mastermind

lando has his forehead against the cold taxi window, watching monaco slide past outside in a haze of orange light, thinking about nothing in particular except that he's nearly home.

three weeks. austin, then mexico city, then são paulo, back to back to back, a stretch of paddocks and airport lounges that wrung him dry. it’s been weeks since he’s had you in his arms. he’s had the curve of your spine and the smell of your hair on his mind for the entire length of the triple-header. he’d thought about calling last night, but hadn’t, worried you’d hear how sad he was and start crying too. he’d told the team he was flying back in the morning, but the idea of one more night on a starched hotel pillow, the silence of not-you, made him punch in a last-minute booking and wedge himself into a seat on the earliest possible plane.

it's not complicated. he just missed you.

theres a neurochemical whiplash to the change—from track adrenaline to the slurred, irritable exhaustion of a long haul, from the humidity and heat of brasil to the crispness of the monegasque night. he imagines you, tucking yourself into bed, sleepy. the way you’ll probably cry when you see him because you get emotional when you’re exhausted. the thing about loving someone who tires easily is that you start to get addicted to the way they sag into you. the trust in it, the vulnerbaility. lando is thinking about this as the taxi pulls up in front of the apartment building. he drags his duffel out, thanks the driver in mushy french,then keys himself into the lobby. the lift takes forever. he stands in it with his bag and the pervading stench of airplane and his bajillion unread messages from jon, watcing the floor numbers go up.

he opens the door with a metallic snick, careful and quiet in case you’re asleep. the first thing that hits him is the warmth, so different from the chill outside, and saturated with the scent of your perfume. you must have cooked something earlier, he thinks, something rich and garlicky. he kicks off his shoes, toeing them neatly by the door. he can hear sound from the tv in the living room, light from the screen flickering out into the dimly lit room. he leaves his bag by the door. he'll deal with it later.

and there you are, in the living room, curled on the couch. your cheek is smushed into the leather and your lips are parted, a tiny gloss of drool pooling at the edge of your mouth.

the blanket is half off, exposing your bare thigh. your hair is a wreck, mussed and waterfalling over your face. his throat tightens. he’s not sure what it is—maybe the picture you make, all sweet and oblivious, or maybe the memory of how empty the hotel beds felt these last weeks—but it does something to him.

there’s something in him—a failure of emotional maturity, probably, or maybe just a hole in his own childhood—that has always wanted to keep something soft alive, to have something that needs him. he thinks of you as a baby bird, or sometimes a puppy, all twitchy and sweet and trusting. it’s not meant to be an insult. you’re smarter than him, probably. but you’re still so easily tired by the world, so obviously in need of shelter. he sometimes has this weird need to build a house around you and stand outside all night, knife in hand, just in case.

he kneels by the sofa, reaching out to brush stray locks off your cheek. you don’t stir. he wonders if he can get away with watching you like this forever, but theres this greedy, selfish urge clawing at him. he missed you. he needs you to wake up. he drags his knuckles along your jaw, the softest nudge. you make a small noise, nose twitching, and your eyelids flutter. he strokes your face again, more deliberate. “hey, sleepyhead.”

your eyes flutter open, unfocused and bright. you blink slow, like your brain is still rebooting. it’s disgustingly cute.

“‘lando?” your voice is raspy, a little confused.

“hi, sweetheart,” he whispers back, smiling, “didn’t mean to wake you.” lie.

you stare at him, foggy, and your mouth curls into a half-smile, sleepy and dopey. “you’re not supposed to be home,” you say, like you’re accusing him of something horrible.

“missed you,” he says, and he doesn’t try to hide the way his voice breaks. 

you try to sit up, but your limbs are noodles, and you just flop over sideways. he pulls you into his arms instead. you come down easy, melting against him like you want to crawl under his skin. you burrow your head into his armpit, so pliant and so warm that he feels like he could hold you forever.

“i missed you more,” you mumble into his skin. at least that’s what he thinks you say, your words are barely intelligible and slurred with sleep.

he lifts your chin with a finger and looks at you properly. your eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, and your lips are parted, soft and lush. you look like you’ve just been fucked into oblivion, not like you’ve been napping. he grins, a little wolfish, and you catch it, your eyebrows lifting, “whuh?”. 

“you’re just…” he shakes his head, can’t find the right word. “sweet.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s slow, like your brain is wading through syrup. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and tucks your head back against his shoulder. the clock on the wall ticks to 12.

“you should get to bed,” he whispers, but you only whine, a wordless sound that means you want to stay right here, in his lap.

“i’ll carry you,” he offers, only half-joking, because all he wants is you in his arms, but your answering noise is so eager, he can’t help but smile.

“‘kay,” you say, and he hooks an arm under your knees and another around your back and stands, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you just cling, face buried in his neck, hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt. he can feel your smile againt his skin.

he deposits you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you. your hand shoots out for him when he moves away.

“stay,” you whisper.

“i have to shower, sweetheart. i’m disgusting.”

“don’t care,” you slur. “wanna smell you.”

something in his chest squeezes. “5 minutes, yeah?”

you make a vague sound, somewhere between a yes and a snore. 

he showers fast, rinsing the smell of recycled air off him. when he comes back, you’re still in exactly the same position, sweet, defencdeless, and completely his. he crawls into bed next to you, pulling your back against hsi chest. you make a pleased sound.

“i love you,” he breathes into your hair, and he’s never meant anything more in his life. 

he wants to tell you more, everything. how lonely it is in those hotel rooms, how the world feels sharper and meaner when you’re not with him, how the thing he wants most isn’t the win or the champagne or the cameras but this: you, drooling on him, arms around him, so tired you can barely keep your eyes open but still greedy for his touch. how he could have all of the podiums and the trophies in the world, and how it’d still mean nothing without you.

but he knows you’re about to fall asleep again—he can feel your breath evening out, your muscles going slack—so instead he swallows the emotion down.

he kisses the crown of your head, then your temple, then your lips. you smile in your sleep, making a little blissed-out noise, and lando thinks: if this is what the rest of my life is, i’ll never need anything else.

꩜

lando wakes to sunlight spilling through the blinds. your arm is splayed over his chest, your hand has curled loose around his bicep. there’s a damp spot on his chest where you must have drooled, which makes him smile.

he’s always felt a little sick with how much he loves you. it gnaws at his insides, the affection. sometimes he thinks about you as a child—photos of you with fat cheeks and scraped knees, the stories you tell about getting locked out of the house by your older brother. he gets obsessed with the idea of having known you then. he wants to peel back the years and wrap his arms around every version of you, keep you safe and soft and protected, make sure nothing ever bruises you except the things he can kiss better.

he moves a fraction, and you grunt in protest, wiggling closer back into him. there’s something almost perverse about how easily you fold into him, no friction at all, only this puddling collapse. its like your bones have liquefied in the night. an hour ticks by and evebtually, you shift, eyelids fluttering. 

“lando,” you mumble, and then, “lando, don’t let me go.”

he squeezes you and you nestle in. you’ve always been the coldest human alive, and in winter you use him like a hot water bottle. he lets you, likes it even, how you shove your iceblock feet between his legs. 

eventually, you begin to stir. it starts with a hand at his waist, searching for him under the sheets. he rolls you to face him, and you blink up at him, dazed in the blue morning light. your hair’s a disaster, and your face is creased from the pillow. he wants to bite you, a little, just to see what you’d do.

you reach for him again, pulling his arm across your chest so his hand lands on your tits. you sigh, content, and it’s so obvious what you want that he has to laugh.

“missed me that much, huh?” he teases, but you don’t rise to the bait. you just push your tits into his palm and shiver, like you’re cold, like you can’t get enough of him. he obliges, thumb brushing over your nipple until it’s hard and you’re making those tiny whimpering sounds he loves.

“lando,” you whisper, drawn out and needy. he’s been waiting weeks to hear you like this.

he kisses you, slow and deep, licks into your mouth until you go slack. you melt, your body going boneless under his touch. he takes his time, kissing you like you’re oxygen. your tongue is lazy, letting him do what he wants, and he does—tilting your head, biting your lip, sucking your tongue until you moan into his mouth.

you whine when he pulls away, hands chasing him in effort to keep him close. he loves that—loves how you go floaty and dumb for him, how your only thought is how to get him closer.

he kisses your jaw, your throat, then slides down to lift your top, taking your nipple in his mouth. you arch, pulling him closer.

“greedy,” he laughs, low in his chest, and you only nod, lost to the sensation. he traces down your ribs, his hand spanning your waist, thumbs hooking into the band of your shorts. you buck up, hips chasing his touch, and he’s so hard it almost hurts, his cock pressed against your thigh.

“you want me?” he murmurs, and he’s a little mean about it because you always say yes, but this time you’re so gone you can’t even speak. you just nod, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth open, panting. he slides his hand down, cups your pussy over the fabric, and you whimper. he can feel the heat leaking through cotton.

“so wet, baby,” he coos, smug, and rubs slow circles through your shorts until you’re grinding desperate against his hand. he wants to see you, wants to fuck you until you can’t walk, but more than anything he wants you to just let go, let him do everything for you. 

he slides his palms under the fabric and squeezes your ass. you grind down, making his cock twitch.

“jesus, you’re needy,” he murmurs, almost reverent.

you only make a broken, whimpery sound. he flips you, easy as tossing a pillow, and you let yourself be manhandled. he wants to laugh again, at how much you love being small, how much you love being handled, but it would ruin the spell. your eyes flutter shut, maybe with exhaustion, maybe with pleasure.

“you awake?” lando asks softly, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose.

“’m awake,” you slur, your expression caught between bliss and confusion. “missed you so much.”

“did you now?” he traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, nipping at your earlobe.

“mm. missed you. missed your cock,” you mumble, almost too quiet to hear.

he freezes, then pulls back to look at you. you’re blushing, but smiling, all the same.

“greedy,” he tuts, but the word is thick with lust.

“please?” you manage, and the word is so pathetic, so honest, he has no choice but to oblige you. 

he peels your shorts down, and you try to help, barely, lifting your hips just enough for him to slide them off. your cunt is glistening, wet and puffy. he touches you gently, running his fingers over your clit, and you choke out a moan, clutching at his arm.

he shushes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. just relax.”

“inside?” you look up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “lando, inside, please?”

and fuck, that voice. what else can he do but give you what you are so sweetly begging him for?

he peels off his boxers and lines himself up, presing the head of his cock against you and pushing in slow, savouring every inch of it. you gasp, back arching, hands grabbing for his arms, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself. 

“okay?” he asks, even though you’re already nodding, already grinding back onto him.

“feel so good,” your voice is slow, like you can’t concentrate on all the sensations at once.

he pulls out, thrusts back in, slow and shallow, and watches you come apart under him. you keep making these soft, kittenish sounds, keep scratching shallow lines down his back. he wants to fuck you harder, wants to pin you down and make you scream, but he knows that’s not what you need.

“pretty girl,” he praises, “you’re so fucking pretty. my good girl.”

“please,” you breathe. you’re almost crying, you don’t even know what you’re begging for. 

he leans down, mouth at your ear, “you can cum, sweetheart. want you to.”

you do, eyes screwed shut and panting, cunt fluttering around his cock. then you melt, arms falling away. you blink up at him, dazed and grateful, a tiny smile pulling at your lips.

“’s good,” you mumble, then yawn, already half-asleep again.

he’s hasn’t finished, but he doesn’t care. he stays inside, just holding you, more for you than to chase his own pleasure. he thinks about just thrusting back inside you so he can cum—it’d be so quick, so easy—but looking at you, sated and sleepy, he knows he can't ruin that.

you whimper when he tries to pull out, arms and legs locking around him, trapping him inside.

“okay,” he laughs, breathless, so full of love he could burst, “okay, baby. i’ll stay.”

you sigh, content, and in minutes you’re asleep again, still clutching him. he stays inside you, uncomfortably hard, the heat of your cunt making his head swim, but he’s never been so happy.

he’s stuck there, buried in you, and it feels like the only place in the world he’s supposed to be. the room is warm and light, and lando thinks he might die here, in this bed, in this moment, and be happy forever.

He stopped, hands spread in the air like a mime and the barest flicker of calculation passed behind his so-called baby blues. You’d learned: mischief was always a step ahead of sense for him. “You’d lose anyway,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s a punishment.”

You shrugged, letting your sweater slip off one shoulder. Oversized, peachy-pink, made to look like it had been dunked in cotton candy. “Afraid?” You said and meant it the way only people who had nothing on the line could.

“Dying to humiliate you,” he replied, grinning with an edge that put a splinter in the evening.

Lando took the deck from your lazy shuffle, squared it with a snap and let the cards bloom between his hands like he’d done it for a living. You sat across from him at his chipped dining table, the air sharp with the metallic tang of energy drinks and last night’s pasta. Overhead, a single bulb attuned the world to sepia, only cards crisp and clean as new money.

“Texas hold’em?” he suggested, voice mockingly formal, like he was dealing at a casino lounge and not in his own mess of a dining room, bone-tired, with mismatched socks and a faint stubble.

“Dealer’s choice,” you said, words coming out a challenge, a push into the place you both liked best—rules being set and promptly broken. “Prizes change per round?”

He considered. “Loser removes one item of choice. Hard mode: accessories count.”

His hands, broad-knuckled and always a bit scarred, fanned the deck with such soft precision you looked anywhere but his face. That off-season, he’d grown into them, the wrists less bony, the veins under the skin like a roadmap of every stupid thing he’d done for fun. Two cards to each. Your hands, smaller by a lot, used to faking expertise, riffled the corners and searched for tells in the way he leaned forward, elbows on table, chin tilted up.

You lost the first three hands in a row. You’d always known you were bad at this but pretended otherwise, because the failure amused you. You let your hair out of its spiral tie, then shed the tie-dye slippers you’d bought for two euros outside the Gare de Nice. Lando watched and did not gloat, which was worse, somehow.

“You’re weirdly calm for someone getting destroyed,” he said, collecting the cards with offensive amounts of confidence.

“Destroyed is a bit dramatic.”

“You’ve lost, like, three times.”

“You’re counting?” You arched a brow at him.

He looked up slowly. “Baby, it’s poker.”

You rolled your eyes like it meant nothing, but your fingers stalled against the edge of the table anyway. “Can you not do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“The—” you gestured vaguely toward him, annoyed already that you sounded annoyed, “the pet name thing.”

A grin threatened at the corner of his mouth. “Baby?”

You hated how easily he said it, casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, specific enough that it never really did.

“See?” you said.

“What?” He leaned back in his chair, smug and all sharp edges. “You get weird every time.”

“I do not get weird.”

“Uh huh.” His gaze flicked over your face, too observant for someone pretending to joke. “You forget how to talk and everything.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

“Oh, massively.” He pointed lazily at the pile beside your chair. “Those slippers were tragic, by the way.”

You gasped. “Those are vintage.”

“Those are ugly.”

“They cost two euros.”

“That explains a lot.”

On hand four, he finally misplayed a pair of jacks, limped in then got bluffed off the river by a bet he should never have folded to. As quietly as if it hadn’t mattered, Lando shrugged off the battered hoodie, peeling it over his head in one neat, balletic motion that made a show of his neck and the untidy border of sunburn at the base of his throat. He dumped it onto the back of his chair and, maybe out of habit, combed a palm back through his hair. Static turned it wild. You raised both brows, savoring the equalizing shift in atmosphere.

“What, no victory lap?” he said.

“I’m trying to be gracious,” you said with a satisfaction that suited your mouth.

“You?” He leaned back in the chair, disbelief all over his face. “Never met her.”

“I’m evolving.”

“Into what?”

You tilted your head. “Someone who enjoys watching you lose.”

He grinned slowly, dangerously.

“Careful,” he said. “You sound excited.”

You reached for the cards before he could see your face properly. “Shut up and deal.”

The next deal went fast, a miniature war of attrition, neither of you willing to fold early. Lando began to tap his fingers against the table when the board cards came up bad for him, and the rhythm sent a low, taut hum through the plastic laminate.

“You tap when you’re annoyed,” you said casually.

His eyes flicked up. “No, I don’t.”

“You do.” You pointed at his hand. “Like that.”

“That means nothing.”

“That means your cards suck.”

Lando squinted his eyes and sat back in his chair like he’d suddenly remembered he was being observed. “Okay,” he dragged out. “Didn’t realize we were calling out tells.”

“You have tells?”

“You blink weird when you bluff.”

You stared at him. “I absolutely do not.”

“Mm.” He looked unconvinced. “Also, you keep looking at your good cards twice.”

“That’s just strategy.”

“That’s just cheating adjacent.”

“You don’t even know what cheating adjacent means.”

“It means,” he said, pointing lazily across the table, “you’re suspicious.”

You stalled, feigned focus, but the turn and river were junk and your own bluff collapsed as soon as he raised. You blinked at the cards, at your half-finished hand, dumbly surprised by how fast losing added up.

“No way,” you muttered.

“Oh, babe.” Lando leaned forward with unbearable sympathy. “That was painful to watch.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re bad at poker.”

One sock went next—the left, since it had a pink Sharpie stain across the toe from a night you’d never agree to talk about—and you peeled it off with a theatrical gasp, like a magician revealing the world’s most disappointing trick. You set it beside the slippers, almost proud. Lando grinned more with his eyes than anywhere else, a flicker of something that looked like encouragement, if one was feeling generous.

He swept up the cards and started shuffling again, easy, like dealing wasn’t its own kind of flex. His legs swung under the table, restless as hell, and every now and then he shot you a glance that was half challenge, half something else—maybe checking if you’d bail before the stakes got embarrassing, maybe just making sure you were still all-in.

Within two more hands, the game shifted from symbolic to literal. Lando dropped his final sock like a gauntlet, bare feet splayed pigeon-toed under the table. He’d started leaning after each showdown, reaching one arm across the laminate, making your half-folded hand close in on itself each time—like he was reminding you he could swallow the table, or you, any minute he wanted.

You bled losses and at a certain point, the game was just about what you could get away with calling “an accessory”. Somewhere between hands, you caught him staring and, for once, not pretending otherwise. Not your face—lower, briefly, at the line where the oversized sweater slipped when you leaned for the pot. He looked away too late.

“You know,” you said, stacking cards badly just to watch him squirm, “for someone winning, you seem weirdly distracted.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“At what?”

His jaw shifted like he almost said something honest. “Survival.”

Ultimately, your sweater went next, overhead in a single smooth movement. You wore a bralette top, thin-strapped and gray, the kind meant to be hidden beneath other things, not for display. Lando took in the exposed skin, but only let the corners of his mouth hitch. 

“You can still quit,” he said, shuffling with fake generosity.

“You want me to?”

“No,” he said eventually. “Just checking if you scare easy.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You first.”

Something sharpened in his expression then, playful tipping into something hungrier. “Careful,” he said. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna misunderstand.”

Before you could respond he returned to shuffling and murmured: “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes instantly. “What does huh mean?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded like something.”

He tapped the edge of his cards against the table, mouth twitching. “Just didn’t think you were gonna commit to the bit.”

“You thought I’d chicken out?”

“I thought,” he said carefully, eyes dipping and then coming back up, “you’d suddenly remember modesty.”

You snorted. “Please. You’ve seen me in swimsuits.”

“Different setting,” he said. He picked up his cards, looked at them, immediately put them back down.

“Bad hand?” you asked.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“That bad?”

His eyes flicked over you once, helplessly. “Catastrophic.”

You held his stare for a second too long. The apartment felt strangely small all of a sudden—the bulb overhead buzzing faintly, Monaco glittering uselessly through half-shut blinds, his stupid gold-tipped deck clicking soft against the table.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying for teasing and landing somewhere closer to careful.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking too hard.”

His thumb dragged once over the corner of his cards.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’m realizing this might’ve been a bad idea.”

You snorted. “Because you’re losing?”

“No,” he said, eyes dipping briefly before coming back up. “Because you get competitive.”

“You scared?” you asked.

His mouth twitched. “Little bit.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse stutter. You cleared your throat. “Play your hand, Norris.”

“I am,” he said.

“You literally haven’t looked at your cards.”

“Distracted.”

You narrowed your eyes again. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m literally sitting here.”

“No,” you said, pointing a card at him. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you act all smug when actually you’re nervous.”

He barked a laugh. “Nervous? Of what?”

You opened your mouth, then stopped. Suddenly you weren’t sure.

The game, maybe. Or the fact that somewhere between making fun of him and accusing him of cheating, the air had changed.

“You tell me,” you said quietly.

For once, he didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he watched you—elbows on the table, mouth tipped like he wanted to say something reckless and was deciding whether the fallout would be worth it.

You hated the way your stomach dipped. “You’re trying to psych me out.”

“Working?”

“No.”

“Liar.” His eyes stayed on you a second too long before finally dropping to the table and somehow that felt worse. You dealt the turn too fast.

“There,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“You do it again.”

“Do what?”

“That thing.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “Inside of your cheek.”

You froze.

“Oh my god,” he grinned. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not!”

“You literally are.”

“Play the hand!”

“You’re stressed,” he said, delighted now. “Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

You looked down instinctively.

“Rookie mistake,” Lando tsked, collecting the pot.

The next round, he lost again—let out a hiss between his teeth, accused you of stacking the deck, but did not protest as he peeled his shirt. He wore a gold chain, weirdly elegant, resting against the flat brown of his collarbone. The exposed line of his chest, darker where summer had burned in the edges of the sun, didn’t look real in the dining room’s old bulb, too cinematic, or stupidly lit.

Your hands shook a little as you shuffled, but he didn’t comment on it this time, just watched, waiting for the next opening.

“We’re terrible at normal hobbies,” you said, glancing around the apartment. “Other people bake. Or watch movies.”

“We tried Monopoly once.”

“You threatened to flip the table.”

“You were extorting me.”

“That’s capitalism, babe.”

His laugh came out softer than expected. “God, we’d be unbearable if anyone had to live with us.”

Lando kept losing, but only by enough that the game stayed alive, the slow scrape of cards on plastic a rhythm in itself. Your skirt was next by the rules, but you waited, dealt another hand, and when you lost, you decided to make it a small performance.

You stood, flashed a warning look in case it would embarrass him, but he just spread his hands like an invitation. The skirt undid at the waist with a pop, slid down your legs and you let it catch at mid-thigh, then drift down, a deliberate, silly, careful thing. You expected him to laugh, call you a dork, but Lando sat with his lips parted, eyes fixed, for once not ahead of the moment. The bralette and underwear you’d picked at random that morning were a soft set, one banded in elastic the other a faded gray; the colors clashed in the way only comfort could justify.

You sat back down and flicked a new hand his way. The room didn’t feel cold, but the air moved different without the drag of fabric. You pressed your knees together, then apart, unsure if the move was defense or emphasis. Lando’s gaze raked where it would, intent but not crude, and you caught yourself matching his energy, hungry but controlled.

Lando took his cards and didn’t even look at them.

“You alright?” you asked, because suddenly he was quiet in a way he usually wasn’t.

“Yeah.” he spat out too fast.

You tilted your head. “You look traumatized.”

A breath of laughter left him, thin around the edges. “You’re very committed to winning,” he said.

“That sounded accusatory.”

“It’s admiration.” His thumb dragged absentmindedly over the edge of a card. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

His eyes flicked up. “Still think you’re cheating.”

“I’m literally losing.”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to lower suspicion would say.”

When he lost, he palmed the waistband of his shorts like he might hesitate, then just pulled them off, no hesitation. He had, of course, boxers with tiny racing flags.

“I swear to god,” you snorted, but the sound came out wobbly, nerves and thrill braided through every word.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want this exact aesthetic,” he shot back, and for a second you saw the posture slip, a flicker of something young and hopeful, still trying to impress.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you humiliated in those,” you said, unconvincing as possible, buying time, feigning dominance, but so aware all at once of your own body, the bright band of skin at your ribcage, the prickling heat pooling at the nape of your neck.

The next round was messy, hands dealt amid the static pulse of shared tension. You lost and there was no graceful way to do it: bralette off, shoulders raised a tick with the effort of pretending you didn’t care. Underneath, only your bra, an old, lacey thing with one loose strap, soft-edged but not particularly constructed for support or display. You pulled the top overhead, the fabric catching briefly in your hair, and flicked it at Lando’s chest. He caught it with two fingers, spun it like a lariat, and set it on his growing trophy pile.

“No commentary?” You asked, defiant, proud.

“Was just…unexpectedly decent, honestly.” He gave a lazy arch of brow, gaze flicking downward only for a nanosecond, but the effect was a punch in the belly, no matter how tiny the movement.

“This is the level of trash talk?” You said. “You’ll never make it in Vegas.”

“You wouldn’t make it past TSA.” He dealt the next hand, face stony, but his ears burned in high relief against his skin.

“Do you always get blushy when you’re losing?” You asked, prodding the gap that opened up between his words.

“Only when it’s you,” he shot back, but too quick to be calculated.

But it was you who lost again. This time, you didn’t try to stretch for an accessory. Instead, you reached behind, unhooking the bra with a twist and a practiced catch. For a flash you hesitated; then the straps slipped down, freeing your breasts, which lifted and settled with the inertia of action movie slow-mo.

Lando’s attention snapped to them, then up to your face, then—failing to adapt—lingered at the curve of your chest, as if the rest of you had dissolved into a glowing field of possibility.

“That’s just unsportsmanlike,” he said, but it sounded a lot like awe, mixed with a kind of stunned panic.

“Eyes up,” you said. 

“They—” His jaw caught. “You’re just gonna sit there with them out?”

“Unless you’re forfeiting,” your voice came out playful but tight.

He blinked hard, swallowed, and grinned with a kind of desperate bravado. “You think I can’t handle some nudity? You’ve seen the paddock pranks. I’ve known guys who walked around with less than that.”

“You’re not facing them across a table, Norris.”

“You’re right,” he said, “Much harder to bluff against.” He flicked his cards, trying for casual, but fumbled the fourth one and had to scoop it up quick. It was like the air itself had thickened, charged and sticky, all eyes and adrenaline and the sick, sweet ache of being seen.

He played it off and squared the deck against the table with unnecessary concentration, shoulders pulling taut like composure could be manufactured through posture alone.

From where you sat, the fan of cards conveniently hid half his face. His eyes stayed lowered, expression carefully blank, thumb dragging over the corners like he was deep in strategy. Thinking. Calculating.

Except… The cards weren’t nearly high enough.

You tilted your head, watching the slow flick of his gaze over the rim of the hand he held—up, down, then stubbornly back again, like if he committed hard enough to the performance maybe reality would cooperate. The corners of your mouth twitched.

“You know,” you said lightly, resting your chin in your palm, “usually people look at their cards during poker.”

“I am looking at the cards,” he replied immediately. “Where else would I be looking?”

You raised a brow. “Sure you are.”

His grip tightened around the hand. “I literally am.”

“Mhm.”

He finally looked up, defensive in the way only guilty people ever were. “Why are you acting like I’m not?”

You leaned forward just enough to glance pointedly at the angle of the cards still hovering somewhere south of eye level.

“Because unless the ace of spades suddenly moved locations to my tits,” you said sweetly, “I don’t think that’s what you’re staring at.”

For one suspended second, he looked caught. He huffed a laugh through his nose, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he hated that you’d clocked him.

“In my defense,” he said, voice quieter now, helpless, “this is deeply distracting.”

“Oh, now who’s bad at poker?”

“You weaponized the situation,” he muttered. His eyes dropped again briefly, hopelessly, as if he’d been waiting for the reveal and now struggled to keep his eyes on your face, like the gravity of skin and shadow across your chest had tilted the entire room. You grinned slow and mean, all teeth.

“Keep gawking, Norris. See where it gets you,” you said, wiggling your fingers to prompt the next deal.

He snapped his eyes up, but it didn’t matter; the image of you, tits bare in the slanted light, was burned across his vision. He tried to play it off, making a show of shuffling, but this only highlighted his hands, jittery with, what, adrenaline? Nerves? You watched him and wondered—what did you look like to him right now? Were you even a person or more of a dare, a shape distilled down to the sum of everything forbidden and bright?

The cards fanned out slick between his palms, then splayed across the table, a challenge and a lifeline. You picked up your hand, leaned forward, aware now of every inch of bared skin and the way it caught the warm spill of overhead light. Lando’s gaze dipped again, caught, and you spread your arms over the table like a dealer in a backroom casino, letting your hair slip forward. His breathing got loud, shallow, almost a comic effect, but you didn’t laugh.

“Can’t handle the view?” You teased, bending further to rest your weight on your forearms, milking his hesitation for all it was worth.

He barked a short laugh, but the sound came out tight. “I can handle anything. Just didn’t expect you to go nuclear so fast.”

“Next time, maybe don’t bring a pea shooter to a gunfight.” You straightened, your hair falling down your back, then flung the best of your cards onto the table with practiced indifference. He lost the hand, spectacularly.

“You’re slipping,” you said.

He made a show of groaning. “You’re distracting. Deliberately so.”

“You know the rules, Norris.” You gestured.

Lando pushed his chair back with a scrape against the floor. He stood slowly, the dining room light catching every line of his bare chest and the gold chain that sat low on his collarbone. His racing flag boxers did nothing to hide the thick outline pressing against the fabric, the head of his cock clearly defined, the shaft straining sideways. A damp spot had already formed at the tip.

You leaned back in your seat, eyes dropping straight to it. “Well, well. Someone’s enjoying losing.”

He shifted his weight, one hand hovering near his waistband. The bulge twitched under your stare. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a shaky laugh.

You tilted your head. “You’re really gonna stand there pretending that’s not because of me?”

Lando swallowed. His fingers hooked the elastic but didn’t pull. “Are you really gonna make me do this?” His voice came out rough, almost pleading, eyes flicking between your face and the cards still scattered on the table. The tent in his boxers gave another visible throb, precum darkening the fabric further.

You let the moment lilt, let your own breath sputter a little with the effort of pretending not to care. The ache between your own legs built, a simmering distraction that made you want to taunt him or maybe just close the space and see how far you could push each other before the game broke.

You squared your chin, met his stare head-on. “Let’s see it, Norris.”

He still hesitated, hand still braced at his waist. You thought he might protest, stall for time, but instead he snapped the elastic down in one practiced jerk. The boxers dropped, revealing all of him—a lad-mag moment, but more honest: his cock sprung out, flushed high and lined rigid, the swells of his balls cinched tight. He was huge—hard enough to look painful—and he let the sight hang there between you, a challenge, almost a dare. You could see his chest lift with each shallow breath.

“Happy?” he said. It was sharp, but the way he said it—voice rough and just a shade tremorous—made it the opposite.

You let your eyes travel the length of him, open and unkind, but the stirring inside you made it harder to fake composure. “I’d give it a solid eight,” you said, and flashed teeth when he bristled. “Maybe nine with a better presentation.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected the reply to bite. “You’re relentless.”

“You wouldn’t want it any other way.” You tried for a poker face, but the muscles around your mouth had their own ideas. You cracked a knuckle, relishing his discomfort, then swept the deck into a fresh pile. “One more hand. Showdown.”

He was naked, you were nearly; the air between you buzzed like something electrical, dangerous enough that another person would have flinched away.

“Well, Norris,” you said, “what do you want to bet now?”

He laughed and the sound surprised him, bright and a little wild, a laugh that opened him to the room, to you, to what would happen next. “You in for double or nothing?”

You pushed the chair out and stood, so close now the shadows could barely fit between you. “Stakes?”

He tried not to look at your chest but did anyway—how the light caught at the curves, the color play of skin and shadow, the delicate network of lines below your collarbone. “Loser has to—” he started, but came up blank. He wanted to say, loser has to stop pretending, loser has to close the gap, loser has to admit what they’ve been angling at since the beginning, since the queen’s face on the coffee table, since the first time you ever called him afraid.

You grinned, reading his silence, filling it with your own offer. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want,” your voice was husky now, catching in the faintest way on each word.

The room held its breath. He could feel nothing but the orbit of your body, the heat off your skin, the want in the air. For the first time in his life, Lando Norris felt like he was about to crash, and instead of pulling off, he let it ride. He nodded, serious now. “You’re on,” he said, and dealt the cards onto the battered tabletop.

The hand-up was abysmal. No chance, nothing left, just three busted low cards and the knowledge that you were going down swinging. You let the dead hand drop, the cards spat out on the laminate. Lando’s face cracked into a wide, victorious grin, but you could taste the hunger in it, the sharp glint in his eyes that meant this had stopped being a joke somewhere in the last three hands.

“Show them,” he said.

“Hell no,” you said, cheeks hot and reached for the waistband of your underwear. They were nothing fancy, just the last in a string of cheap cotton, navy blue, with a faded logo on the hip—relic from a week you’d spent trying to convince yourself you were organized enough to buy matching sets. You hooked a thumb into the elastic—but before you could slide them down, Lando stood. The chair legs groaned back and he was beside you, close enough to feel the static shudder between your bodies. His hand caught yours lightly, but the grip had no give.

“What—” you looked up, ready for some smartass quip, but the words jammed against the back of your teeth.

His hand drew yours away from your own hip and pressed your palm flat to the rough table. You couldn’t tell if he was smirking or just absolutely focused, but either way he had your attention.

“I won,” he said, his voice rough. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, still hot. “Don’t tell me you’re so predictable you want a striptease—”

“That’s not what I want.” He leaned in so close you could taste the sweet sting of his gum, the faint musk of his skin, sun and vinyl and something underneath. “I want you to let me do it. Unwrap you like a fucking present.”

You tried for a laugh and it cracked, nothing behind it. “You’re full of it.”

His hand was already on your thigh, thumb tracing circles low and slow, just above the line of the cotton. “Maybe. But you’re not stopping me.”

In fact you opened your knees a fraction, letting him slot between, the edge of the table digging a pleasant groove into the backs of your thighs. His other hand slipped behind, bracing at your lower back, and you felt a dizzy, childish urge to dare him to keep going.

The elastic band stretched under his fingers. He pulled it out and away, snapping it against your hip, a little flicker of shock sharp and brilliant. You jolted, laughing, but the shock gave way to a sizzle that ran straight up your spine. You could feel the heat in your face, your neck, all the way between your legs.

“You’re not gentle,” you whispered. You didn’t mean it as an insult.

He grinned, a flash of white. “Never.”

He crouched until he was eye-level with your navel, hands braced at your hips. The slow slide of your underwear was deliberate, like a performance, and for a second you felt on display, stripped to nothing not just of material but of defenses, jokes, everything. The reality of your bare skin—your breasts, your thighs, the prickle at the crest of your pubic bone—made your skin catch fire and ache somewhere you didn’t have words for. You expected nerves, but instead there was just a hungry, animal want: to see if his mouth would follow his hands, to see if he’d fuck with you or just fuck you.

He made it about halfway down before pausing, breath ghosting over every inch he revealed. His lips traced the soft swell of your belly, then a tiny, mocking kiss to the base of your navel. The panties bunched at your knees, caught, and you thought he’d stop, milk the moment, but instead he knelt in front of you.

He didn’t even bother with the old sports commentator routine or some cheesy victory whoop. Instead, he pushed your legs further apart, sliding you toward the edge until the flex of your inner thighs sang a warning. Then he just—stared. You could feel your cunt go hot and wet, obvious even to the air, and the urge to close your knees warred with the sick compulsion to see what he’d do next.

“Damn,” he said, voice gone hoarse. His hands drifted up, fingertips resting feather-light on your knees, denting down, as if he was weighing the muscle beneath the skin. He glanced up, holding you in his crosshairs, and grinned—feral, victorious. “Are you gonna pretend that’s not all because of me?”

You tried to laugh, to downplay, but the sound snagged somewhere behind your teeth. Lando dragged a slow exhale, then thumbed along the crease of your thigh, tracing circles that seemed to pulse with your heartbeat. The muscles of his jaw flexed as he drew himself closer and his breath hit damp and sweet against you, warping the air between you.

There was no warning, not even a smirk. He ducked, lips catching the inside of your knee, teeth a teasing scrape, and you went rigid—not because you were nervous, but because no one had ever made anything so simple feel so obscene. His tongue flicked, heat and salt and the tiny, electric pain of stubble, and you were so aware now, every nerve ending in your groin a live wire.

He worked his way up, slow and methodical, each press of his mouth hotter, hungrier, his hands shifting to keep your legs open, locked wide and helpless. The first brush of his tongue was barely a touch, but it sent a shock so sharp your whole body juddered like a misfiring engine. Lando clocked the reaction and made a private game of torturing you, lapping bold up the seam, then drawing back just when you squirmed against the surface.

“You want me to—?” he started, voice muffled and dark with laughter, but you cut him off with a groan, fisting your hand in his hair and shoving his head back between your legs.

He took the hint, this time going all in—tongue gliding flat, wide, an unhurried circuit that made your hips tip up. He hummed and the sound, vibrating straight through, nearly undid you. He licked and sucked, every trick as precise as when he feathered a car through a high-speed chicane, zero room for error. Each flick and lap built on the last, an incremental drag through madness, and your whole body started to shake, tremors rolling up your spine.

Somewhere in the middle of it, your cards—your pathetic, doomed hand—slid off of the table when you leaned back too hard, skittering across the laminate in a useless scatter.

You barely noticed. The edge of the dining table pressed into the small of your back as you tipped farther against it, chasing breath, chasing balance. Sweat gathered where skin met wood, tacky and warm, and one stupid card—queen of hearts, of course—ended up plastered crooked against your spine, clinging there like the universe was mocking you.

You reached blindly behind yourself, fingertips brushing cardboard stuck to damp skin, but the movement only made the mess worse—more cards dragged along with you, bending at the corners, sticking where sweat had turned the whole night sticky and ridiculous.

The room spun, lit gold by the single bulb, the city a smear of silver across the window, the linoleum tacky beneath your toes. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, nails biting into wood, as Lando’s hands pinned you at the hips and dragged you closer, greedy, like he needed to taste all of you at once.

You were never quiet and he didn’t want you to be; every gasp, every curse, every threat to kill him if he didn’t keep going fed back into the loop. His tongue circled, then pressed; his hands tight at your thighs, bruising, holding you open wider. When you bucked your hips he laughed into you, the vibration electric.

“Jesus, Norris—” you ground the heel of your palm into your mouth, delirious with the pressure, the build building, cresting, unmanageable.

“You still wanna bluff?” he said, barely lifting his head.

“Fuck—fuck you—” you could barely catch your breath.

“Yeah?” Tongue flat, voice muffled, “Tell me you want it.”

You said, “I want it, shut up, keep going,” and he did, relentless, until the line inside you snapped. You came so hard you saw white. There was no time for embarrassment or composure; you jerked, spasmed, rode the aftershocks until your body felt wrung out and boneless.

You blinked, vision coming back, and realized your legs were trembling. Lando was still on his knees, mouth slick with you, watching you with the pride of someone who’d won the only game that mattered.

“Holy shit,” you said or tried to. It came out as a croak.

He stood up smoothly, stared a second, then wiped his mouth, smirk barely controlled. His cock, still hard and heavy, bobbed between you, nudging your thigh.

You stood next and caught his chain as you moved. He was smirking, sure, but you didn’t miss the flex at his jaw, the white-knuckle tension in his fingers where they clamped the tabletop. He’d just reduced you to shreds and expected, what? That he’d stay in control? No fucking chance.

“My turn.” You pressed him down into the chair; he went, not resistant but not relaxed either, muscles twitching under your hands. His cock curved upward, flushed so dark it looked bruised at the tip, so slick you half-wondered if he would’ve finished if you’d taunted him just a few seconds longer. It was unreasonably pretty, like the rest of him, and massive—impossible not to stare. You liked knowing you’d done that.

Lando watched you, half-lidded, head tilted with a look that should’ve been cocky but landed closer to desperate. There was a dare in his eyes, as close to begging as he’d ever let himself get outside of a car. You wrapped your hand around the base, thumb sweeping up with the drag of precum, and the hiss that escaped him was all reward.

Your grip was experimental, not careful—you didn’t want careful, you wanted to see how fast you could turn him inside out. You stroked once, twice, letting the head bump the heel of your palm, then bent at the knees, lined yourself up and took him in. He swore instantly, a noise somewhere between a whimper and a curse. It made you feel like a god.

His hands hovered at your temples, like he meant to guide you and then thought better of it. You bobbed your head, tongue swirling the way you’d always pretended to on fruit flavored popsicles, except now he was the one melting.

“Fuck, you’re—” he said, but no noun followed. You hummed around him, feeling the pulse through every inch, then slid deeper, letting your lips seal at the crown. His legs tensed, knees knocking the wood beneath. He tasted both sharp and faintly sweet, sweat and some chemical edge of energy drink and skin. You kept eye contact because you knew it would wreck him; when you gagged once, soft and unashamed, his jaw clicked shut so hard you heard his teeth grind.

You waited for the pride to come, but instead there was a rush of want, a need to see him undone in a way nothing else could. You went harder, faster. His hips came off the chair, not more than an inch but enough to make the chain at his neck slap against his collarbone. One hand fell to your shoulder, squeezing—testing if you’d slow, if you’d need him to back off. 

You worked him until your jaw ached, spit slicking your chin, your tits brushing his knees as you bobbed. He cursed again, a string of vowels, hands buried in your hair. You pulled off just to catch your breath, flicked your tongue at the slit, and grinned at the way his thighs shuddered. 

“Not so cocky now?” You said and let the edge cut deep. 

He was panting. “You’re—oh, my god. Christ, y/n—”

You cut him off, took him back in, but this time slowed, teasing the head, letting him feel every stutter of your tongue. You felt like you were winning at something that was supposed to have no winners. You wanted to keep going until he lost his mind. He got louder, swearing, then begging—for you to slow, to keep going, then just noises that weren’t words at all. 

The grip on your head was possessive now, anchoring you, and you let him, because giving up control was its own kind of power. You could feel it when he got close; the cock swelled impossibly hard, his stomach quivered, his breath caught in huge, stuttering gasps. You pulled off, hand stroking the length fast and filthy and he came with a full-body jerk, white slashing across your chest, then again, coating your knuckles and wrist. 

Lando’s mouth fell open but no sound came out—just ragged exhale, disbelief. You licked your thumb, tasted him, made sure he noticed. 

“Winner treatment,” you said and wiped your hand on his thigh, as much a trophy as the rest of his pile. He slumped, a wrecked heap, still looking at you like you were a miracle or a monster, maybe both.

You scraped a wrist over your mouth, the aftertaste of sweat and salt a dare you decided to answer. He watched, chest lifting and falling like a guy who’d just run the full length of the grid, and for a flash of a second you saw it: Lando Norris, fast and bewildered, naked in his apartment with his hands full of nothing and his world reduced to the electric inches between your skin.

You got greedy.

Dragged yourself into his lap, straddling him, heat blue-flame sharp at the seam where your thighs met the hollow of his, and felt the hard, slick head of his cock catch at your belly, then lower, cradling between the lips already soaked for him. His hands found your ass, urgent, fingers digging for gravity. You were both still sort of laughing, the way people did when the air got crowded, but the sound died as you lined him up, slow and on purpose, because this was yours now.

You sank down.

It should’ve hurt or at least been a challenge; he was thick, hot, unfamiliar, but the want in you slicked the path so smooth you took all of him, the head breaching, the shaft stretching you wide and sudden. For a second your own body betrayed you, a gasp you tried to swallow surfacing high and raw instead. He hissed, dug nails into your lower back, the noise mostly a plea. When you started to move, his head tipped back and he said your name like an oath, like a winner’s prayer.

Everything blurred. Table edge biting into your knee, chair creaking under the torque, the world spinning down to the grind and pulse and the chase of his cock as you rode him. You wanted to make him lose again, on your terms. He was so deep it made you dizzy; your nerves lit up from tailbone to scalp, every bounce a bolt through cartilage. You set the pace, rolling your hips, riding the friction until you felt yourself about to break again.

He tried to kiss you, but the angle was all wrong and what he actually managed was a drag of teeth at your collarbone, every breath steaming your skin as he muttered, “so fucking good,” and “you’re insane,” and “fuck, don’t stop, don’t ever—”

You weren’t going to.

He slid a hand between you, thumb circling your clit, and you almost slapped it away but instead clawed at his hair, the tug drawing another ragged moan out of his battered voicebox. The flicker of his chain, the way his body trembled under yours, the double rhythm of his fingers and cock—all of it knotted together, shoved you higher, until your pulse stuttered and you came again, so hard your vision pixelated at the edge, the room popping and going silent like you’d blacked out for a millisecond.

When you came back, he was biting your shoulder, one hand locked at your waist to keep you moving, the other digging imprints into the meat of your thigh. You could feel the final tension in him, every muscle clenched, every inch of him hungry for the finish line. You knew he’d wait if you wanted, but that was not what you needed. You wanted to see him lose, hard and all the way down, cock deep and snapped in half with it.

You collapsed forward, braced a hand at the back of his neck, and rode out the aftershocks in shaky, stuttered bounces, the slap of skin loud in the hush. Lando was babbling, nonsense endearments and your name and a random curse in Dutch that sounded like a hail Mary. He went at your clit again, determined, and it was too much, your whole lower half fizzing out.

He held you through it, arms wrapped, neither of you pretending anymore. When he finally came a second time—inside you, sudden and raw, noise wrung from somewhere buried—he shuddered so hard the chair nearly toppled backwards. You clung to his shoulders, laughing breathless, half crying, overwhelmed by the shake in your own limbs.

After, there was nothing, but heat and the burn of skin. Your chest pressed to his, sweat glued you together. His heartbeat thudded rabbit-quick against your sternum. You could smell yourself on his chin and chest, taste the copper bite of your own blood at your lip where you’d bit down a little too hard. It felt elemental, like an accident or a fever. He stroked your hair, heavy and slow, low on words, but pouring everything out in the easy drape of his arms and the simple fact that he didn’t let go.

“You’re a menace,” he managed, voice shredded and childlike.

You made a dismissive noise and nuzzled in, hiding your face against his neck, not sure if you were shielding yourself or just inhaling the ghost of his cologne.

“I mean it,” he said, more quietly now. “Like catastrophic levels. You could start a war.”

Your cheekbone fit the shelf of his shoulder perfectly. “Sorry,” you lied.

“You’re not.”

“Not even a bit.”

"Thank you" you smiled. "Now, let's go before you're late!" you said rushing her out of her apartment where she was finishing getting ready for the party.

You and Lando had dated for around a two and a half years. Both well and truly smitten over one another. You'd spoken about houses, kids and marriage. Unfortunately fame hit you both quicker than you could keep up with, and due to clashing schedules you no longer had the time to see one another.

You'd never fell out of love, but the distance became too much for you both to handle. Lando becoming more and more famous in F1 and you were becoming globally famous for your music. It's what you'd both always wanted, however you'd hoped you could do this together. You'd tried to keep it together for so long but eventually it became too hard. Both your fans and Lando's fans were devastated by the news when it broke and still to this day they've not let it go.

Your best friend Pietra was dating Max F, Lando's best friend. That had been your friendship group, however after the break up you maintained your distance as Lando started on and off dating other girls, and this was too uncomfortable for you to deal with. You also never wanted to make your friends feel uncomfortable with the situation.

The day you broke up was the last day you ever saw him in person. No bad blood, no bad words exchanged. Just two people heart broken over the situation they'd found themselves in, yet in your eyes, Lando had handled it a lot better than you had.

Today was going to be the first time you'd seen him since the break up 3 years ago. P and Max were throwing an pre wedding party so all family members could celebrate as not everyone to come to the stag and hen do, and since you were the Maid of Honour, and Lando was the Best Man, you were both going to be in attendance. Lando wasn't coming alone though. His current girlfriend was joining him and all you can think about is how much you wanted the world to swallow you whole.

You pulled up to the venue with Max waiting outside for P.

"Ok, I'll see you in there" you said trying to hold some form of confidence in your voice.

"I swear I won't be long. You'll be fine, I promise" P reassured you.

You stepped out of the car and gave Max a smile and quick hug before walking into the venue. It was a beautiful Manor House, filled with bouquets of flowers and fairy lights. You could hear people talking amongst themselves as you started walking down the hallway. Your stomach did a flip and you felt like you could throw up at any moment from nerves. You were used to going on stages and performing in front of thousands of people but this was too much for you to handle.

As you continued walking you say a waiter with a tray of free drinks for the guests. You grabbed one, downing it as fast and you could, before picking up another one.

"Make sure you stay near me this evening please. I'm going to need it" you nodded to the waiter who laughed and nodded back.

"Come on, no more of that. You're going to be fine, I promise" a voice called out calmly from behind you.

"I don't think we can be so sure. I feel like I could be sick right now" you laughed.

"I'll stay with you. You won't be on your own then" P's brother Joao smiled to you.

"Thank you" you smiled walking into the main room with him.

There were tables set up and a few people had already taken a seat, whilst others were stood around chatting to one another. Tati waved you and Joao over to her table before you had a chance to look around the room. You were greatful for that instant distraction.

"Y/N! It's lovely to see you. It's been far too long" she said standing up to greet you.

"I know. I'll have to come and see you more. I have more control now over my schedules and the tour is almost done so I can finally breathe again" you smiled to her.

"Well once it's over you'll have to come and spend some time with us in Miami"

"That sounds perfect" You smiled to her.

People begin to clap and whistle, pulling you out of your conversation and your eyes travel to Max and P who are walking into the room together. A smile beamed across your face. Seeing them both so happy together and now engaged was the best feeling. P was like the sister you'd never had and seeing her find love warmed your heart.

As your eyes follow them walking to their table you catch sight of a familiar looking figure and your gaze focuses on the silhouette in front of you. Lando stood next to his new girlfriend, smiling and clapping Max and P.

Before you have a chance to turn your attention back onto Max and P, Lando’s eyes lock with yours. You can feel you heart hammering in your chest.

You swore you were fine. Swore that you had moved on. No hard feelings, no fall out, but you couldn’t just remain friends after the way you broke up. It would be too hard for anyone to move on from if you did.

Here and now, seeing him stood with someone else, even after all these years cut you deeper than you thought it would. You knew it would hurt, you weren't naive, but you didn't expect this level of hurt. Not after this amount of time had passed. It wasn't his fault. He'd simply moved on, which you'd tried doing but weren't able to. You'd tried blaming your busy life so often, but deep deep down, where you hid feelings you weren't ready to admit out loud, was the knowledge that you just weren't over Lando, and you don't think you ever will be.

You both smiled to one another as you all took your seats again, but you could feel the pain in your chest sharpen as his girlfriend whispered something into his ear, turning his attention away from you.

"Y/N?" You heard Joao say next to you, snapping you out of your own thoughts.

"Hmm?" you said turning to face him.

"I just asked if you're ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm good, thanks" you lied to him before looking before looking over to where P and Max sat and smiling again softly.

As the evening went on, drinks started flowing and music was blasting. Everyone was up, dancing and having a great time. You were sat at your table, having a drink and catching up with Joao.

"How you holding up?" P asked as she came and sat down next to you.

"I'm ok" You smiled to her.

"Truthfully?"

"I'm fine. He looks so happy with her. I'm glad he's found someone. You tried to say convincingly. Unfortunately for you, P knew you better than that.

"Honestly, they're still very new. They've only been together for about 5 months. She's nice enough but from what Max has told me about the relationship I can't see it lasting. They just seem a bit too different" you whispered in a drunken manner.

"I think you've had a bit too much to drink" you laughed.

"Nooooo, I'm fine" She whispered again a bit too close to you causing you to laugh again.

Max walked over to your table to find P.

"Is she ok?" He asked you

"She's fine. She's just maybe had a little too much to drink" you laughed to him.

"No no, I'm fine. I'm only telling you the truth. We want you guys to get back together" She hiccuped.

"P. I think that's enough" Max said quickly.

"What? We've both said so many times that they're made for one another, and timings are different now"

"Yes, well I don't think him and his new girlfriend would agree" you said.

Max and P shared a look with one another. No words exchanged but a knowing look between them both. You hadn't seen this though as you were standing up ready to take P to the bar to grab a glass of water.

"Come on, let's get some water" you laughed to her.

"Thanks Y/N" Max smiled to you and you smiled back at him with a nod.

You got to the bar and asked the bartender for a glass of water. P drank it as quick as she could since her favourite song came through the speakers and she wanted to go and dance.

"You coming?" She asked you.

"I will. Just going to get another drink for me and Joao. I owe him one" You smiled.

"Ok, see you in a minute then" She smiled.

You turned back and ordered yours and Joao's drinks. You started playing with your bracelet whilst waiting. Caught up staring into nothing. Your mind replaying old moments between you and Lando.

"Hey" you heard in that oh so familiar voice. You didn't react, thinking that it was your mind playing cruel tricks on you. "Y/N?" you heard again, louder this time. You shook your head lightly, focusing back in the room and turned your head to where you heard the voice.

"Oh, hey" you smiled and you saw Lando now stood next to you.

"It's great to see you. How have you been?" he asked.

"It's great to see you too. I've been good thank you. Congratulations on your Championship win" You smiled to him.

"Oh, yeah, thanks, you heard about it?"

"Lando, everyone heard about it" you laughed.

"I guess so" he laughed. "Did you watch it?"

"Of course I did" you sighed a soft smile and he smiled a nodded back.

"Congratulations on your tour. You're doing incredible"

"Thank you Lan. I'm finally getting control over my schedule now too. This is my last tour for a few years. It's been amazing but I'll be greatful for the break too" you nodded.

"Any plans with your downtime?"

"Tati's invited me to stay with them in Miami. Obviously help P and Max with any wedding stuff they need help with. Other than that, no plans. Just see where each day takes me"

The bartender slid your drinks in front of you before asking Lando for his order.

"Beer?" Lando asked you looking down at your drinks.

"For Joao"

"You and Joao?"

"What? No" you laughed louder than you expected. "No, he just saw me as I walked in and we sat next to each other. We went in on rounds with one another that's all" you laughed.

"Oh, sorry, I just thought maybe" he said awkwardly.

"No" you laughed again. "Just me. I saw you've got a girlfriend now though, she seems lovely, I'm happy for you" you smiled.

"Yeah, she's, nice" he said unsure.

"Nice?" You asked knowing him well enough to know there was something more to it.

"I mean, yeah, she's" but before he could finish the sentence she arrived next to him.

"Baby? Come dance with me" she said dragging him away.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm coming" He said to her before turning back to look at you

"Bye" you mouthed and smiled awkwardly.

"Sorry, bye Y/N" he smiled back.

Two weeks had since gone by since the party and P had invited you over for a paint and sip night. You were both in the dining room, glass of wine each on the table and a plate each that you were decorating.

Half hour later you hear the click of the front door and voices chatting away. You and P looked up at one another confused. Max had gone out and wasn't supposed to be home for another 5 hours at least.

"Hello?" P shouted towards the front door.

"Hey!" Max shouted back.

"I didn't think you were due back until later?" she shouted back again.

"Shoot got postponed so we came back here to game for a bit" he said walking into the dining room where you both sat.

"We?" P asked.

"Hey P" Lando said walking in behind Max.

"Oh, hey Lando. Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone" She said awkwardly.

Lando's head turned to your direction suddenly noticing you sat opposite P, the doorframe had been hiding you for a brief moment from his line of vision.

"Hey" you said quietly with a soft smile.

"Oh, Y/N, hey" he smiled back.

"Fancy a drink?" P asked Lando.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks P"

"Max, can you help me please?" she said as they both quickly exited the room.

"Subtle" you said causing Lando to laugh.

"Sorry. I didn't really get a chance to speak with you at the party" he said to you as he took a seat next to you.

"It's fine, you were busy with your girlfriend. No need to apologise" You smiled.

"Ex-girlfriend. We broke up" he corrected you.

"Oh, Lando, I'm so sorry"

"Don't be. It was very new anyway" he sighed.

"Lan, I really am sorry. What happened?"

“We were just in different places I guess. It’s really great to see you though Y/N. I’ve missed you” he said with an honestly that you didn’t expect from him.

“Ive missed you too” you smiled.

Max and P walked back into the room with P placing Lando’s drink down softly in front of him.

“Ready to stream?” Max asked Lando.

“Yeah” Lando said standing up and following him out of the room.

An hour later, after you and P had finished your painting and spoken about all the wedding plans P started complaining that she was hungry.

“We can order something?” You suggested.

“Yeah ok, I’ll ask the guys if they’re hungry too” she said getting up and walking to Max’s gaming room. “Yeah they said they could eat too” she said walking back out.

“Alright, I’ll just get Chinese food shall I?” You asked.

“Yeah, I’m not going back in to disturb them again” she agreed heading into the kitchen to grab the plates and cutlery.

30 minutes later and the food order had arrived.

“I’ll get them” you said to P who was unboxing all of the food to put on the worktop.

You knocked the door lightly but had no response. You could hear the guys answering chat and laughing away. You slowly pushed the door open trying not to cause too much attention but they still didn’t notice or hear you. That was until they saw chat going crazy.

OMG HI Y/N!!

Y/N we’ve missed you!

WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW? ARE THEY BACK TOGETHER????

She’s so pretty😭

PLEASE TELL ME WE CAN ALL SEE HER AND MY EYES AREN’T PLAYING CRUEL TRICKS ON ME??

This caused them both to turn around.

“Foods here!” You smiled.

“Thank god, I’m so hungry!” Max said leaning back in his chair.

“Come say hi to chat?” Lando asked you spinning around to fully look at you.

You walked closer to Lando’s chair, looking at the comments and smiling.

“Hi chat! Thank you for the lovely comments!” You waved.

Y/N, I love you!!

Petition to get Y/N to start her own streams please!

Marry me!

“Right, I’m going to help P in the kitchen whilst Y/N finds someone to marry” Max said laughing and heading out of the room into the kitchen.

“What did you order?” Lando asked you.

“Your usual” you smiled and he smiled back.

She remembers his order!!!

Chat… are we witnessing something?

Is she already a wifey??👀👀

That smile! Chat we’ve lost him again to her!

You both looked back at chat reading through the messages that were flooding in and laugh lightly.

“Right, that’s it. Bye chat” Lando said before ending the stream abruptly.

“I’m really sorry about that” he said rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t be, it’s fine” you laugh.

“So, you remembered my order?” He teased.

“Of course I did” you said softly.

“Y/N?” He said quietly

“Hmm?”

“Guys, do you want me to dish up your food or do you want to do it?” P shouted.

“Never mind” Lando said before you both walked into the kitchen.

You all took your seats around the dinner table. You were surprised at how easy it felt being back in the same group you once loved so much, just with a different dynamic now. Sure there were some awkward moments between you and Lando where neither of you were sure how you should be acting, but apart from that it felt like the good old days and you’d missed that so much.

“Ok, so, stag and hen.” Max began.

“Oh god, what did you do?” Lando asked.

“So, we may have changed our minds” P said like she was trying to diffuse a bomb.

“What do you mean? This is far too last minute to be changing your minds!” You said shocked.

“We were thinking of combing them” Max said.

“Excuse me?” Lando asked very unimpressed.

“One big house. Everyone stays and parties there instead of hotels” Max continued.

“But I had plans!” Lando moaned.

“Did those plans include a stripper?” P asked with raised eyebrows.

“Maybe”

“Then combined it is. No strippers!” P said looking him in the eyes.

You let out a little laugh and he nudged your knee with his under the table.

“Don’t laugh!” He said looking at you.

“Sorry, can’t help it” you smiled.

You all enjoyed your meal together. Catching up, chatting about everything and nothing. You and Lando slowly started to fall back into that natural ease that you'd always had with one another. You couldn't explain it. Neither of you could, but you had some type of draw to one another, a connection that you didn't have with anyone else.

None of you had been on your phones. Blissfully unaware of what was happening online, until you go to check your phone, to see if there's any tickets left available for your last show of the tour. You were given a set amount that you could leave aside for people but you'd already promised Charles, Carlos and Max V, you'd also promised some of your media crew and make up crew tickets for their families, so at this point you were no longer sure how many you had left to give away.

"Oh, shit" you said, wide eyed and staring down at the screen in front of you.

"What's wrong?" P asked.

"The internet is going mental over me being in the stream earlier"

"What?" Lando said leaning in close over your shoulder to look at your phone.

Max and P scrambled for their phones, looking to see the chaos unfolding.

"At least the comments are nice?" P said trying to make the best of what was happening.

You and Lando both looked up at her, shooting her a look.

"What?" She laughed. "It's not the internets fault. You've shown up in a stream, still knowing Lando's order, he's given you a look that has clearly sent people into a frenzy. Fans have wanted this for 3 years now. You can't blame them for losing their shit with excitement" she said, hands raised in the air.

"She has a point" Max nodded.

"But people can't just jump to conclusions like that!" You said, already knowing how ridiculous you sounded. You knew the world you lived in, and how people react to even the tiniest of breadcrumbs.

"I already know what questions I'm getting next weekend now" Lando laughed dragging his hands down his face.

"I'm so sorry!" You said looking to him with a slightly worried expression.

"Don't be sorry you muppet, it's fine" he smiled to you, still leaned in to look at the comments on your phone with his arm around the back of your chair, where it remained for the rest of the evening.

Your week had been busy. Really busy so Lando had invited you to his race along with Max and P to unwind. You knew what people would think but they were already thinking it anyway so you agreed. You'd text a couple of times throughout the week but just about plans for the stag and hen do.

You walked into the paddock alongside Max and P when you saw Charles and Carlos walking towards you deep in conversation, until a fan shouted your name causing them to snap their heads up. Max and P said they'd meet you in the hospitality area so you could catch up with the guys.

"Y/N!!! What are you doing here?" Carlos said coming over to hug you.

"It's great to see you back here again!" Charles added.

"Lando invited me. My weeks been busy so this is a great way to take my mind off it all" you said as you gave Charles a hug too.

"So are you both?" Carlos asked looking at you. He didn't need to finish the sentence for you to know what he was asking.

"No, we've only seen each other twice, first at a party and the other was a fluke'"

"You seemed pretty happy to be near one another again from what I've seen online though" Charles said raising his eyebrows at you.

"It's lovely seeing him again. Easy to fall back into our old friendship"

"So any chance of a reconsilliation?"

"I don't know"

"What do you mean you don't know hermana? Do you still have feelings for him?"

"Of course I do Carlos. I've not been able to move on clearly, but he has. He's been with multiple girls since me"

"3. He's seen 3 girls. Not one lasted longer than 5 months for obvious reasons" Charles said quickly.

"Time doesn't matter. He still moved on" you sighed.

"Y/N?" you heard a thick dutch accent call out from behind you.

"Max!" you said turning around, happy to see him again.

"It's lovely to have you back! We've all missed you!" he said hugging you.

"I've missed you all too" you hugged him back.

"Who are you here with?" he asked you

"Lando invited me. I'm here with Max and P"

"He finally plucked up the courage to tell you how he feels then?" he asked.

"What?" you asked shocked. "No, we've only seen each other recently through friends. He just invited me to take my mind off my busy schedule" you said.

"Oh, shit, sorry. Ignore me" he scrambled.

Carlos and Charles shot him a look from behind you.

"Am I missing something?" you asked all three of them.

"Um, no, I don't think so. Just crossed wires on our end. Ignore us. How's the tour going?" Charles asked trying to quickly change the subject.

"Busy, very busy, but it's been such an incredible time. I've got your tickets too for the last show. Just turn up and tell them who you are, you'll be on the list"

"We can't wait. Thank you! Break after that?" Carlos asked.

"Yes! No more tour for a few years now. It's been amazing but exhausting so I'll be glad for the break" you smiled.

"So, we'll be seeing you more around the paddock?" Max asked.

"Maybe" you smiled.

"We've got to go but it was great seeing you. The girls can't wait to see you perform!" Charles smiled.

"I can't wait to see them! Good luck with the race guys" you said hugging them all individually before heading over to meeting Max and P.

You met Max and P in hospitality, chatting away about nothing when Lando appeared behind you, resting his hands either side of the back of your chair and tilting himself over you ever so slightly.

"How you feeling mate?" Max asked him.

"Feeling good" he nodded with a smile.

"Oh, before I forget" you said holding you phone up for Lando to see your screen and leaning your head back to look at him.

"Perfect timing!" he said looking down to you with a smile.

"What?" P asked.

"Just some details for the stag and hen do coming together that's all" you smiled.

"Nothing to worry about, I swear, you'll like it" Lando tried reassuring her.

"I feel nervous now" she groaned.

"It's something for the memories. Nothing to be nervous about. You don't have to do anything" you also tried reassuring her.

"Ok ok, but I swear you'd better not be lying" she said pointing to you both with a stern look.

"I promise" you said.

"Right, I've got to go. You watching here or the garage?" Lando asked you all.

"Garage?" Max asked you and P waiting for approval and you both nodded.

The race didn't go to plan for McLaren. Tyres incorrectly chosen, Oscar with a penalty and then Lando DNFing, but despite all of that, he seemed to be in very good spirits.

"Yeah, highlight was obviously the first lap, um, and then I went out with a bang, literally, so that was uh, just not, not our day, I guess from, uh, a decision point of view" Lando said during his interview.

"We're sorry that today didn't go the way the team had hoped. You're not usually this smiley after a DNF. Is there a particular reason or special someone behind that smile?" the interviewer asked.

Lando shook his head, trying but failing to suppress a smile. "No, nope, nothing to announce" he said. "Just... in a good place I guess"

"Are you sure?" she said smirking off camera to him.

"Don't put me under pressure" he laughed.

"So that's not a no"

"No comment" he laughed again

"Fair enough" she laughed. "Thank you for your time Lando"

"Thank you" he said before walking off.

You, Max and P met Lando post interviews and walked to his car ready to head back to the hotel.

"So, tomorrow's the week. You guys ready for it?" Lando asked looking at Max and P in his car mirror.

"Absolutely! Stag and hen celebrations follow by marrying my best friend" Max smiled looking at P.

The flight went quicker than you'd expected, especially whilst listening to P quiz Max on every detail of the wedding, making sure he knew exactly what was what. You pulled up outside the Villa that had been hired for the stag and hen do, seeing everyone waiting outside for Max and P to arrive. Lando had made sure to text Ed to let everyone know when you were close and to have drinks waiting for them both. You and Lando told them to go and enjoy themselves and you'd sort their luggage out for them. You headed to the master bedroom, wheeling their suitcases in and setting them down on the floor at the foot of the bed for them before talking a walk around the house trying to locate where you'd each be sleeping. That's when it quickly dawned on you. Everyone here is either married or in a relationship and therefore already sharing rooms, leaving 1 room left for you and Lando.

"Well, I guess we're sharing then" you said, giving Lando an awkward smile.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I thought there were enough rooms" he said rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's fine Lan, don't worry about it" you smiled whilst wheeling your suitcase into your room.

"Drinks?" Lando asked you.

"Absolutely" you said following him out of the room and down to the kitchen.

You saw some of the couples stood around planning to hire Jet Ski's tomorrow. You and Lando hadn't made an itinerary. You'd both agreed to keep things causal, with people choosing what they wanted to do instead. That was the dynamic of your group anyway so why fix something that isn't broken was your thought process.

"Y/N, you joining? We're all doing it as couples but you can do it individually too?" P asked you excitedly.

"Definitely!" you said matching her level of enthusiasm.

"Lando, you fancy joining?" one of the guys asked.

"Um, it's ok, I don't want to intrude" he said awkwardly.

"Don't be silly. Of course he'll join" you smiled.

"Great. We'll book you both on!" he said before walking off to book the activity.

"Are you sure?" Lando asked you.

"Lan, they're your friends too. Don't feel like you can't join just because we're not together anymore"

"What, like you used to do?" he asked quietly as he started walking back to the kitchen.

"That's not fair. You had moved on, there were other girls on the scene. It's not the same" you said following him

"Moved on?" he said shocked with a hint of irritation. "Y/N, I was just about surviving" he said in a defeated tone.

"It didn't look that way from the outside Lando" you said just as irritated now. It was only then that you both noticed others heading towards the kitchen.

You both walked down the hallway in silence before getting to your room. You walked into your en suite, looking in the mirror and smoothing out your hair. Neither of you said a word until Lando barged in seconds later.

"Fuck this, we're talking about it" he said from behind you.

"Here? Right now?"

"Yes Y/N, right now. You honestly think I moved on? Just like that?" he asked annoyed.

"That's how it seemed Lan. I wasn't angry, but I just couldn't be around you and other girls" you said honestly.

"I get that, I do, but I never moved on. No relationship got past 5 months because I couldn't do it"

"What?" you asked confused.

"I couldn't move on. I couldn't be with someone who wasn't you. No matter how hard I tried it always came back down to you. The day that I saw you at the party made me finally realise why it was that I couldn't make my relationships work. I thought it was just that we were too different but it wasn't that, it was that I'm not over you, over what we had! I broke up with her the day after the party because all I could think about was you!"

"Lando"

"I get how it would have seemed to you from the outside, believe me I do, but I need you to know that non of them even came close to what we had"

"Lan, I'm not bothered that you saw other people. But you can't make a comment like that, acting shocked that I didn't hang around with you all anymore. I couldn't be around that. It killed me seeing someone else with you when all I thought about, every single day, was you. I'd fall asleep wishing you were next to me, trying to convince myself that I could let you go, but that's so far from the truth that all I could do was remove myself from the situation"

"I understand, and I'm sorry you felt that way. I just need you to know that it's how I felt every single day too" he sighed.

"And now?" you asked. "What happens now? We're friends, people who see one another through friends special occasions?"

"I think we both know we're more than that. I know I can't keep pretending that I'm not feeling what I feel" he said stepping closer to you.

"And what's that?" you asked.

"That I still love you" he said with a level of confidence that took you by surprise.

"I still love you too" you said your heart hammering so hard in your chest you swore you could hear it.

All restraint you had both shown before had now completely dissolved. Lando stepped closer, closing the gap between you. His lips found yours, not rushed, but familiar, like this is where you both belonged. His one hand found its way to your hip, pulling you in even closer, his other travelled to the back of your neck. Yours ran through his curls before you both pulled back slightly. Neither of you stepped away, both still holding onto one another.

"Our secret for a little while? I want you to myself for a bit" he asked you.

"Sounds perfect. No pressure, just us" you smiled before you closed the gap between you again.

"I'm a little worried I'm not going to be able to let you go though" he laughed as you pulled back again.

"I had the same feeling" you laughed back to him.

“We’re idiots for leaving it this long” he laughed.

“But, we’ve found our way back” you smiled. “Let's go before people start looking for us" you said dragging him out of the en suite.

You headed back out and joined P on the sun lounger.

"Where did you disappear to?" she asked you.

"Just wanted to freshen up after the flight" you smiled to her.

"Lando too?" she said with a smirk.

"Yeah" you smiled.

"Mmhmm" she smiled before she shot Max a look who was stood over the other side of the pool at the outside bar.

"You and Y/N all good mate? Max asked Lando.

"Yeah, I guess, why?" Lando asked trying to act casual.

"You just disappeared for a bit that's all" he said back.

"Just wanted to freshen up after the flight" he smiled to Max.

"With Y/N?" Max said probing.

"Well we are sharing a room, so yeah" Lando said a bit too casually.

"You kissed her didn't you!" Max whisper yelled.

"What?"

"You so did!"

"Max, shut up or I swear I'll kill you, even on your own stag"

"Mate, I'm so happy for you!" Max said causing a loud groan from Lando. Max then gave a wide grin and a thumbs up over to P who squealed loudly behind you making you jump.

"What the hell was that?" you asked her.

"You two! Something happened didn't it" she asked you.

"What?"

"Don't try and deny it. Me and Max can read you both like a book"

"I don't know what you're talking about P" you tried to brush her off.

"OMG you kissed him!" She squealed again, louder this time causing Max and Lando to look over at you, along with the rest of the group.

"Oh my god, P!" you said covering your face and leaning backwards on the sunbed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be that loud!" she said apologetically, by which time Max and Lando had made their way around the pool and were now sat at the end of your sunbeds.

"So that secret lasted all of three seconds" Lando said as he led down next to you and you laughed.

"Sorry, I'm just really excited for you both" P said with a hint of embarrassment.

"It's fine" you laughed. "Oh, also the surprise you were worried about has just arrived" you said as Ed walked back out from the villa with a bunch of polaroid cameras. "We know you like to keep pictures for memories, so we bought a load of Polaroid cameras for people to use as they please and you can keep the photos"

"oh, guys, I love that! Thank you so much!" she beamed.

The day went by in a blur and after your flight earlier on you were exhausted and ready for bed. You got changed and slid into bed, followed by Lando seconds later. He opened his arm and you slid yourself into his side, hand resting on his chest. You both let out a satisfied sigh.

"I've missed this"

"Me too"

The wedding day morning was a mixture of fun, excitement and pure chaos, with you trying to calm P's nerves and Lando texting you to come and help them as neither him nor Max could figure out how the ties went since they were both hungover from what was meant to be 'quiet drinks' the night before.

"There, fixed" you said as you finished Lando's tie after sorting Max's.

"You look beautiful" he smiled to you.

"You look very handsome too" you said placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

"I can't wait to marry you one day" he smiled softly at you.

"It'll be the easiest yes I've ever said" you smiled to him.

He pulled you in to him, giving you a passionate kiss.

"Enough of that. I need to get married today first please!" Max laughed.

"Sorry" you smiled. "I've got to get back to P, see you down there. Good luck Max" you said hugging him.

The ceremony was beautiful. You swore you wouldn't cry, but there you were, tears welling up as you watched your best friend marry the love of her life. The evening was spent dancing and drinking and you had the best time imaginable.

1 month later and here you were, stood, waiting to perform your last show of the tour.

You had all your guests in their own little VIP section. Lando, Max, P, Charles, Carlos, Max, Rebecca, Alex and Kelly. You stood off to the side, nerves bubbling. It never got any easier. When you got onto the stage the crowd went wild. The energy was electric and your nerves eased off a bit. The night went without a hitch, it was your best performance to date.

"Thank you all so much for coming and supporting me. Non of this would be possible without the support of all of you. I've got some special supporters here tonight" you said as you waved over to the VIP section. "As this is the last concert of the tour, I wanted to say that I've seen all your comments online, all your edits, all you deep diving investigations and 'proof' videos, and whilst non of them have been correct, we still found our way back to one another. So, that being said, please make some noise for my boyfriend, the fandom's long awaited reunion, Lando Norris. I love you" You said smiling over to him.

"I love you" he shouted back causing a sea of awwws to erupt throughout the arena.

They stared at you in stunned silence… then laughed. “Stop imagining men, love,” your aunt said, patting your shoulder like you were a child.

That only made you double down. You insisted he was real . You promised he would come. And somehow, against all odds, they believed you.

Now you had three weeks to find a real, handsome, British man willing to pretend to be your boyfriend for an entire weekend.

You tried everything.

You drafted a ridiculous post you almost uploaded somewhere. You looked up actors for hire and nearly cried at the prices. You asked around at work, but almost everyone was married or taken.

You even stopped strangers on the street one desperate afternoon, only to realise halfway through the conversation how insane it sounded.

Days slipped by. The wedding got closer.

With only a few days left, you met your best friend at her apartment, looking like you hadn’t slept in a week.

She pulled out a notebook with a determined expression.

“Okay. Let’s be systematic. Handsome British man. Height?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know… taller than me is fine. I don’t care.”

“Eye colour?”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. This is my fake boyfriend, not my future husband.”

She scribbled notes, humming to herself. Then she looked up, eyes sparkling.

“I’ve got our guy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me this is Tinder on paper.”

“Lando Norris.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “You saved his ass five years ago. He owes you a favour. And I heard he’s back home right now.”

“That was forever ago. He won’t even remember me. He’s a world champion now.”

“Exactly. A favour is a favour. No matter how many championships he wins.”

You argued for nearly an hour. You overthought it for another hour after she left. But in the end, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, you typed the message with shaking fingers.

You : Hi Lando, it’s Y/N. I don’t know if you still remember me, but I really need that favour you promised me years ago. Could we meet up and talk?

You didn’t expect a reply anytime soon.

But he answered in under ten minutes.

You met at the old café you used to visit together years ago. It was quieter now, with only a few customers scattered around. He looked the same, but older. More confident.

The first few minutes were painfully awkward. Small talk about the weather, how long it had been, what you both did these days. Then you took a deep breath and told him everything.

You explained the family teasing. The lie. The wedding. The fact that you had painted him as this perfect British boyfriend.

When you finished, you stared at your coffee, cheeks burning.

“I know this is completely insane. You don’t have to say yes. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Lando was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“I was expecting something way worse when you said ‘favour.’ Like hiding a body or something. This? Pretending to be your boyfriend for a weekend? Yeah. I can do that.”

Relief flooded through you so strongly you almost cried. The next few days became a whirlwind of planning.

You built your story carefully: you had known each other years ago, reconnected a few months back when you ran into each other by chance, went on a date, and things had slowly turned romantic. It wasn’t entirely a lie, which made it easier to sell.

But your family was suspicious by nature. They would want proof.

So you spent an entire afternoon taking photos. You changed outfits, hairstyles, makeup, locations : park, your apartment, even a quick walk by the river. You made sure the pictures looked like they’d been taken over weeks, not hours.

At one point, after the tenth outfit change, you collapsed onto your couch.

“Lando, go buy flowers,” you said.

He was sprawled across your living room floor, looking exhausted. “Why?”

“Because you’re supposed to be a romantic boyfriend who spoils me. We need one last photo. Big bouquet. Make it convincing.”

He groaned but went anyway. When he came back with the biggest, most ridiculous bouquet you had ever seen, you couldn’t help but laugh. You added an empty gift box for good measure and took more pictures.

The hardest part came later that evening.

You fidgeted with your phone, avoiding his eyes.

“We… should probably practice kissing too. My family notices everything. If it looks awkward in front of them, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

Lando rubbed the back of his neck, but nodded slowly. “Yeah… you’re right.”

The first kiss was hesitant and stiff. You both pulled away, laughing awkwardly. The second was better. By the fifth or sixth, something shifted. The kisses grew slower, deeper, more natural. When you finally stepped back to check the photo you’d taken, your heart was beating way too fast.

Lando cleared his throat. “Your family… they don’t actually work for the FBI, right?”

You smiled weakly. “Sometimes I wonder.”

***

The flight and the car ride home were exactly as terrifying as you expected.

Your dad picked you both up from the airport and spent the entire drive asking Lando questions: about his job, his family, his intentions. Lando handled it well, but you could see the overwhelm in his eyes.

The next two days were a marathon. Every relative wanted to meet him. Every meal turned into an interrogation. Your aunt was the worst.

At dinner on the second night, after Lando had excused himself to rest, she leaned in.

“He’s lovely, really. But let’s be honest… he’s so out of your league it almost hurts. A famous, handsome, rich athlete… and you’re just you.”

You forced a smile and stayed quiet. You didn’t want drama before the wedding.

The wedding itself was beautiful. Soft blue tones everywhere, just like you’d told Lando. He wore the new suit perfectly. He held your hand, kissed your temple, danced with you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere between the fake affection and the real laughter, the lines blurred. You caught yourself forgetting it was pretend more than once. And you were pretty sure he did too.

Then came the bouquet toss. You stood near the back, not even trying to catch it… and it landed straight in your arms.

Your cousin ran over, beaming. “The next wedding we’ll be celebrating is yours!” she said, looking between you and Lando.

You smiled tightly and nodded. Lando just gave you a small, amused look.

The next morning, as you packed to leave, your mum pulled you aside while your dad and Lando loaded the bags into the car.

“I’ll admit it,” she said softly, “I thought you might have made him up just to shut us up. But seeing you two together… I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. He looks at you like he really loves you. You deserve this.”

The guilt twisted in your chest.

On the plane ride home, you were quiet. When you reached your apartment, Lando carried your bags all the way upstairs, even though you told him he didn’t have to.

At your door, you turned to him with a tired smile.

“Thank you. Seriously. You can stop pretending now. No one’s watching anymore.”

He nodded, but didn’t move right away. For a few seconds he just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then, as he started to turn away, he paused.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

He gave you a small, almost shy smile.

“Do you want to go on a real date sometime?”

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

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, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."

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

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.

"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.

The drive should’ve been normal.

It was a sunny, quiet afternoon, the kind where the world feels soft around the edges. You were heading toward the coast, Lando’s idea — “just a little day out, babe, nothing crazy.” He’d kissed your cheek when you got in the car, smiled like he always did, but something was off.

He was silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silence he sometimes fell into when he was tired or letting you pick the music. This was the tight‑shouldered, knee‑bouncing, jaw‑clenching kind. His fingers tapped the steering wheel like he was trying to send Morse code to the universe.

You watched him for a minute.

“Lan… you okay?”

He nodded too quickly. “Yep. Fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine.”

Which, of course, meant he was absolutely not fine.

You reached over, resting your hand on his thigh. He jumped like you’d tasered him.

“Jesus, babe,” you laughed, “you’re twitchy.”

“I’m not twitchy,” he said, twitching.

He kept glancing at you, then back at the road, then at you again, like he was checking you were still there. Like he was checking you hadn’t somehow evaporated.

Another ten minutes passed before he blurted, out of nowhere:

“Wait—what’s your middle name again?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your middle name. I know it. I know I know it. I just—just say it. For… for reasons.”

You stared at him. “Lando, you literally wrote it on my birthday card last month.”

“Yeah, but maybe you changed it.”

“My middle name.”

“It happens.”

“It does not happen.”

He gripped the wheel tighter. “Just tell me, please.”

You told him. He repeated it under his breath like he was memorising a password. Then he nodded, exhaled, and went silent again.

You were officially concerned.

---

The Cliffside

He parked near a quiet overlook, the sea stretching out in front of you, wind brushing your hair. It was beautiful — but he didn’t even look at the view. He just stood there, hands on his hips, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. Okayokayokay.”

“Lando,” you said softly, stepping closer, “what’s going on.”

He turned to you, eyes wide, boyish, terrified in the sweetest way.

“I’m trying to do something,” he said. “And I’m trying really hard not to mess it up. And I’m trying not to throw up. And I’m trying to remember your middle name because I feel like that’s important.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping in front of you.

“You make me nervous,” he said quietly. “Not in a bad way. In a… ‘I want to get everything right’ way. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Ever.”

Your breath caught.

“And I’ve been planning this for months, and I had a whole speech, and I forgot all of it the second you got in the car because you looked really pretty and now my brain is soup.”

He reached into his pocket.

Your knees nearly gave out.

He froze. “Don’t—don’t look like that, babe, I’m gonna pass out.”

You laughed, tears already forming.

He pulled out a small velvet box, holding it like it might explode.

“I love you,” he said, voice shaking. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes. And I want… I want to spend my whole life being stupidly in love with you. Even when I’m old and wrinkly and still asking you your middle name because I panic.”

He opened the box.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Will you—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Will you marry me?”

You didn’t even let him finish the sentence before you threw your arms around him, nearly knocking him backward.

“Yes,” you whispered against his neck. “Yes, Lando. Of course I will.”

He let out a breath that sounded like relief and disbelief and pure joy all at once. His arms wrapped around you, tight, warm, shaking.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

“You were very dramatic.”

“I was terrified.”

You pulled back, cupping his face. “You did perfect.”

He smiled — that soft, boyish, heart‑melting smile he only ever gave you.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

He kissed you, slow and trembling and full of every emotion he couldn’t put into words. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“So… you’re sure about the middle name?”

“Lando.”

“Okay, okay. Just checking.”

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

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, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."

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

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.

"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.

Lando’s stream is already chaos before you even walk through the door.

He’s in his hoodie, hair a little messy, headset slightly crooked because he keeps running his hand through it. Chat is flying, he’s half‑focused, half‑distracted, doing that little squint he does when he’s trying to read something tiny on screen.

Then he sees it.

“Oh— someone asked my skincare routine,” he reads, leaning closer. “Uh… shower.”

He says it so casually. So confidently. Like he’s just dropped the most profound beauty secret of the century.

Chat explodes.

“SHOWER???”

“bro be serious”

“that’s not a routine that’s survival”

“your girlfriend is screaming rn I just know it”

Lando laughs, that soft little giggle he tries to hide behind his hand. “What? It’s true. Shower. Water. Done.”

And that’s exactly when your key hits the lock.

You don’t even get your shoes off before you call out, loud enough for both him and his entire Twitch chat to hear:

“Oh my god, shut up, you liar! You literally steal ALL of my products!”

Lando freezes.

Chat goes feral.

He turns in his chair, cheeks already pink, eyes wide like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I— I don’t steal them,” he argues weakly. “I borrow.”

“You empty them,” you correct, walking into frame with your bag still on your shoulder. “You use my cleanser, my toner, my moisturiser, my eye cream—”

“I don’t use the eye cream,” he mutters.

“You do,” you say, pointing at him. “You use it wrong, but you use it.”

Chat is losing its mind.

“EXPOSE HIM QUEEN”

“we knew he was lying”

“lando’s skincare routine: whatever she leaves unattended”

“this is the content we needed”

Lando drags a hand down his face, laughing but also very much embarrassed. “Why are you doing this to me,” he whines, swivelling his chair toward you like you’re supposed to save him from the situation you created.

You lean down, kiss the top of his head, and say sweetly, “Because you lied on the internet.”

“I didn’t lie,” he insists, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into his lap. “I just… simplified.”

You raise a brow. “Simplified? Baby, you use more steps than I do.”

“That’s not true,” he says, but he won’t look at you. Or the camera. Or anything.

“Tell them what you used this morning,” you say, crossing your arms.

He groans. “Noooo.”

“Tell them.”

He hides his face in your shoulder. “I used… the… the foamy one.”

“The CeraVe cleanser,” you clarify for chat.

“And then the… the spritzy thing.”

“The hydrating mist.”

“And then the… the… moisturiser.”

“The £40 moisturiser you ‘borrowed’ so aggressively I had to buy another one.”

He peeks up at chat, eyes big, lips pressed together in a guilty little smile. “It smells nice.”

You kiss his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, mumbling into your shirt, “You still love me though.”

“Unfortunately,” you tease.

Chat spams hearts.

Lando finally looks back at the camera, chin resting on your shoulder, voice soft and shy in that way he gets only with you. “Okay, fine. My skincare routine is… her. Happy?”

You laugh. “That’s not skincare, that’s dependency.”

“Same thing,” he says, squeezing your waist.

And chat collectively melts.

He ends the stream not long after, claiming he’s “being bullied in his own home,” but really he just wants to bury his face in your neck and whine about how you embarrassed him.

Later, when you’re both in the bathroom getting ready for bed, you catch him reaching for your moisturiser again.

You raise a brow.

He freezes mid‑reach.

“…sharing is caring?” he tries.

You sigh, hand him the bottle, and kiss his forehead. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He grins, triumphant and soft. “I know.”

And he absolutely uses too much moisturiser again.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.