto your bed beside you, nudging your leg with hers.

“Come on,” she said softer this time. “It’s Charles’ birthday.”

“That requires your presence, not mine.”

Luna rolled her eyes affectionately before stealing your laptop straight out of your hands and snapping it shut.

“Hey!”

“No more studying tonight.”

“You don’t understand, Lu. I have three deadlines next week, a presentation on Monday, and if I fail this statistics exam I’m actually done for.”

“What I do understand is… ”she interrupted calmly, “… that you’ve been wearing the same sweatshirt for two days and muttering about standard deviation in your sleep.”

You groaned and fell backward against your pillows while she laughed.

Luna had always been impossible not to love. There was something naturally warm about her, something soft without ever feeling fragile. She was the kind of person who left handwritten notes in your backpack before exams and bought flowers from street markets just because they “looked romantic.” A literature and poetry major who spent rainy afternoons reading Neruda by the window and somehow made it look cinematic instead of pretentious.

And of course Charles Leclerc, campus heartthrob and president of Delta One fraternity, had fallen hopelessly in love with her during freshman year orientation.

Honestly, everybody saw it coming.

You still remembered the first time you met him. Luna had barely finished introducing herself before Charles offered to carry all her boxes upstairs to the dorm building like some ridiculously attractive gentleman straight out of a Netflix series. By Halloween they were inseparable. By Christmas they were officially dating. Three years later, they were still painfully obsessed with each other.

The kind of couple people simultaneously adored and hated.

Meanwhile, every single guy you’d dated in college had somehow become an inside joke or an horror tale.

One ghosted you the week before winter formal. One called you by his ex-girlfriend’s name during some awful sex. One spent an entire dinner date explaining cryptocurrency and it felt like he was trying to lure you in some weird selling scheme.

College dating genuinely felt like a social experiment designed to humble women.

Luna stood again and immediately started digging through your closet like she owned it.

“You should wear this one.”

You stared at the black top she tossed at your face. “That top is criminally tiny.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not dressing for male validation at a frat party”

“Lando Norris will be there.”

You froze instantly and Luna’s grin widened in pure satisfaction.

Busted.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, horrified. “You’re evil. Stop using my innocent crush against me.”

“Crush?” she repeated dramatically.

“Luna.”

“I’m just saying, I’m giving you incentives!”

Your face warmed despite yourself as you looked down at the top still in your hands.

The unfortunate reality was that Lando Norris was ridiculously attractive.

Messy curls constantly falling into his blue eyes. Hoodies with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, baseball cap often thrown backwards and biceps sticking out of tight t-shirs. And not to mention his lazy smirks that always felt vaguely flirtatious even when they probably weren’t. He had this annoyingly effortless confidence about him, like he moved through life permanently entertained.

And worse of all, he was smart.

The kind of smart that didn’t seem fair. You knew it for all those times you peeked at his tests or essays.

Boy had brain.

You barely knew him outside of Statistics II and occasional run-ins at the Delta One house, but honestly, that almost made the crush worse. There was still enough mystery left for your brain to romanticize him into something unrealistic.

Which it absolutely had.

And you’d made the unforgivable mistake of admitting to Luna one time*, one single time*, that you thought Lando was hot.

That had apparently become the downfall of your entire life.

You and Lando usually sat a few rows apart during statistics lectures, though “sat through lectures” was generous in his case.

He was always in the back row with the other sport business majors, looking unfairly good in hoodies while doing literally anything except paying attention. Half the time he was on his phone. The other half he was making quiet comments to whoever sat beside him that made them laugh hard enough to get yelled at by the professor.

And somehow, despite behaving like a man who had never opened a textbook in his life, he still got good grades.

You hated people like that.

Unfortunately, you also wanted him a little bit.

“So tiny top for great boobs?” she asked, completely deadpan, holding the corset as an invitation.

An hour later, you were walking down Greek Street wearing that exactly tight black corset-style top that definitely did not respect the space your breasts needed, paired with jeans that somehow made the whole situation feel worse.

Your hair had been styled, your makeup done with Luna’s annoyingly steady hands, and you were now actively questioning all of your life choices.

“This thing is squeezing the life out of me.”

“Shut up, you look amazing.”

The cold October air clung to your skin, sharp enough to wake you up properly, while the sidewalks shimmered with rainwater reflecting neon porch lights. Frat houses lined the street like competing kingdoms, each one louder than the last, each one trying harder than the next to prove it was the place to be.

The Delta One mansion sat at the end of the street like it owned the entire campus. Big, white, obnoxiously grand in a way that made you certain half the alumni donations had gone into maintaining its aesthetic. The porch lights were warm and golden, and a massive banner stretched across the railing:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR PRESIDENT”

The second you stepped inside, the world changed completely.

Warmth hit you first, thick and immediate. Then sound. Then smell.

Beer, perfume, weed, cheap vodka, fried food you couldn’t identify, and something sweet that was probably punch but definitely not legal in any sense. Music pulsed through the floorboards so strongly you could feel it in your ribs, like the house itself had a heartbeat set to bass.

People were everywhere.

The living room was packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving under flickering LED lights. Someone was dancing like nobody was watching, which was objectively untrue because everyone was watching.

In the dining room, a beer pong game had turned into a full-blown spectator sport, complete with shouting and dramatic reactions.

It was loud. Chaotic. Overstimulating.

And painfully, stereotypically college life.

You could almost imagine it as a montage in a movie, slow motion shots and golden lighting, everyone pretending this was the peak of youth and freedom.

Somehow, it almost worked.

And just like that, Charles appeared through the crowd.

There was always something unfair about the way he looked at Luna. Like the entire room faded into background noise the second she was in his line of sight.

His face softened in a way that made you instinctively look away for privacy’s sake, even though no one was actually watching.

He wrapped an arm around her waist like it was instinct, like it was muscle memory, and leaned down to kiss her hello.

“Happy birthday,” Luna said softly against his lips.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment. Respectfully. For your own sanity. When Charles finally turned to you, he smiled.

“She bullied you into coming, didn’t she?”

“Emotionally manipulated,” you corrected immediately.

“That tracks.”

He laughed, pulling you into a quick hug before someone yelled his name from the staircase.

“I’m glad you came,” he said sincerely between distractions, before gesturing toward the kitchen. “Drinks are everywhere. Help yourself. And there’s a beer pong tournament starting soon if you’re into that kind of thing.”

And just like that, you were left standing in the middle of Delta One.

You exhaled slowly, taking in the chaos again.

Normally, parties like this drained you within ten minutes. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many versions of happiness you were supposed to pretend to match.

But tonight felt different.

Maybe because midterms had been swallowing your entire life and your brain had finally hit its limit. Maybe because the music was good, the lights were warm, and for once nobody expected anything from you except showing up.

Maybe because fuck it, Luna was right, just for once you could have fun.

You ended up drifting through the party with a plastic cup in your hand and Luna appearing and disappearing beside you every twenty minutes like an overly social ghost. Sometimes she dragged you into conversations with people from her literature seminars. Sometimes you found yourself talking to classmates from your lectures about upcoming presentations and professors everyone hated equally.

At one point you got cornered by two girls from your marketing elective group arguing passionately about whether the university should cut funding to the hockey program, and somewhere in the middle of the conversation you realized you were actually having a good time.

Real fun. Not performative fun.

Your second drink helped too.

And you were halfway through telling a story about a disastrous date you had when Luna suddenly appeared beside you out of nowhere, eyes bright with the exact kind of energy that usually meant trouble.

“Oh no,” you said immediately.

“What?”

“You did something.”

She smiled innocently. “I signed you up for beer pong.”

You blinked once. Then twice. You knew where this was going.

“With who?”

“With him.”

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost felt physical.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

“No.”

“He just got here.”

“No.”

“He looks really good tonight.”

“You signed me up without asking me?”

“You would’ve said no.”

“Exactly.”

Luna took a sip from her drink calmly, completely unbothered by your spiral. Obviously.

It wasn’t even that you couldn’t talk to attractive men. You could flirt when you wanted to. You knew how to hold conversations, how to be charming, how to act confident even when you weren’t feeling it.

But him?

That felt different somehow.

Maybe because he’d always existed slightly outside your reach. Like one of those people who naturally belonged to a different social orbit than yours. The frat parties, the confidence, the easy charisma, the girls who always seemed to hover around him without effort.

And then there was you. You had never genuinely expected him to notice you beyond statistics lectures and the occasional sarcastic comment before class.

Which was why the idea of being publicly paired with him for a game while half the frat watched made your pulse spike immediately.

Five minutes later, a shot glass was being pushed into your hand by somebody you vaguely recognized from sophomore-year economics. The burn hit immediately, sharp and warm down your throat, settling into your chest seconds later. You coughed once, grabbing a lime slice off the counter.

Next thing you noticed: a crowd had gathered around the beer pong table, people squeezing shoulder-to-shoulder with drinks raised while someone blasted music from a speaker balanced dangerously on a chair. Empty cans covered nearly every surface nearby. The atmosphere had shifted into something more competitive now, louder and messier in the way frat games always became after enough alcohol.

At the center of it all stood the birthday boy himself, holding a microphone someone had somehow found.

“Alright!” he shouted over the noise while the room erupted around him. “Beer pong tournament starts now, and before anybody accuses me of favoritism, yes, the teams were chosen completely randomly.”

Yeah, sure. Sooo randomly.

A chorus of very loud bullshit answers came from the crowd immediately. He ignored them smoothly.

You barely heard the next pair announced because your attention caught somewhere else entirely.

On him.

He stood on the opposite side of the room near the table, one hand wrapped around a red cup while talking to one of his friends. White linen shirt with sleeves pushed to his elbows. Messy curls. That stupid relaxed posture that made it seem like he never got nervous about anything in his life.

Oh, you were definitely not sober enough for this.

Luna nudged your side. “Go.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

There was no escaping anymore.

Not when Luna was practically shoving you forward with an entertained smile on her face. Not when half the room had already turned its attention toward the tournament bracket being taped to the wall. And definitely not when Lando had already started walking toward you too, red cup still in hand, looking completely relaxed while your own nervous system was seconds away from shortcircuiting.

You straightened your shoulders instinctively, forcing yourself to act normal. Which, at this point, mostly meant pretending your heart wasn’t beating ridiculously fast over a guy you’d technically exchanged maybe twenty seven conversations with in total.

The closer he got, the more unfairly attractive he became. The white linen shirt wasn’t helping either, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows, the top buttons undone just enough to make you irritated about it. His curls looked slightly damp from either rain or heat from the crowded house, and there was something so annoyingly effortless about him that it made you want to study him academically.

“So,” he said once he reached you, mouth curving into an easy grin, “Charles told me you’re the lucky girl who gets to play with me.”

You crossed your arms lightly, mostly to keep yourself grounded. “Am I lucky?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He looked genuinely offended you’d even question it. “I’ve won every beer pong tournament at every party this semester.”

That made you laugh immediately. The kind of laugh that slipped out before you could overthink it.

“Well,” you replied, “Hopefully I won’t ruin your streak.”

“Nah,” he said easily. “You look competitive enough.”

God, he was easy to talk to. That was the first thing that surprised you.

You’d built him up so much in your head that somewhere along the line you’d convinced yourself he’d be intimidating one-on-one. Too confident. Too smooth. Too cocky. Too aware of the effect he had on people.

Instead, standing next to him felt strangely natural.

Like talking to someone you already knew a little, even if technically you didn’t.

The crowd around the table erupted into shouting as the first game officially started, people squeezing closer around the players while someone dramatically commentated from the sidelines. You and him stayed near the corner of the table waiting for your turn, shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the noise.

“You’re in Statistics II, right?” he asked after a second, glancing at you. “I knew I recognized you.”

You nodded. “Unfortunately.”

He laughed softly. “I remember your presentation.”

You blinked at him. “My presentation?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip from his drink casually. “The probability analysis one. About media engagement patterns?”

Your eyebrows lifted immediately in surprise. Not because he remembered you from class. That alone already felt unlikely enough considering most people spent statistics lectures either asleep or mentally elsewhere.

But your presentation?

“You actually listened to that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“I did. It was brilliant!”

“I thought the professor was the only one paying attention.”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “I was listening. Between very important rounds of Solitaire.”

That pulled another laugh out of you. The compliment caught you off guard in the worst way because it sounded genuine. Not flirtatious. Not exaggerated. And maybe that shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did, but you’d spent most of college around guys who rarely noticed things beyond appearances. Half the people in class probably couldn’t even remember what your presentation had been about.

Yet somehow he did.

You looked away first, hiding a small smile behind your cup.

The game in front of you ended in dramatic shouting and accusations of cheating before the birthday boy loudly announced the next teams.

Yours included; and the crowd shifted around the table while you moved into position opposite another pair you vaguely recognized from the business school. Someone handed your teammate a ball.

He turned toward you immediately. “Okay, serious question before we start.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“What’s your actual beer pong skill level?”

You exhaled a laugh. “Honestly? I’ve had enough shots that I genuinely don’t know anymore.”

“That’s fair.”

Then his expression softened slightly, voice lowering just enough to cut through some of the surrounding noise.

“On that note, if you don’t feel like drinking anymore at some point, just tell me. I’ll take over the cups.”

The comment fell from his lips so casually it almost could’ve passed unnoticed.

But it didn’t.

Because there was something unexpectedly considerate about it. No pressure. No frat-boy weirdness about keeping up or getting drunker. Just a simple check-in to make sure you were comfortable. And for some reason, that tiny moment settled something inside you completely.

“Thanks,” you said honestly.

He just shrugged lightly. “We’re here to have fun, right?”

And somehow, against all odds, the game became fun almost immediately. Not because you suddenly turned into some beer pong prodigy. You absolutely did not. Your aim remained questionable at best.

But he made everything feel easy.

Every missed shot became a joke. Every successful cup turned into exaggerated celebration. He hyped you up so enthusiastically after your first actual score that you nearly choked laughing. By the middle of the game, your stomach hurt from laughing. And that surprised you most of all.

Not the flirting. Not the attraction. Not even the fact that he kept standing slightly too close every time he leaned toward you to talk over the music.

It was how comfortable he made you feel.

He teased you constantly, but gently. Easily. Like he’d known you longer than one semester of shared lectures and occasional hallway conversations. And somewhere between missed shots, sarcastic commentary, and his hand brushing yours every time you passed the ball back and forth, all the nervousness you’d carried into the party started dissolving completely.

The game continued, a whirlwind of laughter and competition that blurred the edges of the party into a warm, golden haze. The tequila shot you’d taken earlier hummed pleasantly beneath your skin, softening your focus just enough to make the flashing lights seem softer, the music a rhythmic pulse rather than an assault.

And with every passing minute, the space between you and Lando seemed to shrink, charged with a chemistry that felt less like a spark and more like a slow, steady burn.

His teasing took on a new edge. It wasn’t malicious, not even close, but it wasn’t entirely innocent either. When you managed to sink a particularly difficult shot, ricocheting the ball off the rim of a cup already half-full, he let out a low whistle of approval.

“Okay, girl….” he said, his voice a notch lower, meant only for you amidst the din. His blue eyes held yours for a beat too long. “Showing off now?”

“Beginner’s luck,” you shot back, but your smile felt wider, more knowing.

“Doubt it.” He leaned in to retrieve the ball, his shoulder brushing against yours.

You found yourself leaning into it, into him, answering his smirks with your own, your retorts laced with a flirtation you reserved for boys you were usually not attracted to.

“You’re distracting me,” you accused after missing another shot, your body angled toward his.

“Am I?” he asked, all feigned innocence, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “My bad...”.

The tournament narrowed down until it was just your team against birtday boy and your best friend in the finals. The entire frat seemed to have gathered around the table, a roaring, cup-waving audience.

And of course, when Luna sank the winning cup, the room erupted. Charles swept her up in a hug, spinning her around as she laughed against his shoulder and you felt a rush of genuine relief.

You’d had more beers than you’d planned, and the room had begun to tilt in a gentle, warm way. You weren’t drunk, not sloppily so, but you were floating somewhere pleasantly adrift, where every sensation was amplified: the heat of the bodies around you, the thump of the bass, the electric awareness of Lando’s presence.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as the crowd began to disperse. You hadn’t even realized he’d been watching you closely, his earlier sharp focus now softened into something almost gentle. “You good?”

“Yeah, just starting to feel the tequila a little.”

"Let's get you some water, yeah?" He tilted his head toward the kitchen, but his eyes lingered on yours, and there was something in them, like an invitation, a question. "Or we could find somewhere quieter. If you want."

The offer hung in the air between you, casual on the surface, loaded underneath.

You bit your lip, considering. "Quieter sounds nice."

He led you to the kitchen, snagging two cold water bottles from a cooler buried under bags of ice, his fingers brushing yours as he handed one over. The contact sent a little jolt up your arm. Then he pushed open the back door, and the cold October night rushed in, a shocking, clean contrast to the stuffy heat inside.

The porch was a wide, wraparound space littered with mismatched outdoor furniture and empty planters. Strings of Edison bulbs glowed overhead, casting everything in a soft, amber light. The noise of the party became a muffled heartbeat through the walls. You sat on a weathered wooden bench, the chill of the slats seeping through your jeans, and cracked open the water, drinking half of it in one long, grateful pull.

Lando sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could see the way the bulb light caught the gold in his messy curls. He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. “So,” he began, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Beer pong. Not your hidden talent, then.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the siding of the house. “I did warn you, tho. You chose to ignore me”

He chuckled, the sound warm in the cool air. “I thought it was a decoy strategy. Throw them off our scent.”

You shook your head laughing, sneaking a glance at him. In the quieter light, away from the performative chaos of the party, he looked different. The effortless, showy confidence was still there, but it had settled into something more relaxed, more real. The lines of his face were softer, his long fingers curled around the water bottle. He was just… beautiful. In a way that made your chest feel tight. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble along it. He wasn’t trying, and that was somehow infinitely more attractive.

A comfortable silence settled between you, filled only by the distant party sounds and the rustle of leaves in the night breeze. It teetered on the edge of awkwardness, that silence, thick with everything unsaid from the past hour.

He shifted, his knee accidentally brushing yours. He didn’t jerk away, but he didn’t press in either. He just left it there, a point of contact. “Cold out here,” he remarked, stating the obvious.

“A little.” “You want to go back in?” You thought about the wall of heat and noise, the press of bodies. “Not really.”

“Me neither.” He leaned back, mirroring your posture against the siding, his shoulder now just a hair’s breadth from yours.

You could sense the tension. And the chemistry of the situation. But the flirtation wasn’t in grand declarations or intense eye contact. It was in the shared quiet. In the way he’d noticed your attitude and mentioned it.

In the deliberate way he was staying out here in the cold with you instead of being the centre of the party inside.

It was in the way, when you finally turned your head to look at him, you found he was already looking at you. Not with a smoldering stare, but with a quiet, curious focus, as if he was trying to figure out a pleasant puzzle.

“What?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, a little almost-embarrassed smile touching his lips, and looked down at his hands. “Nothing. Just… this is nice.”

And it was. It was really, genuinely nice. And for the first time all night, the nervous, performative feeling you’d had completely melted away. You were just two people, sitting on a cold porch step, talking about nothing much at all.

“So I haven’t seen you in any of my other classes,” he said, turning his head to look at you. “Just Statistics II. So I’m guessing you’re not majoring in business right?.”

You shook your head, twisting the cap back on your bottle. “Nope. Media and Communications.”

“Ah.” He nodded, a genuine interest in his eyes. “That makes sense, actually.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. The effort you put into that presentation? Very professional.” He said it plainly, a statement of fact. “Way better than the crap most people submit.”

A warm flush spread through you, unrelated to the alcohol. “Well, don’t give me too much credit. I just picked a pretty template on Canva.”

You gathered your courage, wanting to keep the thread, to keep him talking in that low, intimate tone. “What about you? Why business? You don’t exactly strike me as the suit-and-tie type.”

He shrugged, looking out into the dark yard. “I don’t know, honestly. I love the sports industry and what’s behind it so, I guess sports business felt like the way in.” He glanced back at you, a wry twist to his mouth. “It’s less exciting than it sounds. Mostly a lot of spreadsheets and case studies about game strategies and financial management.”

It started with the easy stuff: professors you both hated, the mystery meat in the dining hall, the best place to get coffee on campus when you were running on three hours of sleep. He told you about growing up with three siblings, the chaotic, competitive energy of it that had shaped his own easygoing nature as a survival tactic.

He mentioned golf, and you couldn’t stop the snort of laughter. “Golf? Seriously? That’s not a sport, that’s older men wearing polo shirt having walks on a pretty grass.”

He clutched his chest, feigning deep offense. “It’s strategy! Precision! It’s—”

“Boring.”

“You’ve never tried it.”

“I don’t need to know it’s boring, Lando.”

He laughed, a rich, full sound that seemed to vibrate through the bench. “Fine. I’ll convert you one day. You’ll see.”

You talked about the terrifying abyss of post-graduation, the pressure to have a five-year plan when you could barely plan your next week. You talked about the snacks you loved as a kid, the movies you’d watch on repeat, the stupid, profound fears that kept you up at night:failing, being ordinary, getting stuck.

He confessed he’d tried out for the university hockey team freshman year. “Lasted two weeks of practice,” he said, a rueful smile on his face as he ran a hand through his curls. “Those guys are built different. Like, genetically modified or something”

The hours slipped by, marked only by the gradual dimming of the party’s roar behind the walls and the slow journey of the moon across the clear, cold sky.

At some point, you weren’t sure when, the space between you vanished. You were leaning into the corner of the bench, your legs tucked up, and his arm was resting along the back of it.

A particularly loud laugh from you at one of his stories had you tilting, and your head found the solid, warm curve of his shoulder as naturally as breathing. His arm settled around you, his fingers drawing absent, soothing circles on the sleeve of your top. Neither of you acknowledged it. You just kept talking, your voice lower now, the words shared in the intimate space between his chin and your hair.

Internally, you were sending silent, fervent thank-you notes to Luna.

Master manipulator. And bestest friend in the whole universe.

You’d braced for noise, for superficiality, for the awkward strain of a crush you couldn’t act on. Instead, you were wrapped in Lando Norris’s arm, sharing pieces of yourself you rarely voiced, and receiving his in return.

It felt surreal and yet more real than anything else that semester.

At this point, you felt like you both had sobered up completely, the earlier buzz replaced by a crystalline, hyper-aware clarity. You could feel every point of contact: his thigh against yours, the weight of his arm, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.

He shifted slightly, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “So I was wondering, I have this presentation for my Sports Marketing midterm next week.”

He paused, and you could feel him smiling. “And I thought… as a Media Major and a Canva pro and all… you could come upstairs and, I don’t know, judge it? Give it a professional advice? A few tips? ”

Upstairs.

The party was dying. The house was quieting. This wasn’t a public porch anymore. This was an invitation into a private space, veiled in a hilariously thin excuse.

Of course it was an excuse.

You lifted your head from his shoulder to look at him. His face was close, his eyes dark and unreadable in the low light, but his mouth held that familiar, teasing curve. The tension was back, coiled tight and potent, stripped of all beer-pong bravado and laid bare in the quiet night.

You arched an eyebrow, forcing a lightness into your voice you didn’t entirely feel. “Ah. So that’s why you kept me out here all night. You just needed free graphic design labor.”

His grin widened, unrepentant. “Busted. You saw right through me.”

You held his gaze, the playful challenge hanging between you.

You could say no. You could say you should find Luna, that you had an early study group. The safe, sensible part of your brain whispered those options.

But you weren’t feeling sensible. You were feeling the lingering warmth of his touch, the echo of his laughter, the thrilling, terrifying pull of what upstairs might truly mean.

You smiled, a slow, matching curve of your lips. “Well, okay ” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Since you asked so nicely”

His eyes flashed with something hot and triumphant. He stood, offering you his hand. You took it, his fingers closing around yours, firm and sure.

He didn’t let go as he led you back through the quiet, dim kitchen, past the remnants of the party and toward the staircase. The house felt like a sleeping beast, the silence profound after hours of noise.

Your footsteps on the wooden stairs were the only sound, echoing in the hushed darkness, each step carrying you further away from the world of the party and deeper into the unknown, electric promise of what came next.

His room was at the end of a quiet hallway. He pushed the door open, and a wave of relative peace washed over you.

It was tidy in the way of someone who cleaned up when they had to, but lived in comfortably. A king size bed was neatly made with a dark blue comforter and thousand pillows.

A desk under the window was the epicenter of chaos: textbooks stacked precariously, notebooks splayed open, highlighted pages bristling with sticky notes.

Tiny important detail: everything smelled like him. And that was dangerous.

The intimacy of being alone with him here, after the porch bench, was a different beast entirely.

It was concentrated, quiet, and palpably charged. You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, your body.

“So this is the inner sanctum of Delta One vice president?” you said, trying for casual as you peered at the books on his desk. Sports Economics, Financial Management, a well-thumbed copy of The Art of Strategy.

You smiled, continuing your exploration. You glanced at the photos tucked into the edge of his mirror: a younger Lando with his siblings, all grinning identical, mischievous grins; one with Charles, arms slung around each other’s shoulders on what looked like a ski trip. It was a normal room. A smart, focused, athletic guy’s room.

The nervous flutter in your stomach hadn’t subsided; it had just changed frequency, becoming a low, steady hum of anticipation. You turned finally, leaning back against his desk. He was still by the door, but his posture had changed. He was no longer leaning casually; he was standing straight, his gaze intent and dark.

“So,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest, mostly to give your hands something to do. “This famous presentation. What does it need?”

A slow smile spread across his face. He pushed off the door and walked toward you. Not with any hurry, but with a deliberate, quiet purpose that made the air in the room seem to thin. He stopped when he was standing right in front of you, so close you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

“Right,” he murmured. “The presentation.”

He reached around you, his body not quite touching yours, to open the laptop on the desk. The screen glowed to life, illuminating his hands as they typed in the password. He was caging you in, his arms on either side of you, his chest a mere breath away from your back. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the night air and his skin. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

He clicked a file, and a PowerPoint titled “Sponsorship ROI in Hockey Leagues: A Data-Driven Approach” filled the screen.

“See?” he said, his voice a low rumble right beside your ear. His head was bent next to yours, both of you staring at the screen, though you were absorbing exactly none of the information on it. “Slide one. Title. Very important, right?”

“Yup, you gotta start with that,” you managed, your own voice sounding strangely high.

“Mhm.” His hand came up to the trackpad, his arm brushing against yours.

He clicked to the next slide: a complex-looking graph. “This is where I talk about annual expenditure versus media value yield.”

He was so close. His breath stirred the hair at your temple. You knew exactly what he was doing.

Tease.

The presentation was a prop, a thin veneer of plausible deniability that was dissolving with every second he spent not moving away.

The tension was a live wire, humming between the press of his front and your back, in the scant millimeter of air separating his cheek from yours.

You let him. You leaned back, just a fraction, until your shoulder blades brushed against the solid wall of his chest. A silent permission. A surrender to the game.

He went utterly still for a heartbeat. Then, his voice dropped even lower, losing all pretense of discussing marketing strategies. “And this slide…” he whispered, his lips now dangerously close to the shell of your ear as he clicked again, bringing up a pie chart, “… is where I usually lose people’s attention.”

You turned your head slightly, your nose almost skimming his jaw. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He didn’t look at the screen. He was looking at you, his blue eyes dark and focused solely on your face, on your lips. “They tend to get… distracted by other things.”

The pretense was gone. The presentation was forgotten on the screen, casting a pale blue light over the two of you, frozen in the intimate darkness of his room. The only sound was the quiet whir of his laptop fan and the thunderous rush of your own blood in your ears.

His hand left the trackpad and came to rest on the desk beside your hip, his fingers splayed. He wasn’t hovering anymore. He was holding himself there, a question in the tension of his body, in the heat of his gaze.

“Maybe,” you said, the word barely more than an exhale, “you should work on making your content more engaging.”

A slow, devastating smile touched his lips. “Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes dropping to your mouth. “I’m working on it.”

You didn’t want to give in. Not yet. You wanted to stretch this moment, this delicious, aching tension, until it sang.

So you bit your lower lip, a slow, deliberate gesture you knew he was watching. You felt the sharp intake of his breath against your ear. “Oh really?” you murmured, your voice laced with a skepticism you didn’t feel.

“And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

A low, rough sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. “Less talking, for starters.”

Then his hands were on your face, his touch impossibly gentle, cradling your cheeks as if you were something fragile and precious.

The first kiss was a soft press of his lips against yours. It was gentle, achingly so, a stark contrast to the hungry tension that had built between you all night.

The softness of his mouth, the faint taste of mint and the night air, the way his breath hitched as you kissed him back, your lips moving tentatively against his.

And you couldn’t help it. A smile bloomed against his mouth, a helpless, joyous curve you couldn’t suppress. He felt it and kissed the smile, his own lips curving in response.

Your hands, which had been hovering nervously, found their purpose. They slid from his waist, your fingers seeking the warmth of his skin under the hem of his white linen shirt, skating over the taut, smooth plane of his lower back. He shuddered at the contact, a full-body tremor you felt against your front, and his kiss turned hungrier, more insistent.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Luna.

Cause this was perfect: his gentle hands on your face became one tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slid down, his palm a hot brand through your top as it traveled the curve of your spine.

Your own exploration grew bolder, your hands mapping the muscles of his back, pulling him closer until not a sliver of light could exist between you. You rose onto your toes, your arms looping around his neck, your fingers burying themselves in the soft, chaotic curls at his nape.

Kiss after kiss, you just couldn’t stop.

It was as if you’d been starved for the taste of him, for the feel of his mouth moving over yours with a slow, devastating patience that belied the hunger thrumming beneath the surface.

His lips were addictively soft, slightly pouty, and they chased yours with a devotion that made your head spin.

When you broke for a gasping breath, he’d murmur something unintelligible and sweet against your cheek before finding your mouth again, as if being apart for even a second was a minor agony.

The pace was still slow, a torturous, beautiful build. This wasn’t a frantic race; it was a savoring. His hands learned you. One remained tangled in your hair, his grip firm but not demanding, while the other journeyed down your side, over the dip of your waist, coming to rest with a possessive, gentle weight on the curve of your ass. He squeezed softly, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire press into your stomach.

A sharp, involuntary hiss escaped you, stolen directly from your lips to his. It was a sound of pure, overwhelmed sensation. He swallowed the sound, his kiss turning hotter, wetter, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming stroke that had your knees buckling. He held you up effortlessly, his arm banding around your waist, his hand still cupping you, holding you to him as if he could fuse you together.

You were devouring each other. His mouth was a drug, and you were already addicted, chasing the high of each deep, searching kiss. Your hands slid from his shoulders down the powerful lines of his arms, feeling the corded strength there, before gripping his biceps to anchor yourself in the whirlpool of sensation. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, his teeth scraping lightly, making you arch into him with a broken moan.

“Lando,” you breathed, the name a plea and a prayer.

He answered by capturing your mouth again, his kiss now a potent mix of that initial tenderness and a raw, gathering need.

His pouty lips were always searching, always returning, as if the very idea of not kissing you was incomprehensible.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. The blue light from the laptop screen painted the sharp planes of his face in stark relief, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and raw, a stark contrast to the gentle hold he still had on your face. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Tell me if I’m rushing this. If this is… too much.”

You shook your head, the motion brushing your nose against his. “You’re not,” you breathed, the words fervent. “You’re not rushing anything.”

He opened his eyes, searching yours, the playful confidence from earlier replaced by a vulnerable, sober intensity. “You’re sure? We both had… a few drinks. I just need to know you’re—”

You silenced him with another soft, lingering kiss, pouring every ounce of your certainty into it. When you pulled away, you kept your eyes locked on his.

“ I’ve sobered up” you promised with a smile, trying to reassure him.

“Okay, you sure?”

“Yeah, I promise”

He let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing. He pressed his forehead back against yours, his eyes closing for a second. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.” He opened his eyes, the blue of them almost black in the dim light. “But listen. Any minute. You change your mind, you just say it. We stop. You have the reins, yeah?”

You nodded, your throat too tight with a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion to speak.

Who was this boy?

The tenderness was so raw, so genuine, it felt like a secret side of him he kept locked away from the parties and the crowds. And he was giving it to you.

Months of imagining what it might be like to just have a real conversation with him. And now you were in his arms, his taste on your tongue, his heart pounding against yours. You were not going to waste a single second of this surreal, perfect reality.

This wasn't a drunk hookup. This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every shared laugh, every charged moment of tension that had simmered between you for months, finally boiling over in the quiet sanctuary of his room.

A new, confident smile touched your lips, born of that certainty. Your hands, which had been resting on his chest, slid lower. Your fingers found the first button of his white linen shirt and tou slipped it free. Then the next. Your movements were slow, deliberate, your eyes locked on his as you revealed more of the smooth, warm skin of his chest, the defined lines of his stomach.

His breath caught, his hands flexing in your hair. He watched your progress, his gaze heavy-lidded and full of a reverent heat. When your fingers reached the last button, you pushed the shirt open, letting your palms flatten against the hard planes of his torso.

“Your turn,” you murmured, your voice husky.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. In one smooth, effortless motion, his hands gripped your thighs and he lifted you, setting you down on the edge of his sturdy wooden desk. The surface was cool and solid against the backs of your thighs. He stepped immediately between your legs, his hands coming to rest on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. The new position brought him flush against your core, even through your clothes, and you gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. His hands slid down your neck, over your shoulders, coming to rest on the laces of your corset top at your back. His fingers traced the intricate pattern, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

“Yeah? Can I?” he asked, his voice a rough scrape against your ear. His breath was warm on your neck.

A breathless laugh escaped you. “Please.”

He grinned against your skin, a flash of that familiar, playful Lando, and began to work at the knots and laces with a surprising dexterity. It was a slow, intimate process, his knuckles brushing your spine with every pull. There was a moment of fumbling, a tangled loop that made him mutter a quiet curse, and you both dissolved into soft, shared laughter, your foreheads pressed together. The sound was light and giddy, cutting through the heavy tension, making it feel real, human, and even more precious.

“Need a hand?” you teased, your fingers joining his at the small of your back.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he insisted, his voice laced with mock indignation, and finally, with a last gentle tug, the corset loosened. He peeled it away from your body, letting it fall to the floor in a silken heap. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as it swept over you, clad now only in your simple bra and shorts. His eyes were wide, almost awestruck.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of reverence.

He kissed you deeply then, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as one hand came up to cradle the back of your head, the other roaming down your back. He found the clasp of your bra and unfastened it with practiced ease. The straps fell away, and he broke the kiss only to pull the garment off completely, letting it drop from his fingers. A low groan rumbled in his chest as his eyes drank in the sight of you, bare from the waist up, leaning back on your hands on his desk.

With his eyes locked in yours, he bent his head, his mouth finding one peaked nipple, then the other, his tongue laving, his teeth grazing with just the right amount of pressure. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his soft curls, holding him to you as shocks of pleasure radiated outwards, making you tighten your legs around him.

You were panting into his mouth, your own hands exploring the hard muscles of his back, the curve of his ass, learning the feel of him as he moved against you, a slow, agonizingly good rhythm of his hips that had you seeing stars.

Your own hands were busy, pushing at the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button. He helped you, his fingers covering yours for a second before he shucked them and his boxers down in one hurried motion, kicking them away. The air was cool against his skin, and yours. Then his hands were on the button of your shorts, but he paused, his eyes lifting from between your thighs to meet yours. In the pale blue light, his gaze was a storm of desire, but beneath it, that unwavering thread of care.

“You’re sure?” he whispered, his voice so raw it was almost painful. His thumbs stroked the skin just above your hip bones. “Tell me again. I need to hear it.”

“Positive, I’m sure Lando” you breathed, the truth of it ringing in every syllable.

A shudder of relief, of pure, unadulterated want, racked his frame. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was less a kiss and more like a vow: deep, consuming, and endlessly tender. As he kissed you, his arms slid under your knees and around your back. In one fluid, effortless motion, he lifted you from the desk, cradling you against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back, lost in the taste of him, in the solid strength of him holding you.

He carried you the few short steps to his bed, never breaking the kiss, and laid you down gently in the center of the rumpled duvet. The world tilted, the cool cotton of his sheets a shock against your heated skin. He followed you down, kneeling on the bed, his other hand sliding down your body. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and the panties beneath them, and with a single, slow pull, he stripped them from your legs, tossing them aside without a second glance.

Now you were completely bare, and he was there, between your legs, looking down at you

Every drop of beer from the pong table, every faint buzz of tequila, had evaporated from your system at this point, burned away by the intensity of your connection on the porch. In this moment, you felt nothing but a crystalline clarity settling over you. There was no haze, no filter. This was stark, breathtaking reality.

He was naked before you, kneeling on the bed, the muscles of his thighs and abdomen taut. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling from your face, down your body, with a reverence that made your heart ache. He reached down, his hand wrapping around the hard, thick length of himself, giving a slow, deliberate stroke.

The sight was so intensely erotic, so vulnerably real, it stole the breath from your lungs. The pale light from the window caught the movement, the definition of his body, the focused intensity on his face.

This was it.

This was Lando Norris, the boy you’d watched from afar for months, the man you’d discovered in small bits after a beer pong tournament , completely exposed and wanting you. The chemistry that had crackled between you since the first time your eyes met across a crowded room was now a tangible, living thing in the quiet space between your bodies.

It was in the way he looked at you: not with conquest, but with awe.

It was in the way your body arched toward him of its own volition, an ancient, undeniable pull.

It was in the profound silence, louder than any music from the party below, screaming that this was concrete. This was real. This was the beginning of something that had been waiting to happen all along.

You reached for him, “Come here,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the thunder of your heart.

A slow, devastating smile touched his lips and he leaned over you, bracing his weight on his arms, his body hovering just above yours, not touching, letting the heat radiate between you.

He lowered his head, but not to your mouth. His lips trailed a scorching path down the column of your throat, over the frantic pulse at the base, down the center of your chest. He took a moment to lavish attention on each breast, his tongue swirling around a nipple before drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth, sucking gently until you cried out, your back bowing off the bed. He soothed the sting with a soft kiss, his eyes flicking up to watch your face, a dark, pleased glint in them.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress against your damp skin. “I love it”

His journey continued south, kisses peppered along your trembling stomach, his hands smoothing over your hips, holding you down with a gentle firmness as you arched into his touch. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties—the last scrap of fabric separating you—and looked up at you, his blue eyes dark as a midnight sky, a silent question burning in them.

You answered by lifting your hips, a wordless, desperate plea. He smiled against your skin, a soft, wicked thing, and drew the lace down your legs, discarding them with a finality that made your stomach flip.

Then he settled between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him. The first touch of his breath against your most intimate skin was a lightning strike. You jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. He looked up the length of your body, his gaze locking with yours, holding you captive.

“… and so beautiful,” he murmured, the words a warm vibration against you. “All for me.”

And then he tasted you.

Oh, dear lord.

It wasn’t a tentative flick or an experimental probe. It was a deep, languid, knowing stroke of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit, slow and thorough, as if he was committing your flavor to memory. A broken, guttural sound you didn’t recognize erupted from you, your head thrashing back against the pillows.

“Oh, fuck… Lando.”

He hummed in approval, the sensation making your legs shake. And then he set to work with a focused, devastating expertise that completely dismantled you. There was no frantic race to an end. He explored you with a patient, rapturous intensity, learning what made you gasp, what made your back bow off the bed, what made you sob his name into the quiet room.

His tongue was a wicked, clever instrument. He licked broad, flat strokes that had you moaning, then focused into tight, relentless circles around your clit that had you seeing stars. He would suck gently, then soothe with soft presses of his lips, alternating patterns until you were a trembling, pleading mess beneath him.

He’d hold you down with a firm, gentle hand on your stomach, his other hand coming up to knead and palm your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple in time with the strokes of his tongue.

Lando Norris was eating you out. Properly going down on you in his bedroom. And he was devastatingly good at it.

“So good,” he muttered against you, his words muffled but clear, hot puffs of air making you shiver. “Taste so fucking good.”

The dirty words, whispered against your most sensitive flesh while he devoured you, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. You were moaning constantly now, a stream of breathless, helpless sounds: his name, yes, please, oh god, oh fuck. And you couldn’t stay still either: your hips rolled, seeking more, deeper, more.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, lifting his head just enough to speak. He gave your hip a light, playful slap.

You whimpered, trying to obey, but another expert swirl of his tongue had you bucking again. He chuckled, the sound a low, wicked vibration that you felt everywhere. He actually giggled against your cunt, the boyish, delighted sound so at odds with the intensely erotic act that it somehow made it even hotter.

“You just can’t help it, can you?” he teased, his breath fanning over your wetness. “So eager for my tongue, yeah?” Then he dove back in with renewed fervor, his tongue spearing into you before returning to lavish attention on your clit with relentless, circling pressure.

His tongue was a maestro, conducting your body to a symphony of gasps and shudders. You were so close, teetering on the very edge, your entire world narrowed to the wet, insistent heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble on your inner thighs, the delicious pressure building to an unbearable peak.

“Lando… please, I’m right there…” You begged, your voice a shattered whisper.

He hummed in response, the vibration pushing you even closer. You felt the climax gathering, a tidal wave about to crash—

And then he stopped.

He lifted his head, leaving you achingly empty, throbbing and aching with unmet need. A broken, frustrated cry escaped your lips. You were panting, your body arched and trembling, suspended in agonizing anticipation.

Before you could protest, he was crawling up your body, his weight settling over you. His lips, slick and warm from you, found yours in a deep, claiming kiss and you could taste yourself on his tongue.

Hot.

He settled more fully between your legs, the hard, hot length of him grinding against your sensitive, soaked core. The friction was maddening, a teasing promise. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him tighter against you. You could feel every inch of him, and you rocked your hips, seeking more of that delicious pressure.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he rasped against your lips.

You kissed him back, all teeth and tongue, your hands roaming the sweat-slick planes of his back, clutching him to you. You never wanted this feeling to end: the weight of him, the heat, the raw, unfiltered connection.

With a final, searing kiss, he braced himself on one arm and stretched towards his bedside table. You heard the drawer open, the rustle of foil. He pulled back, a small, square packet held between his fingers. His eyes, dark and blown with desire, held yours.

“Put it on.”

The command, delivered in that rough, needy tone, sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core. Your hands, which had been clutching his shoulders, trembled slightly as you took the condom from him. You tore the foil with your teeth, the sound loud in the quiet room. He watched you, his gaze intense, his breathing ragged as you carefully rolled the latex down the thick, hard length of him. Your touch was deliberate, your fingers smoothing it into place, and he hissed through clenched teeth, his hips giving an involuntary jerk.

Once he was sheathed, you slid your hands back up to cup his face, pulling him down for another kiss.

He pulled away slowly, his eyes searching yours one last time. You nodded, wordless, your answer in the way you arched beneath him, in the way your legs tightened around him, pulling him closer.

“Okay,” he whispered, laughing a little. “Okay.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of him nudging against you. He paused, letting you feel the pressure, the imminent breach. Then, with a slow, controlled push, he began to sink into you.

And Lord have mercy.

The feeling was exquisite: a perfect, stretching fullness that stole the air from your lungs. He moved with infinite patience, inch by breathtaking inch, giving your body time to adjust, to welcome him. Your eyes locked on his, and in the blue depths, you saw the same awe, the same staggering reality reflected back at you.

When he was fully buried to the hilt, he stilled, both of you trembling with the intensity of the connection. He was everywhere, surrounding you, filling you completely.

“Oh, god,” you breathed, the words a reverent exhale. “You’re big”

"Yeah?" A low, rough groan vibrated in his chest, a sound of pure male satisfaction and strained control. “You can take it”, he whispered against your lips, his voice a gravelly rasp.

He began to move.

The first withdrawal was a slow, deliberate drag that made you whimper, the sensation of him filling you again even more intense. He set a pace that was deep and measured, not frantic, each thrust a deliberate claiming of the space he’d found within you. It was a rhythm that spoke of a desire to savor, to feel every single inch of the connection. The stretch was profound, a perfect, aching fullness that had your inner muscles fluttering around him in shocked, involuntary clenches.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping to yours, his rhythm faltering for a second at the sensation. “If you keep squeezing me like that… Christ baby, we not gonna last…”

You could only moan in response, a high, breathy sound that was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, deep and messy. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the sweat-slick skin of his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle there. You were clinging to him, your anchor in the rising tide of sensation.

He shifted his weight, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of your head and sinking his knees into the mattress, and the new angle drove him even deeper. A sharp, gasping cry was torn from you. “There… oh, god, Lando, right there…”

He zeroed in on that spot with the focus of a racer finding the perfect line.

His thrusts became more purposeful, each one grinding against that delicious, sensitive place inside you that made your vision blur at the edges. The slow, savoring pace began to quicken, fueled by your desperate moans and the way your body arched to meet his every move.

The room filled with the sounds of you: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, your ragged, pleading whines, his guttural, punched-out groans. You were a chorus of need.

One of his hands slid from the mattress to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding, his fingers massaging your scalp. The other hand roamed down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your thigh and hiking it higher around his waist, opening you up to him even more.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted into your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re so tight… fucking heaven.”

The dirty praise, growled directly into your ear while he moved inside you with such devastating precision, unraveled you further. You turned your head, seeking his mouth, and he kissed you hungrily, swallowing your moans. When you broke for air, you buried your face in the sweaty crook of his neck, your lips against his skin.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice muffled against him. “Please Lando, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he grunted, his thrusts gaining a new intensity, a building ferocity that spoke of his own control beginning to fray. His hips snapped against yours, the force driving you up the mattress. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, trying to pull him deeper with every plunge.

“You like that?” he rasped, his voice shredded. “Like it a little rough, baby? Tell me.”

“Yes,” you sobbed, your body coiling tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its absolute limit. “Yes, Lando, just like that… fuck…”

He was relentless. He fucked you through the building storm of your orgasm, his pace never faltering, his words a continuous, filthy stream of encouragement and awe. “I can feel you getting so close, squeezing me so fucking good… Come baby, let go for me”

It was the command in his voice, the perfect, punishing friction of him hitting that spot over and over, and the overwhelming reality of him pouring all of his focus into wrecking you, that finally shattered your last shred of control.

The climax detonated without warning, a supernova of pleasure that ripped through every nerve ending. You screamed, a raw, broken sound, as your body convulsed around him, wave after wave of blinding ecstasy tearing through you. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers digging into his skin so hard you knew you’d leave marks, your inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses.

“That’s it… fuck, yes… god, yes…” he chanted, his own rhythm becoming erratic, brutal, as he was pushed over the edge by the violent clutch of your body. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that buried him to the root, he stilled, a harsh, guttural cry tearing from his throat as he found his own release.

Fucking wow.

For long moments, there was only the sound of ragged breathing, the frantic hammering of two hearts slowing into sync. He collapsed onto you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in your neck. You could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse against your chest, the sweat cooling on both your skins.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were curled against his chest. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips, his touch now tender, reverent again.

“Okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

You could only nod, nuzzling into his chest, your body humming with a bone-deep satisfaction. You were utterly spent, every muscle liquid, your mind blissfully blank. The stretch and ache between your legs was a perfect, cherished souvenir.

You were blissfully fucked out. By Lando Norris.

He held you close, one hand stroking lazy patterns up and down your spine. The pale morning light had grown stronger, painting the room in shades of gold and gray. Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed, and the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner started up: the real world beginning its Sunday morning resurrection.

“Well,” he said, the single word heavy with implication. “Thank you Luna, I guess?”

Max’s house was packed and smelled like too many bad things at once: cheap perfume, spilled alcohol, weed and sweat from too many bodies crammed into not enough space. The bass from the speaker system was way too loud for a residential building and it rattled the walls, making the picture frames buzz slightly and your chest vibrate with every beat.

It was your birthday.

Apparently.

You knew this because someone had put a glittery pink sash over your shoulders that read “Birthday Girl” in a loopy font, and because you’d gotten a “SURPRISE!” screamed at you when you walked in earlier tonight.

That was pretty much it.

Pietra, your best friend from uni, had organized the whole thing. She’d said you needed to do something fun this year. “No way you gonna rot at home on your birthday”

She was thrilled, dressed in glitter and already two drinks in when you arrived. You didn’t even have time to take your shoes off before you were handed a plastic cup of something neon and bitter.

She was your best friend, yes, but little did she know this was the opposite of fun for you.

Now, hours later, you stood somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, nursing your third drink, which was mostly melted ice at this point, while your cheeks ached from trying to keep a smile on your face, to look like you’re having the time of your life.

Thing was: it was your party, but no one really noticed you.

Not in the this is your night! way people were supposed to. You’d recognized maybe three faces other than Pietra and Max (her boyfriend whose house this actually was).

Everyone else? Strangers. Friends of friends. People with perfect dresses and curated laughs who barely looked at you unless you were standing in their way of the fridge or the bathroom.

There was no cake. No gifts. No moment of people singing off-key while you blew out the candles and made a wish. Just shots poured in the kitchen and someone dry-humping to a remix of Doja Cat in the hallway.

And you were trying.

You were trying so hard to have fun, to match the mood, to not be the person sitting in the corner scrolling Instagram and pretending they weren’t completely out of place at their own birthday.

Trying. That was the word of the night.

Trying not to look out of place.

Trying not to resent how much fun everyone else was having when you just wanted to go home, put on pajamas, and blow out a single candle on a brownie while watching something dumb on Netflix.

And still… a small part of you didn’t want to leave. Not yet. You didn’t want to be the buzzkill birthday girl. You wanted to get it. You wanted to have the kind of fun Pietra always had. You wanted to look back and say, yeah, that night was wild.

You wanted to be the main character for once.

So you laughed when people laughed. You accepted drinks you didn’t want. You danced a little when Pietra tugged your wrist and spun you around like it was prom and not a house full of drunk strangers.

You even let someone you vaguely remembered from uni light a joint in front of you and pass it over. You took a drag like you weren’t completely awkward about it, held it too long, coughed until your eyes watered, and then pretended it was fine.

Eventually, you ended up perched on a kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, trying to sip your warm drink and not look like you were counting the minutes. You could still hear the music pounding from the other room, some remix of a song that had been everywhere on TikTok.

Just five minutes of quiet, you told yourself. Five minutes to pull yourself together, reapply the smile, and dive back into the party like you belonged there.

“Didn’t expect to find the birthday girl hiding back here.”

You looked up, startled. Lando Norris stood in the doorway, backlit by the flickering lights of the living room. He looked almost cinematic in that moment: black jeans, worn but expensive-looking, a plain grey t-shirt that clung to him in all the right places, and curls falling messily over his forehead. His hoodie was slung carelessly over one shoulder, and he was twirling a bottle cap between his fingers like it had offended him.

Lando Norris. Max’s best mate. F1 star. British celebrity. A small crush you refused to admit out loud.

You straightened up. “Not hiding,” you said, a little too quickly. “Just… taking a break.”

He smirked, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing to the fridge. “Funny, ‘cause this is the second time I’ve seen you disappear in the last hour.”

He noticed?

You rolled your eyes but smiled faintly. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

He opened the fridge, crouched slightly to look inside, and shrugged. “Not really. Just hard to miss the girl in a pink sash who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

You didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t wrong.

Lando grabbed a can of something, cracked it open, and leaned back against the counter opposite you. He didn’t say anything else at first, just watched you over the rim of his drink, eyes scanning your expression like he was trying to read past the surface.

“You’re not really having fun,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement.

You gave him a flat look and forced a chuckle. “I didn’t realize my party came with a therapist.”

He grinned. “I charge extra for birthdays.”

You sighed, fingers running along the rim of your cup. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t know most of the people here. And there’s no cake, by the way, if you were wondering. Feels like the party is for everyone else but me, just a lot of tequila and people making out in corners.”

Lando tilted his head, still watching you. “So why stay?”

The question was so simple yet so complicated to answer.

You hesitated. “Because everyone else is having fun. Because Pietra planned it. Because I’m supposed to be that girl tonight. The fun birthday girl.”

He shifted slightly, that easy confidence never faltering, but his eyes had softened a little. “Maybe you don’t have to be anything.”

You blinked. It sounded easy when he said it, but it felt like a revelation.

Lando took another sip of his drink and stepped closer, shrinking the distance between you two. You noticed the subtle scent of his cologne, clean and understated, with something a little sharp beneath it, like cedar or salt.

Actually, you didn’t even know, you knew nothing about men fragrances after all. But he smelled good and it was invading your surroundings with every movement he made.

His words still echoed too loudly in your mind.

Maybe you don’t have to be anything.

And you wanted that to be true. God, how you wanted it. But reality was heavier than that.

“It’s not nice to leave your own party,” you said after a beat, voice softer now, maybe even a little apologetic. “Especially when someone threw it for you.”

Lando gave a short, quiet laugh, like he wasn’t mocking you, just amused by how earnestly you said it. He took another sip from his drink and leaned against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he shifted again, just enough to give you space but still stay close.

“Yeah, I mean… sure,” he said slowly, like he was working it out in real time. “But is it nice that no one’s really even looked at you since the party started? I mean, you’re wearing a Birthday Girl sash and I had to find you in the kitchen because no one else noticed you’d left.”

You opened your mouth, ready to object, but nothing came out. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.

“And Pietra,” he added with a slight smirk, “much as I’m sure she loves you, is probably upstairs shagging Max right now. So let’s not act like she’d actually notice or care if you ducked out early.”

You scoffed. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grinned and shrugged like he couldn’t be blamed for saying what you were already thinking.

“I’m just saying,” he added, his tone was softer now, less teasing. “Don’t bend yourself backwards to stay in a room that doesn’t make space for you. Even if someone decorated it with cheap balloons and blasted Pitbull remixes.”

You looked at him and the corners of your lips slightly tugged upward, slow and almost involuntary.

A smile. The first real one of the night.

You hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected him to say something like that. Something that didn’t feel like a throwaway line or a cliché.

He caught your expression immediately, and a lopsided grin curved across his lips.

“There it is,” he said, victorious. “A smile. I knew it was in there somewhere.”

You shook your head, the smile still lingering despite your best efforts to downplay it. But you could feel it, how the mood between you had shifted again. Lighter now. You didn’t know what it was exactly, only that you didn’t want to ruin it by getting too self-aware.

So you did what you always did when things started to feel too close. You changed the subject.

“And what about you?” you asked, stepping back just enough to lean against the edge of the counter, your arms loosely crossing over your chest. “What are you doing at my birthday party? Don’t you have some F1 trendy event to attend?”

Lando smirked, taking a sip from his drink before responding. “Max invited me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Max invited you… to my party?”

“I wasn’t gonna come at first,” he added, quieter now. “Long week. Jet lag. The usual. But I’m glad I did.”

There it was again, that tone. Soft, a little amused, but sincere. Like he wasn’t trying to flatter you, just telling you what he saw. And you hated how it made your chest flutter in response.

Lando took another step closer. Not invading your space, just folding into it like he’d always belonged there. He leaned his hip against the counter beside you, close enough that your arms were almost brushing.

“Why?” you asked, voice soft, barely louder than the low thud of bass from the other room. “Having fun?”

He tilted his head, like he was weighing whether or not to give you the full answer. Then, with a slow smile, he said, “Yeah, I mean I found the birthday girl hiding in the kitchen and she turned out to be a lot more interesting than the party itself.”

You gave a soft laugh and rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

The tension between you shifted again. Not awkward, not flirty. Something in between. Like you’d both stumbled into a version of the night neither of you had been expecting.

Lando looked down at your drink-less hand, still resting by your side. Without a word, he brushed his fingers lightly against yours. Not a grab, not a move. Just a gentle touch, enough to tease and initiate a small physical contact.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t, really. Not with the way he was looking at you now.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, voice low and casual, like he was simply suggesting a change of playlist, not a small act of rebellion.

You chucked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the living room, where the music had picked up again. “This party sucks. And you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You’re hiding in the kitchen.”

You gave him a pointed look, though your mouth was twitching with the start of a reluctant smile. “That doesn’t mean I hate it.”

“Come on.” His tone was coaxing now, almost boyish in its charm. “Let’s leave and go literally everywhere else.”

You laughed under your breath. “Together? That wouldn’t look suspicious at all.”

He grinned. “I don’t care.”

That gave you pause. The way he said it. Like the idea of caring what people thought had never once stopped him from doing what he felt like doing. And yet, he didn’t feel dangerous or wild.

You held his gaze for a beat longer, your mind racing.

“Where are we even going?” you asked, your voice barely above the bass vibrating through the floor.

Lando's grin mellowed into something playful, still him, but threaded with intention. “A birthday girl deserves cake, doesn’t she?”

You blinked at him, probably blushing.

“There’s no cake here,” he added, as if that fact alone was an injustice that demanded rectifying. “It’s actually criminal. A party with no cake? I think we can do better than that.”

“You want to go find a cake?” The words came out half-disbelieving, half-intrigued. Like you were trying not to get swept up the craziness of his offer.

You should’ve said no. Should’ve kept your feet firmly planted, shrugged it off with some breezy excuse. Go back into the party and try to let the music drown out whatever strange electricity had crept in between you and this boy with curly hair and a grin that could pull tides.

But the thought of slipping out into the night with him, of escaping this mess of music and expectation and putting on a face that didn’t feel like yours, it felt like breathing after holding it in for hours.

“Come on,” he said. “Get your jacket.”

You looked at him for a heartbeat, your breath caught somewhere in your chest. Then you broke eye contact with a small shake of your head, more in disbelief at yourself than at him, and turned toward the chair where you’d tossed your jacket earlier. Your fingers trembling just slightly as you grabbed it.

Thirty seconds later you were following him out of Max’s place.

You walked side by side, close but not quite touching, his hand brushing yours once, casually, like it was nothing.

“So,” you said, trying to break the silence and the tension curling in your chest while waiting for the elevator “Is this your thing? Rescue sad girls from their own birthdays?”

Lando turned to you with that signature grin, the one that had probably melted a thousand hearts, and tilted his head. “Only the really cute and really tragic ones.”

You rolled your eyes but bit your lip to hide your smile. “Wow. So you’re pitying me”

“Mh, no not at all.” He shrugged, leaning against the wall with an ease that came so naturally to him. “You just looked like you weren’t having the night you deserved.”

Lando was charming, yes. But he was also nice. Kind in a quiet, consistent way that felt dangerous. Because it made it hard to guard yourself. Hard to keep the walls up when he wasn’t trying to break them down.

He was also making you feel seen. For the first time. And that made you analyze everything.

You fought back a grin.

Don’t overthink this. It’s just cake. It’s just a walk. Just a boy you barely know, or maybe never really did.

What were you even doing? Literally everything could go wrong.

But you decided, right then, not to let your thoughts ruin the moment. It was your birthday, damn it. He was right. You deserved to laugh. You deserved to feel something good.

So you let yourself smile as you followed him through the nearly empty lot, your heels clicking against the pavement, until you spotted the sleek black Lamborghini parked beneath a streetlamp.

Of course. Of course he drove a Lamborghini.

Lando unlocked it with a casual tap of his key fob, the lights blinking once.

He walked over to the passenger side, the soft click of the unlocking doors breaking the quiet of the night. Without saying a word, he opened it for you with a mock-serious flourish, then extended an arm, palm up like he was guiding you into a royal carriage.

“Miss,” he said, tone grave but lips twitching, clearly amused with himself.

You laughed, caught somewhere between impressed and amused. “Wow. Thank you!”

You were still smiling to yourself when he closed the door and rounded the front of the car, slipping into the driver’s seat with the same cool ease he carried everywhere. He caught the look on your face as he started the engine and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, grinning as the dashboard lit up.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

God, he was charming. Too thoughtful. Too casually nice for his own good. And definitely for yours. The way he moved, the way he paid attention to you in little ways like holding the door, that subtle touch to your back. It felt all so natural. But it was doing things to your brain. Making your thoughts feel louder than the low hum of the engine.

He pulled out his phone and opened Google Maps, fingers tapping against the screen as he scrolled.

“Alright,” he muttered, half to himself, eyes scanning the map. “There has to be a Tesco or Sainsbury’s open somewhere. Come on.”

You leaned over slightly, peering at his screen before his thumb paused over a pin on the map. “There we go. Twenty-four-hour Tesco, eight minutes away.”

Lando pulled onto the main road, one hand casually resting on the wheel, the other still holding his phone in his lap.

You glanced sideways at him, trying not to stare. He looked calm. Confident. Absolutely stunning. The kind of person who made it feel like anything could happen and it might actually turn out okay.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” you said quietly.

The eight-minute ride felt like two seconds, too quick to fully sink in, until suddenly he was pulling into a dimly lit Tesco parking lot.

“Here we are,” he announced like it was the grandest destination in the world, his grin widening as he cut the engine.

You caught your reflection in the windshield for a moment: hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way they hadn’t been all night.

Two hours into your birthday, and finally, maybe, you were starting to have some fun.

Inside the store, the harsh fluorescent lights were a stark contrast to darkness of the night, but the familiar aisles and quiet hum of refrigeration units were oddly comforting.

You followed Lando down the baking aisle, your footsteps echoing softly with his.

He stopped in front of the fridge and started scanning the options. “Alright, what kind of cake does the birthday girl want? Something classic? Chocolate?”

You glanced at the neatly arranged cakes, their frosted perfection almost surreal in the stark lighting. “I don’t know... chocolate sounds good,” you said finally, shrugging like it was the safest choice.

Lando nodded approvingly, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Chocolate it is. Can’t go wrong with it”

He reached out and picked up a modest chocolate cake, the kind that promised comfort more than extravagance, and held it up like a prize. You caught the soft gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, as if this little mission had become more important than either of you expected.

“Now,” he added, turning to the next aisle with that same confident ease, “we need candles. Can’t have a birthday without candles.”

He handed you a small pack with a careful tenderness, his fingers brushing yours just enough to make your pulse hitch.

Lando carried the cake and candles to the self-checkout with a kind of casual confidence that somehow made even a 2 a.m. Tesco run feel cinematic. You trailed behind him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, watching as he scanned the items with one hand, the other tucked easily into the pocket of his hoodie.

Once you stepped back out into the night, the cool air kissed your cheeks, and the world felt quieter somehow, like the city itself had turned the volume down.

“Mind holding onto that while I drive?” Lando handed you the Tesco bag and unlocked the car with a click.

You nodded, accepting the Tesco bag from him as he opened the passenger side door for you again. A quiet “thank you” passed your lips, but the smile tugging at them gave more away than you meant to. There was something disarmingly endearing about Lando’s late-night chivalry—like it wasn’t just instinct for him, but intentional. It made your chest flutter in a way that felt far too dangerous at 2 a.m.

As he rounded the car and slid back into the driver’s seat, you held the bag in your lap, the candles rattling softly against the plastic container of cake. You glanced over at him, curious and a little breathless from how this strange, impulsive detour had somehow become the best part of your birthday.

“So,” you said, side-eyeing him as he shifted the car into gear. “Are we heading back to Max’s or…?”

He shook his head, lips quirking into a small smile. “Nope. Got somewhere better in mind.”

You gave him a sideways look, eyes narrowing slightly with playful suspicion. “Where are we going, Norris?”

He glanced at you briefly before turning his eyes back to the road, the city lights reflecting on the window and in the curve of his grin. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”

You did. More than you probably should have.

The next ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye. London looked somewhat different this late and you sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional click of the indicator and the quiet thrum of the engine.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to him, to the way his fingers moved on the steering wheel, relaxed and sure. It was ridiculous how effortless he looked, how being near him pulled at something you weren’t sure you were ready to name yet.

Finally, he pulled into a narrow side street and eased into a small parking area tucked between a few low buildings.

The second you stepped out of the car, you understood.

The view opened up in front of you like something out of a movie.

You were high up on South Bank, overlooking the Thames. Tower Bridge was lit up in the distance, glowing like a crown across the water. The London Eye turned slowly, faintly glowing behind the trees, and the spire of Big Ben stood tall and golden in the skyline. The city stretched out like a blanket of stars, each light shimmering in its own rhythm.

You blinked, breath catching in your throat. “Wow…”

Lando stepped up beside you, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah.”

“Are you trying to impress me, Norris?”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling before drifting you eyes to the view again.

“I did a photoshoot here once, couple years ago,” he said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Middle of the day. Full crew, chaos everywhere. But I remember looking out and thinking… this place deserved silence. Stillness.”

You glanced back at the view. “It’s beautiful.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, you both just stood there in the hush between city sounds, the only thing moving the occasional breeze that played with the hem of your jacket and the ends of your hair.

Then Lando exhaled, breaking the spell with a small grin. “Alright. Let’s get that cake now”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, as if it had been sitting at the base of your throat all night, just waiting for the right moment to escape.

“Yey! Cake time,” you rejoiced, spinning on your heel and making your way back to the car.

Lando followed at a leisurely pace, hands still tucked in his hoodie pockets, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you.

You reached back into the car, careful not to jostle the bag too much, and pulled out the chocolate cake with the kind of reverence it deserved. It wasn’t fancy a little smushed from the ride, but it suddenly felt like the most important cake you’d ever held as you gently placed it on the hood of car.

Lando helped you peeling back the lid with slow, careful fingers, like it was something breakable. Or maybe it was just that the moment felt that fragile.

From his pocket, he pulled out the pack of pastel-colored candles you’d grabbed from Tesco, opening it and tapping a few into his hand.

“Okay so,” he said with a crooked smirk, tilting his head as he examined the cake’s surface. “We’ve got space for, what… five candles?”

You laughed softly, already shaking your head.

“That’s how old you’re turning, right?” he teased with a playful tone.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, trying to hide your grin. “You’re actually so rude.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile wouldn’t go away.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt like this, like something was blooming in the center of your chest and you didn’t want to stop it. It was ridiculous, really, how a supermarket cake and five mismatched candles could feel so important. So personal.

Lando stepped in closer, the warmth of his body brushing your side as he leaned over to help you press the tiny candles into the soft frosting. Your arms moved together in this quiet rhythm, his fingers brushing yours here and there as you worked, and neither of you rushed. The silence between you had settled into something comfortable, like you were both reluctant to break it.

Once the last candles were in, Lando reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a black lighter. His brows pulled together as he lit each one, shielding the little flames from the night breeze with his hand, his thumb instinctively curling inward as if protecting something precious.

“There,” he said softly once the final flame flickered to life, standing upright again.

You stared down at the cake, then up at him. “I can’t believe you actually did this.”

His expression softened, mouth curling into something gentler. “Why not?”

You shrugged, hugging your arms around yourself against the breeze. “I don’t know. We barely know each other and… this? It’s… really nice.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with that same unreadable expression.

Then, in a voice barely louder than the wind, he said, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

And before you could say anything else, he did it. He started to sing. Just a few notes at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure whether to commit.

“Happy birthday to you…”

“Oh no,” You let out a stunned laugh, instantly covering your face with your hands.

He grinned, eyes crinkling as he kept going, singing the whole song just a little off-beat for comedic effect.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Now, time to make a wish.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, but when you turned your gaze down toward the flickering flames, something shifted inside you.

The warmth of the engine beneath your fingertips, the city glittering in the background like spilled stardust, the boy beside you who somehow felt both brand new and strangely familiar, all of it felt like a moment suspended in time.

What would you even wish for?

You didn’t really want anything extravagant.

But you closed your eyes anyway.

And in the quiet between your heartbeats, you wished. Not aloud, not even fully formed but something close to “more of this”. More moments where you could feel good with being reckless, where you could breathe deeply and laugh until your stomach hurt. Moments where things felt easy. Real. Light.

Moments where you could feel seen.

You opened your eyes again, meeting Lando’s blue ones briefly before leaning forward and blowing out the candles with one long breath. The tiny flames snuffed out one by one, tendrils of smoke curling upward into the night air.

He clapped his hands with mock enthusiasm, grinning like a kid who’d just watched fireworks. “Atta girl, nailed it.”

Lando then reached for the plastic cake knife tucked in the side of the container and carefully made the first slice, eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated concentration. “Alright,” he said, biting his bottom lip as he focused like he was performing surgery. “Two big slices!”

You giggled, folding your arms and watching him, your body still buzzing faintly from the moment you’d just shared: from the laughter, the quiet wish, the way his eyes had lingered on yours like they saw something most people missed.

When he finally lifted a generous slice with the flimsy plastic knife, it promptly fell sideways onto the container lid with a soft splat.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans with a grin, “we, uh… may not have plates.”

You laughed again, real, loud and delighted, and then accepted a chunk of the cake he passed to you with his bare hands. “It’s okay, we’re embracing chaos, at this point.”

He tapped his slice against yours like it was a champagne toast. “Cheers.”

And for a few minutes, you sat there like that, side by side, sharing lopsided bites of chocolate cake in the warm glow of the London skyline, Tower Bridge lit in the distance, the sound of the Thames moving just beyond the railings.

There was no small talk, no need to fill the space. Just the occasional shared look, the bump of shoulders, the quiet between you stretching wide and comfortable.

Eventually, you set the last bit of your cake down beside the container and wiped your fingers with a napkin he passed you, still smiling faintly.

“Thank you,” you said softly, turning toward him now, the weight of the moment finally catching up with you. “Really, Lando. No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

He blinked, surprised by the shift in your tone. His expression softened instantly, and he tilted his head a little, his voice just as gentle. “Told you. You deserved a good one.”

Your heart thudded, not in that dizzy, anxious way it sometimes did when your thoughts ran ahead of you, but in a steady, weighted rhythm. Like it knew exactly where you were, and exactly who you were with. “Yeah, you’re right...”

You looked down at the cake, half eaten and crooked on the plastic lid, and something in you clicked into place.

Fuck it.

You set it down gently on the hood of the car, not breaking eye contact as you did.

And then you took a step closer.

Lando’s brows lifted slightly, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He didn’t ruin the moment. He just stood there, still and waiting, watching you with those wide, curious eyes like you were the most fascinating thing he’d seen all night.

You reached up, fingers brushing lightly against the collar of his hoodie, steadying yourself more than anything. He leaned in just a fraction, barely perceptible, but you felt it.

And then, with one breath, you closed the space.

Your lips met his in a soft, slow kiss that silenced everything else. No sounds of traffic in the distance, no hum of the city lights, no intrusive thoughts clawing their way in. Just the warmth of his mouth and the way his hands, tentative at first, came to rest gently at your hips, grounding you in the moment.

He tasted like chocolate and something unmistakably him, and he kissed you back with such quiet intention, like he’d been waiting to do it all night but didn’t want to rush you.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you gave when you didn’t know what it meant.

It was soft. Anchored. Real.

When you finally pulled away, it was only by an inch, your forehead lingering close enough to brush his.

Lando let out the smallest laugh under his breath, like he wasn’t entirely sure that just happened. His eyes flicked to your mouth and then back to your eyes, a flush rising in his cheeks.

“Wasn’t planning on kissing you, I’m sorry,” you admitted, voice soft, almost shy.

His eyes softened. He shook his head almost immediately, the corners of his lips tugging up, not in amusement, but in something gentler. Close to relief.

“Don’t be,” he murmured. “Honestly… I was.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and he gave you a sheepish little smile, his hands gently sliding from your hips to your waist, steadying you. Or maybe steadying himself.

“I was gonna wait, though,” he continued, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. Again.

“Didn’t wanna be that guy, you know? Creeping in on your birthday like some cliché. Thought I’d at least get your number first and maybe go out on a date before I tried anything…”

You laughed again, brighter this time, the sound echoing off the quiet city around you. Something about the way he looked at you: like he was still amazed you were here, that this was happening, it made your heart skip and your skin warm, even in the cool night air.

And before you could say anything else, Lando’s hands found your face, cupping it so gently it made you forget how to breathe for a moment.

He kissed you again.

Not tentative this time. Not questioning or soft. This one was firmer, anchored in certainty, in heat, in the low burn of chemistry that had been slowly curling around you all night. It wasn’t rushed, it was intentional.

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks as his mouth met yours, and you didn’t hesitate. You leaned in, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie near his chest, needing something to hold on to because everything else suddenly felt weightless.

Your back pressed gently against the hood of the car as he stepped in closer, his body warm against yours, grounding you with every inch.

You could taste laughter still on his lips, feel the way his breathing shifted when you deepened the kiss just a little, how one of his hands slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a quiet exhale that made your knees go soft.

“Lando…” you whispered against his mouth, the syllables shaky and too honest. “You said I deserved a good night.”

He pulled back just enough to see you, just enough to let his eyes search yours. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone.

“I did,”

“I want to have a good night,” you said, barely more than a breath.

His gaze flickered, the meaning not lost on him.

He knew what you were alluding. So he stilled for half a heartbeat, and you could see it: the way he recalibrated, checked himself. Lando might have looked relaxed, but you saw the exact moment he stepped into the moment fully, no longer dancing on the edge of it.

“Are you sure?” he asked, quiet and calm, though you heard the question buried beneath it. “It’s not what this is about…”

Your fingers tightened in his hoodie.

“I know, I know…”

And then everything changed, because you added: “ve never been more sure about anything.”

His hand slid into the back of your hair, warm and careful, as if he were trying not to jostle the moment too hard, like you were glass he wasn’t ready to shatter. But the kiss that followed, that wasn’t careful. That was full and greedy and slow in the way that meant he was trying to take his time, trying not to devour, even as his mouth tilted into yours with heat that didn’t lie.

He let his fingers skim down to your waist, both hands now cradling your hips, and as he stepped you gently backward, the curve of his lips ghosted over yours again.

Your back hit the car and you felt the way his palms splayed wide along the back of your naked and smooth thighs, guiding. His fingers hooked just enough under your knees to give the suggestion. You shifted, letting him lift you with a small grunt of effort onto the hood of his car, knees parting instinctively.

He stepped forward to stand between them with an ease that could have melt down any girl’s heart.

That angle changed everything.

Suddenly his chest was right there, level with yours, and his hands didn’t hesitate, finding your hips again, thumbs stroking along bare skin where your dress had ridden up.

You tilted your head, watching him as his eyes swept down your body slowly, deliberately, like he was giving himself permission to look.

“I want you to know… I didn’t bring you here with any intention.” His voice was rougher now, quieter.

You didn’t even blink.

Your hand slid up to cup the side of his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone, guiding his gaze back to yours so he could see the truth as clearly as you felt it.

“I know,” you whispered. “Lando. I kissed you first, remember?”

Some invisible wall cracked open and he stepped all the way through, no longer trying to calculate or control the moment.

It was different now.

There was no tension in his body, only heat and longing and a kind of sweetness that unspooled with every stroke of his tongue against yours, every soft inhale between kisses that sounded like he was trying to memorize how you tasted.

He pressed a kiss to the center of your neck, just beneath your ear, then again lower, and lower still, trailing a map on your skin as you tipped your head back to give him more room.

And oh, he groaned when you did. A sound of approval that buzzed against your skin as his tongue flicked out to taste the salt of you where your pulse fluttered hard.

His hands were moving too now.

But even then, even with his mouth on your neck and his hands beneath your dress, there was no rush in him. No crude hunger. Just a kind of aching patience, like he wanted everything but wanted to take his time earning it.

And god, he was so good at kissing. Not just skilled, but present with every press of his lips.

“I’d love to touch you,” he whispered, voice rough like gravel scraped thin with emotion. “I want to. So bad. But… I would be totally okay if you didn’t want this to happen here like… out in the open”

He trailed off, clearly giving you the out, even as his thumb brushed your lower lip but never pushing.

You laughed softly, breathless, a little dazed from his mouth, and kissed him again. Quick and teasing this time, pulling back before he could deepen it. “You’re sweet,” you murmured, voice low with heat, brushing your nose against his.

“There’s a whole car behind us, you know,” you whispered. “We don’t have to do this on the hood.”

For a second, Lando just looked at you, blinking once, then breaking into a grin so bright and filthy that it made your chest clench.

“Yeah, you’re right” he said, chuckling a little bit keeping his tone serious “But that still applies, y’know.”

You kissed him again, to reassure him and give him a fingere answer. And he seemed to get it immediately because one of his hands slipped around to the small of your back, the other trailed up, knuckles brushing the underside of your thigh where your dress had bunched.

He squeezed, pulling you flush against him on the hood, and your body responded automatically, grinding against the pressure of his hips with a soft, needy whimper in your throat.

“Back seat,?” he murmured against your skin.

You giggled, light and breathless, and slid your arms around his neck, letting him help you down. “Back seat.”

He caught you effortlessly, hands strong and sure under your thighs as he lowered you off the car hood, your bodies never quite separating. Even when your feet touched the ground, you were still in his arms, still held, his mouth dragging over your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw.

He laughed again and then slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you both to the rear door of the car. He opened it with one hand, never letting go of you with the other, and then gestured gallantly with a tilt of his head.

“After you,” he said, grinning.

He followed, door closing behind him with a soft thunk, and as soon as the latch caught, something between you changed again. He leaned in without a word, hand catching the back of your neck, pulling you to him.

The kiss this time was messier, hungrier, full of urgency he hadn’t let himself indulge on the hood. His hands found your waist, tugging you closer as he shifted in the narrow space, and your legs opened to make room, thighs parting around him.

You wanted all of him. Right here in the darkened space of the backseat, where the world narrowed down to breath and skin and that dizzying, perfect electricity that only existed between two people who knew this wasn’t just about sex.

For once.

You could feel him smiling when you arched into him, a cocky, breath-warmed curve of his lips against your cheek.

“God, you’re unreal,” Lando murmured, voice reverent, like the words had broken out before he could stop them.

And the way he said it, cool and teasing but laced with awe, like you were the sexiest thing he’d ever touched, it made your skin shiver.

His hands weren’t rushing, weren’t fumbling. They knew what they wanted. He pushed your dress higher, thumbs hooking the fabric and sliding it up your thighs until it bunched around your waist, then his palm found the curve between your legs.

A deep inhale. Then a low, smug exhale when he felt it.

“Shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours like he needed to see your face as he traced over the damp cotton of your panties. “Already this wet for me?” His fingers pressed gently, dragging slow lazy circles, his knuckles grazing the edge of the damp spot spreading wider with every pass. “Haven’t even touched you yet.”

The space was tight, his knees bumping between yours, your back shifting against the seat as he leaned in, crowding you completely.

And then, his fingers finally slipped past the waistband, sliding under, and your breath caught hard as he groaned again, deep and low, the sound like it had been torn from his chest.

His thumb pressed to your clit and stayed there, firm and steady, while two fingers slid through the slick heat of you slow and patient, like he wanted to feel every inch.

“Jesus, baby,” he said, “So fucking wet I’m sliding right in.” And he did, curling just enough to make your hips jolt.

His fingers sank deeper with that perfect curl and the gasp that left your mouth was broken, high and helpless, with your head falling back against the seat as your hips instinctively rocked into his hand. You didn’t even mean to do it. But your body just moved, greedy and aching, chasing every pulse of pressure his fingers gave you.

You were soaked all of a sudden. You could hear it every time his fingers pumped in, the slick wet sound filthy and perfect in the closed, humid air of the car. And Lando… he was eating it up, enjoying every second with eyes fixed on your face with the kind of focus that made your chest squeeze tight.

It was absurd. All of it.

Not even an hour ago, you’d been sitting in the corner of your own birthday party, surrounded by people who smiled too wide and asked all the wrong questions, feeling invisible at your own celebration.

And now?

Now your head was thrown back in the steamed-up cocoon of Lando’s car, your thighs spread wide around his narrow hips, your panties pulled to the side as his long, perfect fingers worked inside you like they’d been crafted by a god with nothing better to do than design the exact way you liked to be touched.

So now you were moaning, writhing, clenching around him every time he curled those fingers just right, while the goddamn remnants of the Tesco birthday cake were probably still stuck in your teeth.

And it felt like a dream. A delirious, aching, impossible dream.

A boy with cake crumbs on his shirt and the fastest hands in F1 was making you feel more chosen in fifteen minutes than most people had in years.

And then, it happened so fast. Or maybe not fast enough.

He shifted just slightly, adjusting the angle of his wrist with that effortless finesse, and suddenly his fingers slammed against something deep inside you that made you suddenly feel devastatingly good.

And the noise that tore from your throat wasn’t a moan. It was a sob, a broken, grateful cry that punched out of you like it had been waiting your whole life to escape. Your entire body jerked in response, thighs clamping around his hand even as your hips rolled down to meet the next thrust, desperate and uncontrollable.

“There,” Lando breathed, eyes wide and wild with something bordering awe. “Right there, huh?”

And then he kept going.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His fingers hit that same spot over and over, unrelenting, like he’d found the part of you that made you sing and had no intention of letting it go. The heel of his palm crushed against your clit with each motion, every thrust coiling tighter, higher, harder inside you until you were shaking, babbling nonsense against his jaw as he kissed you again.

You couldn't think. Couldn’t see.

“Fuck, Lando…”

The pressure detonated. You came around his fingers with a wet, clenching pulse that didn’t seem to end, your body bucking against him as his name tore out of your mouth in strangled, gasping whimpers.

And you should have been spent. Should’ve melted right there in the heat of it, let him cradle you until the buzz faded.

But you didn’t want to stop.

Your hands moved on instinct, fingers scrambling for his belt, tugging open the buckle with clumsy desperation. You pulled at his jeans, dragging the zipper down even as you crashed your mouth to his again, kissing him like you needed air from his lungs. Lando let out a breathless laugh and pulled back just enough to yank his hoodie over his head, tossing it behind him somewhere in the front seats.

“Hey—hey, wait,” he said, voice low but steady, one hand catching yours just as it slipped inside the waistband of his boxers. He held you there, not stopping you, but grounding you. His fingers were still sticky with your arousal, warm against your skin. “Are you sure?”

His eyes searched yours in the dim light, the sincerity in them so naked it made your throat tighten. “We don’t have to do this just ‘cause it’s been a shit birthday or… I don’t know.”

The question wasn’t just words. It was in his touch, in the way he held you like you were breakable, precious. And you’d never felt less fragile than you did in that moment.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his in a slow touch, so tender it made his breath hitch.

“I said I want this,” you whispered, “ And not because it’s my birthday. Or because I was sad and you bought me a cake.”

“I want this,” you repeated, punctuating each word with a kiss: cheek, jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I promise you.”

Then you pulled back just far enough to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, curls damp from the heat between you, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, and his cock straining against his boxers under your palm. But his eyes… his eyes were soft. Waiting. Giving you space.

A slow smile curved your lips as you leaned in and whispered, hot and sweet against his skin:

“Now shut up, and get a condom.”

Lando’s laugh was breathless, shaky, and so fucking turned on. “Yes, ma’am,”

He moved fast, fumbling with the glovebox with one hand while the other never left your body, fingers sliding along your thigh, tracing lazy shapes in your skin like he couldn’t not touch you. He found the little silver packet, tore it open with his teeth like he’d done it a hundred times before he rolled it down his length smoothly.

You couldn’t stop staring. He was flushed down to his chest, muscles shifting under that perfect, lean body as he settled back between your legs. His cock was already leaking before he even touched you, it stood proud and heavy in his hand, and the sight alone made your thighs fall open wider in welcome.

Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were suddenly on you: one strong arm sweeping under your thighs, the other gripping your waist, and with a breathless yelp you were lifted effortlessly off the seat. You squealed, half-laughing, half-shocked, hands scrambling f on his shoulders on instinct as he shifted you into his lap like it was nothing.

“Lando!” you gasped between laughs, still breathless from arousal and now from surprise, your thighs bracketing his hips.

He grinned up at you, that infuriatingly confident smile laced with just the right amount of sweetness, like he lived to make you laugh like that.

“C’mere” he murmured “If we’re really gonna do this, I want the birthday girl to fucking ride me in the backseat.”

He was watching you like he wanted to burn every second of this into memory. His hands slid down, slow and patient, fingers curling under the edges of your ruined panties, still damp and clinging to your thighs.

You lifted your hips and let him ease them down your legs, the fabric dragging sticky and slow over your slick skin. He let the panties fall to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours as he smoothed his hands up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, exposing you completely.

You felt open, bare, seen in a way that should’ve made you feel vulnerable, but it didn’t. Not this time. Not with him.

You could feel him there, hot and hard, pressed against the soaked heat of your cunt. It made your stomach flip, made your heart race, made you need him.

“Ready?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He gripped himself in one hand, the other steady on your hip, and guided you down slowly, the tip of his cock parting your folds with maddening, delicious pressure.

“Oh fuck,” you hissed, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you sank onto him, inch by inch.

It was a lot. He was thick, long, stretching you open in a way that made your thighs tremble instantly. You paused halfway down, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, and he didn’t push. He held still, hands rubbing soothing circles into your hips while his lips started pressing tender kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, that nickname giving you shivers “So fucking good. Take your time. You feel incredible.”

You whimpered, eyes shut, muscles tight with the effort of taking him. But slowly, breath by breath, you began to lower yourself again, feeling every thick, pulsing inch as he slid deeper inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You bottomed out with a gasp, your body fully seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” you whispered, breath shuddering. “You’re… big.”

Lando’s laugh was low and wrecked “Yeah?” he said, hands smoothing up your sides, thumbs brushing just under your breasts.

You nodded, unable to form words.

“Take a second, then” he murmured, kissing your chest and trailing up to your shoulder again.

You did, staying still as your muscles slowly adjusted, the stretch turning from burn to pleasure. You could feel your heartbeat in your cunt, every throb dragging against the thick press of him inside you. And when you finally rocked your hip, just a little, you both groaned in unison.

His hands slid back to your waist, fingers splaying, guiding your movements as you began to ride him in slow, tentative rolls.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that, baby. You’re doing so fucking good”

The praise went straight to your core, as potent as the stretch of him inside you. You rocked against him again, a little harder this time, your thighs clenching around his waist. He moaned, his head dropping back for a second before snapping up again, eyes locked on the way you moved.

You needed more. More than slow and soft.

So you shifted your balance, planting your feet on either side of his hips and leaning back until your spine arched and your palms found leverage on his thighs.

And fuck, the new angle…

Your head fell back with a sharp moan, your hips beginning to move in deliberate, grinding circles now, your ass slapping softly against his thighs as you started to ride him with intent. Each thrust dragged him over that sweet, devastating spot inside you, and he felt it. How clenched and tight you were, how you were squeezing him.

“God, look at you…” he mumbled between his teeth “Riding me like it’s what you were made for.”

And then his hands were on your breasts.

He leaned forward, strong arms wrapping around your torso to pull you closer, mouth trailing hot, open kisses down your chest. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking gently before teasing it with his tongue, his hand kneading the other breast as if he couldn’t decide which one he loved more. The sensation made your hips stutter, made your breath break in your throat.

“Fuck, Lando—”

“Yeah” he growled. “Take what you need, baby.”

You reached up blindly, one hand bracing against the car’s ceiling to steady yourself, careful not to bump your head as your pace built.

But even with him inside you, even with his mouth on your breasts and his hands guiding your hips like they were the most sacred thing he’d ever touched, it wasn’t close enough. You needed more. Needed him. Surrounding you, holding you, breathing you in like you were the only air in the car.

So you shifted again, chest heaving as you leaned forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in until there was nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the frantic rhythm of your bodies moving together. He went willingly, groaning into your mouth as your lips found his again. This time it was all tongue and teeth.

You moved like that: close, tight, grinding down onto him with deeper, rolling thrusts that had his head falling forward against your shoulder. Every sound you made now was right in his ear. You felt him shudder every time you gasped his name, felt the tremor that ran through his thighs when you moaned, “Lando, fuck… feels so good…” like it was the only truth left in the world.

And then his hand slid between your bodies again.

You felt it, slipping down your belly, finding that swollen bundle of nerves just where you needed it most. His thumb pressed in slow, steady circles against your clit, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of your hips, and your whole body jerked, a shudder ripping through you as your forehead dropped to the crook of his neck.

“Oh god” you whimpered, arms tightening around his shoulders and ails digging into his back. “Fuck, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he groaned while his teeth were gently scraping along your jaw. “Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart, takin’ my cock so well.”

Every filthy word made your hips move even harder, your walls clench around him. He was everywhere: inside you, around you, with you. His voice in your ear, his hand on your clit, his cock filling you so deep it made your legs tremble.

“You close?” he was now kissing along your collarbone softly. “Can feel you fucking gripping me …”

You nodded, not even trying to hold your moans anymore.

“Good girl,” he breathed while his fingers were circling your clit even faster now. “That’s it, then. Come on, birthday girl. ”

Your orgasm tore through you like a wave breaking clean and wild against rock. Violent and consuming. You cried out arching your back and locking your arms tightly around his shoulders as your cunt clamped down on him with need.

Your hips didn’t stop tho, or maybe couldn’t stop.

You still moved.

Even as the waves of pleasure tore through you, your body kept rolling, grinding, giving, chasing every last bit of stimulation because you wanted him to feel it too. You wanted to pull him over the edge with you, keep him deep and tight and overwhelmed until he had no choice but to let go.

And he did.

“Shit,” Lando choked, his voice ragged and shaking as he bucked up into you one final time, deep and desperate, fingers digging into your hips like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His whole body locked beneath you, breath punched out of his lungs as he came, hard, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into the condom with a groan that vibrated against your collarbone.

You clung to him, chest to chest, body slick and trembling and full, your cunt still fluttering in the aftershocks of your own climax, milking every pulse of his release. He moaned again, quieter this time, buried against your skin, the sound soft and wrecked, like he was being undone even as he started to come down.

This time, you didn’t move. Neither of you did. Your bodies were pressed together, molded in sweat-slick intimacy, your heart hammering against his as your fingers slid through the curls at the back of his neck.

It was a long moment before either of you could speak.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered finally “That was…”

“Incredible,” he finished, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were still blown wide, hair clinging to his damp forehead, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. “You’re incredible.”

You laughed softly, a helpless, breathless sound that shook through you. You blinked down at him, your legs still draped around his waist, your dress hiked up, your panties missing somewhere on the car floor.

“You’re still inside me,”

He smirked, cheeky even while panting, his hands smoothing up your back. “I know,” he said, voice warm “Don’t wanna move. And If you gave me like ten minutes, I’d go again.”

You burst into laughter, collapsing onto his chest, burying your face in his neck. “I don’t think I can.”

The haze softened into something golden, sweet. He held you close, one hand stroking slow circles on your bare thigh while the other stayed curled at your lower back, like he was afraid to let go. You nuzzled closer, kissed the skin just under his jaw, and let your eyes flutter shut for a second.

It was four in the morning.

You could see the faintest pale light beginning to spill over the horizon, brushing the fogged windows with a ghost of dawn. The air in the car had cooled just enough to make your skin goosebump where you weren’t pressed to him. And you were wrecked. Spent. Sticky and sore in all the best ways.

And still… you’d never felt more alive.

You hadn’t expected anything. Hadn’t wanted anything, not really. Not a surprise party let alone a hookup.

And yet, here you were: two orgasms deep, wrapped around Lando Norris in the backseat of his Lamborghini, your dress hiked to your hips, your panties forgotten, your legs sore from straddling him.

It was absurd.

And perfect.

Eventually, Lando sighed, tilting his head to kiss your temple as he gently shifted beneath you. The movement was slow, careful, and when he finally slipped out of you, the sensation made you shiver. He hissed under his breath, half-sensitive, and reached down to peel off the condom. He tied it off, searching the car blindly until he found one of his sweatshirts and used it to gently clean you up between your thighs. You winced as he wiped over your oversensitive cunt, but he was gentle, murmuring soft apologies as he worked.

“We made a fucking mess.”

You giggled, wriggling at the ticklish sensation, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek again.

Max’s house was packed and smelled like too many bad things at once: cheap perfume, spilled alcohol, weed and sweat from too many bodies crammed into not enough space. The bass from the speaker system was way too loud for a residential building and it rattled the walls, making the picture frames buzz slightly and your chest vibrate with every beat.

It was your birthday.

Apparently.

You knew this because someone had put a glittery pink sash over your shoulders that read “Birthday Girl” in a loopy font, and because you’d gotten a “SURPRISE!” screamed at you when you walked in earlier tonight.

That was pretty much it.

Pietra, your best friend from uni, had organized the whole thing. She’d said you needed to do something fun this year. “No way you gonna rot at home on your birthday”

She was thrilled, dressed in glitter and already two drinks in when you arrived. You didn’t even have time to take your shoes off before you were handed a plastic cup of something neon and bitter.

She was your best friend, yes, but little did she know this was the opposite of fun for you.

Now, hours later, you stood somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, nursing your third drink, which was mostly melted ice at this point, while your cheeks ached from trying to keep a smile on your face, to look like you’re having the time of your life.

Thing was: it was your party, but no one really noticed you.

Not in the this is your night! way people were supposed to. You’d recognized maybe three faces other than Pietra and Max (her boyfriend whose house this actually was).

Everyone else? Strangers. Friends of friends. People with perfect dresses and curated laughs who barely looked at you unless you were standing in their way of the fridge or the bathroom.

There was no cake. No gifts. No moment of people singing off-key while you blew out the candles and made a wish. Just shots poured in the kitchen and someone dry-humping to a remix of Doja Cat in the hallway.

And you were trying.

You were trying so hard to have fun, to match the mood, to not be the person sitting in the corner scrolling Instagram and pretending they weren’t completely out of place at their own birthday.

Trying. That was the word of the night.

Trying not to look out of place.

Trying not to resent how much fun everyone else was having when you just wanted to go home, put on pajamas, and blow out a single candle on a brownie while watching something dumb on Netflix.

And still… a small part of you didn’t want to leave. Not yet. You didn’t want to be the buzzkill birthday girl. You wanted to get it. You wanted to have the kind of fun Pietra always had. You wanted to look back and say, yeah, that night was wild.

You wanted to be the main character for once.

So you laughed when people laughed. You accepted drinks you didn’t want. You danced a little when Pietra tugged your wrist and spun you around like it was prom and not a house full of drunk strangers.

You even let someone you vaguely remembered from uni light a joint in front of you and pass it over. You took a drag like you weren’t completely awkward about it, held it too long, coughed until your eyes watered, and then pretended it was fine.

Eventually, you ended up perched on a kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, trying to sip your warm drink and not look like you were counting the minutes. You could still hear the music pounding from the other room, some remix of a song that had been everywhere on TikTok.

Just five minutes of quiet, you told yourself. Five minutes to pull yourself together, reapply the smile, and dive back into the party like you belonged there.

“Didn’t expect to find the birthday girl hiding back here.”

You looked up, startled. Lando Norris stood in the doorway, backlit by the flickering lights of the living room. He looked almost cinematic in that moment: black jeans, worn but expensive-looking, a plain grey t-shirt that clung to him in all the right places, and curls falling messily over his forehead. His hoodie was slung carelessly over one shoulder, and he was twirling a bottle cap between his fingers like it had offended him.

Lando Norris. Max’s best mate. F1 star. British celebrity. A small crush you refused to admit out loud.

You straightened up. “Not hiding,” you said, a little too quickly. “Just… taking a break.”

He smirked, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing to the fridge. “Funny, ‘cause this is the second time I’ve seen you disappear in the last hour.”

He noticed?

You rolled your eyes but smiled faintly. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

He opened the fridge, crouched slightly to look inside, and shrugged. “Not really. Just hard to miss the girl in a pink sash who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

You didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t wrong.

Lando grabbed a can of something, cracked it open, and leaned back against the counter opposite you. He didn’t say anything else at first, just watched you over the rim of his drink, eyes scanning your expression like he was trying to read past the surface.

“You’re not really having fun,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement.

You gave him a flat look and forced a chuckle. “I didn’t realize my party came with a therapist.”

He grinned. “I charge extra for birthdays.”

You sighed, fingers running along the rim of your cup. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t know most of the people here. And there’s no cake, by the way, if you were wondering. Feels like the party is for everyone else but me, just a lot of tequila and people making out in corners.”

Lando tilted his head, still watching you. “So why stay?”

The question was so simple yet so complicated to answer.

You hesitated. “Because everyone else is having fun. Because Pietra planned it. Because I’m supposed to be that girl tonight. The fun birthday girl.”

He shifted slightly, that easy confidence never faltering, but his eyes had softened a little. “Maybe you don’t have to be anything.”

You blinked. It sounded easy when he said it, but it felt like a revelation.

Lando took another sip of his drink and stepped closer, shrinking the distance between you two. You noticed the subtle scent of his cologne, clean and understated, with something a little sharp beneath it, like cedar or salt.

Actually, you didn’t even know, you knew nothing about men fragrances after all. But he smelled good and it was invading your surroundings with every movement he made.

His words still echoed too loudly in your mind.

Maybe you don’t have to be anything.

And you wanted that to be true. God, how you wanted it. But reality was heavier than that.

“It’s not nice to leave your own party,” you said after a beat, voice softer now, maybe even a little apologetic. “Especially when someone threw it for you.”

Lando gave a short, quiet laugh, like he wasn’t mocking you, just amused by how earnestly you said it. He took another sip from his drink and leaned against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he shifted again, just enough to give you space but still stay close.

“Yeah, I mean… sure,” he said slowly, like he was working it out in real time. “But is it nice that no one’s really even looked at you since the party started? I mean, you’re wearing a Birthday Girl sash and I had to find you in the kitchen because no one else noticed you’d left.”

You opened your mouth, ready to object, but nothing came out. Because he wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.

“And Pietra,” he added with a slight smirk, “much as I’m sure she loves you, is probably upstairs shagging Max right now. So let’s not act like she’d actually notice or care if you ducked out early.”

You scoffed. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grinned and shrugged like he couldn’t be blamed for saying what you were already thinking.

“I’m just saying,” he added, his tone was softer now, less teasing. “Don’t bend yourself backwards to stay in a room that doesn’t make space for you. Even if someone decorated it with cheap balloons and blasted Pitbull remixes.”

You looked at him and the corners of your lips slightly tugged upward, slow and almost involuntary.

A smile. The first real one of the night.

You hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected him to say something like that. Something that didn’t feel like a throwaway line or a cliché.

He caught your expression immediately, and a lopsided grin curved across his lips.

“There it is,” he said, victorious. “A smile. I knew it was in there somewhere.”

You shook your head, the smile still lingering despite your best efforts to downplay it. But you could feel it, how the mood between you had shifted again. Lighter now. You didn’t know what it was exactly, only that you didn’t want to ruin it by getting too self-aware.

So you did what you always did when things started to feel too close. You changed the subject.

“And what about you?” you asked, stepping back just enough to lean against the edge of the counter, your arms loosely crossing over your chest. “What are you doing at my birthday party? Don’t you have some F1 trendy event to attend?”

Lando smirked, taking a sip from his drink before responding. “Max invited me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Max invited you… to my party?”

“I wasn’t gonna come at first,” he added, quieter now. “Long week. Jet lag. The usual. But I’m glad I did.”

There it was again, that tone. Soft, a little amused, but sincere. Like he wasn’t trying to flatter you, just telling you what he saw. And you hated how it made your chest flutter in response.

Lando took another step closer. Not invading your space, just folding into it like he’d always belonged there. He leaned his hip against the counter beside you, close enough that your arms were almost brushing.

“Why?” you asked, voice soft, barely louder than the low thud of bass from the other room. “Having fun?”

He tilted his head, like he was weighing whether or not to give you the full answer. Then, with a slow smile, he said, “Yeah, I mean I found the birthday girl hiding in the kitchen and she turned out to be a lot more interesting than the party itself.”

You gave a soft laugh and rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

The tension between you shifted again. Not awkward, not flirty. Something in between. Like you’d both stumbled into a version of the night neither of you had been expecting.

Lando looked down at your drink-less hand, still resting by your side. Without a word, he brushed his fingers lightly against yours. Not a grab, not a move. Just a gentle touch, enough to tease and initiate a small physical contact.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t, really. Not with the way he was looking at you now.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, voice low and casual, like he was simply suggesting a change of playlist, not a small act of rebellion.

You chucked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the living room, where the music had picked up again. “This party sucks. And you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You’re hiding in the kitchen.”

You gave him a pointed look, though your mouth was twitching with the start of a reluctant smile. “That doesn’t mean I hate it.”

“Come on.” His tone was coaxing now, almost boyish in its charm. “Let’s leave and go literally everywhere else.”

You laughed under your breath. “Together? That wouldn’t look suspicious at all.”

He grinned. “I don’t care.”

That gave you pause. The way he said it. Like the idea of caring what people thought had never once stopped him from doing what he felt like doing. And yet, he didn’t feel dangerous or wild.

You held his gaze for a beat longer, your mind racing.

“Where are we even going?” you asked, your voice barely above the bass vibrating through the floor.

Lando's grin mellowed into something playful, still him, but threaded with intention. “A birthday girl deserves cake, doesn’t she?”

You blinked at him, probably blushing.

“There’s no cake here,” he added, as if that fact alone was an injustice that demanded rectifying. “It’s actually criminal. A party with no cake? I think we can do better than that.”

“You want to go find a cake?” The words came out half-disbelieving, half-intrigued. Like you were trying not to get swept up the craziness of his offer.

You should’ve said no. Should’ve kept your feet firmly planted, shrugged it off with some breezy excuse. Go back into the party and try to let the music drown out whatever strange electricity had crept in between you and this boy with curly hair and a grin that could pull tides.

But the thought of slipping out into the night with him, of escaping this mess of music and expectation and putting on a face that didn’t feel like yours, it felt like breathing after holding it in for hours.

“Come on,” he said. “Get your jacket.”

You looked at him for a heartbeat, your breath caught somewhere in your chest. Then you broke eye contact with a small shake of your head, more in disbelief at yourself than at him, and turned toward the chair where you’d tossed your jacket earlier. Your fingers trembling just slightly as you grabbed it.

Thirty seconds later you were following him out of Max’s place.

You walked side by side, close but not quite touching, his hand brushing yours once, casually, like it was nothing.

“So,” you said, trying to break the silence and the tension curling in your chest while waiting for the elevator “Is this your thing? Rescue sad girls from their own birthdays?”

Lando turned to you with that signature grin, the one that had probably melted a thousand hearts, and tilted his head. “Only the really cute and really tragic ones.”

You rolled your eyes but bit your lip to hide your smile. “Wow. So you’re pitying me”

“Mh, no not at all.” He shrugged, leaning against the wall with an ease that came so naturally to him. “You just looked like you weren’t having the night you deserved.”

Lando was charming, yes. But he was also nice. Kind in a quiet, consistent way that felt dangerous. Because it made it hard to guard yourself. Hard to keep the walls up when he wasn’t trying to break them down.

He was also making you feel seen. For the first time. And that made you analyze everything.

You fought back a grin.

Don’t overthink this. It’s just cake. It’s just a walk. Just a boy you barely know, or maybe never really did.

What were you even doing? Literally everything could go wrong.

But you decided, right then, not to let your thoughts ruin the moment. It was your birthday, damn it. He was right. You deserved to laugh. You deserved to feel something good.

So you let yourself smile as you followed him through the nearly empty lot, your heels clicking against the pavement, until you spotted the sleek black Lamborghini parked beneath a streetlamp.

Of course. Of course he drove a Lamborghini.

Lando unlocked it with a casual tap of his key fob, the lights blinking once.

He walked over to the passenger side, the soft click of the unlocking doors breaking the quiet of the night. Without saying a word, he opened it for you with a mock-serious flourish, then extended an arm, palm up like he was guiding you into a royal carriage.

“Miss,” he said, tone grave but lips twitching, clearly amused with himself.

You laughed, caught somewhere between impressed and amused. “Wow. Thank you!”

You were still smiling to yourself when he closed the door and rounded the front of the car, slipping into the driver’s seat with the same cool ease he carried everywhere. He caught the look on your face as he started the engine and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, grinning as the dashboard lit up.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

God, he was charming. Too thoughtful. Too casually nice for his own good. And definitely for yours. The way he moved, the way he paid attention to you in little ways like holding the door, that subtle touch to your back. It felt all so natural. But it was doing things to your brain. Making your thoughts feel louder than the low hum of the engine.

He pulled out his phone and opened Google Maps, fingers tapping against the screen as he scrolled.

“Alright,” he muttered, half to himself, eyes scanning the map. “There has to be a Tesco or Sainsbury’s open somewhere. Come on.”

You leaned over slightly, peering at his screen before his thumb paused over a pin on the map. “There we go. Twenty-four-hour Tesco, eight minutes away.”

Lando pulled onto the main road, one hand casually resting on the wheel, the other still holding his phone in his lap.

You glanced sideways at him, trying not to stare. He looked calm. Confident. Absolutely stunning. The kind of person who made it feel like anything could happen and it might actually turn out okay.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” you said quietly.

The eight-minute ride felt like two seconds, too quick to fully sink in, until suddenly he was pulling into a dimly lit Tesco parking lot.

“Here we are,” he announced like it was the grandest destination in the world, his grin widening as he cut the engine.

You caught your reflection in the windshield for a moment: hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way they hadn’t been all night.

Two hours into your birthday, and finally, maybe, you were starting to have some fun.

Inside the store, the harsh fluorescent lights were a stark contrast to darkness of the night, but the familiar aisles and quiet hum of refrigeration units were oddly comforting.

You followed Lando down the baking aisle, your footsteps echoing softly with his.

He stopped in front of the fridge and started scanning the options. “Alright, what kind of cake does the birthday girl want? Something classic? Chocolate?”

You glanced at the neatly arranged cakes, their frosted perfection almost surreal in the stark lighting. “I don’t know... chocolate sounds good,” you said finally, shrugging like it was the safest choice.

Lando nodded approvingly, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Chocolate it is. Can’t go wrong with it”

He reached out and picked up a modest chocolate cake, the kind that promised comfort more than extravagance, and held it up like a prize. You caught the soft gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, as if this little mission had become more important than either of you expected.

“Now,” he added, turning to the next aisle with that same confident ease, “we need candles. Can’t have a birthday without candles.”

He handed you a small pack with a careful tenderness, his fingers brushing yours just enough to make your pulse hitch.

Lando carried the cake and candles to the self-checkout with a kind of casual confidence that somehow made even a 2 a.m. Tesco run feel cinematic. You trailed behind him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, watching as he scanned the items with one hand, the other tucked easily into the pocket of his hoodie.

Once you stepped back out into the night, the cool air kissed your cheeks, and the world felt quieter somehow, like the city itself had turned the volume down.

“Mind holding onto that while I drive?” Lando handed you the Tesco bag and unlocked the car with a click.

You nodded, accepting the Tesco bag from him as he opened the passenger side door for you again. A quiet “thank you” passed your lips, but the smile tugging at them gave more away than you meant to. There was something disarmingly endearing about Lando’s late-night chivalry—like it wasn’t just instinct for him, but intentional. It made your chest flutter in a way that felt far too dangerous at 2 a.m.

As he rounded the car and slid back into the driver’s seat, you held the bag in your lap, the candles rattling softly against the plastic container of cake. You glanced over at him, curious and a little breathless from how this strange, impulsive detour had somehow become the best part of your birthday.

“So,” you said, side-eyeing him as he shifted the car into gear. “Are we heading back to Max’s or…?”

He shook his head, lips quirking into a small smile. “Nope. Got somewhere better in mind.”

You gave him a sideways look, eyes narrowing slightly with playful suspicion. “Where are we going, Norris?”

He glanced at you briefly before turning his eyes back to the road, the city lights reflecting on the window and in the curve of his grin. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”

You did. More than you probably should have.

The next ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye. London looked somewhat different this late and you sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional click of the indicator and the quiet thrum of the engine.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to him, to the way his fingers moved on the steering wheel, relaxed and sure. It was ridiculous how effortless he looked, how being near him pulled at something you weren’t sure you were ready to name yet.

Finally, he pulled into a narrow side street and eased into a small parking area tucked between a few low buildings.

The second you stepped out of the car, you understood.

The view opened up in front of you like something out of a movie.

You were high up on South Bank, overlooking the Thames. Tower Bridge was lit up in the distance, glowing like a crown across the water. The London Eye turned slowly, faintly glowing behind the trees, and the spire of Big Ben stood tall and golden in the skyline. The city stretched out like a blanket of stars, each light shimmering in its own rhythm.

You blinked, breath catching in your throat. “Wow…”

Lando stepped up beside you, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah.”

“Are you trying to impress me, Norris?”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling before drifting you eyes to the view again.

“I did a photoshoot here once, couple years ago,” he said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Middle of the day. Full crew, chaos everywhere. But I remember looking out and thinking… this place deserved silence. Stillness.”

You glanced back at the view. “It’s beautiful.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, you both just stood there in the hush between city sounds, the only thing moving the occasional breeze that played with the hem of your jacket and the ends of your hair.

Then Lando exhaled, breaking the spell with a small grin. “Alright. Let’s get that cake now”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine, as if it had been sitting at the base of your throat all night, just waiting for the right moment to escape.

“Yey! Cake time,” you rejoiced, spinning on your heel and making your way back to the car.

Lando followed at a leisurely pace, hands still tucked in his hoodie pockets, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you.

You reached back into the car, careful not to jostle the bag too much, and pulled out the chocolate cake with the kind of reverence it deserved. It wasn’t fancy a little smushed from the ride, but it suddenly felt like the most important cake you’d ever held as you gently placed it on the hood of car.

Lando helped you peeling back the lid with slow, careful fingers, like it was something breakable. Or maybe it was just that the moment felt that fragile.

From his pocket, he pulled out the pack of pastel-colored candles you’d grabbed from Tesco, opening it and tapping a few into his hand.

“Okay so,” he said with a crooked smirk, tilting his head as he examined the cake’s surface. “We’ve got space for, what… five candles?”

You laughed softly, already shaking your head.

“That’s how old you’re turning, right?” he teased with a playful tone.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, trying to hide your grin. “You’re actually so rude.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile wouldn’t go away.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt like this, like something was blooming in the center of your chest and you didn’t want to stop it. It was ridiculous, really, how a supermarket cake and five mismatched candles could feel so important. So personal.

Lando stepped in closer, the warmth of his body brushing your side as he leaned over to help you press the tiny candles into the soft frosting. Your arms moved together in this quiet rhythm, his fingers brushing yours here and there as you worked, and neither of you rushed. The silence between you had settled into something comfortable, like you were both reluctant to break it.

Once the last candles were in, Lando reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a black lighter. His brows pulled together as he lit each one, shielding the little flames from the night breeze with his hand, his thumb instinctively curling inward as if protecting something precious.

“There,” he said softly once the final flame flickered to life, standing upright again.

You stared down at the cake, then up at him. “I can’t believe you actually did this.”

His expression softened, mouth curling into something gentler. “Why not?”

You shrugged, hugging your arms around yourself against the breeze. “I don’t know. We barely know each other and… this? It’s… really nice.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with that same unreadable expression.

Then, in a voice barely louder than the wind, he said, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

And before you could say anything else, he did it. He started to sing. Just a few notes at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure whether to commit.

“Happy birthday to you…”

“Oh no,” You let out a stunned laugh, instantly covering your face with your hands.

He grinned, eyes crinkling as he kept going, singing the whole song just a little off-beat for comedic effect.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Now, time to make a wish.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, but when you turned your gaze down toward the flickering flames, something shifted inside you.

The warmth of the engine beneath your fingertips, the city glittering in the background like spilled stardust, the boy beside you who somehow felt both brand new and strangely familiar, all of it felt like a moment suspended in time.

What would you even wish for?

You didn’t really want anything extravagant.

But you closed your eyes anyway.

And in the quiet between your heartbeats, you wished. Not aloud, not even fully formed but something close to “more of this”. More moments where you could feel good with being reckless, where you could breathe deeply and laugh until your stomach hurt. Moments where things felt easy. Real. Light.

Moments where you could feel seen.

You opened your eyes again, meeting Lando’s blue ones briefly before leaning forward and blowing out the candles with one long breath. The tiny flames snuffed out one by one, tendrils of smoke curling upward into the night air.

He clapped his hands with mock enthusiasm, grinning like a kid who’d just watched fireworks. “Atta girl, nailed it.”

Lando then reached for the plastic cake knife tucked in the side of the container and carefully made the first slice, eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated concentration. “Alright,” he said, biting his bottom lip as he focused like he was performing surgery. “Two big slices!”

You giggled, folding your arms and watching him, your body still buzzing faintly from the moment you’d just shared: from the laughter, the quiet wish, the way his eyes had lingered on yours like they saw something most people missed.

When he finally lifted a generous slice with the flimsy plastic knife, it promptly fell sideways onto the container lid with a soft splat.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans with a grin, “we, uh… may not have plates.”

You laughed again, real, loud and delighted, and then accepted a chunk of the cake he passed to you with his bare hands. “It’s okay, we’re embracing chaos, at this point.”

He tapped his slice against yours like it was a champagne toast. “Cheers.”

And for a few minutes, you sat there like that, side by side, sharing lopsided bites of chocolate cake in the warm glow of the London skyline, Tower Bridge lit in the distance, the sound of the Thames moving just beyond the railings.

There was no small talk, no need to fill the space. Just the occasional shared look, the bump of shoulders, the quiet between you stretching wide and comfortable.

Eventually, you set the last bit of your cake down beside the container and wiped your fingers with a napkin he passed you, still smiling faintly.

“Thank you,” you said softly, turning toward him now, the weight of the moment finally catching up with you. “Really, Lando. No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

He blinked, surprised by the shift in your tone. His expression softened instantly, and he tilted his head a little, his voice just as gentle. “Told you. You deserved a good one.”

Your heart thudded, not in that dizzy, anxious way it sometimes did when your thoughts ran ahead of you, but in a steady, weighted rhythm. Like it knew exactly where you were, and exactly who you were with. “Yeah, you’re right...”

You looked down at the cake, half eaten and crooked on the plastic lid, and something in you clicked into place.

Fuck it.

You set it down gently on the hood of the car, not breaking eye contact as you did.

And then you took a step closer.

Lando’s brows lifted slightly, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He didn’t ruin the moment. He just stood there, still and waiting, watching you with those wide, curious eyes like you were the most fascinating thing he’d seen all night.

You reached up, fingers brushing lightly against the collar of his hoodie, steadying yourself more than anything. He leaned in just a fraction, barely perceptible, but you felt it.

And then, with one breath, you closed the space.

Your lips met his in a soft, slow kiss that silenced everything else. No sounds of traffic in the distance, no hum of the city lights, no intrusive thoughts clawing their way in. Just the warmth of his mouth and the way his hands, tentative at first, came to rest gently at your hips, grounding you in the moment.

He tasted like chocolate and something unmistakably him, and he kissed you back with such quiet intention, like he’d been waiting to do it all night but didn’t want to rush you.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you gave when you didn’t know what it meant.

It was soft. Anchored. Real.

When you finally pulled away, it was only by an inch, your forehead lingering close enough to brush his.

Lando let out the smallest laugh under his breath, like he wasn’t entirely sure that just happened. His eyes flicked to your mouth and then back to your eyes, a flush rising in his cheeks.

“Wasn’t planning on kissing you, I’m sorry,” you admitted, voice soft, almost shy.

His eyes softened. He shook his head almost immediately, the corners of his lips tugging up, not in amusement, but in something gentler. Close to relief.

“Don’t be,” he murmured. “Honestly… I was.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and he gave you a sheepish little smile, his hands gently sliding from your hips to your waist, steadying you. Or maybe steadying himself.

“I was gonna wait, though,” he continued, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. Again.

“Didn’t wanna be that guy, you know? Creeping in on your birthday like some cliché. Thought I’d at least get your number first and maybe go out on a date before I tried anything…”

You laughed again, brighter this time, the sound echoing off the quiet city around you. Something about the way he looked at you: like he was still amazed you were here, that this was happening, it made your heart skip and your skin warm, even in the cool night air.

And before you could say anything else, Lando’s hands found your face, cupping it so gently it made you forget how to breathe for a moment.

He kissed you again.

Not tentative this time. Not questioning or soft. This one was firmer, anchored in certainty, in heat, in the low burn of chemistry that had been slowly curling around you all night. It wasn’t rushed, it was intentional.

His thumbs brushed over your cheeks as his mouth met yours, and you didn’t hesitate. You leaned in, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie near his chest, needing something to hold on to because everything else suddenly felt weightless.

Your back pressed gently against the hood of the car as he stepped in closer, his body warm against yours, grounding you with every inch.

You could taste laughter still on his lips, feel the way his breathing shifted when you deepened the kiss just a little, how one of his hands slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a quiet exhale that made your knees go soft.

“Lando…” you whispered against his mouth, the syllables shaky and too honest. “You said I deserved a good night.”

He pulled back just enough to see you, just enough to let his eyes search yours. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone.

“I did,”

“I want to have a good night,” you said, barely more than a breath.

His gaze flickered, the meaning not lost on him.

He knew what you were alluding. So he stilled for half a heartbeat, and you could see it: the way he recalibrated, checked himself. Lando might have looked relaxed, but you saw the exact moment he stepped into the moment fully, no longer dancing on the edge of it.

“Are you sure?” he asked, quiet and calm, though you heard the question buried beneath it. “It’s not what this is about…”

Your fingers tightened in his hoodie.

“I know, I know…”

And then everything changed, because you added: “ve never been more sure about anything.”

His hand slid into the back of your hair, warm and careful, as if he were trying not to jostle the moment too hard, like you were glass he wasn’t ready to shatter. But the kiss that followed, that wasn’t careful. That was full and greedy and slow in the way that meant he was trying to take his time, trying not to devour, even as his mouth tilted into yours with heat that didn’t lie.

He let his fingers skim down to your waist, both hands now cradling your hips, and as he stepped you gently backward, the curve of his lips ghosted over yours again.

Your back hit the car and you felt the way his palms splayed wide along the back of your naked and smooth thighs, guiding. His fingers hooked just enough under your knees to give the suggestion. You shifted, letting him lift you with a small grunt of effort onto the hood of his car, knees parting instinctively.

He stepped forward to stand between them with an ease that could have melt down any girl’s heart.

That angle changed everything.

Suddenly his chest was right there, level with yours, and his hands didn’t hesitate, finding your hips again, thumbs stroking along bare skin where your dress had ridden up.

You tilted your head, watching him as his eyes swept down your body slowly, deliberately, like he was giving himself permission to look.

“I want you to know… I didn’t bring you here with any intention.” His voice was rougher now, quieter.

You didn’t even blink.

Your hand slid up to cup the side of his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone, guiding his gaze back to yours so he could see the truth as clearly as you felt it.

“I know,” you whispered. “Lando. I kissed you first, remember?”

Some invisible wall cracked open and he stepped all the way through, no longer trying to calculate or control the moment.

It was different now.

There was no tension in his body, only heat and longing and a kind of sweetness that unspooled with every stroke of his tongue against yours, every soft inhale between kisses that sounded like he was trying to memorize how you tasted.

He pressed a kiss to the center of your neck, just beneath your ear, then again lower, and lower still, trailing a map on your skin as you tipped your head back to give him more room.

And oh, he groaned when you did. A sound of approval that buzzed against your skin as his tongue flicked out to taste the salt of you where your pulse fluttered hard.

His hands were moving too now.

But even then, even with his mouth on your neck and his hands beneath your dress, there was no rush in him. No crude hunger. Just a kind of aching patience, like he wanted everything but wanted to take his time earning it.

And god, he was so good at kissing. Not just skilled, but present with every press of his lips.

“I’d love to touch you,” he whispered, voice rough like gravel scraped thin with emotion. “I want to. So bad. But… I would be totally okay if you didn’t want this to happen here like… out in the open”

He trailed off, clearly giving you the out, even as his thumb brushed your lower lip but never pushing.

You laughed softly, breathless, a little dazed from his mouth, and kissed him again. Quick and teasing this time, pulling back before he could deepen it. “You’re sweet,” you murmured, voice low with heat, brushing your nose against his.

“There’s a whole car behind us, you know,” you whispered. “We don’t have to do this on the hood.”

For a second, Lando just looked at you, blinking once, then breaking into a grin so bright and filthy that it made your chest clench.

“Yeah, you’re right” he said, chuckling a little bit keeping his tone serious “But that still applies, y’know.”

You kissed him again, to reassure him and give him a fingere answer. And he seemed to get it immediately because one of his hands slipped around to the small of your back, the other trailed up, knuckles brushing the underside of your thigh where your dress had bunched.

He squeezed, pulling you flush against him on the hood, and your body responded automatically, grinding against the pressure of his hips with a soft, needy whimper in your throat.

“Back seat,?” he murmured against your skin.

You giggled, light and breathless, and slid your arms around his neck, letting him help you down. “Back seat.”

He caught you effortlessly, hands strong and sure under your thighs as he lowered you off the car hood, your bodies never quite separating. Even when your feet touched the ground, you were still in his arms, still held, his mouth dragging over your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw.

He laughed again and then slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you both to the rear door of the car. He opened it with one hand, never letting go of you with the other, and then gestured gallantly with a tilt of his head.

“After you,” he said, grinning.

He followed, door closing behind him with a soft thunk, and as soon as the latch caught, something between you changed again. He leaned in without a word, hand catching the back of your neck, pulling you to him.

The kiss this time was messier, hungrier, full of urgency he hadn’t let himself indulge on the hood. His hands found your waist, tugging you closer as he shifted in the narrow space, and your legs opened to make room, thighs parting around him.

You wanted all of him. Right here in the darkened space of the backseat, where the world narrowed down to breath and skin and that dizzying, perfect electricity that only existed between two people who knew this wasn’t just about sex.

For once.

You could feel him smiling when you arched into him, a cocky, breath-warmed curve of his lips against your cheek.

“God, you’re unreal,” Lando murmured, voice reverent, like the words had broken out before he could stop them.

And the way he said it, cool and teasing but laced with awe, like you were the sexiest thing he’d ever touched, it made your skin shiver.

His hands weren’t rushing, weren’t fumbling. They knew what they wanted. He pushed your dress higher, thumbs hooking the fabric and sliding it up your thighs until it bunched around your waist, then his palm found the curve between your legs.

A deep inhale. Then a low, smug exhale when he felt it.

“Shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours like he needed to see your face as he traced over the damp cotton of your panties. “Already this wet for me?” His fingers pressed gently, dragging slow lazy circles, his knuckles grazing the edge of the damp spot spreading wider with every pass. “Haven’t even touched you yet.”

The space was tight, his knees bumping between yours, your back shifting against the seat as he leaned in, crowding you completely.

And then, his fingers finally slipped past the waistband, sliding under, and your breath caught hard as he groaned again, deep and low, the sound like it had been torn from his chest.

His thumb pressed to your clit and stayed there, firm and steady, while two fingers slid through the slick heat of you slow and patient, like he wanted to feel every inch.

“Jesus, baby,” he said, “So fucking wet I’m sliding right in.” And he did, curling just enough to make your hips jolt.

His fingers sank deeper with that perfect curl and the gasp that left your mouth was broken, high and helpless, with your head falling back against the seat as your hips instinctively rocked into his hand. You didn’t even mean to do it. But your body just moved, greedy and aching, chasing every pulse of pressure his fingers gave you.

You were soaked all of a sudden. You could hear it every time his fingers pumped in, the slick wet sound filthy and perfect in the closed, humid air of the car. And Lando… he was eating it up, enjoying every second with eyes fixed on your face with the kind of focus that made your chest squeeze tight.

It was absurd. All of it.

Not even an hour ago, you’d been sitting in the corner of your own birthday party, surrounded by people who smiled too wide and asked all the wrong questions, feeling invisible at your own celebration.

And now?

Now your head was thrown back in the steamed-up cocoon of Lando’s car, your thighs spread wide around his narrow hips, your panties pulled to the side as his long, perfect fingers worked inside you like they’d been crafted by a god with nothing better to do than design the exact way you liked to be touched.

So now you were moaning, writhing, clenching around him every time he curled those fingers just right, while the goddamn remnants of the Tesco birthday cake were probably still stuck in your teeth.

And it felt like a dream. A delirious, aching, impossible dream.

A boy with cake crumbs on his shirt and the fastest hands in F1 was making you feel more chosen in fifteen minutes than most people had in years.

And then, it happened so fast. Or maybe not fast enough.

He shifted just slightly, adjusting the angle of his wrist with that effortless finesse, and suddenly his fingers slammed against something deep inside you that made you suddenly feel devastatingly good.

And the noise that tore from your throat wasn’t a moan. It was a sob, a broken, grateful cry that punched out of you like it had been waiting your whole life to escape. Your entire body jerked in response, thighs clamping around his hand even as your hips rolled down to meet the next thrust, desperate and uncontrollable.

“There,” Lando breathed, eyes wide and wild with something bordering awe. “Right there, huh?”

And then he kept going.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His fingers hit that same spot over and over, unrelenting, like he’d found the part of you that made you sing and had no intention of letting it go. The heel of his palm crushed against your clit with each motion, every thrust coiling tighter, higher, harder inside you until you were shaking, babbling nonsense against his jaw as he kissed you again.

You couldn't think. Couldn’t see.

“Fuck, Lando…”

The pressure detonated. You came around his fingers with a wet, clenching pulse that didn’t seem to end, your body bucking against him as his name tore out of your mouth in strangled, gasping whimpers.

And you should have been spent. Should’ve melted right there in the heat of it, let him cradle you until the buzz faded.

But you didn’t want to stop.

Your hands moved on instinct, fingers scrambling for his belt, tugging open the buckle with clumsy desperation. You pulled at his jeans, dragging the zipper down even as you crashed your mouth to his again, kissing him like you needed air from his lungs. Lando let out a breathless laugh and pulled back just enough to yank his hoodie over his head, tossing it behind him somewhere in the front seats.

“Hey—hey, wait,” he said, voice low but steady, one hand catching yours just as it slipped inside the waistband of his boxers. He held you there, not stopping you, but grounding you. His fingers were still sticky with your arousal, warm against your skin. “Are you sure?”

His eyes searched yours in the dim light, the sincerity in them so naked it made your throat tighten. “We don’t have to do this just ‘cause it’s been a shit birthday or… I don’t know.”

The question wasn’t just words. It was in his touch, in the way he held you like you were breakable, precious. And you’d never felt less fragile than you did in that moment.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his in a slow touch, so tender it made his breath hitch.

“I said I want this,” you whispered, “ And not because it’s my birthday. Or because I was sad and you bought me a cake.”

“I want this,” you repeated, punctuating each word with a kiss: cheek, jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I promise you.”

Then you pulled back just far enough to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, curls damp from the heat between you, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, and his cock straining against his boxers under your palm. But his eyes… his eyes were soft. Waiting. Giving you space.

A slow smile curved your lips as you leaned in and whispered, hot and sweet against his skin:

“Now shut up, and get a condom.”

Lando’s laugh was breathless, shaky, and so fucking turned on. “Yes, ma’am,”

He moved fast, fumbling with the glovebox with one hand while the other never left your body, fingers sliding along your thigh, tracing lazy shapes in your skin like he couldn’t not touch you. He found the little silver packet, tore it open with his teeth like he’d done it a hundred times before he rolled it down his length smoothly.

You couldn’t stop staring. He was flushed down to his chest, muscles shifting under that perfect, lean body as he settled back between your legs. His cock was already leaking before he even touched you, it stood proud and heavy in his hand, and the sight alone made your thighs fall open wider in welcome.

Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were suddenly on you: one strong arm sweeping under your thighs, the other gripping your waist, and with a breathless yelp you were lifted effortlessly off the seat. You squealed, half-laughing, half-shocked, hands scrambling f on his shoulders on instinct as he shifted you into his lap like it was nothing.

“Lando!” you gasped between laughs, still breathless from arousal and now from surprise, your thighs bracketing his hips.

He grinned up at you, that infuriatingly confident smile laced with just the right amount of sweetness, like he lived to make you laugh like that.

“C’mere” he murmured “If we’re really gonna do this, I want the birthday girl to fucking ride me in the backseat.”

He was watching you like he wanted to burn every second of this into memory. His hands slid down, slow and patient, fingers curling under the edges of your ruined panties, still damp and clinging to your thighs.

You lifted your hips and let him ease them down your legs, the fabric dragging sticky and slow over your slick skin. He let the panties fall to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours as he smoothed his hands up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, exposing you completely.

You felt open, bare, seen in a way that should’ve made you feel vulnerable, but it didn’t. Not this time. Not with him.

You could feel him there, hot and hard, pressed against the soaked heat of your cunt. It made your stomach flip, made your heart race, made you need him.

“Ready?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He gripped himself in one hand, the other steady on your hip, and guided you down slowly, the tip of his cock parting your folds with maddening, delicious pressure.

“Oh fuck,” you hissed, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you sank onto him, inch by inch.

It was a lot. He was thick, long, stretching you open in a way that made your thighs tremble instantly. You paused halfway down, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, and he didn’t push. He held still, hands rubbing soothing circles into your hips while his lips started pressing tender kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, that nickname giving you shivers “So fucking good. Take your time. You feel incredible.”

You whimpered, eyes shut, muscles tight with the effort of taking him. But slowly, breath by breath, you began to lower yourself again, feeling every thick, pulsing inch as he slid deeper inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You bottomed out with a gasp, your body fully seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” you whispered, breath shuddering. “You’re… big.”

Lando’s laugh was low and wrecked “Yeah?” he said, hands smoothing up your sides, thumbs brushing just under your breasts.

You nodded, unable to form words.

“Take a second, then” he murmured, kissing your chest and trailing up to your shoulder again.

You did, staying still as your muscles slowly adjusted, the stretch turning from burn to pleasure. You could feel your heartbeat in your cunt, every throb dragging against the thick press of him inside you. And when you finally rocked your hip, just a little, you both groaned in unison.

His hands slid back to your waist, fingers splaying, guiding your movements as you began to ride him in slow, tentative rolls.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that, baby. You’re doing so fucking good”

The praise went straight to your core, as potent as the stretch of him inside you. You rocked against him again, a little harder this time, your thighs clenching around his waist. He moaned, his head dropping back for a second before snapping up again, eyes locked on the way you moved.

You needed more. More than slow and soft.

So you shifted your balance, planting your feet on either side of his hips and leaning back until your spine arched and your palms found leverage on his thighs.

And fuck, the new angle…

Your head fell back with a sharp moan, your hips beginning to move in deliberate, grinding circles now, your ass slapping softly against his thighs as you started to ride him with intent. Each thrust dragged him over that sweet, devastating spot inside you, and he felt it. How clenched and tight you were, how you were squeezing him.

“God, look at you…” he mumbled between his teeth “Riding me like it’s what you were made for.”

And then his hands were on your breasts.

He leaned forward, strong arms wrapping around your torso to pull you closer, mouth trailing hot, open kisses down your chest. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking gently before teasing it with his tongue, his hand kneading the other breast as if he couldn’t decide which one he loved more. The sensation made your hips stutter, made your breath break in your throat.

“Fuck, Lando—”

“Yeah” he growled. “Take what you need, baby.”

You reached up blindly, one hand bracing against the car’s ceiling to steady yourself, careful not to bump your head as your pace built.

But even with him inside you, even with his mouth on your breasts and his hands guiding your hips like they were the most sacred thing he’d ever touched, it wasn’t close enough. You needed more. Needed him. Surrounding you, holding you, breathing you in like you were the only air in the car.

So you shifted again, chest heaving as you leaned forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in until there was nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the frantic rhythm of your bodies moving together. He went willingly, groaning into your mouth as your lips found his again. This time it was all tongue and teeth.

You moved like that: close, tight, grinding down onto him with deeper, rolling thrusts that had his head falling forward against your shoulder. Every sound you made now was right in his ear. You felt him shudder every time you gasped his name, felt the tremor that ran through his thighs when you moaned, “Lando, fuck… feels so good…” like it was the only truth left in the world.

And then his hand slid between your bodies again.

You felt it, slipping down your belly, finding that swollen bundle of nerves just where you needed it most. His thumb pressed in slow, steady circles against your clit, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of your hips, and your whole body jerked, a shudder ripping through you as your forehead dropped to the crook of his neck.

“Oh god” you whimpered, arms tightening around his shoulders and ails digging into his back. “Fuck, don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he groaned while his teeth were gently scraping along your jaw. “Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart, takin’ my cock so well.”

Every filthy word made your hips move even harder, your walls clench around him. He was everywhere: inside you, around you, with you. His voice in your ear, his hand on your clit, his cock filling you so deep it made your legs tremble.

“You close?” he was now kissing along your collarbone softly. “Can feel you fucking gripping me …”

You nodded, not even trying to hold your moans anymore.

“Good girl,” he breathed while his fingers were circling your clit even faster now. “That’s it, then. Come on, birthday girl. ”

Your orgasm tore through you like a wave breaking clean and wild against rock. Violent and consuming. You cried out arching your back and locking your arms tightly around his shoulders as your cunt clamped down on him with need.

Your hips didn’t stop tho, or maybe couldn’t stop.

You still moved.

Even as the waves of pleasure tore through you, your body kept rolling, grinding, giving, chasing every last bit of stimulation because you wanted him to feel it too. You wanted to pull him over the edge with you, keep him deep and tight and overwhelmed until he had no choice but to let go.

And he did.

“Shit,” Lando choked, his voice ragged and shaking as he bucked up into you one final time, deep and desperate, fingers digging into your hips like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His whole body locked beneath you, breath punched out of his lungs as he came, hard, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into the condom with a groan that vibrated against your collarbone.

You clung to him, chest to chest, body slick and trembling and full, your cunt still fluttering in the aftershocks of your own climax, milking every pulse of his release. He moaned again, quieter this time, buried against your skin, the sound soft and wrecked, like he was being undone even as he started to come down.

This time, you didn’t move. Neither of you did. Your bodies were pressed together, molded in sweat-slick intimacy, your heart hammering against his as your fingers slid through the curls at the back of his neck.

It was a long moment before either of you could speak.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered finally “That was…”

“Incredible,” he finished, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were still blown wide, hair clinging to his damp forehead, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. “You’re incredible.”

You laughed softly, a helpless, breathless sound that shook through you. You blinked down at him, your legs still draped around his waist, your dress hiked up, your panties missing somewhere on the car floor.

“You’re still inside me,”

He smirked, cheeky even while panting, his hands smoothing up your back. “I know,” he said, voice warm “Don’t wanna move. And If you gave me like ten minutes, I’d go again.”

You burst into laughter, collapsing onto his chest, burying your face in his neck. “I don’t think I can.”

The haze softened into something golden, sweet. He held you close, one hand stroking slow circles on your bare thigh while the other stayed curled at your lower back, like he was afraid to let go. You nuzzled closer, kissed the skin just under his jaw, and let your eyes flutter shut for a second.

It was four in the morning.

You could see the faintest pale light beginning to spill over the horizon, brushing the fogged windows with a ghost of dawn. The air in the car had cooled just enough to make your skin goosebump where you weren’t pressed to him. And you were wrecked. Spent. Sticky and sore in all the best ways.

And still… you’d never felt more alive.

You hadn’t expected anything. Hadn’t wanted anything, not really. Not a surprise party let alone a hookup.

And yet, here you were: two orgasms deep, wrapped around Lando Norris in the backseat of his Lamborghini, your dress hiked to your hips, your panties forgotten, your legs sore from straddling him.

It was absurd.

And perfect.

Eventually, Lando sighed, tilting his head to kiss your temple as he gently shifted beneath you. The movement was slow, careful, and when he finally slipped out of you, the sensation made you shiver. He hissed under his breath, half-sensitive, and reached down to peel off the condom. He tied it off, searching the car blindly until he found one of his sweatshirts and used it to gently clean you up between your thighs. You winced as he wiped over your oversensitive cunt, but he was gentle, murmuring soft apologies as he worked.

“We made a fucking mess.”

You giggled, wriggling at the ticklish sensation, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek again.

“Welcome to the London Waldorf Hotel by Hilton,” the receptionist that welcomed you was smiling brightly, fingers already flying across the keyboard as you stepped up to the desk, passport in hand.

Weeks blurred together after that night, collapsing into a relentless rhythm of early mornings, punishing training blocks, recovery sessions that left your body aching in quiet, specific ways, and a calendar that refused to slow down no matter how loudly your muscles protested.

By the time Wimbledon week arrived, it felt less like an event and more like a reckoning.

Wimbledon was different. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t just another Slam; it was the Slam.

The lawns, the white, the ghosts of champions that seemed to linger in every corridor and press box. Win there, and your name didn’t just sit on a trophy, it stitched itself into history. Lose there, and people still remembered how you lost, how far you went, how close you came. Forever.

This year, the attention followed you more closely than ever.

Top ten. For the first time. No Slam title yet. Too good to ignore, too unproven to fully trust. You could feel the eyes on you already, weighing you, measuring whether you were finally ready to justify your ranking or if you’d buckle under the particular pressure Wimbledon loved to apply.

After Monaco, after that night with Lando, you hadn’t seen him again. Not really. Training had turned brutal and it left little room for distractions, and his schedule had carried him across the Atlantic to Canada first, then back to Europe, Austria, commitments stacking neatly one after the other.

You knew he was in England now, of course. Silverstone loomed on his calendar the same way Wimbledon loomed on yours.

You were halfway through confirming your reservation when the receptionist’s expression shifted, brightening even further as she glanced past your shoulder.

“And welcome back, Mr. Norris,” she said, already reaching for a second keycard with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before.

You didn’t even need to turn around to know.

Of course you’re both staying at the same hotel. What were the fucking odds?

The receptionist handed you your key with a “Have a nice Wimbledon Week Miss”, and then turned her attention fully to him. You stepped aside, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to see him like this again after weeks of nothing but blurred Instagram posts and a few texts.

He approached the counter and handed over his passport as you watched the exchange from a step away: the way she smiled a fraction wider, the way Lando answered her questions with polite charm, not quite flirting but not not flirting either.

“What are you doing here?” you said, straight to the point, pretending this was all entirely normal.

“Silverstone week,” he replied easily, as if that explained everything. “Hi, by the way, good to see you too!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Completely ignoring the second part of his sentence. “Silverstone is two hours away,” you said, the confusion slipping into your voice before you could polish it away.

He turned fully toward you then, grin spreading slowly, deliberately. “Oh, really?” he said, mock surprise dripping from every syllable. “Did you check?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “I’m serious,” you said before repeating “What are you doing here?”

He leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if he were about to let you in on some great secret. “This place,” he began, ticking points off on his fingers, “has an amazing gym, genuinely life-changing breakfast, and—” he paused, glancing briefly toward the receptionist before continuing, “—some rooms have jacuzzis.”

You stared at him, unimpressed and thoroughly baffled. You were so confused. “What?”

“The reason why I’m here,” he answered. “It’s my favourite hotel when I’m in England.

The receptionist cleared her throat politely, handing him his keycard with a bright smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Norris. Enjoy your stay.”

“Always do, thank you” he said, offering her a grateful nod before turning back to you.

You shook your head, still trying to reconcile the logic of a Formula One driver willingly committing to four hours of daily commuting during one of the most intense weeks of the season.

You followed him toward the elevators without quite deciding to, waving a porter over and murmuring your room number so he could take your bags. The lobby buzzed softly around you, a hum of accents and rolling suitcases and muted laughter, but somehow it all faded into background noise as you walked side by side, close enough that your arm brushed his every now and then.

“Why are you really here?” you tried again as he reached the elevator bank, pressing the call button with an absentminded tap. “In London, I mean. I’m sure Silverstone has plenty of luxurious hotels with amazing gyms and jacuzzis”

He glanced down at you, expression softer now, less teasing. “Media stuff,” he said. “I got some filming here before heading there for the weekend”

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. You stepped inside together, the space suddenly smaller, quieter. He leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands folded loosely in front of him, watching your reflection more than you.

“And you?” he asked, casually, though his eyes lingered. “Wimbledon week as a top ten. That’s huge.”

You felt the weight of it then, the unspoken pressure settling into your shoulders the way it had every morning since you’d landed.

It was huge. It was pretty fucking huge. That’s why you needed to stay focused. No distractions. No temptations. No hanging around with an F1 british hottie.

“Yeah,” you said, exhaling slowly. “It is.”

The elevator began its ascent, a gentle hum beneath your feet. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence filled with everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t since that night weeks ago.

Then, the doors slid open onto your floor, and for a second, neither of you moved, suspended in that soft, unremarkable moment that somehow felt like the start of something else entirely.

Lando broke the silence with a crooked smile. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.”

You glanced at him, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest. “Guess so.”

You didn’t see a lot of eachtother.

It wasn’t that you were avoiding Lando, not deliberately, not in the way people avoided things they didn’t want to face. If anything, the opposite was true. But your schedule left very little room for anything beyond training sessions that began too early, matches that demanded every scrap of focus you possessed, recovery routines that blurred together, and the quiet mental preparation that followed you back to your hotel room each night like a shadow.

His world wasn’t any less chaotic, from what you gathered in passing. You’d see him occasionally in the lobby, always in motion, phone pressed to his ear, or laughing with someone from his team as he headed out the door, sunglasses on no matter the weather. Sometimes your paths crossed by accident at breakfast, a shared glance over coffee cups, a quick smile exchanged like a promise left there to pick up.

Once, you ended up in the gym at the same time, both of you pretending it was a coincidence while silently acknowledging that it wasn’t entirely.

He’d offered you a grin from across the room, lifting a hand in greeting mid-rep, and you’d felt something warm curl in your chest before reminding yourself, firmly, that this week was not about him.

The first match in qualifying rounds came and went in a blur of nerves and adrenaline, your body stiff at the start before memory took over, muscle and instinct guiding you where your mind hesitated. The grass felt fast beneath your shoes, the ball skidding low in a way that demanded precision and punished hesitation, but by the end of it, you walked off court with a win and a quiet sense of relief that settled somewhere deep in your bones.

The second round followed quickly, then the third, each match stacking on top of the last until they blurred together in flashes of green and white and applause that washed over you like waves. You stopped counting days and started counting routines instead.

Wake up. Stretch. Eat. Warm up. Play. Recover. Sleep. Repeat.

Occasionally, in the margins of it all, your phone would buzz with a message from Lando, something simple and stupid and unnecessarily dirty, like Your ass was phenomenal in that outfit today and you’d find yourself smiling at your screen before slipping it face-down onto the bedside table.

The quarterfinals arrived with a kind of hushed gravity, the air thicker, the crowd more deliberate in its attention. You told yourself it was just another match, just another opponent, but your body knew better, your pulse quickening as you stepped onto court, your breath shallow until the first rally forced you back into yourself. It wasn’t perfect tennis, not then, but it was resilient, stubborn, and when the final point was yours, you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, racket hanging loose in your hand as the realization crept in.

Semifinalist. At Wimbledon.

The word felt unreal, like something borrowed from someone else’s career, something you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to claim.

Back in the locker room, you sat on the bench and stared at your shoes while your phone filled with messages, congratulations piling up faster than you could respond to them.

The day of the semifinal dawned bright and impossibly green, the kind of English summer day that felt curated for television, for history. You woke early, nerves humming beneath your skin, but there was a calm there too, a sense of rightness that surprised you. As you pulled on your all-white outfit, smoothing the fabric over your hips, tying your hair back with practiced precision, it hit you suddenly how far you’d come, how many early mornings and lonely flights and silent doubts had led to this exact moment.

Walking onto Centre Court felt different than anything before it. The stands rose around you like a living thing, steep and full and expectant, the royal box gleaming in your peripheral vision, the grass impossibly pristine beneath your feet. You took a breath, deep and slow, and for a brief, fleeting second, you thought of Lando, probably somewhere not too far away, wrapped up in his own version of this madness, pressure dressed up as opportunity.

Then the match began, and everything else fell away.

From the first serve, something clicked into place with an ease that almost scared you.

Your toss was perfect, your timing precise, the ball snapping off your strings with a satisfying bite that echoed across the court. The rallies unfolded exactly as you’d imagined them in training, your feet light, your movements instinctive, each decision made without hesitation. You weren’t thinking about rankings or history or what this match meant. You were simply playing, fully and completely, present in a way that felt almost transcendent.

Your opponent, number three in the world, tried to disrupt your rhythm, throwing pace and spin at you, testing angles, but you met her shot for shot, unflinching. Somewhere along the way, you even realized you weren’t just surviving the moment. You were owning it.

You barely noticed the clock ticking, barely registered the shifting light as clouds passed overhead. Everything narrowed to the sound of the ball, the feel of the grass, the steady cadence of your breath.

When match point arrived, it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt inevitable.

You stood there, frozen, racket slipping slightly in your grip, as the reality finally caught up with you.

You had just beaten the world number three. In straight sets. In under two hours. At Wimbledon.

A laugh bubbled up before it turned into something dangerously close to tears as you brought a hand to your mouth, shaking your head in disbelief.

The handshake at the net felt surreal, your opponent gracious and composed, the moment passing in a blur of congratulations and flashes from the stands. As you turned to acknowledge the crowd, you lifted your arms instinctively, not in triumph exactly, but in gratitude, as if to say, I know. I can’t believe it either.

You didn’t know what would happen next, whether this run would end in heartbreak again or history, but for now, that didn’t matter.

You were a Wimbledon finalist. And just that was a victory.

Screw your sponsors if they thought it wasn’t.

By the time you made it back to the hotel, the day had finally begun to settle into your body. The lobby was louder than usual, buzzing with a low, constant hum of voices, footsteps, laughter, camera shutters clicking in irregular bursts. Someone recognized you almost immediately, then another, then another, and suddenly you were smiling on instinct, posing beside strangers who held their phones out with shaking hands, signing tennis balls, programs, scraps of paper pulled hastily from bags.

You let it happen, because this was part of it, because you knew how fleeting this version of the moment could be, because some small, younger part of you was watching from somewhere deep inside, wide-eyed and breathless.

You thanked the last fan, waved off a well-meaning hotel staff member who offered congratulations with a grin, and finally, mercifully, your team shepherded you toward the lifts with gentle insistence, reminding you of the early session planned for the next morning, of recovery, of ice baths and stretching and sleep.

You hugged them all goodbye in quick succession, and then you were alone again, the lift doors sliding shut with a soft, decisive sound.

The ride up felt longer than usual, your reflection staring back at you from the polished steel walls, tired but luminous, like something inside you had been switched on and forgotten. When the doors opened onto your floor, the quiet was almost startling, the thick hotel carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps as you stepped out into the corridor.

And you were halfway through it when you saw him.

He was leaning against the wall near the end of the hallway, looking down at his phone, one foot crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie you recognized instantly, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been running his fingers through it too often.

You stopped short, your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

He looked up at the sound, eyes finding you immediately, and for a split second, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, the familiar blue of his gaze.

Your mouth opened, then closed again, a laugh threatening to escape without permission.

“What—” you started, then shook your head, blinking hard. “What are you doing here?” It came out somewhere between disbelief and accusation.

He pushed off the wall slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating, soft grin that always made it feel like he was in on a joke.

“Hi, to you too,” he said lightly pointing out that again, you didn’t greet him first. His eyes flicking briefly to the tennis bag on your shoulder, then back to your face. “Congrats, by the way, Wimbledon finalist!”

You stared at him, still not moving, your brain racing through the logistics with a kind of frantic precision. Silverstone Race was on Sunday. Two hours away, at least. Media duties or not, this didn’t make sense, not now, not tonight.

“You have a race,” you said, finally, as if stating it plainly might make him disappear. “In, like, forty-eight hours. And it’s not exactly around the corner. Didn’t you just finished qualifying or something?”

He hummed thoughtfully, taking a step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes that mirrored your own. “Yeah,” he said. “No, qualifying is tomorrow.”

“Then why are you—” You gestured vaguely at the corridor, at him, at the very obvious fact of his presence. “Why are you here?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer right away, and something in the pause made your chest tighten, made the quiet of the hallway feel suddenly louder, heavier. Then he shrugged, a small, almost sheepish motion that didn’t quite match the confidence he usually carried.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “I figured I’d come by.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head slowly as a laugh finally escaped you, low and incredulous. “You figured you’d come by,” you repeated. “Still not telling me why, tho”

“Well,” he said, smile widening just a touch, “It seemed like today was kind of a big deal.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how tired you were, how raw and open everything felt, the day still clinging to you like static. “What did you say to your team?” you said, though there was no real bite behind it, more a reflex than a warning.

He didn’t answer your question and you tried to study his expression then, you tried to study the way he stood there like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, like he hadn’t second-guessed the decision a thousand times before knocking on some invisible door in his head. And something about that, about his quiet certainty, made your throat tighten.

“I watched you” he added softly, almost as an afterthought.

Your heart stuttered. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Whole thing, luckily was in between session.”

The image of it flashed through your mind without warning, him somewhere not far from here, phone or screen in front of him, watching you move across Centre Court in white, watching you do the thing you’d dreamed of since you were a kid sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to grainy footage of the Williams sisters, imagining yourself there someday.

“This is insane ,” you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if you were still trying to confirm he was actually standing there, “You’re supposed to be… I don’t know. In a garage somewhere. Surrounded by engineers. Doing very important car things, preparing for your race.”

He laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly down the empty corridor. “So what? I already did all those things.”

You shrugged, still smiling. “I’m just saying. It’s Silverstone week. You should be fully in race mode, focused, concentrated, avoiding distractions.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, something playful sparking there. “Are you calling yourself a distraction?”

You opened your mouth to answer, then paused, the weight of the day, the adrenaline still humming through your veins, the sheer improbability of this moment all colliding at once.

You were exhausted, yes, but it was the good kind, the kind that left you feeling light and buzzy, like sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. Your body still felt alive with motion, with victory, with disbelief.

“I—” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’m just surprised you’re here.”

“Me too,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t really feel like I should be anywhere else.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how easy it would be to close the gap, how little energy it would take compared to everything else you’d done today.

The question slipped out before you’d fully decided to ask it, carried on a lilt that surprised you as much as it did him.

“Do you… want to come in?”

There it was. Hanging between you. Casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, loaded enough that neither of you believed that for a second.

His grin was immediate, bright and unguarded, like he’d been waiting for it. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping past him toward your door before he could say anything else smug.

You pressed the keycard to the reader, the soft green light blinking on as the lock clicked open, and pushed the door inward. The suite opened up in front of you, spacious and understated, all warm lighting and clean lines, the kind of room designed to feel calm and luxurious without demanding attention. You barely registered any of it.

You took two steps inside, just long enough to drop your tennis bag by the wall, the dull thud echoing faintly, and then his hand was on your wrist, gentle but insistent, turning you back toward him.

“Hey,” you started, breath hitching slightly, but whatever you’d been about to say dissolved the moment his mouth found yours.

The kiss was immediate and certain. It felt like something snapping into place, like the end of a long-held breath you hadn’t realized you were still holding.

His other hand came up to your waist, steadying you as he nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click of it closing sounding oddly final in the quiet room.

His mouth was warm and sure against yours, tasting faintly of the mint gum he must have chewed on the drive over, a clean, sharp contrast to the lingering adrenaline-salt on your own lips.

You laughed softly into it, the sound muffled, half-disbelieving, half-giddy, and he smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip in a gentle tug before soothing it with his tongue, the gesture so familiarly him that it made something ache pleasantly behind your ribs.

“What?” he murmured, the word a vibration against your lips as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your waist, thumbs stroking small circles through the thin fabric of your post-match polo.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“I should be resting and relaxing” you said but you were already tilting your head, inviting him back in, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His eyes lit up with that trademark mischief, the one that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your jawline. “I can help with that. Can make you feel very much relaxed.”

You snorted, pulling back just enough to give him a mock-stern look, though your fingers betrayed you by twisting into the hem of his shirt. “That was so corny as hell.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, his laugh low as he ducked his head in mock shame, but then his hands were sliding up your sides, warm and insistent, and you were both laughing into the space between your mouths before the sound dissolved into another kiss, this one hungrier and messier.

He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and his hands grew bolder, one sliding down to cup the curve of your ass through your skirt while the other ventured under the hem of your polo, fingertips skimming the warm skin of your lower back.

You arched into the touch, a quiet hum escaping you, and he took it as encouragement, his palm flattening to pull you flush against him, letting you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your hip.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against your lips, not pulling away far enough to break the connection, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a beat as his eyes flicked open to meet yours, dark and intent. “Missed you. These past few weeks have been hell without these little… incentives.”

“What?” you teased, your voice laced with mock accusation as you pulled back just enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t get off without me?”

He squeezed your ass in retaliation, firm enough to make you gasp, but his grin was all boyish charm and tease. “Oh, I managed just fine, don’t worry” he said, his tone dropping to that husky drawl that always made your pulse stutter.

“Let’s just say that having you right here is leagues beyond whatever I was picturing in my head everytime I wanked in the shower”

“Oh, is the shower your place?” you shot back, your lips curving into a wicked smile.

“It is, don’t have to clean after” he replied, his hand flexing on your ass again, pulling you in even tighter.

You burst out laughing at that, the sound bright and unrestrained, echoing softly inside the room.

And it hit you then just how effortlessly everything was with him: no performance required, no careful curation of witty banter, just this seamless slide into dirty talk and domestic absurdity that felt as natural as breathing.

The laughter faded into a shared grin, but the heat didn’t dissipate; if anything, it simmered hotter, pulling you back into the kiss with a renewed hunger that made your hands clutch at his shoulders. His mouth claimed yours fiercely again, tongues dueling in wet, open slides, breaths coming faster as his hands roamed with bold intent.

One delving under your polo to palm the bare skin of your back, fingers splaying wide to press you impossibly closer, the other hiking your skirt up your thighs until cool air kissed the newly exposed flesh. You moaned into him, hips rocking instinctively, chasing the friction of his hardness against your core, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated through your chest, his teeth nipping your lower lip before soothing it with a slow lick.

“We should be resting” you whispered against his mouth, but your fingers were already fisting his t-shirt, tugging it upward in silent demand.

“We are” he rasped, breaking just long enough to yank the shirt off himself, tossing it through the door where it landed with a soft thud on the suite’s entry rug, right beside your tennis bag.

He hit the sofa first, dropping onto the wide cushions with a surprised oof, legs splaying open invitingly as he looked up at you from between his thighs, curls tousled, chest heaving. “C’mere” he said, voice thick with approval, reaching for the hem of your polo.

You stepped between his spread legs, the carpet soft under your feet, and lifted your arms to let him strip the polo away, the fabric peeling off with a whisper to join his shirt on the floor.

His hands were immediate, deftly unhooking your sports bra and easing it down your arms, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze and the room’s gentle lighting that cast flattering shadows across your skin.

He didn’t rush, though, his palms cupped you reverently, thumbs circling your nipples into tight peaks before he leaned forward, mouth descending to kiss the swell of one breast, tongue flicking out to trace lazy circles that made you gasp and thread your fingers into his hair.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing lower to press open-mouthed kisses along the plane of your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel as his hands worked your skirt’s zipper, the sound a sharp zzzzip in the quiet.

The garment slid down your legs in a pool of fabric, and you stepped free, now standing in just your simple black underwear, heart pounding as his kisses continued their descent, soft, heated presses to the flare of your hips, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you shiver and grip his shoulders for balance.

He looked up at you then, eyes dark and intent, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to hook into the waistband of your panties. “Jeez, I wanna kiss you everywhere,” he promised, voice a low rumble that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Every fucking inch”

Before you could respond, he tugged the cotton down your thighs, slow and deliberate, letting it catch on the curve of your ass before guiding it lower, past your knees, until you could step out and kick it aside. It landed near the coffee table, tangled with a coaster and the remote for the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall.

Naked now, you felt exposed yet powerful, his hands steadying you as he pulled you closer, breath ghosting hot over your mound.

Then his mouth was there, lips brushing the soft skin of your inner thigh first, teasing higher with featherlight kisses that made your legs tremble, before he nuzzled into you fully, nose nudging your clit as his tongue extended in a flat, languid lick from entrance to peak.

You cried out softly, hands fisting in his hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as pleasure sparked sharp and bright. He hummed approval against you, the vibration intensifying everything, and latched on gently, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressureg, his strong hands gripping your ass to hold you steady.

“Fuck, Lando,” you gasped, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling’s. He didn’t let up, one hand sliding between your thighs from behind to tease your entrance with a single finger, pressing in shallowly, curling just so, while his tongue worked relentless magic on your clit.

He acted as if he was starved. As if you’d be the only nourishing after years of drought.

With you standing and him seated on the plush leather couch, his face buried between your thighs, he nudged his head deeper with each languid stroke of his tongue, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs to pull you even closer.

Physio was definitely gonna ask you why your hamstrings are so tight tomorrow.

“Open up a little more for me, baby,” he murmured against you, “Let me get in there properly”

Properly. As if up until now he was just tasting the entree.

A weak, gasping sound was all you could manage in reply, but your body obeyed instinctively, hips canting forward, thighs parting wider around his head as you surrendered to the delicious invasion.

He hummed his approval, and then his fingers joined the party: one, then two, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling upward to find that spot inside that made your vision blur at the edges.

Insane. If he drove two hours from Silverstone just to eat you out like this. Fucking hurray. No complaints.

You were possessed at this point, a creature of pure sensation, capable only of ragged moans and breathy whines that shaped his name into a broken mantra.

“Lando… fuck… right there, please…”

He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers twisting, and you felt the coil inside you wind impossibly tight, teetering on the precipice of a shattering release.

But just as the first tremors began to seize your muscles, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and empty, hovering on the agonizing edge.

You whimpered in protest, your grip tightening in his hair, but he was already leaning back, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, utterly satisfied grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you from between your thighs.

Your legs shook violently, barely holding you up, and you knew you must have looked a complete wreck like that: chest heaving, skin flushed, utterly undone.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice rough but laced with amusement as he placed steadying hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your trembling skin.

He leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lower stomach, then another just above your pubic bone, his lips trailing upwards over your abdomen in a tender counterpoint to the filth of moments before. He watched you from there, his gaze dark and heated, taking in your disheveled state with evident pride. “Legs giving out?”

“You’re an asshole,” you managed to pant, but there was no heat in it, only the raw, exposed need he’d carved into you.

“Am I? ,” he counter asked easily, grinning wider before his expression softened into something more serious, more intimate. He guided you gently, his hands firm on your waist. “C’mere. Sit.”

You didn’t need telling twice, your body moving on autopilot, but as you shifted to lower yourself onto his lap, you registered that his jeans and boxers were gone, kicked off sometime during his dedicated attention below. He was fully naked now, his erection jutting thick and eager against his stomach, the tip glistening.

“Just so you know… I haven’t been with anyone else. Since Monaco. And I got tested last week. All clear.” He swallowed, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “But we can use condoms, no problem”

The admission, delivered so straightforwardly in the midst of such carnality, struck you with a force that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. It was trust, laid bare amidst the scattered clothes and the city lights.

You let out a slow breath, your own hands coming up to frame his face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble against your palms and the soft cute creek of his dimple.

“Me neither,” you whispered. “And I also got tested the other day, before the tournament started. Also clear.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, a soft, reassuring kiss. “We can go bare, if you want” you murmured against his mouth, your voice low but steady.

One hand left his cheek, sliding down your own side until your fingers found the small, almost invisible square of adhesive high on your hip, just inside the crease of your thigh. Contraceptive patch. Mainly for hormonal imbalance. You guided his hand there, pressing his fingertips against it. “Had it for a few weeks now.”

He blinked, his fingers exploring the edges of the patch with a kind of dazed curiosity, a faint, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “How did I miss that?”

“Probably distracted by the main attractions,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.

His expression sobered, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more searching. “You’re sure?” he asked, his hands returning to your hips, his grip firm but questioning.

You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, pouring your certainty into it, your tongue sweeping against his in a promise that needed no words. When you pulled back, you were breathless, but your eyes never wavered from his. “I’m sure. Please.”

His hands returned to your hips, guiding you down as you reached between your bodies to take him in hand, aligning him with your slick entrance.

The broad head nudged against you, and you both gasped at the contact. “Easy,” he breathed, his eyes locked on yours, his usual bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. “Take your time.”

You sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide, the stretch a perfect, burning fullness that made your head fall forward onto his shoulder with a choked cry.

He filled you completely, his hands spanning your back to hold you close as you adjusted, your inner walls fluttering wildly around the invasion.

For a long moment, neither of you moved,

“Okay?” he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing your temple.

In answer, you began to move, moaning and lifting your hips slowly before sinking back down, setting a deliberate, rocking rhythm that drew a deep groan from his chest.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging in as he helped you rise and fall, meeting each downward stroke with an upward thrust of his own that drove him even deeper. The angle was intense, intimate, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of your hips, and soon the slow burn ignited into a fierce, consuming fire.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice strained, his own control fraying as you rode him with a building desperation that matched the fire in his eyes. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight… taking me so well.”

His words were a low, ragged mantra against your skin.

Each syllable vibrating through your chest where he’d latched onto one breast, his mouth hot and wet as he sucked your nipple deep, tongue flicking the hardened peak in time with the upward thrust of his hips.

And the truth was: you could have anyone. Players. Sportsmen. Celebrities. Your DMs flooded with fellow amazing athletes with their sculpted bodies and empty compliments, or billionaires who'd sent champagne and gifts with their numbers scrawled on the card.

But none of them, not a single one, would ever fuck you like this. With this specific, learned intensity, this care masquerading as carnality. Lando wasn't just hitting a spot for pleasure; he was reading your body, adjusting his inputs in real-time based on your gasps and hitches.

And he wasn't even your boyfriend. That was the delicious, complicated irony of it.

There were no labels, no Instagram posts, no meet-the-parents weekends.

Just this: these amazing hotel rooms and stolen nights between Grands Prix and tournaments, a secret kept from the paddock and the press.

Yet he knew you, perhaps better than any official partner ever had.

He knew, for instance, that when your movements became frantic and shallow, you needed the direct pressure on your clit, and his thumb slid between your joined bodies now, finding the swollen bud and rubbing firm, tight circles that made you cry out, your rhythm stuttering.

He knew your nipples were a direct line to your pleasure, so he switched his mouth to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, sucking attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch violently.

He knew you liked it when his hand left your ass for a moment to deliver a soft, stinging spank, not hard, just enough to surprise your system and make your inner muscles clamp and clench down on him, which drew a guttural "Fuck yes," from his lips.

He knew you loved dirty talk, that the filthier his praise got, the wetter you became, and he could feel the evidence of it now, the slick, effortless glide as he pistoned into you.

"Look at you," he growled, lifting his head from your breast, his eyes black with want, lips swollen and glistening. "Riding my cock so well, baby. You love this, don't you? Love it so much you make me go raw"

You could only nod frantically, your whines turning into choked sobs of affirmation, because he was right, and the truth of it, spoken aloud in his wrecked voice, pushed you higher.

He knew you had the stamina for rounds, that you'd recover quickly and be ready for more, so he didn't hold back, his thrusts becoming punishing, driving up into you with a force that rocked your entire body, the sofa creaking in protest beneath you.

He knew you were flexible, had bent you over beds and bathroom counters and in the backseat of a rental Porche once, and you'd never complained, only begged for more.

And he knew, most intimately of all, the final clue. As the coil in your belly wound to an unbearable tightness, as the world narrowed to the slap of skin and the smell of sex and sweat, your hands flew from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle of his back, scoring red trails down his skin. It was involuntary, primal, your body's telegraph that you were seconds from the edge.

“I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Wimbledon champion,” he growled while his hips kept driving up to meet your frantic downward strokes with a force that stole your breath

A breathless, giddy laugh bubbled out of you even as you clenched around him, your inner muscles fluttering in response to the declaration. You leaned back, bracing your hands on his thighs, meeting his fevered gaze with a smirk as you continued to ride him, taking him deep with every roll of your hips. “Oh yeah? Irina Sabalenka?”

He surged up with a grin, wrapping an arm around your waist to crush you against his chest, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Shut up,” he commanded, but his eyes were dancing, a smile fighting at the corners of his mouth. “You know what I mean”

You gasped, the laughter dying into a whimper as he resumed his rhythm, his grip on you iron-tight. Leaning in, your lips brushed the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial, husky whisper that was all for him. “Well then… I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Silverstone champion.”

It was the match to the gasoline.

He saw it, felt it. His breath caught, and his rhythm became erratic, brutal at the sound of your words.

"That's it, baby," he panted, his own release imminent, his grip on you turning bruising. "I know you’re there, let me feel it. Come on my cock."

The command, paired with the exquisite torture of his thumb on your clit and the relentless drive of his hips, shattered you.

Your orgasm ripped through you with a silent scream that finally found voice in a raw, tearing cry of his name, your body convulsing around him, milking him violently as your nails bit deeper into his skin.

The sensation of your tightening and pulling at him was his undoing; with a final, broken shout, he buried himself to the root and came, his own release hot and pulsing inside you. That had him collapsing back against the cushions and he pulled you down with him in a trembling, sweaty heap of spent limbs and shared breaths.

His hand was still splayed possessively on your lower back and his heartbeat became a steady, slowing drum against your cheek where it rested on his chest.

“My physio would definitely murder me if she knew I had all this extra physical activity after a match”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. He even tilted his head to press a kiss to your sweaty temple. “So, does that mean no round two on the bed?”

No. No round two on the bed. You had the most important match of your life in less than 48 hours, and he had his race. You needed rest. Both.

That’s should have been your answer.

But you lifted your head to look at him, finding his eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous challenge in the dim light.

And so round two happened. Just like that.

He fucked you from behind with a focused intensity that had you screaming muffled moans against the pillows of your king sized bed.

Then he murmured “Just one more” and round three followed.

Missionary, slower, softer. He kissed you through it, intertwining your fingers and caressing your face, and it felt more tender and devastatingly intimate.

You came together that time, a slow wave of pleasure that left you both breathless and staring at the ceiling as the digital clock on the bedside table blinked to 1:47 AM.

But the peace was short-lived. And apparently sex fairytales don’t last forever.

Cause at almost exactly 2 AM sharp, you felt the mattress shift as he carefully extracted his arm from beneath you and sat up, running a hand through his disastrous curls with a quiet sigh.

“You’re going? It’s past 2,” you mumbled into the pillow, your hand reaching out blindly to find the warm space he’d left.

“I have to,” he said, his voice soft but firm. You heard the rustle of fabric as he began gathering his clothes from the various corners of the room where they’d been abandoned.

Sitting up, you pulled the sheet around yourself, watching him in the sliver of light from the ensuite bathroom. He moved with a quiet efficiency, stepping into his boxers, pulling on his jeans.

“You could stay,” you said, and it came out smaller than you intended, laced with a vulnerability that the darkness allowed.

He paused, buttoning his jeans, and looked at you. In the faint glow, his expression was unreadable for a moment. “I have to be at the track at half-eight tomorrow. I can’t stay and risk hitting traffic on the highway or anything else that could make me miss briefings or even worse practice session” He offered a tired, crooked smile. “It’s safer if I drive back now.”

You hugged your knees to your chest, the post-coital glow rapidly cooling into a vague, hollow feeling. “I just feel bad,” you admitted, your chin resting on your knees.

“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric momentarily obscuring his face.

“Because you have to drive two hours to get back and you’ll going to get, what, three hours of sleep?”

He finished tugging the shirt down and leaned over, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I chose to come here, okay? And I chose to stay here until now, I’m not regretting it, so don’t worry about it” He gestured vaguely between you, at the wrecked room. “And I barely get any sleep on race weekends anyway so, it’s nothing, really.”

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like goodbye. You melted into it, your hands coming up to clutch at his wrists, wanting to anchor him there longer. But he pulled back, standing up to find his socks and shoes.

You watched him dress fully, the act felt strangely intimate after everything you’d just shared. He laced up his trainers, checked his phone with a slight frown, secured his Richard Millie on his wrist and pocketed his wallet and keys. He looked less like the man who’d just driven you to three earth-shattering orgasms and more like a slightly rumpled, very tired racing driver about to face his day. The duality of it squeezed your heart.

Finally, he came back to the bedside, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of your head. “Good luck tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. “Go win that thing and make it look easy.”

You smiled, reaching up to touch his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, you too!”

He kissed you one last time, a quick, hard press of his lips to yours. “I’ll text you.”

And then he was gone, the door to the suite clicking shut with a soft, final sound.

Saturday unfolded exactly as it was supposed to.

Disciplined and controlled, following the schedule to the minute. Recovery breakfast with the team, then some miles on the treadmill, followed by an ice baths and a physio session.

“How are the legs?” your physio asked, pressing into your calf.

“All good, still attached,” you murmured, face pressed into the towel to avoid giving away the fact that those legs had been bent and spread for amazing sex session until 2 am.

Later, you sat cross-legged on the floor of the team room, laptop balanced on your knees, rewinding points, studying patterns, noting tendencies. Your opponent’s backhand under pressure. Her preference for the wide serve on big points. The way she hesitated for half a second when pulled forward unexpectedly. You scribbled notes you might never look at again, the act itself more grounding than the information.

In the gym, someone had the television on, volume low, the familiar hum of Formula One commentary filling the space as background noise. You pretended not to care, but your eyes flicked up at the screen anyway, caught the flash of papaya orange, the on-screen graphic settling into place.

P3.

You didn’t hear from him again that day. Just got a 4am text saying he got to his hotel in Silverstone safe and sound but that was it. No follow-up. No casual check-in. It was fine. It made sense.

You both had jobs that demanded absolute presence, the kind that punished distraction without mercy. Still, somewhere between stretching sessions and an early dinner eaten more out of obligation than hunger, you found yourself checking your phone more often than strictly necessary.

Sunday arrived without ceremony, far too soon, for your liking.

And Centre Court looked different on final day, heavier somehow, the air thick with anticipation, with history pressing in from all sides. You moved through the corridors with your team around you, the familiar routine grounding you, anchoring you in muscle memory when your mind threatened to wander.

In the locker room, you sat on the bench and laced up your shoes slowly, deliberately, pulling each lace tight with the same care you’d given to every preparation step since you were a kid.

For a fleeting second, you considered your phone, then dismissed the thought with a quiet huff of air that escaped you before you could stop it. Of course not. If he was anything like you imagined, he was already strapped into the car by now, helmet on, visor down, his world reduced to steering wheel, tarmac, and milliseconds that decided everything.

Two people. Two arenas. Same kind of day.

“Alright,” your coach said gently. “Five minutes.”

This was it. Now or never.

Your gaze snagged briefly on the poster across the room, Serena mid-roar, frozen forever in dominance and defiance, her eyes fierce even in print. It felt absurdly personal in that moment, like she was looking straight at you, daring you to rise to it.

As you stepped out onto Centre Court, the light hit you all at once, bright and unforgiving, the roar of the crowd washing over you in a single, overwhelming wave.

You took your place at the baseline, bounced the ball once, twice, the sound sharp and clean against the grass, and drew a slow breath in through your nose.

And then it started. Your Wimbledon final.

It began without drama, without ceremony, just the clean crack of the first serve slicing through the air.

The opening games were tight, every point contested, every rally a small battle of wills. Your opponent moved with confidence, her shots deep and precise, testing you early, probing for weakness. You answered back in kind, legs burning, mind sharp, chasing down balls you had no right to reach and placing returns that drew murmurs from the crowd.

When you missed a shot by inches, you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to reset and be patient. And then, when you won a brutal point at the net, you felt a flash of heat rush through you, the sharp reminder that you belonged here.

Long games stretched on, deuce after deuce, each point feeling heavier than the last. Your legs screamed. Your lungs burned. You welcomed it. Pain meant presence.

And you needed to be present to win this match.

The rallies grew longer. The stakes grew higher. One point here. One mistake there. The crowd rose to its feet and fell back into their seats in waves, gasps and cheers punctuating the silence.

One second you were on the court, grass beneath your shoes, the world narrowed to lines, a small yellow ball and racket in your hand, and the next everything dissolved into noise, into movement, into hands on your shoulders and voices calling your name from every direction at once.

Match was over and you remember walking off Centre Court with the applause following you down the tunnel, echoing against the walls, stretching longer than you thought it would, long enough to make your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

Fans pressed in behind barriers, a tide of faces and outstretched hands and phones held aloft, all of them hungry for something tangible to take home, a wave or a smile or a fragment of you caught mid-breath.

You signed where you could, smiled when it felt natural, nodded when you didn’t quite trust your voice to behave properly. Journalists hovered at the edges, sharper, more deliberate, eyes scanning you for cracks, for emotion that might spill into something quotable.

“A few words about the match!” someone called. “What was going through your mind out there?” “How difficult was it?”

You thought, not for the first time that day, that it was a strange profession that demanded eloquence precisely when you were least capable of it.

Eventually, mercifully, you were ushered into a car, the door closing with a solid, blessedly ordinary thunk that shut the world out.

And by the time you reached the hotel, you felt oddly hollowed out, like the echo after a loud noise.

The lobby was still crowded but you moved through quickly, guided by someone who seemed to know exactly when to place a hand at your elbow and when to let you walk on your own.

At some point you became aware of how late it must be, not by checking your phone, which you hadn’t looked at in hours, but by the way your body had shifted into that peculiar end-of-night mode, heavy and slow and faintly unreal.

Your floor greeted you with soft carpet and dim lighting, the hallway stretching out in both directions and for a second, you thought you were imagining it.

The scene was almost identical to two nights ago.

He was there, in the hallway, only this time he wasn’t leaning against the wall, phone in hand, waiting. He was moving, rolling a suitcase beside him, a backpack slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers.

Lando.

It took you a heartbeat to process it properly, your tired brain lagging behind the simple fact of him, here, now.

He spotted you at the same moment, his steps slowing, then stopping altogether. For a fraction of a second, you both just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hey”

He gestured vaguely with the keys in his hand, then the suitcase, as if to explain himself before you could ask. “I’m, uh. I’m heading out. Gonna get back to Monaco tonight”

You nodded, a small, automatic movement, your gaze flicking briefly to the suitcase and back to his face. “Right”

There was a pause then, one of those delicate, hovering silences that seemed to swell rather than settle.

He shifted his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the suitcase. “I just won Silverstone.”

The way he said that, made it feel like he was out of breath.

“I know,” you said. “They just told me… was about to text you, congrats!”

His eyes lingered on you, searching your face for something, maybe that tensed confirmation, maybe shared disbelief.

Did he know?

Silence stretched again, comfortable this time, threaded with something almost giddy beneath the exhaustion.

“I just won Wimbledon”

“Welcome to the London Waldorf Hotel by Hilton,” the receptionist that welcomed you was smiling brightly, fingers already flying across the keyboard as you stepped up to the desk, passport in hand.

Weeks blurred together after that night, collapsing into a relentless rhythm of early mornings, punishing training blocks, recovery sessions that left your body aching in quiet, specific ways, and a calendar that refused to slow down no matter how loudly your muscles protested.

By the time Wimbledon week arrived, it felt less like an event and more like a reckoning.

Wimbledon was different. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t just another Slam; it was the Slam.

The lawns, the white, the ghosts of champions that seemed to linger in every corridor and press box. Win there, and your name didn’t just sit on a trophy, it stitched itself into history. Lose there, and people still remembered how you lost, how far you went, how close you came. Forever.

This year, the attention followed you more closely than ever.

Top ten. For the first time. No Slam title yet. Too good to ignore, too unproven to fully trust. You could feel the eyes on you already, weighing you, measuring whether you were finally ready to justify your ranking or if you’d buckle under the particular pressure Wimbledon loved to apply.

After Monaco, after that night with Lando, you hadn’t seen him again. Not really. Training had turned brutal and it left little room for distractions, and his schedule had carried him across the Atlantic to Canada first, then back to Europe, Austria, commitments stacking neatly one after the other.

You knew he was in England now, of course. Silverstone loomed on his calendar the same way Wimbledon loomed on yours.

You were halfway through confirming your reservation when the receptionist’s expression shifted, brightening even further as she glanced past your shoulder.

“And welcome back, Mr. Norris,” she said, already reaching for a second keycard with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before.

You didn’t even need to turn around to know.

Of course you’re both staying at the same hotel. What were the fucking odds?

The receptionist handed you your key with a “Have a nice Wimbledon Week Miss”, and then turned her attention fully to him. You stepped aside, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to see him like this again after weeks of nothing but blurred Instagram posts and a few texts.

He approached the counter and handed over his passport as you watched the exchange from a step away: the way she smiled a fraction wider, the way Lando answered her questions with polite charm, not quite flirting but not not flirting either.

“What are you doing here?” you said, straight to the point, pretending this was all entirely normal.

“Silverstone week,” he replied easily, as if that explained everything. “Hi, by the way, good to see you too!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Completely ignoring the second part of his sentence. “Silverstone is two hours away,” you said, the confusion slipping into your voice before you could polish it away.

He turned fully toward you then, grin spreading slowly, deliberately. “Oh, really?” he said, mock surprise dripping from every syllable. “Did you check?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “I’m serious,” you said before repeating “What are you doing here?”

He leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if he were about to let you in on some great secret. “This place,” he began, ticking points off on his fingers, “has an amazing gym, genuinely life-changing breakfast, and—” he paused, glancing briefly toward the receptionist before continuing, “—some rooms have jacuzzis.”

You stared at him, unimpressed and thoroughly baffled. You were so confused. “What?”

“The reason why I’m here,” he answered. “It’s my favourite hotel when I’m in England.

The receptionist cleared her throat politely, handing him his keycard with a bright smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Norris. Enjoy your stay.”

“Always do, thank you” he said, offering her a grateful nod before turning back to you.

You shook your head, still trying to reconcile the logic of a Formula One driver willingly committing to four hours of daily commuting during one of the most intense weeks of the season.

You followed him toward the elevators without quite deciding to, waving a porter over and murmuring your room number so he could take your bags. The lobby buzzed softly around you, a hum of accents and rolling suitcases and muted laughter, but somehow it all faded into background noise as you walked side by side, close enough that your arm brushed his every now and then.

“Why are you really here?” you tried again as he reached the elevator bank, pressing the call button with an absentminded tap. “In London, I mean. I’m sure Silverstone has plenty of luxurious hotels with amazing gyms and jacuzzis”

He glanced down at you, expression softer now, less teasing. “Media stuff,” he said. “I got some filming here before heading there for the weekend”

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. You stepped inside together, the space suddenly smaller, quieter. He leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands folded loosely in front of him, watching your reflection more than you.

“And you?” he asked, casually, though his eyes lingered. “Wimbledon week as a top ten. That’s huge.”

You felt the weight of it then, the unspoken pressure settling into your shoulders the way it had every morning since you’d landed.

It was huge. It was pretty fucking huge. That’s why you needed to stay focused. No distractions. No temptations. No hanging around with an F1 british hottie.

“Yeah,” you said, exhaling slowly. “It is.”

The elevator began its ascent, a gentle hum beneath your feet. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence filled with everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t since that night weeks ago.

Then, the doors slid open onto your floor, and for a second, neither of you moved, suspended in that soft, unremarkable moment that somehow felt like the start of something else entirely.

Lando broke the silence with a crooked smile. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.”

You glanced at him, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest. “Guess so.”

You didn’t see a lot of eachtother.

It wasn’t that you were avoiding Lando, not deliberately, not in the way people avoided things they didn’t want to face. If anything, the opposite was true. But your schedule left very little room for anything beyond training sessions that began too early, matches that demanded every scrap of focus you possessed, recovery routines that blurred together, and the quiet mental preparation that followed you back to your hotel room each night like a shadow.

His world wasn’t any less chaotic, from what you gathered in passing. You’d see him occasionally in the lobby, always in motion, phone pressed to his ear, or laughing with someone from his team as he headed out the door, sunglasses on no matter the weather. Sometimes your paths crossed by accident at breakfast, a shared glance over coffee cups, a quick smile exchanged like a promise left there to pick up.

Once, you ended up in the gym at the same time, both of you pretending it was a coincidence while silently acknowledging that it wasn’t entirely.

He’d offered you a grin from across the room, lifting a hand in greeting mid-rep, and you’d felt something warm curl in your chest before reminding yourself, firmly, that this week was not about him.

The first match in qualifying rounds came and went in a blur of nerves and adrenaline, your body stiff at the start before memory took over, muscle and instinct guiding you where your mind hesitated. The grass felt fast beneath your shoes, the ball skidding low in a way that demanded precision and punished hesitation, but by the end of it, you walked off court with a win and a quiet sense of relief that settled somewhere deep in your bones.

The second round followed quickly, then the third, each match stacking on top of the last until they blurred together in flashes of green and white and applause that washed over you like waves. You stopped counting days and started counting routines instead.

Wake up. Stretch. Eat. Warm up. Play. Recover. Sleep. Repeat.

Occasionally, in the margins of it all, your phone would buzz with a message from Lando, something simple and stupid and unnecessarily dirty, like Your ass was phenomenal in that outfit today and you’d find yourself smiling at your screen before slipping it face-down onto the bedside table.

The quarterfinals arrived with a kind of hushed gravity, the air thicker, the crowd more deliberate in its attention. You told yourself it was just another match, just another opponent, but your body knew better, your pulse quickening as you stepped onto court, your breath shallow until the first rally forced you back into yourself. It wasn’t perfect tennis, not then, but it was resilient, stubborn, and when the final point was yours, you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, racket hanging loose in your hand as the realization crept in.

Semifinalist. At Wimbledon.

The word felt unreal, like something borrowed from someone else’s career, something you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to claim.

Back in the locker room, you sat on the bench and stared at your shoes while your phone filled with messages, congratulations piling up faster than you could respond to them.

The day of the semifinal dawned bright and impossibly green, the kind of English summer day that felt curated for television, for history. You woke early, nerves humming beneath your skin, but there was a calm there too, a sense of rightness that surprised you. As you pulled on your all-white outfit, smoothing the fabric over your hips, tying your hair back with practiced precision, it hit you suddenly how far you’d come, how many early mornings and lonely flights and silent doubts had led to this exact moment.

Walking onto Centre Court felt different than anything before it. The stands rose around you like a living thing, steep and full and expectant, the royal box gleaming in your peripheral vision, the grass impossibly pristine beneath your feet. You took a breath, deep and slow, and for a brief, fleeting second, you thought of Lando, probably somewhere not too far away, wrapped up in his own version of this madness, pressure dressed up as opportunity.

Then the match began, and everything else fell away.

From the first serve, something clicked into place with an ease that almost scared you.

Your toss was perfect, your timing precise, the ball snapping off your strings with a satisfying bite that echoed across the court. The rallies unfolded exactly as you’d imagined them in training, your feet light, your movements instinctive, each decision made without hesitation. You weren’t thinking about rankings or history or what this match meant. You were simply playing, fully and completely, present in a way that felt almost transcendent.

Your opponent, number three in the world, tried to disrupt your rhythm, throwing pace and spin at you, testing angles, but you met her shot for shot, unflinching. Somewhere along the way, you even realized you weren’t just surviving the moment. You were owning it.

You barely noticed the clock ticking, barely registered the shifting light as clouds passed overhead. Everything narrowed to the sound of the ball, the feel of the grass, the steady cadence of your breath.

When match point arrived, it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt inevitable.

You stood there, frozen, racket slipping slightly in your grip, as the reality finally caught up with you.

You had just beaten the world number three. In straight sets. In under two hours. At Wimbledon.

A laugh bubbled up before it turned into something dangerously close to tears as you brought a hand to your mouth, shaking your head in disbelief.

The handshake at the net felt surreal, your opponent gracious and composed, the moment passing in a blur of congratulations and flashes from the stands. As you turned to acknowledge the crowd, you lifted your arms instinctively, not in triumph exactly, but in gratitude, as if to say, I know. I can’t believe it either.

You didn’t know what would happen next, whether this run would end in heartbreak again or history, but for now, that didn’t matter.

You were a Wimbledon finalist. And just that was a victory.

Screw your sponsors if they thought it wasn’t.

By the time you made it back to the hotel, the day had finally begun to settle into your body. The lobby was louder than usual, buzzing with a low, constant hum of voices, footsteps, laughter, camera shutters clicking in irregular bursts. Someone recognized you almost immediately, then another, then another, and suddenly you were smiling on instinct, posing beside strangers who held their phones out with shaking hands, signing tennis balls, programs, scraps of paper pulled hastily from bags.

You let it happen, because this was part of it, because you knew how fleeting this version of the moment could be, because some small, younger part of you was watching from somewhere deep inside, wide-eyed and breathless.

You thanked the last fan, waved off a well-meaning hotel staff member who offered congratulations with a grin, and finally, mercifully, your team shepherded you toward the lifts with gentle insistence, reminding you of the early session planned for the next morning, of recovery, of ice baths and stretching and sleep.

You hugged them all goodbye in quick succession, and then you were alone again, the lift doors sliding shut with a soft, decisive sound.

The ride up felt longer than usual, your reflection staring back at you from the polished steel walls, tired but luminous, like something inside you had been switched on and forgotten. When the doors opened onto your floor, the quiet was almost startling, the thick hotel carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps as you stepped out into the corridor.

And you were halfway through it when you saw him.

He was leaning against the wall near the end of the hallway, looking down at his phone, one foot crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie you recognized instantly, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been running his fingers through it too often.

You stopped short, your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

He looked up at the sound, eyes finding you immediately, and for a split second, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, the familiar blue of his gaze.

Your mouth opened, then closed again, a laugh threatening to escape without permission.

“What—” you started, then shook your head, blinking hard. “What are you doing here?” It came out somewhere between disbelief and accusation.

He pushed off the wall slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating, soft grin that always made it feel like he was in on a joke.

“Hi, to you too,” he said lightly pointing out that again, you didn’t greet him first. His eyes flicking briefly to the tennis bag on your shoulder, then back to your face. “Congrats, by the way, Wimbledon finalist!”

You stared at him, still not moving, your brain racing through the logistics with a kind of frantic precision. Silverstone Race was on Sunday. Two hours away, at least. Media duties or not, this didn’t make sense, not now, not tonight.

“You have a race,” you said, finally, as if stating it plainly might make him disappear. “In, like, forty-eight hours. And it’s not exactly around the corner. Didn’t you just finished qualifying or something?”

He hummed thoughtfully, taking a step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes that mirrored your own. “Yeah,” he said. “No, qualifying is tomorrow.”

“Then why are you—” You gestured vaguely at the corridor, at him, at the very obvious fact of his presence. “Why are you here?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer right away, and something in the pause made your chest tighten, made the quiet of the hallway feel suddenly louder, heavier. Then he shrugged, a small, almost sheepish motion that didn’t quite match the confidence he usually carried.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “I figured I’d come by.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head slowly as a laugh finally escaped you, low and incredulous. “You figured you’d come by,” you repeated. “Still not telling me why, tho”

“Well,” he said, smile widening just a touch, “It seemed like today was kind of a big deal.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how tired you were, how raw and open everything felt, the day still clinging to you like static. “What did you say to your team?” you said, though there was no real bite behind it, more a reflex than a warning.

He didn’t answer your question and you tried to study his expression then, you tried to study the way he stood there like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, like he hadn’t second-guessed the decision a thousand times before knocking on some invisible door in his head. And something about that, about his quiet certainty, made your throat tighten.

“I watched you” he added softly, almost as an afterthought.

Your heart stuttered. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Whole thing, luckily was in between session.”

The image of it flashed through your mind without warning, him somewhere not far from here, phone or screen in front of him, watching you move across Centre Court in white, watching you do the thing you’d dreamed of since you were a kid sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to grainy footage of the Williams sisters, imagining yourself there someday.

“This is insane ,” you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if you were still trying to confirm he was actually standing there, “You’re supposed to be… I don’t know. In a garage somewhere. Surrounded by engineers. Doing very important car things, preparing for your race.”

He laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly down the empty corridor. “So what? I already did all those things.”

You shrugged, still smiling. “I’m just saying. It’s Silverstone week. You should be fully in race mode, focused, concentrated, avoiding distractions.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, something playful sparking there. “Are you calling yourself a distraction?”

You opened your mouth to answer, then paused, the weight of the day, the adrenaline still humming through your veins, the sheer improbability of this moment all colliding at once.

You were exhausted, yes, but it was the good kind, the kind that left you feeling light and buzzy, like sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. Your body still felt alive with motion, with victory, with disbelief.

“I—” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’m just surprised you’re here.”

“Me too,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t really feel like I should be anywhere else.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how easy it would be to close the gap, how little energy it would take compared to everything else you’d done today.

The question slipped out before you’d fully decided to ask it, carried on a lilt that surprised you as much as it did him.

“Do you… want to come in?”

There it was. Hanging between you. Casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, loaded enough that neither of you believed that for a second.

His grin was immediate, bright and unguarded, like he’d been waiting for it. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping past him toward your door before he could say anything else smug.

You pressed the keycard to the reader, the soft green light blinking on as the lock clicked open, and pushed the door inward. The suite opened up in front of you, spacious and understated, all warm lighting and clean lines, the kind of room designed to feel calm and luxurious without demanding attention. You barely registered any of it.

You took two steps inside, just long enough to drop your tennis bag by the wall, the dull thud echoing faintly, and then his hand was on your wrist, gentle but insistent, turning you back toward him.

“Hey,” you started, breath hitching slightly, but whatever you’d been about to say dissolved the moment his mouth found yours.

The kiss was immediate and certain. It felt like something snapping into place, like the end of a long-held breath you hadn’t realized you were still holding.

His other hand came up to your waist, steadying you as he nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click of it closing sounding oddly final in the quiet room.

His mouth was warm and sure against yours, tasting faintly of the mint gum he must have chewed on the drive over, a clean, sharp contrast to the lingering adrenaline-salt on your own lips.

You laughed softly into it, the sound muffled, half-disbelieving, half-giddy, and he smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip in a gentle tug before soothing it with his tongue, the gesture so familiarly him that it made something ache pleasantly behind your ribs.

“What?” he murmured, the word a vibration against your lips as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your waist, thumbs stroking small circles through the thin fabric of your post-match polo.

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“I should be resting and relaxing” you said but you were already tilting your head, inviting him back in, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His eyes lit up with that trademark mischief, the one that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your jawline. “I can help with that. Can make you feel very much relaxed.”

You snorted, pulling back just enough to give him a mock-stern look, though your fingers betrayed you by twisting into the hem of his shirt. “That was so corny as hell.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, his laugh low as he ducked his head in mock shame, but then his hands were sliding up your sides, warm and insistent, and you were both laughing into the space between your mouths before the sound dissolved into another kiss, this one hungrier and messier.

He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and his hands grew bolder, one sliding down to cup the curve of your ass through your skirt while the other ventured under the hem of your polo, fingertips skimming the warm skin of your lower back.

You arched into the touch, a quiet hum escaping you, and he took it as encouragement, his palm flattening to pull you flush against him, letting you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your hip.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against your lips, not pulling away far enough to break the connection, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a beat as his eyes flicked open to meet yours, dark and intent. “Missed you. These past few weeks have been hell without these little… incentives.”

“What?” you teased, your voice laced with mock accusation as you pulled back just enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t get off without me?”

He squeezed your ass in retaliation, firm enough to make you gasp, but his grin was all boyish charm and tease. “Oh, I managed just fine, don’t worry” he said, his tone dropping to that husky drawl that always made your pulse stutter.

“Let’s just say that having you right here is leagues beyond whatever I was picturing in my head everytime I wanked in the shower”

“Oh, is the shower your place?” you shot back, your lips curving into a wicked smile.

“It is, don’t have to clean after” he replied, his hand flexing on your ass again, pulling you in even tighter.

You burst out laughing at that, the sound bright and unrestrained, echoing softly inside the room.

And it hit you then just how effortlessly everything was with him: no performance required, no careful curation of witty banter, just this seamless slide into dirty talk and domestic absurdity that felt as natural as breathing.

The laughter faded into a shared grin, but the heat didn’t dissipate; if anything, it simmered hotter, pulling you back into the kiss with a renewed hunger that made your hands clutch at his shoulders. His mouth claimed yours fiercely again, tongues dueling in wet, open slides, breaths coming faster as his hands roamed with bold intent.

One delving under your polo to palm the bare skin of your back, fingers splaying wide to press you impossibly closer, the other hiking your skirt up your thighs until cool air kissed the newly exposed flesh. You moaned into him, hips rocking instinctively, chasing the friction of his hardness against your core, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated through your chest, his teeth nipping your lower lip before soothing it with a slow lick.

“We should be resting” you whispered against his mouth, but your fingers were already fisting his t-shirt, tugging it upward in silent demand.

“We are” he rasped, breaking just long enough to yank the shirt off himself, tossing it through the door where it landed with a soft thud on the suite’s entry rug, right beside your tennis bag.

He hit the sofa first, dropping onto the wide cushions with a surprised oof, legs splaying open invitingly as he looked up at you from between his thighs, curls tousled, chest heaving. “C’mere” he said, voice thick with approval, reaching for the hem of your polo.

You stepped between his spread legs, the carpet soft under your feet, and lifted your arms to let him strip the polo away, the fabric peeling off with a whisper to join his shirt on the floor.

His hands were immediate, deftly unhooking your sports bra and easing it down your arms, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze and the room’s gentle lighting that cast flattering shadows across your skin.

He didn’t rush, though, his palms cupped you reverently, thumbs circling your nipples into tight peaks before he leaned forward, mouth descending to kiss the swell of one breast, tongue flicking out to trace lazy circles that made you gasp and thread your fingers into his hair.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing lower to press open-mouthed kisses along the plane of your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel as his hands worked your skirt’s zipper, the sound a sharp zzzzip in the quiet.

The garment slid down your legs in a pool of fabric, and you stepped free, now standing in just your simple black underwear, heart pounding as his kisses continued their descent, soft, heated presses to the flare of your hips, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you shiver and grip his shoulders for balance.

He looked up at you then, eyes dark and intent, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to hook into the waistband of your panties. “Jeez, I wanna kiss you everywhere,” he promised, voice a low rumble that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Every fucking inch”

Before you could respond, he tugged the cotton down your thighs, slow and deliberate, letting it catch on the curve of your ass before guiding it lower, past your knees, until you could step out and kick it aside. It landed near the coffee table, tangled with a coaster and the remote for the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall.

Naked now, you felt exposed yet powerful, his hands steadying you as he pulled you closer, breath ghosting hot over your mound.

Then his mouth was there, lips brushing the soft skin of your inner thigh first, teasing higher with featherlight kisses that made your legs tremble, before he nuzzled into you fully, nose nudging your clit as his tongue extended in a flat, languid lick from entrance to peak.

You cried out softly, hands fisting in his hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as pleasure sparked sharp and bright. He hummed approval against you, the vibration intensifying everything, and latched on gently, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressureg, his strong hands gripping your ass to hold you steady.

“Fuck, Lando,” you gasped, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling’s. He didn’t let up, one hand sliding between your thighs from behind to tease your entrance with a single finger, pressing in shallowly, curling just so, while his tongue worked relentless magic on your clit.

He acted as if he was starved. As if you’d be the only nourishing after years of drought.

With you standing and him seated on the plush leather couch, his face buried between your thighs, he nudged his head deeper with each languid stroke of his tongue, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs to pull you even closer.

Physio was definitely gonna ask you why your hamstrings are so tight tomorrow.

“Open up a little more for me, baby,” he murmured against you, “Let me get in there properly”

Properly. As if up until now he was just tasting the entree.

A weak, gasping sound was all you could manage in reply, but your body obeyed instinctively, hips canting forward, thighs parting wider around his head as you surrendered to the delicious invasion.

He hummed his approval, and then his fingers joined the party: one, then two, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling upward to find that spot inside that made your vision blur at the edges.

Insane. If he drove two hours from Silverstone just to eat you out like this. Fucking hurray. No complaints.

You were possessed at this point, a creature of pure sensation, capable only of ragged moans and breathy whines that shaped his name into a broken mantra.

“Lando… fuck… right there, please…”

He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers twisting, and you felt the coil inside you wind impossibly tight, teetering on the precipice of a shattering release.

But just as the first tremors began to seize your muscles, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and empty, hovering on the agonizing edge.

You whimpered in protest, your grip tightening in his hair, but he was already leaning back, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, utterly satisfied grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you from between your thighs.

Your legs shook violently, barely holding you up, and you knew you must have looked a complete wreck like that: chest heaving, skin flushed, utterly undone.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice rough but laced with amusement as he placed steadying hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your trembling skin.

He leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lower stomach, then another just above your pubic bone, his lips trailing upwards over your abdomen in a tender counterpoint to the filth of moments before. He watched you from there, his gaze dark and heated, taking in your disheveled state with evident pride. “Legs giving out?”

“You’re an asshole,” you managed to pant, but there was no heat in it, only the raw, exposed need he’d carved into you.

“Am I? ,” he counter asked easily, grinning wider before his expression softened into something more serious, more intimate. He guided you gently, his hands firm on your waist. “C’mere. Sit.”

You didn’t need telling twice, your body moving on autopilot, but as you shifted to lower yourself onto his lap, you registered that his jeans and boxers were gone, kicked off sometime during his dedicated attention below. He was fully naked now, his erection jutting thick and eager against his stomach, the tip glistening.

“Just so you know… I haven’t been with anyone else. Since Monaco. And I got tested last week. All clear.” He swallowed, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “But we can use condoms, no problem”

The admission, delivered so straightforwardly in the midst of such carnality, struck you with a force that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. It was trust, laid bare amidst the scattered clothes and the city lights.

You let out a slow breath, your own hands coming up to frame his face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble against your palms and the soft cute creek of his dimple.

“Me neither,” you whispered. “And I also got tested the other day, before the tournament started. Also clear.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, a soft, reassuring kiss. “We can go bare, if you want” you murmured against his mouth, your voice low but steady.

One hand left his cheek, sliding down your own side until your fingers found the small, almost invisible square of adhesive high on your hip, just inside the crease of your thigh. Contraceptive patch. Mainly for hormonal imbalance. You guided his hand there, pressing his fingertips against it. “Had it for a few weeks now.”

He blinked, his fingers exploring the edges of the patch with a kind of dazed curiosity, a faint, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “How did I miss that?”

“Probably distracted by the main attractions,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.

His expression sobered, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more searching. “You’re sure?” he asked, his hands returning to your hips, his grip firm but questioning.

You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, pouring your certainty into it, your tongue sweeping against his in a promise that needed no words. When you pulled back, you were breathless, but your eyes never wavered from his. “I’m sure. Please.”

His hands returned to your hips, guiding you down as you reached between your bodies to take him in hand, aligning him with your slick entrance.

The broad head nudged against you, and you both gasped at the contact. “Easy,” he breathed, his eyes locked on yours, his usual bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. “Take your time.”

You sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide, the stretch a perfect, burning fullness that made your head fall forward onto his shoulder with a choked cry.

He filled you completely, his hands spanning your back to hold you close as you adjusted, your inner walls fluttering wildly around the invasion.

For a long moment, neither of you moved,

“Okay?” he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing your temple.

In answer, you began to move, moaning and lifting your hips slowly before sinking back down, setting a deliberate, rocking rhythm that drew a deep groan from his chest.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging in as he helped you rise and fall, meeting each downward stroke with an upward thrust of his own that drove him even deeper. The angle was intense, intimate, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of your hips, and soon the slow burn ignited into a fierce, consuming fire.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice strained, his own control fraying as you rode him with a building desperation that matched the fire in his eyes. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight… taking me so well.”

His words were a low, ragged mantra against your skin.

Each syllable vibrating through your chest where he’d latched onto one breast, his mouth hot and wet as he sucked your nipple deep, tongue flicking the hardened peak in time with the upward thrust of his hips.

And the truth was: you could have anyone. Players. Sportsmen. Celebrities. Your DMs flooded with fellow amazing athletes with their sculpted bodies and empty compliments, or billionaires who'd sent champagne and gifts with their numbers scrawled on the card.

But none of them, not a single one, would ever fuck you like this. With this specific, learned intensity, this care masquerading as carnality. Lando wasn't just hitting a spot for pleasure; he was reading your body, adjusting his inputs in real-time based on your gasps and hitches.

And he wasn't even your boyfriend. That was the delicious, complicated irony of it.

There were no labels, no Instagram posts, no meet-the-parents weekends.

Just this: these amazing hotel rooms and stolen nights between Grands Prix and tournaments, a secret kept from the paddock and the press.

Yet he knew you, perhaps better than any official partner ever had.

He knew, for instance, that when your movements became frantic and shallow, you needed the direct pressure on your clit, and his thumb slid between your joined bodies now, finding the swollen bud and rubbing firm, tight circles that made you cry out, your rhythm stuttering.

He knew your nipples were a direct line to your pleasure, so he switched his mouth to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, sucking attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch violently.

He knew you liked it when his hand left your ass for a moment to deliver a soft, stinging spank, not hard, just enough to surprise your system and make your inner muscles clamp and clench down on him, which drew a guttural "Fuck yes," from his lips.

He knew you loved dirty talk, that the filthier his praise got, the wetter you became, and he could feel the evidence of it now, the slick, effortless glide as he pistoned into you.

"Look at you," he growled, lifting his head from your breast, his eyes black with want, lips swollen and glistening. "Riding my cock so well, baby. You love this, don't you? Love it so much you make me go raw"

You could only nod frantically, your whines turning into choked sobs of affirmation, because he was right, and the truth of it, spoken aloud in his wrecked voice, pushed you higher.

He knew you had the stamina for rounds, that you'd recover quickly and be ready for more, so he didn't hold back, his thrusts becoming punishing, driving up into you with a force that rocked your entire body, the sofa creaking in protest beneath you.

He knew you were flexible, had bent you over beds and bathroom counters and in the backseat of a rental Porche once, and you'd never complained, only begged for more.

And he knew, most intimately of all, the final clue. As the coil in your belly wound to an unbearable tightness, as the world narrowed to the slap of skin and the smell of sex and sweat, your hands flew from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle of his back, scoring red trails down his skin. It was involuntary, primal, your body's telegraph that you were seconds from the edge.

“I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Wimbledon champion,” he growled while his hips kept driving up to meet your frantic downward strokes with a force that stole your breath

A breathless, giddy laugh bubbled out of you even as you clenched around him, your inner muscles fluttering in response to the declaration. You leaned back, bracing your hands on his thighs, meeting his fevered gaze with a smirk as you continued to ride him, taking him deep with every roll of your hips. “Oh yeah? Irina Sabalenka?”

He surged up with a grin, wrapping an arm around your waist to crush you against his chest, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Shut up,” he commanded, but his eyes were dancing, a smile fighting at the corners of his mouth. “You know what I mean”

You gasped, the laughter dying into a whimper as he resumed his rhythm, his grip on you iron-tight. Leaning in, your lips brushed the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial, husky whisper that was all for him. “Well then… I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Silverstone champion.”

It was the match to the gasoline.

He saw it, felt it. His breath caught, and his rhythm became erratic, brutal at the sound of your words.

"That's it, baby," he panted, his own release imminent, his grip on you turning bruising. "I know you’re there, let me feel it. Come on my cock."

The command, paired with the exquisite torture of his thumb on your clit and the relentless drive of his hips, shattered you.

Your orgasm ripped through you with a silent scream that finally found voice in a raw, tearing cry of his name, your body convulsing around him, milking him violently as your nails bit deeper into his skin.

The sensation of your tightening and pulling at him was his undoing; with a final, broken shout, he buried himself to the root and came, his own release hot and pulsing inside you. That had him collapsing back against the cushions and he pulled you down with him in a trembling, sweaty heap of spent limbs and shared breaths.

His hand was still splayed possessively on your lower back and his heartbeat became a steady, slowing drum against your cheek where it rested on his chest.

“My physio would definitely murder me if she knew I had all this extra physical activity after a match”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. He even tilted his head to press a kiss to your sweaty temple. “So, does that mean no round two on the bed?”

No. No round two on the bed. You had the most important match of your life in less than 48 hours, and he had his race. You needed rest. Both.

That’s should have been your answer.

But you lifted your head to look at him, finding his eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous challenge in the dim light.

And so round two happened. Just like that.

He fucked you from behind with a focused intensity that had you screaming muffled moans against the pillows of your king sized bed.

Then he murmured “Just one more” and round three followed.

Missionary, slower, softer. He kissed you through it, intertwining your fingers and caressing your face, and it felt more tender and devastatingly intimate.

You came together that time, a slow wave of pleasure that left you both breathless and staring at the ceiling as the digital clock on the bedside table blinked to 1:47 AM.

But the peace was short-lived. And apparently sex fairytales don’t last forever.

Cause at almost exactly 2 AM sharp, you felt the mattress shift as he carefully extracted his arm from beneath you and sat up, running a hand through his disastrous curls with a quiet sigh.

“You’re going? It’s past 2,” you mumbled into the pillow, your hand reaching out blindly to find the warm space he’d left.

“I have to,” he said, his voice soft but firm. You heard the rustle of fabric as he began gathering his clothes from the various corners of the room where they’d been abandoned.

Sitting up, you pulled the sheet around yourself, watching him in the sliver of light from the ensuite bathroom. He moved with a quiet efficiency, stepping into his boxers, pulling on his jeans.

“You could stay,” you said, and it came out smaller than you intended, laced with a vulnerability that the darkness allowed.

He paused, buttoning his jeans, and looked at you. In the faint glow, his expression was unreadable for a moment. “I have to be at the track at half-eight tomorrow. I can’t stay and risk hitting traffic on the highway or anything else that could make me miss briefings or even worse practice session” He offered a tired, crooked smile. “It’s safer if I drive back now.”

You hugged your knees to your chest, the post-coital glow rapidly cooling into a vague, hollow feeling. “I just feel bad,” you admitted, your chin resting on your knees.

“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric momentarily obscuring his face.

“Because you have to drive two hours to get back and you’ll going to get, what, three hours of sleep?”

He finished tugging the shirt down and leaned over, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I chose to come here, okay? And I chose to stay here until now, I’m not regretting it, so don’t worry about it” He gestured vaguely between you, at the wrecked room. “And I barely get any sleep on race weekends anyway so, it’s nothing, really.”

He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like goodbye. You melted into it, your hands coming up to clutch at his wrists, wanting to anchor him there longer. But he pulled back, standing up to find his socks and shoes.

You watched him dress fully, the act felt strangely intimate after everything you’d just shared. He laced up his trainers, checked his phone with a slight frown, secured his Richard Millie on his wrist and pocketed his wallet and keys. He looked less like the man who’d just driven you to three earth-shattering orgasms and more like a slightly rumpled, very tired racing driver about to face his day. The duality of it squeezed your heart.

Finally, he came back to the bedside, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of your head. “Good luck tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. “Go win that thing and make it look easy.”

You smiled, reaching up to touch his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, you too!”

He kissed you one last time, a quick, hard press of his lips to yours. “I’ll text you.”

And then he was gone, the door to the suite clicking shut with a soft, final sound.

Saturday unfolded exactly as it was supposed to.

Disciplined and controlled, following the schedule to the minute. Recovery breakfast with the team, then some miles on the treadmill, followed by an ice baths and a physio session.

“How are the legs?” your physio asked, pressing into your calf.

“All good, still attached,” you murmured, face pressed into the towel to avoid giving away the fact that those legs had been bent and spread for amazing sex session until 2 am.

Later, you sat cross-legged on the floor of the team room, laptop balanced on your knees, rewinding points, studying patterns, noting tendencies. Your opponent’s backhand under pressure. Her preference for the wide serve on big points. The way she hesitated for half a second when pulled forward unexpectedly. You scribbled notes you might never look at again, the act itself more grounding than the information.

In the gym, someone had the television on, volume low, the familiar hum of Formula One commentary filling the space as background noise. You pretended not to care, but your eyes flicked up at the screen anyway, caught the flash of papaya orange, the on-screen graphic settling into place.

P3.

You didn’t hear from him again that day. Just got a 4am text saying he got to his hotel in Silverstone safe and sound but that was it. No follow-up. No casual check-in. It was fine. It made sense.

You both had jobs that demanded absolute presence, the kind that punished distraction without mercy. Still, somewhere between stretching sessions and an early dinner eaten more out of obligation than hunger, you found yourself checking your phone more often than strictly necessary.

Sunday arrived without ceremony, far too soon, for your liking.

And Centre Court looked different on final day, heavier somehow, the air thick with anticipation, with history pressing in from all sides. You moved through the corridors with your team around you, the familiar routine grounding you, anchoring you in muscle memory when your mind threatened to wander.

In the locker room, you sat on the bench and laced up your shoes slowly, deliberately, pulling each lace tight with the same care you’d given to every preparation step since you were a kid.

For a fleeting second, you considered your phone, then dismissed the thought with a quiet huff of air that escaped you before you could stop it. Of course not. If he was anything like you imagined, he was already strapped into the car by now, helmet on, visor down, his world reduced to steering wheel, tarmac, and milliseconds that decided everything.

Two people. Two arenas. Same kind of day.

“Alright,” your coach said gently. “Five minutes.”

This was it. Now or never.

Your gaze snagged briefly on the poster across the room, Serena mid-roar, frozen forever in dominance and defiance, her eyes fierce even in print. It felt absurdly personal in that moment, like she was looking straight at you, daring you to rise to it.

As you stepped out onto Centre Court, the light hit you all at once, bright and unforgiving, the roar of the crowd washing over you in a single, overwhelming wave.

You took your place at the baseline, bounced the ball once, twice, the sound sharp and clean against the grass, and drew a slow breath in through your nose.

And then it started. Your Wimbledon final.

It began without drama, without ceremony, just the clean crack of the first serve slicing through the air.

The opening games were tight, every point contested, every rally a small battle of wills. Your opponent moved with confidence, her shots deep and precise, testing you early, probing for weakness. You answered back in kind, legs burning, mind sharp, chasing down balls you had no right to reach and placing returns that drew murmurs from the crowd.

When you missed a shot by inches, you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to reset and be patient. And then, when you won a brutal point at the net, you felt a flash of heat rush through you, the sharp reminder that you belonged here.

Long games stretched on, deuce after deuce, each point feeling heavier than the last. Your legs screamed. Your lungs burned. You welcomed it. Pain meant presence.

And you needed to be present to win this match.

The rallies grew longer. The stakes grew higher. One point here. One mistake there. The crowd rose to its feet and fell back into their seats in waves, gasps and cheers punctuating the silence.

One second you were on the court, grass beneath your shoes, the world narrowed to lines, a small yellow ball and racket in your hand, and the next everything dissolved into noise, into movement, into hands on your shoulders and voices calling your name from every direction at once.

Match was over and you remember walking off Centre Court with the applause following you down the tunnel, echoing against the walls, stretching longer than you thought it would, long enough to make your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

Fans pressed in behind barriers, a tide of faces and outstretched hands and phones held aloft, all of them hungry for something tangible to take home, a wave or a smile or a fragment of you caught mid-breath.

You signed where you could, smiled when it felt natural, nodded when you didn’t quite trust your voice to behave properly. Journalists hovered at the edges, sharper, more deliberate, eyes scanning you for cracks, for emotion that might spill into something quotable.

“A few words about the match!” someone called. “What was going through your mind out there?” “How difficult was it?”

You thought, not for the first time that day, that it was a strange profession that demanded eloquence precisely when you were least capable of it.

Eventually, mercifully, you were ushered into a car, the door closing with a solid, blessedly ordinary thunk that shut the world out.

And by the time you reached the hotel, you felt oddly hollowed out, like the echo after a loud noise.

The lobby was still crowded but you moved through quickly, guided by someone who seemed to know exactly when to place a hand at your elbow and when to let you walk on your own.

At some point you became aware of how late it must be, not by checking your phone, which you hadn’t looked at in hours, but by the way your body had shifted into that peculiar end-of-night mode, heavy and slow and faintly unreal.

Your floor greeted you with soft carpet and dim lighting, the hallway stretching out in both directions and for a second, you thought you were imagining it.

The scene was almost identical to two nights ago.

He was there, in the hallway, only this time he wasn’t leaning against the wall, phone in hand, waiting. He was moving, rolling a suitcase beside him, a backpack slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers.

Lando.

It took you a heartbeat to process it properly, your tired brain lagging behind the simple fact of him, here, now.

He spotted you at the same moment, his steps slowing, then stopping altogether. For a fraction of a second, you both just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hey”

He gestured vaguely with the keys in his hand, then the suitcase, as if to explain himself before you could ask. “I’m, uh. I’m heading out. Gonna get back to Monaco tonight”

You nodded, a small, automatic movement, your gaze flicking briefly to the suitcase and back to his face. “Right”

There was a pause then, one of those delicate, hovering silences that seemed to swell rather than settle.

He shifted his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the suitcase. “I just won Silverstone.”

The way he said that, made it feel like he was out of breath.

“I know,” you said. “They just told me… was about to text you, congrats!”

His eyes lingered on you, searching your face for something, maybe that tensed confirmation, maybe shared disbelief.

Did he know?

Silence stretched again, comfortable this time, threaded with something almost giddy beneath the exhaustion.

“I just won Wimbledon”

“Again! You’re too slow on the second ball! Focus on your recovery.”

You cursed under your breath but obeyed, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet, racquet ready.

You were definitely out of breath. You couldn’t afford it, but you were.

This wasn’t the moment to take shortcuts. For the first time in your professional tennis career, you were heading into a tournament as a top 10 seed: your name printed higher on the draw sheet than ever before, suddenly burdened with expectation and pressure. Everyone would be watching to see if you could back it up. If your ranking was proof of something permanent, or just a lucky run.

Being the underdog had its freedom, yes: you could swing freely, surprise people. But now, eyes followed you everywhere. Every practice was dissected, every result compared against expectation.

“Alright, let’s close on serves. Get your rhythm right before we wrap.”

You nodded, dragging yourself back onto the baseline. The basket of balls had been rolled closer, each yellow sphere practically daring you to prove you belonged inside that top 10. You bounced the first ball deliberately, keeping the toss steady, elbow tucked close to your rib cage.

The first serve came out crisp: flat, down the T, a clean ace if it had been match play.

Just like that.

“Again. Rely on muscle memory.”

You wiped your palm against your skirt and bounced another ball, preparing for a wide slice.

And that’s when you heard it. A ripple of laughter, deeper voices drifting over from the far side of the club.

You tried not to look, you really did.  But instinct tugged your eyes across the complex.

And there he was.

Lando Norris, unmistakable even at a distance, was strolling toward the padel enclosure with three friends in tow. With that relaxed bounce, cap flipped backwards, sunglasses hooked to his t-shirt, the casual arrogance of a man who never had to fight to be noticed.

You smirked. Of course he was here.

“Oh, great,” you muttered to yourself, getting ready for another serve.

Monaco had a way of making collisions feel inevitable, as if the city itself were a carefully designed maze where the same people were always meant to cross paths again, no matter how carefully they tried to avoid it.

You could pretend coincidence for a while, but eventually the word lost its meaning. Especially when it came to Lando.

That was how it had started. Once. Just once, you’d told yourself afterward, standing barefoot in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and sex, watching dawn creep over the port.

It had been after his Monaco win.

You’d both escaped early from a sponsor event, traded a look that said should we? and why not?, and somehow ended up making out behind a closed door before either of you had the sense to overthink it.

You remembered thinking, even then, that it had been absurdly easy. Too easy, maybe. No awkward explanations, no pretence. You both knew. Your bodies were your livelihoods, tuned and punished in equal measure, and there was something almost comforting about being with someone who treated that as a given instead of a novelty.

It should have ended there. A single, private night filed away under things that happen when there’s too much free champagne available.

Except it didn’t.

Because a few weeks later there you were again, standing at yet another sponsor party. Different city but same kind of music and same polite conversations looping endlessly around.

You hadn’t planned it. You never did. It just… happened. Again. A shared look. A joke whispered too close to be entirely innocent. An excuse about early mornings and long days that everyone accepted without question. Another hotel hallway, another door clicking shut behind you. The second time had felt less reckless and somehow more dangerous for it, because you both knew exactly what you were choosing.

Then there had been Barcelona…or rather, Madrid first. You’d been there for a tournament, exhausted in the particular way that only came from grinding through long matches under a merciless sun, your body sore and your head buzzing with half-finished points that could’ve been played better. His message had popped up late one evening, after you were already out of the competition.

Why don’t you come to Barcelona for a few days?

It was absurd, really: detouring to another city in the middle of a tournament swing just because a Formula 1 driver suggested it.

And yet, by the time you closed your suitcase two days later, you were shaking your head at yourself, lips quirking with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.

The sex was too good for that, so disarmingly right it had rewired your sense of risk. Every time you were together, it was as if he read you before you spoke; he knew when to push, how to push, how to make you go crazy and when to let you rest, taking you slow and unhurrily.

It left you wrecked in the best possible way, overstimulated and breathless, wondering how something could feel so mutual it almost felt choreographed, as if your bodies had agreed on this long before you did.

You snapped back to reality, tossing the ball again. It wasn’t the right moment to think about you two naked under satin sheets, when your coach was two meter away waiting for you to deliver some serves.

But well, your rhythm was already broken, the ball drifting too far forward. You chased it, making contact awkwardly, sending it into the net.

Horrible.

You blew out a breath, adjusted your visor, and tried again. Toss, too high this time, your wrist snapping late. The serve flew long, clipping the back fence.

Terrible.

“Are you kidding me?” your coach exploded, stepping forward, hands on hips. “What the hell is that? Focus! You don’t get to spray serves like a junior. Eyes on the ball!”

From across the way, a burst of laughter broke out, the kind of easy, careless noise that cut sharper because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You didn’t dare look, but you could hear it: Lando and his mates, already on the padel court, joking, messing around with their warm-up swings. The timing of it stung, like the sound was aimed at you, even if it wasn’t.

You bounced the ball once, twice, forcing yourself to tune it out.

Split step. Relax your hand. You visualized the motion, smooth and fluid, the ball toss rising just above eye level, the racquet drop falling into the slot behind your back. Legs drove upward, shoulder uncoiling like a spring, contact crisp, strings cutting clean through.

Thwack.

The ball ripped down the T, grazing the inside of the line. An ace.

Fucking finally.

“Yes,” your coach snapped, approving. “Thank you. Again.”

You wiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, blocking out the stray noise. Ball in hand, bounce-bounce, toss. You found the rhythm again. Wide slice, dragging the returner off the court. Then a heavy kicker, arcing up, exploding off the box with vicious spin. One after another, hammering the service box until the echo of contact and the spray of clay drowned everything else out.

By the time the basket was empty, your shirt clung to your back, and your shoulder ached.

You drained the last of your water and slung your racquet bag over your shoulder, body still humming from the repetition. Your coach gave you a final nod.

“Good work today! Same focus tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yep, got it,” you said, voice hoarse but steady.

As you started toward the exit gate, the scrape of clay under your shoes mixing with the faint pop of padel balls being struck in the court opposite, something yellow rolled lazily across the gravel and bumped to a stop near your feet.

“Hey!” a voice called. “Sorry—could you grab that for us?”

You glanced down. A padel ball. Smaller, lighter than your own, sitting just beside the bench. With a small sigh, you bent, scooping it up.

When you straightened, three pairs of eyes were on you.

Lando leaned against the mesh fence, padel racquet dangling loosely from his hand, grin tugging wide at the corner of his mouth. His cap was still backwards, curls sticking out underneath, eyes alight with the same energy that had broken your rhythm earlier.

Outside of your secret bubble, you were friends. Kinda. In public, at least.

It helped that, in truth, you didn’t really know each other. No shared childhood memories, no deep conversations about fears and future plans, no emotional dialogues. What you shared lived firmly in the present, contained to specific places and moments, and that made it easier to keep everything else clean.

And somehow, it worked. No rumors followed you down red carpets. No whispers curled through paddocks or press rooms. No speculative headlines pairing your names together with a question mark and a winking tone.

And that was good.

Cause you’re primary ultimate focus was tennis. And becoming the N°1 in the WTA ranking.

And his primary ultimate focus was Formula One.

What you had wasn’t a distraction; it was just a way to cope with that demanding mechanism that revolved around being an international professional athlete.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. You played with the ball in your hands and walked toward the padel courts, visor shading your eyes.

“You know,” you started, leaning casually against the fence, “I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why’s that?” His tone was already cocky, already playing the game.

“Because I thought you were brave enough to step onto a real court. Clay, baseline, the whole thing. But no, here you are, hiding in the kiddie pool.” You gestured at the padel court, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Padel, Lando? Really?”

His friends burst out laughing, which only made his smirk widen. He pushed his cap back with one hand.

“Padel takes skill,” he shot back.

“Sure,” you said sweetly. “Hand-eye coordination, I’ll give you that”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “And here I was about to invite you to play.”

“Don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t humiliate people for free.”

That got another round of laughter as he shook his head. His eyes stayed locked on you, that mischievous glint unmistakable.

“Oh come on, are you sure you don’t want to play with us?” Lando pressed, tilting his head, that grin curling wider. He twirled the padel racquet in his hand like it was an extension of himself, casually confident, deliberately careless. “Could be fun. I’ll even go easy on you.”

You snorted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, weight leaning into one hip. “Tempting, but no, thank you.”

His brows shot up, mock-offended, but you continued. “I just had a three-hour training block, and unless one of you plans to sub out, you’re already all set, see? I’d hate to ruin the symmetry.”

That earned a round of chuckles from his friends, who were already shifting back into their positions on the padel court. But Lando stayed put by the fence, attention anchored on you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.

“You’re scared,” he said finally, voice light but edged with challenge.

You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”

“Mhm.” He nodded as if it were a fact, lips quirking. “Big star, plays in front of thousands of people, wins tournaments, but one tiny padel match? Too much.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, though your pulse skipped traitorously at the way he said it. His eyes never wavered, warm and sharp all at once, tugging at you with a pull you pretended not to feel.

“I play tennis, not padel, so keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You shifted your weight, already angling toward the exit, but not without one last jab. “Anyway, good luck with the kiddie pool. I’ve actually got places to be.”

You lifted a hand in a casual wave, already walking away. His friends shouted a quick goodbye, the sound of their laughter and playful trash talk already filling the court again. But you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.

“See you around, then!” Lando’s voice carried easily, pitched just loud enough to make sure it hooked you.

You felt it.

The weight of his gaze, tracking every step, burning hotter than the late-morning sun on your skin. It was that same unshakable awareness that had ruined your serve earlier, like a string pulled taut between you, invisible but undeniable. You’d gotten used to walking away just before it snapped.

And yet, as you slipped through the gates, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back once, visor shadowing your eyes.

Sure enough, Lando was still by the fence, racquet hanging loosely from his hand, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. When your gazes met, his smirk returned, small and sharp, as if he already knew you’d look back.

By the time you showered, toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes, you’d convinced yourself you were back on solid ground. Calm. Neutral. Ready to move on with your day.

And then your phone buzzed against the bench.

Lando: Dinner. My place tonight?

Five minutes. Almost on the dot.

There was something almost impressive about his timing, as if he’d waited just long enough to seem casual without risking that window where overthinking crept in. You stared at the screen, lips pressing together, a breath slipping out through your nose that was halfway to a laugh.

You already knew what it entailed. Of course you did.

With the only difference that it has never been at his place. Or yours.

Always neutral territory.

But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Right? That it was just logistics, convenience, Monaco being Monaco. It was better than bookig another hotel room last minute. Still, you found yourself checking the door to make sure the locker room was empty, as if privacy suddenly mattered more than it had a minute ago.

You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.

Send the address.

Setting the phone down, face-up this time, you watched the screen fade to black like a decision locking itself in place.

Then, you finished getting ready, smoothing your hair, swapping your trainers for sandals, catching your own reflection in the mirror and tilting your head like you were appraising someone else entirely. You looked fine. Normal. Unbothered. And if there was a flicker of anticipation behind your eyes, it was subtle enough to deny.

The sports club was quieter when you left, the afternoon heat mellowing into something warmer and heavier, and you walked past the courts without looking toward the padel enclosure, refusing to check whether he was still there, because that felt like tempting fate.

Once at home getting ready took longer than it should have, not because you didn’t know what to wear but because you kept circling the decision like it mattered more than it did.

This wasn’t a date. You knew that, and you reminded yourself of that firmly while choosing something simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that didn’t try too hard and that it was probably gonna be left on the floor for hte majority of the night.

By the time you left your apartment, the sky had shifted into early evening, Monaco bathed in that golden, cinematic light that made everything look more romantic than it had any right to be. You slid into your car and let the engine hum to life, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as you pulled onto the road, the route to his place familiar enough to feel automatic.

You hadn’t even made it halfway there when your car’s dashboard lit up with an incoming call.

Your manager’s name.

You sighed, long and slow, the sound filling the space of the car as you considered, briefly, letting it ring out. Then you answered, because yeah, you had to.

The conversation unfolded predictably at first, the polite check-in, the acknowledgement of your recent results, words carefully chosen to sound supportive without being reassuring. You kept your eyes on the road, nodding along even though they couldn’t see you, offering the right responses at the right moments, your tone professional and controlled.

But then the shift came, subtle enough that you almost missed it until it was already there.

Expectations. Targets. The importance of momentum.

“You know, they think it’s time to take some big concrete results home this year!”

Your manager spoke about your main sponsor in the careful language of someone delivering news they knew would land heavily, explaining how pleased they were with your consistency, how impressed they’d been by your rise, before gently steering the conversation toward what came next. Concrete results. A definitive statement. A win in a big tournament.

Or what?

They would drop you? Your manager didn’t say it clearly, but it didn’t take a genius to understand that the intensions weren’t far from there.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly as you navigated a curve you could drive blindfolded. You let them talk, absorbing the words without interrupting, because interrupting wouldn’t change anything. There was no point protesting.

You’d been close, they acknowledged that. Painfully close. Finals that slipped through your fingers, semifinals that turned on a single point, a single misjudged shot. Enough to prove you belonged, apparently, but not enough to satisfy people who liked their success neat and definitive. But close, apparently, was no longer enough.

And now this pressure was all going to be transfered towards your next tournament, in a few weeks.

You ended the call with the same practiced calm you always did, your voice steady, agreeable, professional, even as your fingers lingered on the steering wheel a second longer than necessary.

You told yourself, firmly, that you were not bringing this with you. Not tonight. Tonight was not for spiraling, not for replaying lost points or imagining headlines that didn’t exist yet. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Light. That was what whatever passed between you and Lando existed precisely.

So you did what you’d always done best.

You compartmentalized.

One moment you were replaying your manager’s careful phrasing “concrete results”, “big tournaments coming up” and the next you were standing still, keys dangling loosely from your fingers, the world narrowing to a single door in front of you.

And before you couldn even overthink it, that door opened.

Lando stood there barefoot, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up his forearms, hair still damp like he’d showered recently and not bothered to fully dry it.

“There you are,” he said, voice warm, casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended, followed by a small smile you hadn’t consciously decided to offer.

He stepped aside without ceremony, one hand gesturing you in. “Come in.”

His apartment was very him. Polished but a little messy. Minimalist but with a touch of extravagant that made it interesting.

And helmets. Helmets everywhere. Perfectly integrated in the forniture, visibe but not too cocky to scream egocentric. Not begged to be noticed.

“Want a drink?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water, wine, anything?”

“Yeah, water’s perfect, thank you,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction as you peeled off your coat and draped it over the back of a barstool at his open-plan kitchen island.

He nodded, already padding toward the fridge in those bare feet that slapped lightly against the polished hardwood floors, pulling out a chilled bottle and twisting the cap off with a practiced flick before handing it over

“How was training?”

“Brutal, as usual, but good” You took a long sip, the icy water sliding down your throat like a brief reprieve, and leaned against the island. “Until someone invaded the padel court and started firing balls into mine. Really disruptive “

His mouth curved instantly. “Oh? Did we distract you?”

You lifted a brow, playing along. “Not even close.”

“Really,” he said, stepping closer, invading your space with deliberate ease. “Because I could’ve sworn I felt you staring at us.”

“I was judging your awful technique,” you replied, tilting your head.

“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, gaze dropping briefly to your lips. “Lucky for you, I have other talents.”

You didn’t get the chance to respond.

He kissed you then, sudden but unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt inevitable rather than impulsive.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledged. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with firm possession while his other slid to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against him, and for a moment, instinct took over and you kissed him back.

Your lips parting eagerly under his, tongue tangling with his in a slick, heated dance, your fingers digging into the warm skin of his waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of muscle there as you pressed back, chasing that electric pull.

But only for a moment.

Because somewhere between his lips moving against yours and the familiar press of his body close to yours, your thoughts slipped sideways.

Concrete results.

Your mouth responded automatically, but there was a half-second lag between action and intention, a fraction too slow to go unnoticed.

He felt it. Of course.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” Breaths mingling in ragged puffs as his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses

You smiled before you thought about it, a natural reflex to mask the noise inside your head. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

It was convincing. Or so you tried to be.

You kissed him again before he could press further and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed with purpose now, gripping your ass to hoist you up onto the island edge, your legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.

It was so easy for you to pull him between your thighs cause he’d easily fit there like he was made for it.

You stumbled towards the bedroom then, clothes peeled off frantically until you tumbled in underwear onto the mattress together in a heated sprawl, him hovering over you, familiar in the way things become when repetition dulls the novelty but sharpens the intimacy.

And yet.

Even there, with his weight grounding you and his hands warm and sure, your mind drifted. Again.

With his lips still on yours and his hands grabbing your skin, you involuntarily started thinking about tournaments you hadn’t won yet, about points lost by margins so thin they still haunted you, about the particular cruelty of being praised for consistency and for your “almost made it”.

Lando shifted slightly, sensing it again, pulling back just enough to look at you properly this time. His brow creased, just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said, not accusatory, just observant, his thumb absently stroking the inside of your knee.

“Nothing, I promise” You brushed it off instinctively, tugging his mouth back toward yours with a deliberate grind of your hips that was more meant to distract him rather than anything else.

But he felt it again, of course he did.

And this time, with a low, reluctant groan, he pulled away completely sitting back on his heels, looking at you with an expression that wiped the teasing from his face entirely.

“Hey,” he said quietly, steady but firm now. “Don’t do that, what’s going on?”

You blinked, breath still uneven, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for the wrong reason.

For a moment, you considered pushing back anyway, throwing out another easy excuse, another half-truth wrapped in a smile, because that was easier than admitting that your head felt like it was full of noise you couldn’t turn down.

But the effort of pretending suddenly felt exhausting, like trying to keep your balance on a point you already knew you’d lost.

You let out a slow breath, one hand coming up to rub your forehead as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice softer, stripped of its practiced polish. “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood right now.”

The surprise flickered across his face immediately, brief but unmistakable, like he hadn’t expected that ending to the sentence, not from you, not tonight. Then it faded, replaced by something gentler, more careful, as he nodded once.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s okay.”

He shifted without hesitation, rolling onto his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you, not pushing, not asking anything else, just there.

You stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable, the ceiling still holding your attention as if the answer might be written somewhere between the shadows and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then, without looking at him, the words slipped out.

“How do you do it?”

He shifted slightly beside you, confusion crossing his face as he turned his head to look at you properly. “Do what?”

You swallowed, fingers worrying at the edge of the pillowcase. “Cope,” you said, still staring upward. “With the pressure… and everyone’s expectations.”

That earned you a longer pause. You could almost hear the mental recalibration happening in his brain.

“I… don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where is this coming from?”

You huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, finally turning your head toward him. His expression wasn’t teasing now, wasn’t amused or flirtatious, just attentive in a way that made you suddenly feel very exposed.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, before he could say anything else. “I know this is not really our thing. Talking about this stuff, I mean.” You gave a small shrug, as if that could minimize it. “But I guess I just—” You stopped, searching for the right words, then abandoned the effort. “I just need to get it out of my system.”

You hesitated for half a second, then went for honesty instead of polish. “I think my main sponsor is going to drop me if I don’t win my next tournament.”

The shift in him was immediate. His posture straightened, the easy looseness gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused. “What?” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, the frustration creeping in despite yourself. “My manager called me while I was driving here. Apparently I’m not delivering ‘concrete results.’” You made air quotes without smiling. “Their words, not mine.”

He frowned, clearly processing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You’re top ten.”

You let out a short laugh, one that sounded a little too brittle to be funny. “Yeah. But I haven’t won a Slam. Or a Masters thousand. And they want that.” You turned onto your side to face him fully now, the words spilling faster. “Finals don’t count. Semis don’t count. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in that way of his when he was actually thinking instead of performing ease. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”

“Tell that to the people signing the checks,” you replied quietly.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back onto the mattress between you. “Okay,” he said, slower now, choosing his words. “First of all, I think it’s different for everyone…”

You watched him as he spoke, the way his gaze drifted briefly to the far wall, like he was checking in with his own thoughts before letting them out. “But for me,” he continued, “I kind of had to learn early on to focus only on what I can actually control. Training. Preparation. What I do in the car. The decisions I make lap by lap.” He shrugged lightly, a familiar gesture. “Everything else? The noise, the opinions, the expectations… most of the time that’s not really up to me.”

You hummed quietly, encouraging him to go on.

“There are weekends where I do everything right,” he added, glancing back at you, “and it still doesn’t work out. And there are weekends where things click in ways I couldn’t have planned if I tried.” His mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “At some point, you’re just left trusting the process. Trusting that if you keep doing the work, it’ll come.”

You studied the line of his jaw, the calm certainty in his voice, and felt some of the tightness in your chest ease, just a fraction. “So you don’t think about what people expect from you?”

“Oh, I think about it,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just try not to let it drive the car. Because that’s when it gets messy.” He paused, then added more seriously, “People’s expectations are their problem. Not yours.”

He paused. Eyes locked in yours.

“Do you think you’re doing a good job?”

The question caught you off guard, not because it was complicated, but because no one ever seemed to ask it like that, stripped of context, rankings, expectations, future projections.

“Yeah,” you said simply. “I do.”