lena

That was two months ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Norris," you call out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You didn't answer."

"Because it's not relevant, Norris."

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

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

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

"Check the fit?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're single," he says.

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

"I didn't say that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know what you meant."

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

"It's not a yes either."

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

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

His hands drop to his belt.

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

"What are you—"

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

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

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

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

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

"I will actually leave," you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say please."

Your brain short-circuits. "Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How's the fit?" he asks.

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

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

"Go ahead."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck," he breathes.

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

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

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

"What was that about dinner?" you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ignore Lando Norris for the rest of the fitting.

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

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

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

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

Or the next day.

Or the day after that.

Three weeks pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you get this number?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are you like this?" you ask.

"Like what?"

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

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

"I'm not answering that."

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

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

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

"Then stop thinking about me."

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

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

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

"You deserved it."

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

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

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

"No one can keep you in line."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

"Stop!"

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

"Oh my GOD, Lando!"

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

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

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

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

Friday comes too soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi," he says.

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

His grin is shameless. "Max."

"Of course."

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

"Your selfie was terrible."

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

"Shall we?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?" you ask.

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

"Your hand?"

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

"Yes, actually."

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

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

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

"You're very presumptuous," you manage.

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

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

"Is it working?"

"Is what working?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So?"

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

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

"The point?"

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

"I didn't agree to being photographed."

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

"Lando, please."

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

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

"You told Max—"

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

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

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

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

"Don't push it."

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

"I had a good time," he says.

"Shocking."

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

"So," he says.

"So."

"Can I come up?"

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

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

"I haven't said yes either."

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

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

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

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

"Come on then," he says finally.

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

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

"Which floor?" he asks.

"Seven."

He presses the button. The elevator starts moving.

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

"You're quiet," he says.

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

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

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

Four. Five. Six.

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

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

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

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

"You haven't even looked at it."

"I'm looking at you."

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

"Sure."

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

"Wine?" you ask, opening the fridge.

"Whatever you're having."

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

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

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

"You're staring," you say.

"I know."

"It's rude."

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

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

"Hi," he says quietly.

"Hi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then take it off."

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

He steps back. Looks at you.

"Jesus Christ," he says quietly.

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

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

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

"See something you like?"

"Shut up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lando—"

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

"Touch me."

"I am touching you."

"You know what I mean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jesus Christ," you manage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—fuck—there—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

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

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

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

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

"Twice isn't that impressive."

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at it. Try again. Not Delivered

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. Then Pietra sends the email.

Wonderful, this is going to be absolutely fucking wonderful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There.

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

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

"There she is!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—right?" Max finishes.

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop."

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

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

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

"It wasn't like that."

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

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

"Oh, now you want to talk?"

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

"Why not?"

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

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

"I'm not pretending."

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

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

"You could've been honest, Lando."

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

"Three months late."

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

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

"Lando!"

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

Your stomach drops so fast you actually feel dizzy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, what a fucking joke.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

It works. For four days, it works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's fine."

You close the door. Stand there.

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

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

You're asleep by one. Probably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laughter.

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

He pauses. Looks at Max.

"And then I watched him meet Pietra."

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

Pietra laughs through her tears.

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks."

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

"They did."

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

"I know. I was there."

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

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

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

You don't say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pick up your tablet. Turn toward the door.

"Hey."

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

"What," you say.

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

"Lando."

"I'm just saying."

"You're just saying," you repeat.

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

"Don't," you say.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing something."

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

"Sort it out first," you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't check for anything specific.

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

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

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

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

"Are you and Magui still off?"

Silence. Two seconds, maybe three.

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

"Okay."

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

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

"You're not right."

"I'm always right."

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

"Name one thing."

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

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

He doesn't call for another two months.

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

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

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

You answer on the third ring. Progress.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"I'm in London."

"Okay."

"It's raining."

"It's always raining."

A pause. "I know I went quiet."

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

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

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

"Is everything okay," you ask.

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

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

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

"Is that bad?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not what dessert means."

"That's exactly what dessert means."

"Lando."

"What, it was good cereal."

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

He doesn't call on Sunday.

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

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

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

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

"Merry Christmas," he says.

"It's not Christmas until tomorrow."

"Merry Christmas Eve then."

"That's not a thing."

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

"Yes."

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

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

"Merry Christmas Eve," you say.

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

He doesn't call in January.

Or February. Or March. Or April or May.

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

You're fine.

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

Your laptop pings.

You stop. Go back.

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

It doesn't.

You close the laptop.

Sit there.

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

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

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

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

Your laptop pings and you open it without thinking.

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

One line.

I can explain.

You stare at it for a long time.

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

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

He can fucking wait.