leclercreads

You met him before the noise swallowed him whole. 

Before every smile was content, before every sentence was clipped for interviews, before the paddock decided who he was supposed to be. Back then, he laughed too loudly and apologized for it. He talked with his hands. He worried aloud, and he was sweet in a way that felt unguarded. 

You loved him there first. 

The paddock liked you. 

That was the first thing people said about you. 

“She’s so sweet.” 

“She’s so normal.” 

“She’s good for him.” 

You wore sundresses that moved when you walked, light fabrics that caught the air as you waited by garages or leaned against railings. You didn’t dress for attention. You dressed for comfort, for warmth, for the versions of yourself that still believed gentleness would be enough. 

Lando noticed you like that. 

He always reached for your hand without thinking. Always leaned his head toward you when things got overwhelming. You grounded him by trying to soften the edges of his world. 

“You keep me sane,” he told you once in a hotel room somewhere between time zones, forehead pressed to yours. You always smiled at that and kissed his cheek. You never told him that sanity takes work. 

At first, nothing was wrong. 

Or maybe everything was, but it was small enough to ignore. 

He cancelled plans, but he always apologized. He forgot to text back, but he blamed the schedule. He flirted a little too easily, but everyone said that was just who he was. 

And you believed them. 

You believed love meant trusting someone even when it pinched a little. 

You learned to recognize the sound of his phone buzzing and not look. You learned not to ask who he was messaging when his smile tilted private. You learned not to flinch when girls leaned too close in photos. 

Because he always came back to you. 

Because at night, when the world quietened, he curled into your side like it was instinct. And that had to mean something, right? 

The first time you realized you were waiting alone, you were standing outside the McLaren garage. 

It was late. The track lights buzzed overhead. People had started packing up. You’d been there for almost an hour, leaning against the wall, sundress cooling against your legs. 

You didn’t mind. 

You scrolled through old photos you never posted. You watched mechanics move past you like you were part of the scenery. 

When Lando finally appeared, he blinked like he’d forgotten something. 

“Oh shit,” he said softly. “You’ve been here the whole time?” 

You smiled automatically. “Yeah.” 

Guilt flickered across his face, but it was quick and shallow. 

“I got pulled into something. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said. 

And you meant it. 

You always did. 

His behaviour didn’t change overnight. 

It repeated. Small things slowly accumulating. 

Late nights he couldn’t explain clearly. Stories that didn’t quite line up. Girls that appeared in the background of photos and disappeared before you could ask. 

You told yourself not to be that girlfriend. 

The one who questioned. The one who doubted. The one who made things harder. 

So you stayed soft. 

So when he suggested a trip to Milan, it felt like a peace offering. 

He’d been distant for weeks. His answers distracted, his movements restless in a way that made your chest ache. You chalked it up to pressure. To stress. To the sport chewing him up like it chewed everyone eventually. 

You finished your fitting early. The dress was yellow. You liked how it made you feel light again. Like yourself. 

You didn’t text him. You wanted the surprise, and maybe you also wanted to remind him that you were still here. 

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. 

You remember noticing the smell first. Something unfamiliar and expensive. Something sweet. Not his cologne. Not your perfume. 

Your key turned easily. That detail stays with you longer than anything else. You stepped inside. 

“Lan-” 

The world died in your throat. 

You didn’t see bodies clearly. Your mind refused to catalogue details. But you saw enough. Shoes that weren’t yours. Laughter that wasn’t meant for you. Lando’s voice, pitched lower, intimate in a way that had once been reserved for you alone. 

Time seemed to slow and then he looked up. 

And the look in his eyes told you so much more than any of the details. It told you that this wasn’t the first time. 

Because his face didn’t look shocked. 

It looked caught. 

“Wait-” he said, standing too fast. “This isn’t-”

You raised your hand. 

“No.” 

Your voice was quiet in a controlled kind of way. And calm. Almost too calm. 

The girl scrambled, muttering apologies you barely heard. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed on him, searching for something you weren’t sure existed any more. 

“How long?” You asked softly. 

He hesitated. 

The hesitation was answer enough. 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said. 

Something inside you cracked. 

“So there was a way you planned to?”  You asked. 

He stepped toward you. 

You stepped back. 

“I love you,” he said desperately. “This didn’t mean anything.” 

You smiled, but it felt wrong on your face. 

“That’s the problem,” you said. “It should have.” 

You turned, but you didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t collapse. 

You just waked out in your sundress, holding yourself together on instinct alone. 

The door closed behind you and the girl who waited stopped waiting. 

When you disappeared, no one understood it at first. You didn’t announce anything, didn’t post, didn’t explain. You simply… just stopped being available. 

Lando called. 

Then texted. 

Then sent messages that blurred together in tone and separation. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I messed up.” 

“Please just talk to me.” 

You listened to one voicemail. Just one, but when his voice cracked while saying your name, you turned the phone off. 

The crying came later. In private. It’s the ugly kind where you are gasping for air. You cried on bathroom floors and hotel beds that didn’t smell like him. You cried until your chest hurt and your eyes burned and your body felt emptied out. 

You replayed everything. 

Every moment you’d ignored. Every excuse you’d accepted. Every time you’d waited. 

And slowly, quietly something hardened. 

Not into anger, but into clarity. 

You packed away the sundresses. You don’t throw them out. Instead, you folded them carefully because they still belonged to someone. To someone who loved deeply and trusted easily. To someone you loved so deeply, but also to someone who you couldn’t be anymore. 

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

This week is going to be a fucking diaster. You think as your car rolls into your apartment’s garage. The Monaco's underground garages aren't storage, they're shrines—climate-controlled crypts for the financially gifted, tonight's exhibit featuring two Bugattis posed like the fucking Mona Lisa, a McLaren Senna wrapped in chrome like it should be ashamed of its own existence, and a cluster of Ferraris waiting for someone to say cheese. Your Jesko blends in seamlessly, which is convenient in the way that makes your chest tight with something that might just be existential dread. Sometimes you miss your old Honda—rattled when it turned left, smelled like rubber and pine needles, how nobody ever pulled out a phone to take a picture. 

The elevator lobby echoes with male laughter, boozy and British and far too confident, something about a golf cart and someone named Daniel that you don't give a shit about. Eyes glued to your phone, half-scrolling through nothing, half-praying the elevator arrives before anyone decides you look approachable enough for conversation. Three weeks in Monaco and you've learned the golden rule: eye contact equals engagement, engagement means fifteen minutes of unsolicited yacht advice or some hedge fund dickhead flexing his watch like it'll make your panties drop.

"—swear he actually said that to the steward, completely serious—"

The elevator arrives with a soft ding that sounds like a symphony, and you claim the back corner like territory, maximum personal space achieved. Unfortunately, the comedy troupe follows, bringing expensive cologne and what might be champagne—four guys your age sporting the kind of effortless handsomeness that screams good genetics, the type of guys who've never worked a day and somehow always look like they stepped off a yacht.

You hope they'll mistake your disinterest for mysterious sophistication when really you're just tired—a conference call with Asian distributors ran until 2 AM, you've been running on espresso and a vivid image of your bed since dawn. 

"What floor?"

"Ten," you reply without looking up.

The pause stretches long enough to make you glance up, find him staring with an expression somewhere between confusion and panic, like he just realized he accidentally joined the wrong Zoom call. He has brown curls and the kind of smile that probably gets him out of speeding tickets, his hand hovering over the button panel like he's afraid to commit to the number. 

"Ten?" he repeats, like you spoke ancient Greek.

"Ten." You wonder if Monaco's elevator systems operate on some complex numerical system beyond standard progression. "The number between nine and eleven?"

His friends find this fucking hilarious. Tall guy in an oversized Quadrant jacket snorts. "Mate, that's your floor too."

Brown Curls shoots him a look that could melt titanium. "I know what floor I live on, Max."

"Do you, though?" Another one chimes in, sporting a watch that probably requires its own insurance policy. "Because you seemed pretty shocked that other people exist on the tenth floor."

"I wasn't shocked," he protests, accent thickening with embarrassment. "I was just surprised, there’s a difference."

"By the concept of neighbors?" You give him your full attention now, noting his earnest eyes that suggest he occasionally worries about things beyond hair products. "In an apartment building?"

The elevator climbs with agonizing slowness, each floor marking increasingly creative ways for Brown Curls to avoid eye contact while his friends exchange glances that suggest this level of social awkwardness is unusual even for him.

"So," Max fills the silence, "that's quite a car you've got there."

You shrug. "It gets me places."

"Places like the moon? Because I'm pretty sure that thing's got enough horsepower to achieve it."

"Only if you believe the marketing materials," you reply, dry as bone. "Real-world performance is always disappointing."

Brown Curls looks at you directly for the first time, curiosity flickering across his features like a match being struck. "You don't seem very excited about owning a Koenigsegg."

"Should I be?"

"That's like saying the Mona Lisa is just paint," the fourth guy protests, finally speaking up.

You tilt your head, considering. "Art doesn't get you to the grocery store."

"But it costs—" Watch Guy catches himself mid-sentence. "I mean, it's quite an investment."

"Everything's an investment if you're doing it right.”

The elevator dings for nine, and Brown Curls stares again like you're a particularly complex equation he’s having a particularly hard time figuring out.  

"You really live on the tenth floor?"

"Unless I've been sleepwalking to the wrong apartment for three weeks, yes."

Doors open on ten, revealing narrow hallway with brown wallpaper and soft lighting designed to make residents feel like luxury hotel guests rather than people paying ridiculous rent for converted historical buildings. You step out first, already transitioning back to work mode, laptop bag halfway over your shoulder.

"Which..." Brown Curls clears his throat. "Which side?"

You pause, studying him. "Is this an interrogation?"

"No, I just—" He gestures vaguely down the hallway. "I live in 10B."

Understanding dawns slowly, anticlimactic mystery solving itself. You look at him—really look—taking in the panic in his eyes, his friends barely containing their laughter, the growing realization that your peaceful evening just got considerably more complicated.

"10A."

The silence could power a small jet engine.

"Oh," he says.

"Oh," you agree.

Max claps him on the shoulder with barely contained glee. "Well mate, looks like you've met your neighbor."

"The one whose car could fund a small country's GDP," Watch Guy adds helpfully.

Brown Curls looks like he wants the expensive carpet to swallow him whole. "I'm Lando," he says finally, extending his hand with job-interview politeness.

You shake it briefly, noting calluses that suggest he actually works with his hands sometimes. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," he says, immediately looking like he regrets speaking.

His friends exchange meaningful glances, the kind that suggest group chats will be buzzing within minutes.

"Right," you say, already moving toward 10A. "I'll just..."

"Yeah, of course," Lando says quickly. "Sorry for this."

You're not sure what 'this' refers to—the awkward introduction, his friends' entertainment, or the general situation of discovering you live next to each other—but you nod anyway.

"Have a good evening."

"You too," he replies, then stands there watching you unlock your door with bomb-disposal intensity.

You slip inside and lean against the door, listening to muffled conversation and retreating footsteps. Through the wall, you hear Lando's door open and close, followed by several people talking at once in increasingly excited tones.

Well. That explains the expensive cars and apparent lack of actual employment. Your neighbor's probably some trust fund kid playing at being an adult, which is fine—as long as he keeps his drama to reasonable volume and doesn't try borrowing sugar or making small talk, you can coexist peacefully.

You drop your laptop bag on the dining table, head for the kitchen, already thinking about wing modification calculations waiting in your inbox. The Jesko's keys land in the bowl by the door with a soft clink, and you're reaching for your phone to call Aiden when the yelling starts.

Then, a female voice, crystal clear through the walls: "—embarrassing me in front of your friends again."

You pause, phone halfway to your ear, glance at the shared wall. Then you look at the Koenigsegg keys, think about Lando's panicked expression in the elevator, and start to laugh.

Of course. Of course your socially awkward neighbor with expensive car taste also comes with relationship drama loud enough to require some noise ordinances.

This is going to be annoyingly interesting.

The wing calculations are still swimming behind your eyelids when your phone buzzes at 7:23 AM, Aiden's name flashing like a warning sign you should've seen coming. You know before answering that he's calling to collect, and you know exactly which favor he's about to cash in, the one you've been hoping he'd forgotten about, the one involving his husband's friend and your apparently tragic single status. The one he kept hinting at in between texts. 

"Absolutely fucking not."

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Aiden's voice carries that particular brand of smugness reserved for people who've just gotten married and think everyone else should follow suit. "And here I thought you'd be grateful for the opportunity."

You balance the phone between your ear and shoulder, already reaching for the espresso machine because this conversation requires chemical assistance. "I paid you back for Ibiza. Twice."

"You paid me back in money. This is about the principle of the thing."

"The principle of what? Ruining my Saturday night?"

"The principle of you being a hermit who owns three homes and talks to exactly two people on a regular basis, one of whom is your assistant and the other is me." His voice shifts, going softer around the edges in that way that means he's about to get sincere, which is infinitely worse than when he's just being a pain in the ass. "Come on. When's the last time you went on an actual date?"

You measure coffee grounds with the precision of someone who's built a career on exactness, buying time while you calculate just how honest you want to be. The last date was... fuck. Amsterdam, maybe? Some venture capitalist with perfect teeth and opinions about wine that lasted three courses too long. He came in twenty-five seconds, and sure as hell forgot to return the favor. "I've been busy."

"Busy doing what? Making more money you don't spend?"

"I spend money."

"On aircraft and real estate. When's the last time you bought something frivolous?"

You glance around your Monaco apartment—understated furniture, clean lines, nothing with a logo in sight. The Koenigsegg keys catch morning light from their bowl by the door, but even that serves a purpose. "I don't do frivolous."

"Exactly my point." The sound of coffee brewing filters through the phone from his end, and you picture him in his London kitchen, still in his robe, probably smirking at his own cleverness. Goddamn asswipe. "Marcus says he's nice, funny, and especially good looking."

"Marcus has questionable taste. He married you."

"You bitch." Aiden pauses, and you hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. "Look, you don't have to marry the guy. Just show up. Be charming for two hours. Pretend you're capable of human connection, then go home."

"I'm capable of human connection."

"Name three people you've had a conversation with this week that wasn't work-related."

You open your mouth, then close it. The elevator exchange with your neighbor doesn't count—that was more social collision than an actual conversation. "That's not the point."

"That's exactly the point." His voice shifts again, losing the teasing edge. "I'm worried about you. All this success, all this money, and you're living like a fucking monk with a spending problem."

The espresso machine hisses to a stop, and you pour the shot with steady hands, watching the crema settle like foam on dark water. Through the window, Monaco spreads out in golden morning light, yachts drift lazily in the harbor, white and obscene, and you think—not for the first time—how loneliness looks prettier when it’s expensive. You hate that thought. You hate that it’s yours.

Aiden was supposed to be here. He was supposed to drag his boxes up the elevator, curse the floors, curse you, and then crash on the couch like you were still twenty and the world hadn’t started pulling you both in opposite directions. But no. He had to go and fall in love. And you—you’re left standing here with a cup of cooling espresso and nowhere to put the anger but your own chest.

"What's his name?" you ask finally, because Aiden's right and you both know it, and because sometimes paying debts means swallowing your pride.

"I'm not telling you."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll Google him and find some reason he's unsuitable." Aiden's smugness returns in full force. "This is a blind date. Emphasis on the fucking blind."

"That's not how I work."

"It's how normal people work. You know, the ones who don't run background checks on potential romantic interests."

“I run efficiency checks,” you say, deadpan, because it sounds better than I have trust issues and a criminal record’s worth of emotional damage. 

"No, there really isn't." Ice clinks in a glass—probably adding cold milk to his coffee like a barbarian. "Eight o'clock. La Petite Maison. I've already made the reservation."

You nearly drop your espresso. "Tonight?"

"Strike while the iron's hot. Besides, you don't have any other plans."

"How do you know I don't have plans?"

"Because if you had plans, they'd involve spreadsheets or video calls with Tokyo, and neither of those count as a social life." His voice softens again, just slightly. "Come on. Do this for me. Consider it an early wedding gift."

"You got married six months ago."

"Then consider it a late wedding gift. The point is, you owe me, and I'm calling it in." He pauses, and when he speaks again there's something almost gentle in his tone. "Trust me on this one, alright? When have I ever steered you in the wrong direction?"

You could list several occasions, starting with that disastrous investment in renewable energy storage and ending with his insistence that you needed a hobby, which somehow resulted in you owning a vintage motorcycle you've ridden exactly twice. But he's also the one who talked you into buying your first Gulfstream when everyone else said you were overextending, and he's the one who pushed you to expand into Europe when your board thought you were moving too fast.

"Fine." The word tastes like defeat and coffee grounds. "But if he orders a salad and talks about cryptocurrency, I'm leaving."

"Deal. And wear something nice. Not business nice—nice nice."

"I always dress nicely."

"You dress like you're about to acquire a small country. There's a difference." You can hear his grin through the phone. "Something soft. Maybe a color that isn't black or navy."

"I don't own anything that isn't black or navy."

"Then buy something. You can afford it."

The line goes dead before you can argue, leaving you standing in your kitchen with half-finished espresso and the growing realization that you've just agreed to something that goes against every instinct you've cultivated over the past decade. Blind dates are inefficient. They're unpredictable. They require the kind of vulnerability that makes your skin crawl and your chest go tight.

But Aiden's voice echoes in your head—when's the last time you bought something frivolous?—and you find yourself thinking about the neighbor from last night, the way he'd looked genuinely confused that other people existed on his floor, like he'd been living in his own carefully constructed bubble until reality intruded.

Maybe you have more in common than you'd like to admit.

Your phone buzzes with a text: His name is Oliver. Tall, dark hair, works in finance. Parents own a huge trade company in Canda. You'll like him. Don't fuck this up.

Oliver. Finance. You can work with that, at least he'll understand ROI and won't glaze over when conversation inevitably drifts toward quarterly projections. The thought provides exactly zero comfort.

You finish your espresso and stare out at the Monaco harbor, watching early morning joggers trace the waterfront like ants following an invisible line. Somewhere out there is a man named Oliver who probably has opinions about cryptocurrency and thinks your net worth is theoretical, who has no idea he's about to have dinner with someone who owns more aircraft than most small airlines.

The thought should be comforting. Instead, it makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the growing certainty that Aiden's about to complicate your life in ways you can't calculate or control.

Frivolous, he'd said. Maybe it's time to find out what that feels like.

La Petite Maison at eight PM is exactly what you expected, soft lighting designed to make everyone look ten times better than they actually do,  servers who glide between tables with invisibility that costs extra, and the quiet hum of conversations conducted in at least four languages. Mostly French. You arrive precisely on time, wearing the one dress in your wardrobe that Aiden would classify as "soft"—charcoal gray silk that doesn't scream boardroom but doesn't exactly whisper romance either.

Oliver is already waiting at the table, and he's exactly as advertised: tall, dark hair with just enough gray at the temples to suggest competence, wearing a black suit and somehow manages to look effortless. He stands when you approach, offers a firm handshake and a smile that seems genuine rather than practiced, which immediately puts him several points ahead of your usual dating pool.

"You must be—" he starts, then pauses, something flickering across his expression. "Sorry, this is going to sound terrible, but Marcus only told me your first name, and I've completely forgotten it."

You laugh despite yourself, tension bleeding from your shoulders. "That's probably because Aiden—sorry, Marcus's husband—thought if you knew too much about me beforehand, you'd find an excuse to bail."

"Smart man. I absolutely would have." Oliver's grin turns conspiratorial as he pulls out your chair. "I Googled 'successful women Monaco' for about an hour before giving up. Do you know how many of you there are?"

"Enough to keep things interesting, I’m sure."

The conversation flows easier than expected—Oliver's humor is dry without being mean, his questions  are intelligent without feeling like an interview. He works in sustainable energy investments, which means he actually understands when you make an offhand comment about lithium supply chains, and he doesn't flinch when you mention owning property in three countries. Thirty minutes in, you're beginning to think Aiden might actually know what he's doing when Oliver's attention shifts slightly over your shoulder.

"Oh, brilliant," he says, raising his hand in a wave. "Lando! Over here, mate."

Your blood turns to ice.

You don't need to turn around to know who's approaching—the voice from last night is burned into your memory, British accent thick with embarrassment as he'd stammered through introductions in your shared hallway. But you turn anyway, because not turning would be stranger, and there he is: your socially awkward neighbor in a button-down that actually fits, his hair slightly less chaotic than yesterday, walking toward your table with a woman who moves like she's aware of every pair of eyes on her.

She's stunning in that effortless way that makes you immediately conscious of your own careful composure—long blonde hair, golden skin, wearing a white slip dress that looks like she threw it on without thinking, yet compliments her perfectly. Her hand rests casually on Lando's arm, a gesture so natural it speaks of months, maybe years, of intimacy.

So this is the source of the wall-rattling arguments. And, presumably, the other sounds.

"Oliver," Lando says as they reach the table, his smile bright and uncomplicated until his gaze lands on you. Then it falters, just slightly, confusion creeping in around the edges. "I didn't know you were, this is..."

"Awkward?" you supply helpfully, standing to offer your hand to the woman beside him. "I'm your neighbor from 10A. We met briefly in the elevator yesterday."

"Shit," Lando breathes, then immediately looks mortified. "Sorry, I mean—"

"No, that's accurate." You turn to his girlfriend, noting the way her eyebrows lift with interest rather than annoyance. "I don't think we've been properly introduced."

"Magui," she says, accepting your handshake with a grip that's firmer than expected. Her accent carries hints of Portuguese, her smile genuinely warm. "And you're the mysterious neighbor with the very loud car."

"Guilty as charged."

Oliver looks between you and Lando like he's watching a tennis match. "Wait, you two know each other?"

"We live next door to each other," you explain, settling back into your chair as Lando and Magui take the table beside yours. "Small world."

"Impossibly small," Lando mutters, still looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

The servers materialize with additional menus and water glasses, and suddenly you're part of an impromptu double date with your neighbor and his girlfriend, who's looking at you with a curiosity that suggests she finds this entire situation entertaining rather than mortifying.

"So," Magui says, leaning forward slightly, "what is it you do that allows you to own cars like that?"

Oliver chokes on his water. "Christ, I never even asked. Marcus just said you were successful."

You take a sip of wine, buying time to decide how much truth this evening can handle. These people live in Monaco, which means they're not exactly strangers to wealth, but there's a difference between comfortable and the kind of money that makes governments take your calls.

"I own an aviation company," you say finally, which is technically true and sounds significantly less intimidating than 'I own a fleet of private jets that world leaders use to conduct business.'

"Like commercial flights?" Lando asks, genuine interest replacing some of his discomfort.

"Private. Corporate jets, mostly. Some government contracts."

Magui's eyes sharpen with intelligence. "Well, that explains the car."

You smile. “I like things that move fast.”

"God, you're perfect for him," Oliver laughs, gesturing toward Lando. "This one's obsessed with anything that moves quickly. Cars, boats, probably rockets if he could get his hands on one."

Lando's face colors slightly. "I drive for a living."

“What, Uber?” you deadpan.

There’s a beat of silence—and then Magui steps in, laughing. “Formula 1. McLaren.”

Understanding hits like a physical thing, the expensive cars in the garage, the way his friends had seemed entertained by his social awkwardness rather than surprised. Your neighbor isn't some trust fund kid playing at adulthood; he's a professional athlete who happens to drive the fastest cars in the world for a living.

"Well," you say finally, raising your wine glass. "That does explain the Koenigsegg obsession."

Lando's laugh is surprised and genuine. "You're taking this remarkably well."

"Why wouldn't I? It's not like you told me you were a serial killer."

"Give it time," Magui says dryly. "The season hasn't started yet."

The food arrives, and the table finds a rhythm. Oliver’s funnier than he has any right to be, Magui’s sharp and curious, and Lando—well, he’s different now. Looser. The awkwardness melts into something magnetic when he talks about driving, about corners and control and the kind of speed that makes your bones hum. You watch the way his eyes light up, the way Magui rests her hand on his arm mid-story, the kind of easy affection that looks both earned and fleeting.

You find yourself watching the way his eyes light up when he talks about driving, the way Magui touches his arm when she's making a point, the easy intimacy between them that speaks of a relationship built on genuine affection rather than convenience. It's nice. Comfortable in a way that surprises you.

"So aviation," Lando says during a lull in conversation, turning his attention fully to you. "What got you into that?"

"Control," you answer without thinking, then pause, surprised by your own honesty. "I mean, there's something appealing about being able to go anywhere, anytime, without depending on commercial schedules or other people's timelines."

Oliver leans back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. "Marcus was right—I do like you."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed. It takes a special kind of person to build what you've built."

You're about to deflect—years of habit making you uncomfortable with direct praise—when your phone buzzes. Aiden's name flashes on the screen, and you can practically feel his smugness radiating through the device.

How's it going? Oliver seems lovely.

You type back quickly: I’ve somehow ended up on a double-date with my neighbor. 

The response is immediate: More interesting than cryptocurrency, isn't it?

You slip the phone back into your purse, fighting a smile. Across the table, Lando is explaining something to Oliver about something, his hands sketching invisible shapes in the air, and Magui is watching him with a fond exasperation that comes from hearing the same explanation a hundred times but never getting tired of the enthusiasm behind it.

For a moment—just a moment—you let yourself imagine what it would be like to have someone look at you that way. Not impressed by your success or intimidated by your wealth, but genuinely fond of the person underneath all the careful control. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it just makes you reach for your wine glass and settle deeper into your chair, content to listen to the easy flow of conversation and pretend, for one evening, that this kind of comfortable intimacy is something you could have.

Even if it's just as neighbors.

Oliver texts you at 9:47 AM the next morning, which is either endearingly eager or mildly concerning depending on your perspective on post-date etiquette. Last night was brilliant. Dinner Friday? I know a place in Cannes.

You stare at the message over your first espresso, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He's nice—genuinely nice in a way that should make your chest warm with possibility instead of tight with something that feels uncomfortably like guilt. But when you close your eyes and think about last night, it's not Oliver's laugh you remember or the way he'd listened intently when you'd explained fuel efficiency ratios. It's the way Lando's hands had moved when he'd talked about racing, the brief moment when he'd caught you watching him and held your gaze just a beat too long before Magui had pulled him back into conversation. Which is fucked up on approximately seventeen different levels, not least of which being that he's in a relationship and you're supposed to be focusing on the perfectly available man who's currently waiting for your response.

Sounds lovely. What time?

You hit send before you can overthink it, because Oliver deserves better than your neurotic overthinking, and because maybe if you spend more time with him, whatever weird moment happened last night will fade into the background noise of an otherwise pleasant evening.

Your phone buzzes again immediately. Eight? I'll pick you up.

I'll meet you there. Send me the address.

Three dots appear and disappear several times, which probably means he's typing and deleting responses that involve pointing out that normal people let their dates pick them up. But Oliver's smart enough not to push, and his final response is just the restaurant name and a smiley face that makes you feel like you're disappointing a golden retriever.

You're halfway through responding when you hear voices in the hallway, Lando's unmistakable accent mixed with Magui's laugh. Moving to the door, you peer through the peephole like some kind of suburban housewife with nothing better to do, catching sight of them walking toward the elevator. Lando's in workout clothes that do unfortunate things to your focus, and Magui's got her hair pulled back in a way that makes her look about nineteen, and they're having the kind of easy conversation that speaks of complete comfort with each other.

You should look away. You should finish texting Oliver and get back to the fuel consumption reports waiting on your laptop and definitely not think about the way Lando's shirt pulls across his shoulders when he gestures.

Instead, you open the door wider, because apparently you’ve decided humiliation is your hobby now.  “Morning,” you call, stepping into the hallway like someone with a schedule, not someone who’s been standing there for thirty seconds eavesdropping on other people’s joy.

Lando’s face does this weird thing—surprise first, then something softer, something dangerously close to pleased before he smothers it under a polite smile. “Oh. Hey. Morning.”

Magui recovers faster, her warmth so natural it almost feels rehearsed. “How are you feeling? Not too traumatized by last night?”

"I've survived worse dinner parties." You lean against your doorframe, phone still in your hand. "Though Oliver seems to think it went well. He's already asking for a second date."

Something flickers across Lando's expression too quickly to identify. "That's good. He's a good guy."

"So everyone keeps telling me." You glance between them, noting the way Magui's watching this exchange with the kind of quiet interest that suggests she's picking up on undercurrents you'd rather keep buried. "You two seem to know him well."

"We've been friends for years," Magui explains. "When I started acting. He was actually supposed to introduce us ages ago, but the timing never worked out."

"Lucky coincidence that we all ended up at the same restaurant."

Lando shifts his weight, and you catch a hint of his cologne—something clean and expensive that makes you want to step closer. "Yeah. Lucky."

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and they move toward it, but Magui pauses at the threshold. "You should come to dinner sometime. Properly, I mean. Not some accidental encounter."

You blink, surprised by the invitation. "That's nice of you to offer, I’ll consider it."

"I'm serious. Lando's actually a decent cook when he's not living off oatmeal and whatever his trainer allows him to eat." She grins at his indignant expression. "Besides, I'd love to hear more about the business. It sounds fascinating."

"It's mostly spreadsheets."

"So is racing, when you get down to it. Doesn't make it any less interesting."

The elevator doors start to close, and Lando reaches out to hold them. "We should... yeah. Dinner sounds good."

You watch them disappear behind closing doors, Magui saying something that makes Lando laugh, the sound echoing in the elevator shaft long after they're gone. Then you're standing alone in the hallway, phone still buzzing with Oliver's messages, feeling like you've just agreed to something infinitely more complicated than dinner.

Back in your apartment, you try to focus on work—reviewing projections, approving aircraft maintenance schedules, returning calls to clients in time zones where it's actually business hours. But your concentration keeps fracturing, attention drifting to the wall you share with Lando's apartment, wondering what he and Magui are doing, where they went off to.

The image makes your chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal.

At 2 PM, you give up on productivity and decide to go for a drive, thinking maybe some time behind the wheel of the Koenigsegg will clear your head. But as you're pulling out of the garage, you spot Lando and Magui walking along the waterfront, her hand in his back pocket, his arm around her shoulders, moving with the unhurried pace of people who have nowhere to be but with each other.

You take the long way to nowhere, pushing the car harder than necessary through mountain roads that twist like question marks above the Mediterranean, trying to outrun the growing certainty that you're developing feelings for someone who's completely unavailable. The rational part of your brain—the part that's built a business empire—knows this is a dead end. Lando's clearly devoted to Magui, they seem genuinely happy together, and you have no business complicating their relationship just because your own emotional life has the depth of a puddle.

But the other part, the part that remembers the way he'd looked at you across the dinner table when he thought no one was watching, whispers that maybe you're not the only one feeling something unexpected. Your phone rings through the car's speakers, Aiden's name flashing on the dashboard display.

"Tell me you didn't scare him off already," he says without preamble.

"Hello to you too. And no, I didn't scare him off. He wants to see me again Friday."

"Excellent. I told Marcus you'd like him."

You navigate a particularly sharp turn, the car responding like an extension of your thoughts. "Did you know his friend was Lando Norris?"

"Who?"

"The Formula 1 driver. My neighbor."

There's a pause. "Your neighbor is a Formula 1 driver?"

"Apparently the world is even smaller than we thought."

"Well, that's interesting. Is that going to be a problem?"

You consider the question as Monaco spreads out below you, all golden stone and blue water and carefully manicured wealth. "Why would it be a problem?"

"I don't know. You tell me. You sound weird."

"I don't sound weird."

"You sound like you're overthinking something, which is your default state, but there's a particular quality to your overthinking voice that suggests this is more complicated than it should be."

Aiden knows you too well, which is both the blessing and curse of a fifteen-year friendship. "It's not complicated. Oliver's nice, Lando has a girlfriend, and I'm apparently capable of being social without causing international incidents."

"But?"

"There's no but."

"There's always a but with you."

You pull over at a scenic overlook, killing the engine and staring out at the water where yachts drift like expensive toys. "Lando's not what I expected."

"How so?"

"I thought he was some trust fund kid. Turns out he's actually accomplished something real. And he's..." You pause, searching for words that don't sound like the beginning of a romance novel. "Interesting." You pause for a brief moment, thinking of the appropriate word. “Complicated.”

"And unavailable."

"And unavailable," you agree.

"Good. Then you can focus on Oliver, who is available and interested and doesn't come with the kind of drama that ends with you moving to a different country to avoid awkward elevator encounters."

The rational part of your brain agrees completely. The other part is already wondering what Lando and Magui are having for dinner, whether you'll run into them in the hallway again, what it would feel like to have him look at you the way he looks at her.

"Right," you say finally. "Oliver. Friday. Cannes."

"Exactly. And maybe try to sound more enthusiastic about it."

"I'm enthusiastic."

"You sound like you're planning our quarterly board meeting."

"Those can be very exciting."

Aiden sighs. "Promise me you're not going to do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done anything stupid?"

"Do you want the chronological list or the highlights?"

You start the car again, already missing the clarity that speed usually brings. "I'm fine, Aiden. Everything's fine."

But as you drive back toward Monaco, toward your apartment and the wall you share with Lando, you can't shake the feeling that fine is the last thing any of this is going to be.

Lando's apartment is the mirror image of yours but feels like a completely different universe—warm where yours is austere, lived-in where yours is pristine, with the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from people who actually use their space rather than treating it like a very expensive hotel room. There are racing helmets displayed like art, photographs covering every surface, and a massive sectional that looks like it's survived more than a few FIFA sessions gone wrong. Your phone starts buzzing before you've even properly introduced yourself to Max and Pietra, and you silence it, irritation flows through you. 

"Sorry," you murmur to the group, noting the way Oliver immediately steps closer like he's going to shield you from your own responsibilities. "International crises wait for no one."

"What kind of crisis?" Max asks, genuine curiosity cutting through his obvious assessment of you as the newcomer who's somehow infiltrated their tight-knit group.

"The kind where a head of state needs to be in three different countries in twenty-four hours and seems to think my aircraft runs on magic rather than fuel." Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen—your operations manager in Singapore, which means something's gone sideways with the Prime Minister's itinerary. "Excuse me for one second."

You step onto the balcony, sliding the door closed behind you as you answer. "Please tell me this isn't about the Gulfstream maintenance window."

"Worse. The PM wants to add Auckland to the route, and the fuel calculations don't work with the payload requirements he's insisting on."

"Then he needs to choose—his entire entourage or the detour. Physics isn't going to just change because he fucking said so."

Through the glass door, you watch Oliver explaining something to Lando with animated gestures, probably your job since he seems to have appointed himself your personal interpreter for the evening. Lando nods politely, but his attention keeps drifting to where you're standing, and when your eyes meet through the glass, something electric passes between you before you force yourself to look away.

"Can we strip the interior configuration? Reduce passenger capacity?"

"Not without a complete recertification, and we don't have time."

"Right. Tell his advance team it's Auckland or the full delegation, not both. If they want to argue physics, they can call me directly."

You hang up and slip back inside, immediately catching Oliver's concerned expression. "Everything alright?"

"Just clients who think their money trumps aerodynamics." You accept the glass of wine Magui offers, noting the way she raises an eyebrow at your obvious frustration. "Sorry. Work doesn't exactly keep regular hours."

"That sounds incredibly stressful," Oliver says, his voice carrying the kind of sympathy usually reserved for terminal diagnoses. "Do you ever get to just turn it off?"

The question hits wrong, like he's suggesting you're somehow defective for caring about your business, and you feel your smile tighten around the edges. "Not really. Turns out when world leaders rely on your aircraft for diplomacy, 'turning it off' isn't exactly an option."

Pietra, who's been quietly observing this exchange, grins. "Sounds familiar. Max here thinks bedtime is a suggestion when there's a good stream happening."

"Gaming is hardly the same as international relations," Oliver says with a laugh that's probably meant to be charming but lands somewhere closer to condescending.

Your phone buzzes again. Tokyo this time, which means the overnight maintenance crew has found something. "I'm sorry, I need to take this."

"Really?" Oliver's disappointment is written across his face like a bad movie script. "Can't someone else handle it?"

"It's my company. My aircraft and therefore my responsibility." The words come out sharper than intended, and you catch Lando watching the interaction with something that might be understanding. "I'll just be a minute."

This time you retreat to the kitchen, far enough away that you won't disturb dinner but close enough to smell whatever's in the oven that smells infinitely better than anything you've ever produced in your own kitchen.

"Tell me it's not the starboard engine."

"Hydraulic leak. Minor, but enough to ground her until we can get replacement parts."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, already calculating backup aircraft and schedule adjustments. "How long for parts?"

"Forty-eight hours if we expedite from Hamburg. Shipping alone will run over a quarter million.”

"Do it. And prep the backup G650 for the Montenegro run. I'll handle the client notifications."

When you return to the living room, Oliver's deep in conversation with Max about some video game, gesturing with his wine glass in a way that suggests he's trying very hard to be impressive. Pietra's curled up in Lando's racing chair like she owns it, scrolling through something on her phone, and Magui's moving between kitchen and living room with effortless grace.

"Crisis averted?" Lando asks, appearing beside you with a fresh glass of wine and standing just close enough that you catch that clean, expensive scent that's been haunting your thoughts for days.

"Temporarily managed."

"Sounds like you need a vacation."

"Sounds like you don't understand how businesses work."

He laughs, and the sound does something unfortunate to you. "Fair point. Though in my experience, burning yourself out doesn't exactly improve performance."

"Says the man who drives cars at 200 miles per hour for a living."

"Touché." He pauses, watching Oliver explain something to Max with increasingly animated gestures. "He seems enthusiastic."

"That's one word for it."

"Not impressed?"

You glance at him, noting the careful neutrality in his expression that doesn't quite hide the curiosity underneath. "He's nice."

"But?"

"But nice doesn't exactly make my pulse race."

The words hang in the air between you, loaded with implications you definitely shouldn't be making, and Lando's eyes darken just slightly before Magui calls from the kitchen that dinner's ready. The meal is excellent—some kind of Mediterranean thing with perfectly cooked fish and vegetables that actually taste like they grew in soil rather than hydroponic labs. The conversation flows around topics ranging from Max's latest gaming obsession to Pietra's photography projects to Oliver's detailed explanation of carbon offset markets that makes you want to stick a fork in your eye.

Your phone buzzes twice more during dinner—once for the Montenegro client notification and once for a fuel supplier issue in Dubai—and each time Oliver's face grows a little tighter with what you're beginning to recognize as possessive irritation.

"Do you always work during dinner?" he asks finally, his tone carrying the kind of forced lightness that suggests he's trying very hard not to sound annoyed.

"Do you always expect the world to stop revolving because you're eating fish?"

The table goes quiet, and you immediately regret the sharpness in your voice. Pietra clears her throat and starts talking about some photography exhibition in Nice, Max jumps in with a story about getting lost trying to find a gallery last month, and the conversation gradually picks up again, but the damage is done. Oliver spends the rest of the evening trying to recover, being extra attentive and charming in a way that makes you feel like you're being interviewed for the position of trophy girlfriend. He compliments your dress, your intelligence, your obvious success, and each word makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Meanwhile, Lando seems to have developed a talent for appearing at your elbow whenever Oliver wanders off to help Magui with dishes or bond with Max over shared experiences of dating women who work too much. He doesn't say much, just stands close enough that you're aware of his presence, occasionally making dry observations about Max's latest streaming disaster or Pietra's ongoing battle with gallery politics.

"She's lovely," you tell him during one of these moments, nodding toward where Magui's explaining something to Oliver with patient enthusiasm.

"She is."

"You're lucky."

Something shifts in his expression, becomes more guarded. "Yeah. I am."

But he doesn't sound entirely convinced, and when Oliver returns to claim your attention with updates about his plans for your second date, you catch Lando watching the interaction with something that looks uncomfortably like longing. Your phone buzzes again—Singapore, probably about the PM's revised itinerary—and you silence it without looking.

"Ignoring work?" Oliver asks, clearly pleased with what he interprets as progress.

"Prioritizing," you correct, but your attention is on Lando, who's helping Magui clear dessert plates with the kind of domestic intimacy that should make your chest warm with appreciation for their relationship instead of tight with something that feels dangerously close to jealousy.

When the evening finally winds down, Oliver insists on walking you to your door despite living literally next to you, and spends several uncomfortable minutes trying to work up the courage for a goodnight kiss while you stand there calculating the most efficient way to extract yourself from this situation without causing lasting psychological damage.

"Friday still works for you?" he asks hopefully, finally accepting that tonight isn't going to end with romantic breakthrough.

"Friday's fine," you lie, already dreading another evening of his earnest attempts to win you over.

He beams like you've just agreed to marry him, and you watch him disappear into the elevator with the sinking certainty that you're going to have to break his heart sooner rather than later. As you're unlocking your door, you hear Lando's apartment door open behind you.

"Hey."

You turn, finding him standing in his doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he wants to say something but isn't sure he should.

"Thanks for dinner," you say when the silence stretches too long. "Magui's an excellent cook."

Lando leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "She’ll be glad you think so." A beat passes. Then another. "You know Oliver’s completely gone on you, right?"

You exhale through your nose. "I’m aware."

"And you’re not..." He trails off, but the weight in his voice finishes the sentence.

"Not what?"

"Not feeling it."

It's not a question, and you're not sure how he knows, but something in his tone makes you want to be honest. "He's a good guy."

"But?"

"But good guys don't exactly set the world on fire."

Lando's smile is small and complicated. "No. I suppose they don't."

You should go inside. You should put a wall between yourself and whatever this conversation is becoming. Instead, you find yourself asking, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you feeling it? With Magui?"

The question hangs between you like a lit fuse, dangerous and impossible to take back. Lando's expression goes carefully blank, and for a moment you think he's going to pretend he doesn't understand what you're asking. Then he says, quietly, "Goodnight," and disappears behind his door, leaving you standing in the hallway with the growing certainty that you've just crossed a line you can't uncross.

The group chat notification count sits at 247 unread messages when you finally check your phone during the forty-minute layover in Dubai, scrolling through a month's worth of Max's memes, Pietra's photography updates, Magui's restaurant recommendations, and Oliver's increasingly desperate attempts to get your attention through strategic replies to everything you don't respond to. The pattern is embarrassingly obvious—every time you send a brief reply about being stuck in Singapore or dealing with a crisis in Frankfurt, Oliver immediately jumps in with some variation of "hope you're taking care of yourself" or "can't wait to see you when you get back," like he's marking territory in a group chat that's supposed to be about friends, not whatever weird courtship ritual he thinks he's performing.

Max: anyone else notice oliver's turned into a golden retriever?

Pietra: a very persistent golden retriever

Magui: be nice. he's sweet.

Max: sweet like artificial sweetener. technically fits the definition but leaves a weird fuckin aftertaste

You snort, drawing looks from other first-class passengers who probably think laughing at your phone during a business trip is unprofessional. But Max isn't wrong—Oliver's sweetness has taken on a cloying quality that makes every interaction feel like you're disappointing a rescue animal who just wants to be loved.

Lando: when are you back?

The message is timestamped three days ago, buried under Oliver's subsequent attempts to answer for you based on information he definitely doesn't have, and something about the simple directness of it makes your chest do something complicated. You'd managed, over the past month of constant travel and crisis management, to convince yourself that whatever moment had passed between you in the hallway was just exhaustion and good wine and the kind of temporary insanity that comes from spending too much time in close proximity to attractive, unavailable people.

You: landed twenty minutes ago. home tonight.

The response is immediate, like he's been waiting.

Lando: good. missed having a decent neighbor.

Oliver: missed having you around! dinner tomorrow? i know this place in nice

Max: subtle as always, mate

You silence the phone and focus on getting through customs, but Lando's message replays in your head during the drive home—missed having a decent neighbor—and you find yourself wondering what constitutes decent in his definition, whether it has anything to do with the way you'd looked at each other that night a month ago.

Your apartment feels like a museum when you finally drag your suitcase through the door, everything exactly as you'd left it because nothing ever changes when you're not there to change it. The silence is different from hotel silence—heavier, more permanent, a quiet that accumulates when no one's around to disturb it. You drop your bag by the door and stand in your living room feeling like a stranger in your own space, listening to the sound of your own breathing and wondering when your home started feeling more like a very expensive storage unit.

Through the wall, you can hear voices—Lando and Magui, their conversation too muffled to make out words but clear enough to catch the tone, which sounds increasingly strained as it goes on. By the time you've unpacked and started a load of laundry, the voices have escalated into something that definitely qualifies as an argument, Magui's voice rising and falling in sharp bursts while Lando's remains frustratingly level in that way men do when they think being calm will somehow defuse a situation they've probably caused.

You try to ignore it—their relationship drama is absolutely none of your business, and the smart thing would be to put on headphones and pretend you can't hear the way Magui's voice is getting higher and more strained with each exchange. But something about the sound makes your chest tight with recognition, like you're listening to your own fears about intimacy and emotional availability being played out in real time next door.

The argument stops abruptly, followed by the unmistakable sound of a door slamming hard enough to rattle the building's expensive fixtures.

You're debating whether to check your phone for Oliver's inevitable good-night messages when you remember you left your laptop charger in the Koenigsegg, which means venturing back to the garage unless you want to spend tomorrow running on fumes during video calls with three different time zones. The prospect of Oliver's texts can wait; the prospect of dealing with Hong Kong at 6 AM without an adequate battery cannot.

The elevator ride to the garage feels longer than usual, your reflection in the polished steel doors showing a month's worth of accumulated exhaustion that expensive concealers can't quite hide. You've been running on pure adrenaline and spite for weeks, putting out fires and managing crises and convincing yourself that the constant motion is preferable to sitting still long enough to think about what you actually want from your life.

The garage is tomb-quiet, your footsteps echoing off concrete and glass as you make your way to the Koenigsegg. The charger is exactly where you'd left it, tangled in the passenger seat like a technological snake, and you're wrestling with the cord when you hear the elevator ding behind you.

Magui emerges like she's fleeing a crime scene, her usually perfect composure completely shattered, makeup smudged and hair escaping from what had probably started as an elegant updo. She's wearing a dress you recognize from one of her Instagram posts, but it's wrinkled now, like she's been pacing or worse.

She sees you and freezes, her expression cycling through embarrassment, frustration, and something that might be relief at encountering someone who isn't Lando.

"Hey," you say, because ignoring her would be cruel and pretending you didn't hear anything would be lying. "You okay?"

She laughs, but it's sharp and brittle, the kind of sound that comes from trying not to cry in front of near-strangers. "Do I look okay?"

"You look like someone who just had a fight with her boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend," she corrects, then immediately looks like she regrets the clarification. "Sorry. You don't need to hear about this. I'm just—" She gestures vaguely toward the elevator, like she's explaining her escape route.

"Are you sure you should be driving?" You nod toward her car, noting the way her hands are shaking slightly. "Because I don't know you well enough to identify your body after a spectacular crash on the corniche."

That surprises a genuine laugh out of her, and some of the tension in her shoulders relaxes. "God, you're practical. I can see why Lando—" She stops herself, biting off whatever she'd been about to say.

"Why Lando what?"

Magui shakes her head, smearing mascara with the back of her hand. "Nothing. I'm just, I should go. I'm sorry you had to hear all that."

"You don't have to apologize for having feelings."

"Don't I?" The bitterness in her voice is sharp enough to cut glass. "Apparently having expectations about your boyfriend's emotional availability is unreasonable when he's too busy being fascinated by his neighbor to notice his girlfriend is fucking falling apart."

The words hit like a physical blow, confirmation of something you'd suspected but hoped you were imagining. You open your mouth to respond—to deny or deflect or offer some kind of comfort—but Magui's already moving toward a car, her heels clicking against concrete like morse code for regret.

"Magui—"

"Don't," she says without turning around. "Just don't. I'm sure you're lovely, and this isn't your fault, but I can't do this right now."

The elevator doors close behind her with finality, leaving you standing in the garage holding a laptop charger and the growing certainty that whatever's been building between you and Lando just became infinitely more complicated. You're still processing the conversation when you hear footsteps on the stairwell—apparently Lando couldn't wait for the elevator to return. He appears in the garage doorway looking like he's been running his hands through his hair, his shirt rumpled and expression somewhere between frantic and defeated.

He spots you immediately, and his face goes through several complicated expressions before settling on something that might be relief.

"Did you see—" he starts, then stops, taking in your presence near your car and drawing his own conclusions. "Right. Of course you did."

"She seemed upset."

"That's one way to put it." He runs a hand through his hair again, confirming your theory about its disheveled state. "She's gone, isn't she?"

"Yeah, probably halfway to wherever she keeps her sanity when you're being an idiot."

You should leave. You should take your charger and go upstairs and let him deal with his relationship problems without your involvement.“

Want to talk about it?” slips out before you can shove it back down.

"Not particularly." He pauses, studying your face like he's trying to read something written in a language he doesn't quite understand. "But I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts right now either."

"Dangerous territory."

"The worst kind." His smile is tired and self-aware and does unfortunate things to your resolve. "Come up?."

This is how it starts, the voice in your head warns. This is how careful people make catastrophic decisions—one moment of weakness, one invitation accepted when you should decline, one conversation that changes everything you thought you knew about what you want. But Magui's words echo in your mind—too busy being fascinated by his neighbor—and the smart, practical part of your brain that's kept you safe and successful for thirty years loses the argument to the part that's tired of being alone with expensive things and carefully maintained distance.

"Alright," you say, pocketing the charger. "But I'm not good at relationship advice."

"Good thing I'm not looking for any."

The elevator ride to the tenth floor feels different this time, charged with the kind of tension that comes from both of you knowing exactly what lines you're about to cross and choosing to cross them anyway. When the doors open, you follow him down the hallway toward his apartment, the space between you crackling with electricity and poor decision-making.

"For what it's worth," you say as he unlocks his door, "she's not wrong about the fascination part."

Lando's hand stills on the door handle. "No," he says quietly, not looking at you. "She's not."

And just like that, you're both fucked.

Lando's apartment feels different without the buffer of other people, more intimate in a way that makes you hyperaware of every sound—the soft click of the door closing behind you, the way his breathing changes when you brush past him in the narrow entryway, the almost-silence that stretches between you like a held breath waiting to be released.

He moves toward the kitchen with the kind of careful casualness that suggests he's thinking about this as much as you are, pulling a bottle of wine from somewhere and setting it on the counter like he's buying time to figure out what comes next.

"Red okay?" he asks, already reaching for glasses because you both know you're going to say yes, because walking away now would require a level of self-preservation neither of you seems capable of accessing.

"Red's fine."

You lean against the kitchen island, watching him work the corkscrew with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be given the circumstances. Everything about this feels like standing on the edge of something high and dangerous, like that moment before you jump when your brain is screaming about physics and consequences but your body's already committed to the fall.

"So," you say, because someone needs to acknowledge the elephant in the room before it tramples what's left of your common sense. "This is probably a terrible idea."

"Probably." He doesn't look up from the wine, but you catch the small smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. "But I've been having a lot of those lately."

"Like what?"

"Like thinking about you when I should be thinking about other things. Like wondering what you're doing when you're traveling for work. Like—" He stops, the corkscrew halfway out of the bottle, and finally looks at you directly. "Like inviting you in when I know exactly where this conversation is going."

The honesty hits like a physical thing, sharp and clean and impossible to deflect with sarcasm or careful distance. You should make some joke about his ego, should remind him that you're both adults capable of having a conversation without it turning into something messy and complicated. Instead, you find yourself saying, "Where do you think it's going?"

"Somewhere we probably can't come back from."

The cork comes free with a soft pop, and he pours wine into two glasses with the kind of precision that suggests he's using the mundane task to keep his hands busy while his brain processes whatever decision he's about to make.

"And you're okay with that?"

Lando hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours in a way that's definitely not accidental, and the contact sends something electric up your arm that settles somewhere behind your ribs like a lit fuse. "I don't think okay is the right word."

"What's the right word?"

"Fucked." He takes a sip of wine, never breaking eye contact. "I'm completely fucked, and I have been since that first night at dinner when you looked at me like you were trying to figure me out."

You nearly choke on your wine. "That's what you think I was doing?"

"Weren't you?"

"Maybe. I like to be in control.”

“Control?”

"Control," you agree.

"But this—" He gestures between you with his wine glass, a movement that encompasses the charged air and careful distance and the way you're both leaning slightly forward like gravity's pulling you together. "This isn't something either of us can control, is it?"

"No." The admission feels dangerous, like confessing to a crime you haven't committed yet. "It's not."

Lando sets his glass on the counter and moves closer, not quite touching but close enough that you can smell his cologne, clean and expensive and mixed with something that's just him. "So what do we do about it?"

"I don't know." You should step back, should put physical distance between you and whatever this is becoming, but instead you find yourself tilting your head up to meet his gaze. "What do you want to do about it?"

"Honestly?" His voice has gone lower, rougher around the edges. "I want to stop pretending this isn't happening. I want to stop lying to myself about what I feel when I hear you in the hallway or see your car in the garage or watch you get frustrated with Oliver for not understanding that your work actually matters."

"Lando—"

"I know this is fucked up. I know the timing is shit and the situation is complicated and I just had a massive fight with my girlfriend about exactly this thing." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture more frustrated than nervous now. "But I can't keep pretending I don't think about you constantly, because apparently I'm shit at hiding it and Magui's not stupid."

"She's not wrong about any of it."

"No, she's not." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "She's not wrong that I've been distracted since the moment I met you. She's not wrong that I think about you when I should be present with her. And she's definitely not wrong that this whole thing is unfair to everyone involved."

You set your own glass down, the wine untouched since that first sip because your hands are starting to shake slightly and spilling expensive alcohol on his kitchen island seems like adding insult to injury. "So why are we doing this?"

"Because sometimes unfair is all you get." He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, can count the freckles across his nose that probably come from years of racing in sunny climates. "Because I've been in a relationship for two years where everything makes sense on paper but I've never felt like this, and now I've met someone who makes me question everything I thought I wanted."

"And what do you want?"

The question hangs between you like a loaded gun, and for a moment you think he's going to give you some safe answer about figuring things out or taking time to think. Instead, he reaches up and cups your face with one hand, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your breath catch.

"Right now? I want to kiss you and see if it feels as right as I think it will."

"That's a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"It'll complicate everything."

"Everything's already complicated."

You should say no. You should step back and remind him that he just broke up with his girlfriend twenty minutes ago, that you're neighbors who have to see each other every day, that starting something when emotions are running high and judgment is compromised is a recipe for disaster. But his thumb is still moving against your skin in small, hypnotic circles, and you can feel the warmth of his body even though you're not quite touching, and every rational thought in your head is being systematically overruled by the part of you that's been wondering what this would feel like since that first awkward elevator encounter.

"Fuck it," you breathe, and then you're rising up on your toes and he's leaning down and when your lips finally meet it's like everything else falls away—the wine and the fight and the month of careful distance and every reason this is a mistake.

The kiss starts soft, almost tentative, like he's giving you a chance to change your mind and step away. But when you don't—when you press closer instead, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt—it deepens into something hungry and desperate, all the tension that's been building between you finally finding an outlet.

When you break apart, you're both breathing hard, and Lando rests his forehead against yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

Lando’s forehead stays pressed against yours, breath ragged, chest heaving, and when his fingers slide into your hair and tug, it’s not gentle anymore. It’s the kind of pull that makes your stomach drop and your thighs tense, that promise of something you both know is going to be messy and wrong and unforgettable. He smells like adrenaline and whiskey and the storm that’s been building between you for months. When he finally speaks again, his voice is rough as gravel, the words scraping their way out of his throat.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “Say you want me.”

Your fingers find his jaw, nails grazing that faint stubble as you whisper it back. “I want you.”

That’s all it takes. The moment the words are in the air, he’s on you—hands, mouth, body—like something unleashed. Your back hits the wall beside his kitchen counter, a low thud drowned beneath the wet sound of lips meeting again and again, teeth clashing, breath spilling between you in gasps. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, finds bare skin, and the sound that leaves him when he feels you is half groan, half growl. You yank his hoodie up over his head, and his hair falls into his face, eyes dark and wild, jaw tight with restraint he’s already losing.

He pushes your shirt higher, mouth finding your collarbone, then the soft underside of your throat, sucking until you know it’ll leave a mark. “You taste like fucking trouble,” he mutters against your skin, and you feel the words vibrate through you. His hand is already moving lower, tracing the edge of your waistband, fingers dipping just beneath, teasing without mercy until you can barely think straight. “Lando—” you gasp, and he grins, that crooked, arrogant grin that always made you roll your eyes before, but now it just makes you wetter.

“Yeah?” he says, voice dark with a smirk. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

“Touch me.”

He does. Two fingers sliding between your thighs, the first drag of skin on skin making you jerk and bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out too loud. He circles slow at first, deliberate, like he’s cataloguing every twitch and sound, like he’s memorizing the way you fall apart. His other hand fists in your hair and pulls your head back so he can see your face while he works you open. “Look at me,” he says. “Don’t hide. I want to see how bad you want this.”

You meet his eyes, and the intensity there almost undoes you—burning, hungry, something close to fury and need tangled together. When he pushes his fingers inside you, there’s no preamble, no warning, just that sharp, stretching heat and your breath stuttering in your throat. “Fuck—Lando—” you gasp, hips grinding down against his hand. He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling them until you’re trembling, until the sound coming out of you is a broken moan that makes him groan in return, low and feral.

“Been thinking about this every time I saw you in that hallway,” he says between kisses that trail down your jaw. “Those little shorts you wear when you take out the trash? Nearly lost my fucking mind.”

You laugh, a shaky, breathless sound that turns into another moan as his thumb presses harder. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, “and you’re wet as fuck for your neighbor, aren’t you?”

The words hit like a jolt, obscene and perfect. You grab his wrist, panting. “Bedroom.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He lifts you—hands under your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—and you cling to him as he carries you down the short hall to his room, mouths still locked together, your back hitting the doorframe, then the wall, then the bed as he drops you onto it with a roughness that makes you gasp. He drags your jeans down, his following right after, movements frantic and graceless. You catch a glimpse of him—skin flushed, chest heaving, the hard line of him straining—and your mouth goes dry.

“Condom,” you manage, half dazed, and he nods, fumbling for the drawer beside the bed, tearing the foil open with his teeth. The snap of latex sounds loud in the silence before he’s back on you, between your legs, bracing himself on his forearms, eyes locked to yours.

“This is a terrible idea,” he murmurs one last time.

“Then don’t stop.”

He thrusts in all at once, deep and fast, and the sound you make isn’t even human—it’s a strangled moan that dissolves into his mouth as he kisses you through it. He swears, voice raw, “Jesus—so fucking tight,” and his rhythm starts rough, pounding, the bedframe slamming softly against the wall with each movement. Every thrust pushes the air from your lungs, every drag out makes you ache for more. His hand finds your throat, not choking, just holding, his thumb stroking lightly against your pulse as he leans in, whispering filth against your lips.

“Tell me this isn’t what you wanted,” he says. “Tell me you didn’t think about me when you heard us through the wall.”

Your breath catches—he knows. You can’t even lie. “I did,” you breathe. “Every night.”

“Fuck,” he groans, hips slamming harder now, his control unraveling fast. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, your moans blending with his low curses. He pulls out almost all the way, watching you clench around nothing before driving back in to the hilt, over and over, until your nails leave red crescents across his shoulders. “You feel that?” he pants. “That’s me, baby. No one else.”

You nod, gasping, words gone, body arching as the pressure builds like fire under your skin. “Lando—please—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, grin returning, dark and wolfish. “You gonna come for me? Right here, after I just dumped her?”

Your eyes flutter, shame and want tangling until they’re indistinguishable. “Don’t—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. His pace quickens, relentless, thrusts deeper, harder, his breath breaking into rough grunts. “Say my name,” he growls. “Let the whole damn building hear who’s making you come.”

You do, his name spilling out again and again as your body tightens and breaks, the orgasm tearing through you in hot, shuddering waves. You grab fistfuls of the sheets, of his hair, of anything you can reach, moaning until your throat burns. He follows seconds later, head buried against your neck, breath ragged, hips snapping once, twice more before he groans, low and guttural, spilling inside you, the sound pure release.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Just breathing, hearts pounding in sync, skin slick and hot where you’re still joined. When he finally lifts his head, sweat dripping down his temple, there’s a crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth, exhausted and disbelieving all at once.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Guess that answers the question.”

You laugh, still breathless, still trembling, and when he collapses beside you, one arm slung lazily across your stomach, you both stare up at the ceiling, the weight of what you’ve done settling in like the aftermath of a storm—quiet, electric, impossible to ignore.

The text comes at 6:43 AM, three days after the disaster that apparently never happened, while you're reviewing fuel logistics for a diplomatic mission to Southeast Asia and pretending your chest doesn't tighten every time you hear movement in the hallway.

Lando: talked to magui. we're going to work things out.

You stare at the message for longer than it deserves, thumb hovering over the keyboard while your brain cycles through responses ranging from mature congratulations to something significantly less charitable. What you settle on is worse than either extreme—complete emotional neutrality wrapped in the kind of professional courtesy you'd offer a client canceling a contract.

You: that's good. she's lovely.

Lando: yeah. she is.

You: glad you sorted it out.

The conversation dies there, killed by your own determination to be fine with something that feels like swallowing glass, and you spend the rest of the morning aggressively organizing flight schedules while your phone sits silent on the desk like a judgment on your ability to handle adult emotions.

The group chat, which had been blissfully quiet during your month away, springs back to life with the kind of forced normalcy that suggests everyone's trying very hard to pretend nothing's changed. Max posts memes, Pietra shares gallery updates, Oliver continues his campaign of aggressive helpfulness, and Magui sends restaurant recommendations with the enthusiasm of someone determined to prove everything's perfect in her relationship.

But underneath the surface cheerfulness, there's a tension that feels like walking on thin ice—pauses where someone would normally make a joke, conversations that die abruptly when they veer too close to certain topics, and a notable lack of the easy banter that had made the group chat feel natural before everything got complicated.

Max: drinks tonight? that place near the harbor

Pietra: can't, editing a wedding shoot

Oliver: i'm in! perfect chance to catch up properly

Magui: we'll be there 💕

Lando: looking forward to it

You read the exchange while sitting in the private Singapore airport lounge, already calculating whether you can delay your return by another few days without completely destroying your client relationships. The thought of sitting around a table pretending everything's normal while Oliver performs his increasingly desperate courtship routine and Lando pretending he doesn't know what you taste like feels about as appealing as voluntary root canal surgery.

You: still traveling. next time.

Oliver: when are you back? feel like you've been gone forever

Max: she's practically living in airports at this point

Pietra: must be nice though, seeing the world

Magui: probably beats monaco drama 😅

The emoji feels pointed, though maybe you're reading subtext that isn't there, seeing implications in everything because guilt makes you paranoid. Either way, you silence the chat and focus on work, which has the distinct advantage of being complicated in ways you can actually solve.

Your phone buzzes with a private message twenty minutes later.

Lando: you don't have to avoid the group because of me.

You: not avoiding anything. work is work.

Lando: right.

You: seriously. glad things worked out with magui.

Lando: are you?

The question sits on your screen like an accusation, and you find yourself staring at it while departure announcements echo through the terminal in three different languages. The honest answer would be complicated—no, you're not glad, you're frustrated and disappointed and having elaborate fantasies about what might have happened if his phone hadn't buzzed that night. But honesty is a luxury you can't afford when the alternative is making everything infinitely more messy than it already is.

You: yes. you two make sense together.

Lando: that's not what i asked.

The conversation dies there, and you board your flight to Frankfurt feeling like you've just failed a test you didn't know you were taking.

The pattern continues over the next two weeks—group chat messages that feel performatively normal, private texts from Lando that skirt the edge of whatever line you're both pretending doesn't exist, and an increasing number of business trips that keep you conveniently unavailable for any social gatherings that might require you to watch him and Magui perform their reconciled relationship.

Lando: season starts next week. won't be around much.

You: good luck with the racing.

Lando: thanks. will you watch?

You: probably too busy

Lando: right

It's a lie, and you both know it. You've already set calendar reminders for race weekends, already found yourself researching McLaren's performance prospects and wondering what it feels like to drive at those speeds, to have that kind of control over something powerful and dangerous. But admitting you'll be watching feels like admitting other things you're not ready to acknowledge, so you let the lie sit between you like everything else you're not saying.

The group chat gets quieter as the season approaches, everyone scattering to their respective responsibilities—Lando to pre-season training and media obligations, Pietra to a photography project in Milan, Max to whatever it is he does when he's not streaming or making jokes about other people's relationship drama. Even Oliver's constant presence diminishes, though whether that's because he's finally getting the hint or just busy with work, you're not sure.

Magui: girls dinner next week? feels like forever since we properly talked

Pietra: yes! missed you

The invitation sits in the chat for three hours before you respond, and when you do, it's with the kind of excuse that's technically true but definitely avoidance.

You: would love to but flying to tokyo tomorrow. client emergency.

Magui: of course 😊 next time then

The smiley face feels like a small kindness, and you find yourself wondering if she knows about the sex, if Lando told her everything or just enough to explain his distraction. Part of you hopes she knows, because at least then the awkwardness would have a reason beyond your own inability to handle complicated emotions like a functional adult.

Pietra: she's literally never here anymore

Magui: work is important

Pietra: but so is having a life outside of work

Max: says the woman who spent sixteen hours editing photos last weekend

Pietra: that's different

You silence the notifications and focus on packing for Tokyo, grateful for the excuse to disappear into work where expectations are clear and emotions are irrelevant.

Lando texts you privately that night, just before you're supposed to leave for the airport.

Lando: hear you're escaping to asia again.

You: not escaping. working.

Lando: right. well, be safe.

You: you too. don't crash the car.

Lando: i'll try not to.

You: good. would hate to have to find a new neighbor.

It's meant to be light, a return to the easy banter you'd managed before everything got complicated, but it lands wrong somehow, highlighting the distance you've both been carefully maintaining.

Lando: would that be so bad? having to find a new neighbor?

You: depends on whether they're as loud as you and magui.

Lando: we're not that loud.

You: you really are.

Lando: sorry. we'll try to keep it down.

You: don't apologize for having a relationship.

Lando: is that what you think i'm doing?

The question feels loaded with subtext you don't want to unpack, implications about what he might be apologizing for if not the relationship itself. You're supposed to board in twenty minutes, and the last thing you need is to spend a fourteen-hour flight overthinking text message semantics and wondering what would have happened if you'd answered his question honestly.

You: i think you're making this more complicated than it needs to be

Lando: and you're making it simpler than it is

You: boarding now. good luck with your season

Lando: thanks. try not to disappear completely on me

You silence your phone and board the plane, settling into first class with the kind of practiced efficiency that comes from spending more time in airport lounges than your own apartment. The flight attendant offers champagne, and you accept it even though drinking alone at thirty thousand feet feels like the beginning of a very sad story about successful women who have everything except the thing that matters.

Halfway to Tokyo, you open your laptop and find yourself scrolling through McLaren's website, reading about their car and season prospects and trying to pretend you're researching potential corporate partnerships rather than looking for excuses to think about Lando without feeling pathetic.

The season starts in three days. He'll be in Bahrain, focused on qualifying times and race strategy and the kind of high-stakes competition that probably makes everything else—including whatever happened between you—feel distant and unimportant.

Which is exactly what you need. Distance. Time. The chance to remember why you've spent the last decade carefully avoiding exactly this kind of emotional complication.

Your phone buzzes with a group chat notification, and you glance at it despite yourself.

Magui: lando's first race weekend! who's watching? 🏎️

Max: obviously

Pietra: wouldn't miss it

Oliver: absolutely. go lando!

The enthusiasm feels genuine, these people who've become friends despite the awkwardness rallying around Lando's career milestone. You should respond, should add your support to the chorus of encouragement, but instead you close the chat and order another champagne.

Some things are easier to feel from fourteen thousand miles away.

Three months of scheduling across four continents has done absolutely nothing to stop you from checking McLaren's race results every Sunday, watching Lando climb out of his car with the exhausted satisfaction that comes from driving at the edge of physics for two hours straight. He's been having a decent season— championship-level with  consistent points finishes that keep him in the headlines and probably make Magui glow with reflected pride at whatever glamorous events she attends as the supportive girlfriend.

You know this because you've been following her Instagram like some kind of digital stalker, watching their relationship play out in carefully curated squares of Monaco life, paddock appearances, and vacation photos that look like they belong in a luxury travel magazine. They look happy. Settled. Like whatever crisis had driven them apart three months ago has been thoroughly resolved through the kind of mature communication you're apparently incapable of.

Which is why agreeing to Magui's invitation to spend two weeks at your house in Turks and Caicos feels like either personal growth or elaborate self-torture, depending on how you look at it.

Magui: lando has a break after silverstone! trip to somewhere tropical? i'm desperate for sun and not thinking about tire strategies

Pietra: god yes. where are we thinking?

You: i have a place in turks and caicos. you're welcome to use it.

Magui: SERIOUSLY? that would be incredible

Pietra: wait you just casually own a house in the caribbean?

You: work takes me everywhere. makes sense to have bases.

Max: "bases" she says

Oliver: can boyfriends crash this girls trip? asking for a friend

Magui: the friend being you?

Oliver: ...yes

Lando: mate you're not subtle

You: bring whoever you want. house sleeps twelve.

The casual generosity costs you nothing—the house sits empty eleven months of the year anyway, maintained by a local service that sends you monthly reports you barely read—but the responses suggest you've just offered something considerably more valuable than convenient real estate.

Pietra: this is insane. you're insane.

Magui: we're going to spoil you rotten for this

Oliver: does "whoever you want" include me? hypothetically?

Max: christ mate, just ask her out properly instead of fishing for vacation invites

You: oliver you're welcome to come

It's easier to extend the invitation than to come up with reasons why he can't join that don't sound like personal rejection, though the thought of watching him flounder through two weeks of tropical romance attempts while you pretend not to notice the way Lando's shoulders move when he reaches for things makes your stomach clench with preemptive exhaustion.

You book yourself on the trip almost accidentally, agreeing to arrive Thursday night when everyone else gets there Tuesday, giving yourself forty-eight hours to finish business in São Paulo before flying your Citation CJ4 directly from Brazil to Providenciales. The flight plan reads like showing off—São Paulo to Turks directly in a private jet you're piloting yourself—but it's actually the most efficient route, and efficiency has become your religion over the past three months of avoiding everything that feels remotely complicated.

The group chat buzzes with logistics and excitement as their departure approaches, Magui coordinating activities with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests she's genuinely looking forward to this rather than just being polite about using your house. There's talk of snorkeling and beach clubs and a sunset dinner cruise that Oliver immediately volunteers to organize, because apparently he's appointed himself activities director for this exercise in tropical self-torture.

Lando: thanks for hosting. means a lot to have somewhere proper to decompress

The private message arrives while you're reviewing weather patterns over the Atlantic, planning your approach to PLS in case the usual afternoon thunderstorms decide to complicate your arrival.

You: no problem. house is just sitting there anyway

Lando: still. generous of you

You: i'm not keeping score

Maybe you are keeping score—maybe every race result you've checked and every Instagram post you've seen and every group chat message you've responded to with careful neutrality has been part of some elaborate emotional accounting system you're not ready to examine.

You: see you thursday

Lando: see you 

The flight from São Paulo takes eight hours, most of which you spend focused on navigation and weather reports and the familiar comfort of being alone in a cockpit with nothing but instruments and sky. Flying yourself eliminates variables—no commercial delays, no lost luggage, no forced conversation with strangers who want to know what you do for work. Just you and the aircraft and the kind of precise control that's impossible to achieve in any other area of your life.

You land at PLS just after sunset, the Citation's engines winding down as ground crew appears to handle fuel and customs paperwork. The efficiency is impressive even by your standards—private aviation in tourist destinations always moves faster when money isn't an object and your aircraft registration suggests the kind of resources that make bureaucracy disappear.

The house sits on Grace Bay like an architectural digest front cover, it’s when unlimited budgets meet good taste, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows designed to blur the boundary between interior luxury and natural beauty. You'd bought it through a shell company three years ago after a particularly brutal quarter of dealing with international incidents and client emergencies, thinking you needed somewhere to retreat when the world became too much. Instead, you've used it exactly twice, both times for work calls that could have been handled from anywhere with decent internet.

The caretaking service has outdone themselves—the kitchen is stocked, fresh flowers fill the main living areas, and every surface gleams. Through the main windows, you can see lights on the beach, probably coming from whatever restaurant or bar your friends have claimed for the evening.

Your friends. The phrase still feels strange, like claiming ownership of something you're not sure you've earned, but after three months of group chat participation and strategic emotional management, maybe that's what they've become despite your best efforts to maintain careful distance. Your phone buzzes with messages as you drop your bag in the master suite, the group chat lighting up with photos of sunset cocktails and beach lounging and Max apparently losing badly at beach volleyball to Pietra and Oliver.

Magui: this place is INSANE. thank you thank you thank you

Pietra: i'm never leaving

Oliver: missing you! can't wait for you to get here

Lando: safe landing?

The private message comes through while you're scrolling through vacation photos that look exactly like the kind of perfect Caribbean evening you'd expected them to have without you, and something about seeing Lando's concern for your travel safety makes your chest do something complicated.

You: landed an hour ago. in the house

Lando: good. we're at that beach bar down the coast. you should come

You: tired from the flight i’ll catch you guys tomorrow

Lando: right. get some rest

You should be tired—eight hours of flying after two days of client meetings should leave you exhausted enough to fall asleep immediately and wake up ready to fake your way through two weeks of group vacation dynamics. Instead, you find yourself standing on the master bedroom's balcony, looking out at Grace Bay and wondering what would happen if you walked down the beach toward those lights, toward whatever easy camaraderie you've been carefully avoiding for three months.

The sensible thing would be to shower and sleep and approach tomorrow with the kind of strategic emotional planning that's gotten you through every other complicated situation in your adult life. But standing alone in a house that costs more than most people's lifetime earnings, looking out at water that's probably the exact temperature as a warm bath, you can't quite remember why sensible has always seemed so important.

Your phone buzzes again.

Lando: seriously though. glad you're here

You: we'll see how glad you are after two weeks

Lando: looking forward to finding out

The response sits on your screen like a challenge, and you find yourself wondering exactly what you've gotten yourself into by agreeing to spend fourteen days in paradise with people who know you just well enough to see through your carefully maintained emotional armor.

Tomorrow, you decide, you'll figure out how to be normal around Lando and Magui without making everything weird for everyone else. Tomorrow, you'll be the perfect host and supportive friend and definitely not think about what it would feel like to have him look at you the way he used to before everything got complicated. Tonight, you're just going to stand on this balcony and pretend the sound of the ocean is loud enough to drown out the part of your brain that's already calculating exactly how many hours until you see him again.

Five days in, you've perfected the art of being present without actually being present—joining conversations without contributing much, laughing at Max's jokes without feeling the humor, maintaining the kind of pleasant social facade that keeps everyone happy while requiring minimal emotional investment. It's a skill you've honed through years of corporate events and client dinners, the ability to be exactly charming enough without giving away anything real.

But yacht day threatens to destroy your carefully maintained equilibrium, starting with the moment you mention casually over breakfast that you keep a boat at the marina.

"Define 'boat,'" Max says, because apparently he's learned not to take your casual mentions of luxury assets at face value.

"Sixty-foot Sunseeker. Nothing crazy."

Pietra nearly chokes on her coffee. "Nothing crazy, she says. About a yacht that probably costs more than all of our collective salaries."

"It's just efficient for island hopping when I'm working in the Caribbean."

"Right," Lando says, his voice carrying that particular brand of amusement you've been trying very hard not to notice. "Because commercial ferries don't accommodate your schedule."

The comment should be teasing, friendly banter between people who've gotten comfortable with each other over nearly a week of forced proximity. Instead, it lands with the weight of everything you're both not acknowledging—the way he's been carefully avoiding being alone with you, the way you've been timing your arrivals and departures to minimize one-on-one interaction, the way Magui watches both of you sometimes like she's waiting for something to break.

"Something like that," you reply, already regretting the decision to mention the yacht at all.

But Oliver latches onto the idea with the enthusiasm of someone who's spent five days trying to create romantic moments that keep getting interrupted by other people, group dynamics, and your own talent for strategic unavailability.

"This is perfect," he announces, like he's personally solved climate change. "We could take it out today, maybe find a quiet cove somewhere..."

The way he says 'quiet cove' makes it obvious he's envisioning some kind of tropical romance movie scenario where meaningful glances across sun-drenched deck space lead to sunset confessions and finally, finally, some kind of breakthrough in whatever relationship he thinks you're building.

"Sounds lovely," you lie, because saying no would require explanations you don't want to give.

Three hours later, you're standing on the deck of your Sunseeker wearing a black bikini that had seemed perfectly reasonable when you'd packed it but now feels like a tactical error of monumental proportions. It's not particularly revealing—bottoms and a halter top that provides actual support rather than just existing for aesthetic purposes—but it's the first time any of them have seen you in anything other than the carefully composed linen dresses and resort wear that's been your uniform for the week.

The silence when you emerge from the cabin is loud enough to hear over the engine noise.

"Fuck me," Max breathes, then immediately turns red. "Sorry, I didn't mean—that came out wrong."

"No it didn't," Pietra says, grinning as she adjusts her phone camera. "That came out exactly right. Christ, you've been hiding all of that under sundresses?"

You feel heat creep up your neck, the kind of attention you've spent years learning to deflect in boardrooms and conference calls where being noticed for your appearance instead of your competence could undermine everything you've worked to build. But here, surrounded by friends on a yacht you own in water that's approximately the temperature of a perfect bath, the attention feels different. Sharper. More dangerous.

"I work out," you say finally, because someone needs to break the tension and explain why your arms and abs and legs look like you've spent the last decade treating your body like a precision instrument instead of just a convenient way to transport your brain around.

"Work out," Oliver repeats, his voice slightly strangled. "Right. That's... that's what we're calling it."

Lando hasn't said anything, but when you glance in his direction, his expression is carefully blank in a way that suggests he's working very hard to keep it that way. His gaze travels from your face to your shoulders to the curve of your waist and back up again, quick enough to be subtle but long enough that you feel it like a physical touch.

Magui, to her credit, wolf-whistles with genuine appreciation rather than jealousy. "Okay, new rule. No more hiding under clothes. This is what we're working with for the rest of the trip."

"Seconded," Pietra says, already positioning her phone for what's clearly going to be a TikTok documentation of the day. "Also, I'm stealing your workout routine."

"It's mostly Pilates and spite," you reply, settling onto one of the deck loungers with the kind of practiced grace that comes from years of being photographed at corporate events.

"Spite works," Max observes, then immediately busies himself with the cooler when everyone looks at him. "What? I'm just saying spite is obviously a very effective motivator."

You spend the next hour playing the perfect host, directing the crew to anchor in a secluded bay that offers the kind of crystal-clear water and white sand beach that exists mainly in screen savers, making sure everyone has drinks and sunscreen and whatever else they need to fully appreciate the kind of luxury most people only see in magazines.

Pietra and Magui immediately claim the sun deck for what appears to be a comprehensive TikTok shoot involving multiple outfit changes, dance routines, and the kind of confident self-documentation that comes naturally to people who've grown up with social media. Their laughter carries across the water, mixing with whatever playlist Magui's chosen that seems specifically designed to soundtrack perfect Caribbean moments.

Oliver positions himself strategically nearby, offering to reapply sunscreen and bring fresh drinks and generally making himself indispensable in the way that suggests he's hoping proximity will eventually translate into something more meaningful. He's sweet about it, genuinely helpful rather than pushy, but every offer feels weighted with expectation in a way that makes your skin crawl with guilt and frustration.

Max and Lando gravitate toward the water sports equipment, because apparently competitive men can't be around jet skis and paddleboards without immediately turning everything into some kind of athletic contest. You watch them argue about proper form and safety protocols while strapping on life vests, their easy friendship making something in your chest tight with recognition of what you've been missing by keeping everyone at careful distance.

"You're not joining the testosterone competition?" you ask when Lando wanders back to grab water bottles, his hair damp from an initial swim and his skin already showing the kind of tan that suggests he spends more time outdoors than the average person.

"Someone needs to make sure they don't actually kill themselves," he replies, then pauses, his attention catching on the way water droplets are sliding down your arms from the misting system you'd had installed specifically for days like this. "Besides, the view's better from here."

The comment lands heavier than it should, loaded with the kind of double meaning that makes your pulse stutter even though you know he's probably talking about the scenery rather than anything more personal. But his eyes linger on your face just a beat too long, and when you don't immediately deflect with humor or sarcasm, the moment stretches into something that feels decidedly more dangerous than friendly banter.

"Lando!" Max's voice carries across the deck, breaking whatever spell had been building. "Stop flirting with our host and come get destroyed at paddleboard racing!"

"I wasn't—" Lando starts, then catches himself, color rising in his cheeks. "Right. Coming."

He disappears back toward the water, leaving you alone with the growing certainty that five days of careful emotional management is about to become significantly more complicated.

The afternoon dissolves into the kind of perfect Caribbean chaos that probably exists mainly in luxury travel advertisements—Pietra and Magui creating increasingly elaborate content, Max and Lando turning every activity into a competition, Oliver hovering nearby with the devoted attention of someone who's convinced this is his moment to finally break through your carefully maintained walls.

You float between groups, playing host and participant in equal measure, but find yourself increasingly aware of Lando's presence no matter where he is on the yacht. When he's in the water, you notice the efficient way he moves through the waves, the competitiveness that turns even casual swimming into something that looks like athletic training. When he's on deck, you're conscious of his proximity, the way he takes up space without dominating it, the careful way he avoids being alone with you while still managing to be part of whatever conversation you're having.

The tension builds slowly, like pressure in a sealed system, until it becomes impossible to ignore. When he asks if you want to try paddleboarding and his hand brushes yours as he helps you onto the board, the contact sends electricity up your arm that has nothing to do with static from the water. When you challenge him to a race to the beach and back, the competitive banter feels loaded with subtext that makes every exchange feel like foreplay disguised as friendship.

"You're good at this," he observes as you both float near the yacht's swim platform, catching your breath after a competition that ended in a dead heat because neither of you was willing to lose.

"I'm good at most things."

"Yeah," he says, his voice carrying something that might be admiration mixed with something considerably more dangerous. "I've noticed."

The way he's looking at you makes it hard to remember why maintaining distance seemed so important, why preserving his relationship with Magui and your own emotional equilibrium should take priority over finding out what would happen if you closed the three feet of water between you and kissed him like you've been wanting to for three months.

"We should—" you start, then stop, because finishing that sentence requires deciding whether you're going to suggest going back to the group or acknowledging whatever's building between you in the warm Caribbean water.

"We should," he agrees, but he doesn't move, and neither do you, and the moment stretches between you like a held breath waiting to be released.

From the deck above, Magui's laughter mixes with whatever music is playing, a reminder of exactly why this is a terrible idea and exactly what you stand to lose if you let this moment become something you can't take back.

But Lando's still looking at you like you're something rare and dangerous, and the water is warm, and you've spent five days being perfectly controlled and emotionally available to everyone except the person who makes your pulse race just by existing in the same space.

"The others will wonder where we are," you say finally, the words feeling like surrender disguised as practicality.

"Probably," he agrees, but his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second before meeting your eyes again.

"We should get back."

"We should."

But neither of you move, and when a wave pushes you slightly closer together, neither of you pushes back.

The problem with kissing someone in the middle of Grace Bay is that eventually you have to swim back to the yacht and pretend nothing earth-shattering has happened, which turns out to be significantly more difficult than it sounds when your entire nervous system is still humming from thirty seconds of contact that's rewritten your understanding of what wanting someone actually feels like.

You manage it, somehow—the return to normalcy, the careful distance, the performance of being two people who definitely haven't just crossed every line imaginable while floating in water warm enough to dissolve good judgment. Lando helps me back onto the swim platform with hands that linger just slightly too long, and I accept the assistance while pretending my skin isn't burning from the contact, while pretending I can't still taste salt water and desperation on my lips.

The group absorbs us back without question, too absorbed in their own vacation dynamics to notice the charged silence between us or the way we've both become extremely interested in tasks that keep us on opposite sides of the deck. Magui shows me seventeen different TikToks she and Pietra have created, each more elaborate than the last, and I make appropriate appreciative noises while trying not to think about the fact that I've just made out with her boyfriend like some kind of terrible person who deserves whatever karmic justice the universe has planned.

By evening, we've established a new rhythm of careful avoidance disguised as normal group socializing. Dinner at some beachfront restaurant where the service is impeccable and the ambiance screams "romantic Caribbean getaway," except nothing feels romantic when you're sitting three seats away from someone whose mouth you can't stop thinking about while his girlfriend discusses tomorrow's snorkeling plans with the enthusiasm of someone who has no idea her relationship just imploded in the middle of paradise.

"There's this place called Chalk Sound," Magui explains, pulling up photos on her phone. "The water's supposed to be this incredible turquoise color, completely different from everywhere else."

"Sounds perfect," you manage, accepting another glass of wine because alcohol might be the only thing that gets you through this evening without spontaneously combusting from guilt and sexual frustration.

Oliver, meanwhile, has spent dinner treating the entire meal like an extended audition for the role of your romantic interest, regaling the table with stories about his work in sustainable investing that are probably meant to impress you but mostly highlight the vast differences in your respective definitions of risk and success. He means well—they all mean well—but listening to him explain carbon offset markets while you're trying not to look at the way Lando's shirt fits across his shoulders feels like some kind of elaborate psychological torture.

"We should go out," Pietra announces as dessert arrives, because apparently an entire day of tropical perfection isn't enough and we need to extend the evening into whatever passes for nightlife in Providenciales. "I saw this beach bar on the way here that looked amazing."

"I'm actually pretty tired," you lie, because the thought of spending several more hours maintaining this careful façade of normalcy sounds about as appealing as voluntary root canal surgery.

"Come on," Oliver says immediately, because of course he does. "One drink. You've been working so hard this whole trip, you deserve to relax."

The irony would be funny if it weren't so frustrating—being told you need to relax by someone whose presence requires you to be constantly vigilant about managing his expectations and your own responses. But refusing again would draw attention you don't want, questions about why you're suddenly antisocial when you've been playing the perfect host all week.

"One drink," you agree, already mentally calculating how long you'll need to stay before you can escape back to the house and the kind of solitude that allows for proper emotional processing.

The bar turns out to be exactly what you'd expect from a high-end Caribbean resort—palm trees strung with lights, sand floors, and drinks that cost more than most people's daily wages but taste like vacation distilled into liquid form. The music is loud enough to encourage dancing but not so loud that conversation becomes impossible, striking that careful balance between energetic and intimate that probably took teams of consultants to achieve.

We claim a table near the water, the waves providing natural soundtrack to whatever this evening is becoming, and within minutes it's obvious that vacation mode has taken over completely. Max immediately gravitates toward the pool table, challenging random tourists to games he has no business winning but somehow does anyway. Pietra starts documenting everything for what appears to be a comprehensive social media narrative about perfect Caribbean nights, while Magui orders something pink and tropical that arrives garnished with enough fruit to constitute a balanced meal.

You stick to wine, because switching to cocktails seems like the kind of decision that leads to poor judgment and regrettable conversations, and try to focus on being present without actually engaging with the growing tension that seems to crackle in the air every time Lando's attention drifts in your direction.

Which is when James appears.

He's exactly the type you'd expect to encounter at an upscale beach bar in paradise—mid-thirties, expensively casual, with the kind of effortless tan that suggests either excellent genetics or a lifestyle that involves significant amounts of leisure time. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and the sort of confident smile that probably works on most women who haven't spent the last decade building immunity to charming men with unclear motivations.

"I hope you don't mind the interruption," he says, approaching your table, "but I had to ask—were you flying that Citation that landed this afternoon?"

The question catches you off guard, partly because most people can't identify aircraft by sight and partly because it's refreshingly direct compared to the usual terrible pickup lines you encounter in places like this. "Guilty as charged."

"Impressive. Not many people pilot their own jets." He extends a hand with a smile that's warm without being pushy. "I'm James. I run charter operations out of Nassau."

"Another pilot," you say, accepting the handshake while noting the calluses that confirm he actually works with his hands rather than just managing from behind a desk. "What are you flying?"

"Mostly King Airs and Citations for island hopping. Nothing as impressive as what you're operating." He pauses, glancing at your table companions who are all watching this interaction with varying degrees of interest. "Mind if I buy you a drink? I'd love to hear about your setup—it's not often I meet someone who takes their aviation seriously enough to handle their own flights."

It's a good line, professional without being purely business, personal without being inappropriately forward. Under normal circumstances, you might even be interested—James is attractive, clearly competent, and engaging with you about something you actually care about rather than trying to impress you with irrelevant accomplishments or treat you like some kind of prize to be won.

But these aren't normal circumstances, and you're hyperaware of Lando's presence at the table, the way his attention has sharpened at this unexpected development, the way Magui is watching both of you with the kind of curious interest that suggests she's picked up on undercurrents she can't quite identify.

"That's very kind," you begin, preparing to politely decline, when Oliver's voice cuts across the table.

"She's actually with someone," he announces, his tone carrying just enough possessiveness to make your skin crawl. "But thanks for the offer."

The presumption is stunning in its complete incorrectness, and you feel your expression shift into something considerably less friendly as you turn to look at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

Oliver's face goes red, clearly realizing he's made some kind of mistake but not sure exactly what. "I just meant—we're here together, and—"

"No," you say firmly, your voice carrying the kind of authority that usually makes board members reconsider their positions. "We're not together. We're friends, and I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself."

The silence that follows is spectacularly uncomfortable, Oliver looking like he wants to disappear into the sand while everyone else suddenly finds their drinks extremely interesting. James, to his credit, handles the awkwardness with professional grace.

"Well then," he says, his smile returning, "the offer stands. No pressure—just two pilots talking shop."

You glance around the table, taking in Oliver's mortified expression, Pietra's barely concealed amusement, Max's obvious secondhand embarrassment, and Magui's careful neutrality. Lando's watching the entire interaction with something that might be jealousy mixed with frustration, though whether he's frustrated with Oliver's presumption or James's presence is impossible to determine.

"You know what?" you say finally, standing and reaching for your purse. "I'd love to hear about your operation. One drink."

Because sometimes the best way to handle an impossibly complicated situation is to walk away from it entirely, even if it's only temporary, even if it means spending an hour making conversation with a stranger who has no idea he's just become an unwitting participant in whatever emotional chaos you've created for yourself.