oscarszn

So maybe you bought a Eurostar ticket to Amsterdam after the race. And maybe once you got there you took a cab you couldn’t afford from the city to a hotel room you definitely couldn’t afford by the sea. And maybe now you’re at the club the girls mentioned, wearing a dress you know Isack used to love on you — short, black, silky, with a neckline that dips low enough to be a problem. He’d fucked you in it more often than he ever took it off you, bunching it up around your waist with his fingers digging into your hips. You have a distinct memory of him pushing the straps off your shoulders in the back of an Uber in Paris, his mouth hot on your neck as his other hand slid up the fabric of your skirt, the driver trying very hard not to notice. 

That fabric is sticking to your thighs for an entirely different reason now, damp with sweat from the heat of too many bodies in a room that wasn’t designed for this many people. You prop yourself next to the bar closest to the VIP section with a drink you don’t really want, scanning the crowd while you try to pretend you’re not looking for anyone in particular. 

You don’t have to lie to yourself for long. You find him instinctively, your heart a compass tuned to the magnetic north that is your ex-boyfriend. He’s with the whole group of them behind the velvet rope, looking so unfairly, devastatingly hot that you have to take a long sip of your drink just to have something to do with your mouth that isn’t biting through your own lip. He’s got a drink in one hand — dark liquid, a Coke and Bacardi, probably, the same thing you know he’s been ordering since he was old enough to get into a club.

The other is around a girl. 

She’s tall, tan, beachy waves falling artfully over bare shoulders, leaning in just a little too close to be casual, fingertips trailing along his forearm as she says something that makes him laugh. It’s your favorite laugh, you can tell even from here: low and easy and warm, the one that makes his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. The one that used to belong to you, and is currently being wasted on some girl in a cheap going-out top from Zara who probably thinks pole position is one of the tips to drive your man wild from the latest issue of Cosmo.

You hate her with a violence that surprises you; hate the perfectly done nails, the long wispy eyelashes, the extensions that you genuinely want to rip out of her fucking head. But the thing you hate the most is that Isack looks happy. He looks like someone who’s been doing just fine without you, actually, which is the one outcome you’d somehow failed to plan for, and your stomach twists so badly at the thought of him moving on that you consider running out as fast as your heels will carry you and flying home and blocking him on Instagram like you’ve been promising yourself for months that you would. 

That’s when Liam’s girlfriend spots you. You see it immediately: the double-take, the dawning horror that she’s about to be solely responsible for ruining a podium sitter’s night. She grabs Ollie’s girlfriend’s wrist, tugging her into a frantic, whispered conversation. You lift your hand and flutter your fingers in a little wave — hi girls, remember me? — and watch the blood drain from their faces. Ollie’s girlfriend turns and hisses something to him, and then Ollie bumps Kimi and points (completely indiscreetly) right at you, and then Kimi punches Isack in the shoulder and says something urgently into his ear, and then Isack’s gaze drifts sideways until it lands on you and the smile drops off his face so fast it’s like it was never there at all. 

The lights in the club keep flashing, painting everything they touch in vivid blue and purple. The bass is pounding so loud in your ears you can barely think. But it’s not the volume that makes the floor feel like it’s shaking, that makes your glass tremble in your hands. It’s the sight of your ex-boyfriend, standing across the room staring like he’s just seen the ghost of girlfriends past. 

You don’t go to him, though. You stay exactly where you are, hip cocked against the bar, and wait. Because if there’s one thing you know about Isack Hadjar, it’s that even when it’d be better for him, he has never, not once in his life, been able to leave you alone. 

Sure enough, it takes about forty-five seconds before he’s stalking towards you, and you try not to be too satisfied by the annoyingly pretty pout on Beach Waves’ stupid face when he brushes her aside without a second glance. He cuts through the crowd like a knife, shoulders set and laser-focused, the way he gets on track, the way that used to make you weak at the knees.

Up close, his stare is ablaze, dark eyes trained on you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too, Isa,” you purr, letting your gaze flick up and down his body. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Don’t,” he snaps, cheeks flushing. His jaw is tight, hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t quite trust what they’ll do if he lets them free. “Don’t call me that. Don’t do this. Don’t act like —” 

You blink innocently. “Like what?”

“Like — like you have any right to be here,” he splutters, cheeks flushed. 

“It’s not a private club,” you say, shrugging and taking a long sip of your drink. The liquor burns horribly at the back of your throat. “I bought a drink. I’m a paying customer.”

He stares at you for a long moment and you can see the frustration radiating off of him. Let him be angry. Angry Isack is easier to deal with than the alternative — the soft woundedness he seemed to carry around by the end, the kind that made you feel like the worst person alive.

You are the worst person alive when it comes to him. But at least this way, you don’t have to let his face remind you of it.

“Did you at least watch?” he asks flatly. 

“Watch what?”

“The race,” he says, a little too quickly for someone who’s trying very hard to pretend he doesn’t care. “Did you watch the race?”

You could tell him the truth. You could tell him you watched every single lap with a pit in your stomach and your heart in your throat. You could tell him you cried when Lando retired and you knew, you just knew he would cross the line in P3. You could tell him that when he lifted the trophy above his head on the podium, you had to press your hand over your mouth to keep from making a very undignified sound. A sob, if you’re being honest with yourself.

But that would be giving Isack Hadjar something you can’t afford to lose.

“No,” you lie airily instead, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “Don’t really follow F1 these days. Why, did something exciting happen?”

Something flashes across his face — raw hurt, quickly buried under the heat of his anger — and you feel a sick little twist of satisfaction. If you came here to stand in front of him and feel like your chest is caving in, you might as well make him feel it too.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice unsteady. 

You smile, slow and venomous. “Maybe later. If you’re lucky.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can catch the familiar scent of his cologne, the Tom Ford you bought him for his birthday two years ago that still makes your head turn every time you smell it on the street with some sort of ridiculous hope that it’ll be him. “Why are you here? Really?” 

“Let’s say I missed you,” you say, letting your voice drop into something softer, more intimate, so he has to lean in to hear you. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” he bites out, but his eyes flick traitorously down to the dark crimson of your mouth. “You broke up with me, remember? In November. The week before —”

“I know when I broke up with you,” you snap. The week before Abu Dhabi last year, is what he was going to say. You’d done it over the phone, too much of a coward to break up with him to his face and too selfish to do it earlier, when it might not have wrecked him right before the most important race of his life. He’d called you seventeen times in a row afterward; you cried on the cold tile of your bathroom floor and let them all go to voicemail, because you knew if you picked up even once you’d take it all back. Six days later, you sat in your hole-in-the-wall apartment in Paris and watched his car stall before it could start, watched the chance of a championship slip right through his fingers. When the cameras found him climbing out of the car afterwards — helmet off, jaw set tight enough to crack a tooth, eyes rimmed red — you’d thrown up in your kitchen sink. 

So yes. You know when you broke up with him.

“Really?” he says, voice going harsh and jagged. “Because you’ve done a good fucking job of forgetting everything else for the past nine months.”

“I wish I could forget you,” you blurt, the words slipping out before you can stop them in a way that makes you actually, genuinely hate how pathetic they’ve made you sound. You cover it by taking another sip, longer this time, trying to wash the bitter taste of your own honesty out of your mouth. “I didn’t — that’s not what happened. Isack. You have to know that’s not what this is.”

“Then what? What is it?” he asks, accent thickening. “Because I haven’t heard a thing from you since that night, and —” he exhales shakily, casting his gaze to the ceiling. “I had the best day of my entire life today. I have been dreaming about this day since the first time I got in a kart. I should be celebrating. And instead I am standing here and letting you ruin everything all over again.”

“That’s not fair.”

A laugh punches out of him, but it’s not the one you heard earlier, the one you still know like your favorite song. It’s something darker, something hollowed-out. “Fair?” he echoes derisively. “You want to talk about fair? You dumped me over the phone. You didn’t even block my number, you just — you just stopped answering, like I was too insignificant to even bother cutting me out. Nine months, quiet, and then you show up here like it’s nothing. Like I am nothing to you. So don’t fucking ask me for fair when nothing is fair with you.”

Your voice goes small. “Isa, I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come,” he says, so cold that for a moment you’re right back there on the bathroom tiles listening to your phone ring and ring and ring.

“I came because I —” your voice splinters horribly around the words, and you watch Isack’s face soften. It’s small, barely perceptible unless you know him the way that you do, the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the warmth bleeding into his dark eyes. You hate it. You hate that even now, even after everything you’ve done, his first instinct when you break is to reach for the pieces. “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t, I just —”

His hand flexes at his side like he’s physically stopping himself from touching you. “You just what?” he interrupts. He’s close now, too close, in your space enough that you can see his pulse beating high and insistent in his throat. “Finish the sentence.”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, throat tight, and for once in your miserable life you’re not lying to him. It’s worse than a lie, because it’s the most pitiful truth that you have to offer. 

“Conneries.” He steps even closer, hips nearly brushing against yours, mouth curling into a sneer. “You always know what you are doing. That’s the worst part, no? You know exactly how cruel you are to me, and you do it anyway.”

“What, and you’re so innocent?” you snap, sickly grateful for the anger surging to fill the space where your honesty leaked out. “I saw you earlier. Letting a girl in a Shein haul with grown-out acrylics hang all over you. That’s who’s replacing me? Really?”

Isack blinks, caught off-guard, and you can see the surprise written all over his face. “Are you — is this what this is all about? This is why you show up here? You’re fucking jealous?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply coolly, even as you feel your cheeks heat.

“Fuck,” he exhales. “You are — you’re fucking crazy, you know that? Je ne te comprends pas. If you still want me this much, why did you leave? Explain it to me. Make it make sense. Because I have spent nine months trying to understand how someone can look at me the way that you’re looking at me right now and walk away, and I —” he scrubs a hand over his face roughly. “I can’t do it, chérie. I can’t figure you out.”

Because you were going to leave me first, you think and think and think and do not say. Because you were about to be somebody, and I couldn’t stand the idea of becoming the girl you outgrew. Because I can’t let anyone love me without hurting them. 

“Does it matter?” you reply instead, keeping your tone carefully level so you don’t do something completely embarrassing like burst into tears. “I left. It’s over. Done.”

He looks at you, really looks, and something flashes in his eyes again, desperation ebbing away and leaving something crueler in its place. “If this was really done,” he says, voice dropping dangerously, “you wouldn’t be standing here wearing this fucking dress.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and the corner of his mouth quirks up the second he hears it, like he knows exactly what it means. Gone is the boy from a minute ago, wounded and angry and unsure. In his place is an Isack you know well, the one who used to pin you against the wall of his driver’s room and tell you exactly what he was going to do to you before he did it, the one who could make you forget your own name with nothing but the sound of his voice in your ear and the heat of his gaze.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, but it comes out a second too late and embarrassingly thin. 

“No?” he says, gaze dropping to your neckline, not even bothering to pretend he’s not ogling your tits. “You want a reminder of what happened last time you wore this dress?”

“Isack —”

“My birthday, last year,” he says, tone conversational. “You were fucking desperate. Couldn’t even make it to the bedroom, just begged me for it as soon as we got in the door. I remember the sound you made when I got on my knees for you in the hallway. You pulled my hair so hard I thought you were going to rip it out, told me nobody had ever made you come like that. Remember that?” He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “And you’re telling me you didn’t put this dress on thinking about me taking it off?”

“You’re delusional,” you lie, thighs pressing together involuntarily.

“And you’re wet,” he says, so matter-of-factly that it makes your cheeks burn, lips parting for a fraction of a second before you can regain your composure. He hooks a finger under the thin strap on your shoulder, tugging it a fraction of an inch out of place, knuckle dragging slow across your collarbone. “Dripping, probably, under this slutty little thing. I know you too well for you to think you can get away with a lie like that. So you can tell everyone else whatever you want, chérie, but you and I both know you didn’t come here for a fucking drink.”

“Why am I here, then?” you breathe, heart pounding. “Since you know me so well.”

“Because you still want me,” he says, and the smile curving his lips is so infuriatingly smug that you want to slap him and climb him in equal measure. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“Make me,” you whisper back. 

He lets out a growl, low and frayed, pupils blowing so wide his eyes go black. You can see him try to fight it, muscles tensing, the visible effort of a man trying very hard to be rational about the woman who ruined his life. And then you watch him lose in real time, and it’s terrible and exhilarating all at once, knowing that no matter how smart Isack is, no matter how fast he drives, no matter how hard he tries to protect himself, you will always, always be the thing he crashes into.

“Outside,” he mutters finally, jaw ticking. “Now.”

You tilt your head and try not to smile. “Why?”

He presses his lips together. “Because I am about to do something I will regret, and I’d rather not have an audience for it.”

You hum noncommittally, tracing a finger along the edge of your glass. “And if I don’t want to go outside with you?”

His hand closes firm around your wrist, tugging you off the barstool. His thumb presses into your pulse point and you think wildly that he must be able to feel how fast your heart is beating, to feel how much you still want him, laid bare under his fingertips. “I wasn’t asking,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, and the words zip hot up your spine.

“Careful, Isa,” you say, smirking as he pulls you through the crowd. “People are going to think you actually like me.” 

“Ta gueule,” he snaps, fingers tightening around your wrist as he weaves you through the crush of bodies on the dance floor. “For once in your life, please, just shut up.”

You catch the faces turning as you pass the VIP section like a lowlights reel, varying degrees of horror and resignation written all over everyone’s expressions. Ollie’s at least had the decency to turn away. Kimi hasn’t, his arms crossed over his chest as he glowers at you like a sullen teenager. Liam’s girlfriend is practically hyperventilating in the corner. Beach Waves is the last to see what’s going on, standing stupid, glossy lips slowly parting as the understanding dawns. You catch her eye over your shoulder as Isack drags you past, letting your gaze travel pointedly down to the hand that was on his arm fifteen minutes ago then back up to her face, slow and deliberate. Then you press two fingers to your lips and blow her a kiss.

Isack doesn’t look back at her. Not even once.

Poor her, you think deliriously, triumphantly. She got the laugh, the charm, the arm around her shoulder, whatever mid conversation she'd been making about whatever mid thing she probably cares about. She got to touch him for one night. Big deal. She’ll never touch the rest of him.

The night air is cool on your flushed skin when Isack shoulders through the fire exit and yanks you into a side alley, a rush of briny salt and stale cigarette smoke filling your nose the second you get outside. You stumble over the threshold onto the uneven ground, door barely swinging shut behind you before he’s crowding you against the opposite wall and bracing a hand on either side of your head. When you get your first proper look at him, no chaos of the club left to distract you, you almost laugh out loud. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and dark jeans, the fucking Amazon Basics of outfits, nothing designer, nothing curated, and he still looks like that. You want to call every luxury brand you know and tell them to shut down the operation; nothing they could put together could ever come close to Isack Hadjar in a plain white shirt looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth being furious about.

“Tu me rends dingue,” he mutters, and then his mouth is on yours.

Isack kisses you how his worst critics say he drives — reckless, aggressive, all instinct and no patience. His hands find your waist, shoving you back against the wall, stucco pricking against your skin. His fingers push into the skin at your hips, hard enough to leave marks, and you’d be lying if the thought didn’t make heat pool dangerously low in your stomach. You kiss him back just as viciously, mouth hot and demanding, because if it’s a fight he’s looking for, you’re going to give it to him. Your teeth clash messily against his, nails raking down the back of his neck as he hisses against your lips. You feel his hand tighten in your hair in retaliation, tugging your head back so he can lick into your mouth at the exact angle he wants, and it’s not a nice kiss but god, it’s so good you feel dizzy with it, the sheer taste of him after nine months, the furious want radiating off both of you like a fever that won’t break.

“I hate you,” he gasps against your lips, every hard plane of his body pressed against yours.

“Apparently not enough to keep your tongue out of my mouth,” you mutter back, fingers reaching up and pulling hard at his close-cropped curls.

His hips grind helplessly into yours at the contact, lashes beating a frenzied rhythm against the top of your cheekbone. “Je te déteste.”

“Saying it in French doesn’t make it truer, Isa.”

He makes a frustrated, animal noise, borne somewhere in the back of his throat. “I said don’t call me that anymore.” He bites your lower lip, hard enough to sting, and swallows the gasp that erupts from your lips. His thigh slots between yours, pressing you harder against the wall, and your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as he drags searing open-mouth kisses down your throat. He sucks a painful little mark there, into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and you hate him for it and push into it at the same time, hand fisting at the front of his stupid fucking t-shirt like you want to claw right through it.

“Hotel,” you manage, breathless. 

He pulls back, chest heaving, pupils blown so wide his eyes glitter black. There’s a smear of your lipstick, blood-red at the corner of his mouth. He looks wrecked, staring back at you without a word, and for a moment you think this is it. The end of the road, the moment he realizes he needs to take the last exit before he drives himself off the edge of the earth again.

When he speaks, he sounds like he hates himself for it. “Where?” 

You walk the five blocks back to the hotel in silence. There’s nothing safe left to say, walking side by side with nothing but adrenaline crackling in the empty inches between you. You keep your eyes pinned on the sea, pretending he’s not close enough to touch, pretending you’re not desperate, aching, out of your mind with the need to feel his calloused fingertips against your skin. The elevator climbs five floors before the back of his hand brushes the back of yours, accidental and barely-there, and the contact sends an electric thrill straight to your throbbing core. 

You barely get the keycard in the door before he’s on you. 

His mouth attaches to your neck, kicking the door shut behind the both of you so hard that it knocks the generic art off the wall. Hands slide up your waist, cupping your tits, thumb flicking over your nipple. You gasp at the sensation, back arching, pushing your chest into Isack’s touch, and you hate how you can feel his infuriating, cruel little smile against your neck. He pushes you back against the wall with one hand braced to your hip, the other rolling your nipple between his fingers, friction of silk against the stiffened peak. It sends a sharp jolt straight to your cunt that makes your knees buckle. He shoves his thigh between yours immediately, holding you up, and the pressure of the ropy muscle beneath you drags a moan out of you that you’d genuinely kill to take back.

“Sound so fucking good for me,” he mumbles against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.  He’s hard, absurdly so, pressed tight against you. You can feel his cock throbbing against your hip through his jeans, and when he shifts his weight back to tug his t-shirt over his head his hips push into your thigh so deliberately that it makes your head fall back against the wall. 

He crowds into you again, one hand sliding up to plant on the wall next to your head, the other wrapping around your thigh and hitching it up around his hip. He grinds against you like that, slow and filthy, the muscles of his stomach tensing every time he rolls forward. He’s harder than he used to be, his shiny new F1 physique on display: broader across the shoulders, thicker through the arms. You can’t stop yourself from mapping the changes with your palms, your fingernails, your teeth against his collarbone, marking all the places that are new and hating every single girl who got to see him become this when you didn’t.

“I hate — putain,” his voice cracks into a whimper when you pull him forward by the belt loops, cock pressed hard against the crease of your thigh as he ruts into you. “I hate that I still want this so much.” “Then stop,” you gasp, rolling your hips to meet his. “I can’t.” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, and even in the darkness you can see his eyes are wild, desperate. “That is my problem. I’ve never been able to stop wanting you.” 

“Go tell that girl that,” you snap brattily. “Sure she’d love to hear it.” 

His expression shutters, and for a second you think you’ve actually, properly miscalculated; finally pushed him too far, hit the wrong nerve. And then he smiles coldly. It sends a strange thrill through you, knowing there’s something he can do now that you wouldn’t predict. “Get on your knees.” 

The words land humiliating, heat flaring between your thighs so fast it makes you dizzy, clenching around nothing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, flat and almost bored, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and tangling his fingers through it. “You want to run your mouth, no? I can think of something better to do with it.”

You should tell him to go fuck himself. You should walk out that door and never speak to him again and leave him here hard and wanting with the taste of you still on his lips.

Instead, you sink to the carpet.

His hand stays in your hair, loosening just enough to let you tilt your head back and look up at him. The sight of him from this angle — jaw set, chest heaving — makes your cunt throb. He’s already undoing his jeans with his other hand, overeager, zipper tugged down with a sharp metallic hiss. When he frees himself from his Calvins you have to swallow hard, mouth watering in a genuinely humiliating way. He’s bigger than you remembered, weeping at the tip.

His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, almost tenderly, before slipping over your bottom lip into your mouth. “Open,” he says, voice low.

You let your lips part, jaw dropping just slightly. He groans low and guttural, tugging you forward, and you let your tongue flick out to catch the bead of pre-come gathering at the slit. Isack hisses out a breath through his teeth, flush rising high in his cheeks. You take your time, making him wait, pressing slow, open-mouth kisses down his length, tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, feeling him pulse against your lips. 

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” he grits out. 

You look up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze defiantly before you do exactly as he asked. Stop teasing, and take him in properly.

He whines, stomach muscles tensing and trembling under your fingertips, hips jerking forward involuntarily when you hollow your cheeks around his length. His head tips back, throat bobbing, lower lip caught prettily between his teeth as you pull back, swirling your tongue lightly around the tip before taking him deep again. His hand flies back to your hair, fisting into it, hips rocking into your mouth deep enough to hit the back of your throat and make you gag around his length. 

“Come on, take it,” he says, voice rough, fingers crushing tightly into your tangled locks. “This is what your pretty little mouth should be for, no? You wanted it, you came all this way, so take it.”

You moan around him in response and his hips stutter at the vibration, fucking forward in short, brutal thrusts. He sets a rhythm that is nothing like the boy who used to pet your hair and tell you how good you were for him, how pretty you looked. This is mean, has your jaw aching and mascara streaming, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth and drooling down your chin. It sounds fucking obscene, the slick thrust of his cock against your tongue, your choked breathing around him, the low, frayed groans he keeps letting slip like he can’t stop himself. Your hand drifts between your thighs, barely a conscious movement, just needing the friction, but you barely make contact before his hand snaps around your wrist. 

“No,” he pants, wrenching your head back by your hair with his other hand until you’re fully off him, a mess of spit and pre-come strung between your swollen lips and the head of his cock. “Did I say you could fucking touch yourself?”

You stare up at him, wordless, overwhelmed, a frisson of want running through you as he tugs both your hands up, placing them on his thighs. “You want to come tonight?” he asks mockingly, eyes dark. “Then you come when I let you.” 

You barely have time to breathe before he’s feeding himself back in, faster this time, hips snapping forward until your nose presses against the coarse hair at the base of his length and your nails are digging perfect half-moons into his thighs and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but relax your throat and take all of it. He keeps you there, holds your head until your knees burn against the carpet and your throat aches with it. You can feel him getting close, though, his muscles tensing under your fingers, grip going white-knuckled in your hair, dick throbbing on your tongue, breath coming in quick, desperate bursts until he pulls you off him again. 

You make an indignant noise at the loss, jaw still slack while Isack hauls you up by your upper arms hard enough that your stomach flips. He steadies you against his chest before pushing you back through the dim room until you stumble against the mattress, pitching backwards unexpectedly. 

The feeling of falling is brief before his hand flies up behind your head, instinctive and tender, palm cradling your skull a half-second before it hits the headboard.

You freeze, blinking up at him, and watch the realization hit — his hand stiffening against your hair when he catches what he’s done, the hot flush of humiliation crawling up his neck. He snatches his hand away too fast, jaw flexing, something furious and mortified in his eyes like you’ve caught him doing something unforgivable. 

“Don’t,” he snaps, compensating immediately for it. Overcompensating, really, grabbing the neckline of your dress with both hands and pulling it down your body so roughly the silk catches. You hear something rip, a stitch giving way around your hips. You’d care if you could think straight, but his hands are on your bare skin now, running feverish down your body like he’s trying to burn the gentleness out of his own fingers. 

The dress catches around your thighs and he drags it the rest of the way off, tossing it blindly behind him as his face goes blissfully, thrillingly slack. “No panties?” he asks, breath shallow. 

You smirk, propping yourself up on your elbows, letting him see exactly how wet you are, pretty and swollen, slick coating the inside of your thighs. “Huh. Must have forgotten to pack them.”

He exhales long and slow through his nose, and you watch his cock twitch, flushed dark and shining with your spit. Then he climbs over you, hand sliding up your legs, tracing delicately around your entrance. 

“Fucking soaked,” he groans, more to himself than to you as he drags the pad of his index finger through the dripping mess. “Pathetic. Knew you would be.” 

He pushes two fingers inside without warning, and the stretch of it is insane, pulling a high-pitched moan from your lips as your back arches off the mattress. “Fuck,” you whine, hands fisting into the sheets as you let your legs fall open, wider, hips jerking against his hand. 

He moves slowly at first, methodically, thumb zeroing in on your clit and pressing down in heavy, deliberate circles until your breathing is coming out in shaky little gasps. He slips a third finger in, your cunt so embarrassingly wet that there’s barely any resistance. The sound of it is filthy, echoing through the room, squelching in and out of your wetness, his breathing going rough and uneven above you like fingering you is doing something to him too. The familiarity of it all, the exact right pressure in the exact right place like the past nine months never happened, makes your nerve endings sing.

Then he twists his wrist, scissors his fingers on the next stroke, hitting a spot that makes your entire body jolt off the bed. You know every move Isack Hadjar has ever made on you by heart, recognize them like your own name, and this one is infuriatingly, stomach-turningly different.

“Stop.” Your hand clamps around his wrist, holding him perfectly still inside you. “What the fuck was that?”

He doesn’t move, just watches you squirm underneath him like you can’t decide whether to pull away or get closer. “What was what?”

“What you just did,” you swallow hard, voice coming out thin. “That — that’s new.”

It’s silent, for a moment, Isack’s face shifting from confusion to guilt to a satisfaction so cruel you can barely look at him. “Yeah,” he agrees finally, crooking his fingers and doing the same move again. “It is.” 

The jealousy comes white-hot, visceral and choking as soon as you let yourself think about it: someone else’s thighs around his hand, some other girl’s sounds in his ear, some bitch smart enough to pick up the thing you tossed away. And the absolute worst part is your body doesn’t care, hips still canting against his palm, riding his fingers desperately. You’re writhing, furious, soaking his fucking hand, and you can feel the orgasm coiling in the pit of your stomach, building fast and sharp, thighs shaking, right there on the precipice, so close your vision is starting to white out at the edges, and then he pulls his fingers out. 

The noise you make is barely human. “No — fuck, Isa, don’t you dare —”

“Not yet,” he says, and holds up his hand, fingers glistening in the low light down to the knuckle. He grins down at you, cocky, bringing them to his mouth tantalizingly slow. He sucks them clean just like that, tongue flicking around his fingers, eyes locked on yours the entire time, and the sight of it makes you moan high and needy. “Not until I say.” 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you snap, watching him, cunt fluttering around nothing. 

He laughs, a real one, surprised out of him, and the sound of it after so long hits you somewhere unbearably soft. “Yeah,” he breathes, staring down at you. “Well. Takes one to know one.”

You look back at him. For one terrible second,  you can see it — the boy underneath all of this, the one who laughed like that when you stole his chips at three in the morning, the one who used to fall asleep with his face tucked in your neck — and the tenderness of it is so awful that you have to look away. He doesn’t let you, though, hand finding your jaw, tilting your face back to his. Then he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding slow against yours and making your chest ache worse than the roughness ever could.

He breaks away and shifts over you, settling his weight between your thighs, one hand planted firmly beside your head. You can feel him against your core, hard and heavy, but he doesn’t push in, just holds himself there, jaw tight, watching your face with dark, patient eyes.

“Isack,” you breathe, frustrated. “Please.”

“Please what?” he asks, voice low and almost amused. He rolls his hips forward gently, the head of his cock catching at your entrance, and you bite back a whimper. “Come on. You were so good at using your words earlier.”

“I’m not going to fucking beg you,” you breathe, but your hips are already tilting up, trying to take him in, to take what he won’t give you. 

He pins your hip flat to the mattress, thumb caressing against the jut of bone. “Really?” he murmurs, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. He drags himself through your folds again, grinding the thick line of his dick against your clit, close enough that you can feel exactly how full he’d make you and not nearly close enough to give you what you need. “You sure?”

You last approximately five more seconds before whatever’s left of your pride rolls over and dies. “Fuck. Fine, you win, please,” you choke out. “Please, Isa, I need you to fuck me. Need you inside —”

He pushes into you before you finish the sentence, one long devastating thrust burying himself to the hilt, and it whites out your brain so completely that you forget your own name, forget every reason you ever had for leaving him, forget everything except the feeling of being full after nine months of emptiness that nothing else could touch.

“Jesus,” he rasps, voice wrecked and ragged, heartbeat hammering against your chest. “I forgot — you feel so fucking good, chérie. Still so fucking tight for me, fuck —” 

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “Fucking move,” you hiss. 

His eyes go black, pulling almost all the way out and fucking back in hard enough to crack the headboard against the wall. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, hips snapping against yours with a force that shoves you up the mattress, hitching your leg higher and opening you up so he can fuck into you at an angle that has you keening, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

“Perfect fucking pussy,” he pants against your neck, driving deep into you. “Taking me so well, like it was made for me.” He pulls back to look at you, hair damp against his forehead. “Better than anyone else. Better than — putain, none of them even came close, you know?”

“Shut up,” you snarl, and sink your teeth into his neck so hard he yelps, hips slamming forward gracelessly, on reflex, making you see stars. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare tell me about them.”

“Fuck,” he gasps, hands shaking next to your head. You think for a second he’s going to push you off, but instead he presses you closer, and the sound he makes when you suck hard against the bite mark, tongue laving over his skin, is something you’ll replay behind your eyelids for another nine months. “I didn’t —”

“I don’t care,” you mewl, voice cracking around the lie. “I don’t care how many girls you fucked, Isa, because none of them are here right now, and none of them are ever going to be here. I’ll never let you get over me,” you breathe, and it’s insane but you can feel his cock throb inside you at the words, feel how he starts fucking you harder, deeper. “Not ever.”

Isack smashes his lips back to yours, furious and bruising, fucking you into the mattress like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like if he just gets deep enough he can reach the part of you that keeps running away.

“Dis-moi que tu es à moi,” he whimpers against your mouth. Begs, really — raw and desperate, still fucking into you ruthlessly — and you hate it, hate him for even asking it of you. As if you could ever belong to anyone else. As if there is a single version of your sorry, fucked-up life where you don’t end up right here, wrapped around him, ruining him all over, loving him so hard and so much that it feels like getting torn completely apart and put back together with your most important piece missing.

“À toi,” you sob, high and keening, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, humiliating if you weren’t too far gone to care about anything but the heavy, thick stretch of his cock inside you and his gaze on yours. “Yours, Isa, fuck, you know I’m yours.”

His hips lose their rhythm for a moment, jerking frantically before he buries himself to the hilt again, grinding in tight, shuddering little circles against you as his thumb works your clit. You’re so close you can feel it everywhere, your walls clenching around him, eyes rolling back, every desperate thrust of his cockhead dragging against your sweet spot, drawing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Look at me,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes are glazed over, fucked-out. “Look at me while you come for me.”

Your eyes focus on his face, and that’s it, really. Your orgasm tears through you, almost violent in its pure sensation — your back arching off the bed, toes curling, body locking up and spasming around him. Isack doesn’t stop for even a second, just keeps fucking you through it, drilling into you with deep unsteady strokes that draw out every aftershock until you’re gasping, feebly clawing at his back and babbling his name like a prayer.

When he follows, spilling into you seconds later, he breathes your name back like a curse.

Isack falls asleep the same way he always used to, a switch flipped quick and absolute, one arm slung heavy around your bare waist like even unconscious he knows you’re liable to bolt at any time. You used to tease him about it: you sleep like someone who’s never done a single bad thing in their life, you’d said once, fingers carding through his hair in the dark. He’d laughed dreamily and pulled you closer, mumbled maybe I haven’t against your skin. In sleep, the hard edges of him soften, furrow between his brow smoothing out, lips parting slightly, breath going slow and even. He looks younger that way, unguarded. More like the boy you once loved. 

You trace the sharp line of his jaw with a softness you’d never allow yourself in the light of day. There’s a mark on his neck where you bit him, pink scratches from your nails already raising over his shoulders and the muscles of his back. Bruises on you, blooming purplish-blue over the sharp jut of your hip where his fingers found a hold. You catalogue it all like evidence: proof that you were here, that for a few hours you let yourself have the one thing you want most and are least equipped to keep.

Isack shifts closer to you, face pressed against your hair. “Reste, chérie,” he mumbles, barely conscious. Even in sleep his hand gravitates to yours, fingers intertwining. “S’il te plaît.”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer, really. You don’t trust yourself to speak, not when you can already feel your throat closing dangerously with emotion. So you close your eyes and don’t sleep. You just lay in his arms and let him hold you, let yourself pretend you’re the kind of person who knows how to stay.

When the sun rises, pale morning light flooding through the curtains, you know you can’t lie to yourself much longer. You slip out from under Isack’s arm inch by inch; he stirs, making a confused, half-asleep sound that feels like a knife shoved directly into your stomach, but he doesn’t wake up. You pull yourself back together quietly, slowly, like completing the steps of a checklist you don’t really want to reach the end of. Dress: crumpled on the carpet, slipped over your head and smoothed into semi-presentability. Heels: kicked off somewhere between the door and the bed, buckled back on despite half-formed blisters because you deserve the pain, at least a little bit. Dignity: lost too long ago to even bother looking for it.

You order the Uber from the lobby, put the pick-up point a block away from the hotel because you don’t want the engine sound to wake him. You’re already halfway back to Amsterdam Centraal by the time your phone buzzes in your lap. 

isack  [ 4:47 AM ]  :  Of course isack  [ 4:47 AM ]  :  Of course you left

You stare down at the messages, chest going tight. Thumbs hover hesitantly over the keyboard, typing and deleting and rewriting until you settle on the only honest thing you can say.

you  [ 4:51 AM ]  :  you knew i would

isack  [ 4:52 AM ]  :  I guess I did isack  [ 4:52 AM ]  :  Doesn’t make me feel any better though

you  [ 4:53 AM ]  :  i’m sorry

isack  [ 4:54 AM ]  :  No you’re not isack  [ 4:54 AM ]  :  Don’t lie isack  [ 4:55 AM ]  :  You would do it again tomorrow

you  [ 4:56 AM ]  :  and you would let me you  [ 4:56 AM ]  :  so what does that say about both of us

isack  [ 4:56 AM ]  :  I don’t know isack  [ 4:56 AM ]  :  That we are both stupid? That we have never learned? isack  [ 4:57 AM ]  :  You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me

you  [ 4:59 AM ]  :  i know

isack  [ 5:00 AM ]  :  And I still love you anyway isack  [ 5:00 AM ]  :  That’s the stupidest thing

Some sick, horrible part of you lights up when you see the messages. He still loves you. After all of it, after nine months of hurt, after you walked out on him again. You want to press your phone to your chest like a girl in a silly rom-com. You want to screenshot the message and frame it so you can look at it forever and remember what it felt like to know that even though you’d done your worst, he still wanted you. 

you  [ 5:01 AM ]  :  please don’t say it if you don’t mean it  [ unsent! ] you  [ 5:01 AM ]  :  i still love you too  [ unsent! ] you  [ 5:02 AM ]  :  it’s not stupid, isa you  [ 5:02 AM ]  :  it’s just not enough

The early-morning light catches on the water as you speed past, coloring the sea golden as you stare down at the three dots, disappearing and reappearing over and over again. You hold your breath and count the seconds, wondering if this is it, if this is the time he finally wises up and stops replying to you for good. You wonder, too, if it’s not all you deserve from him. 

isack  [ 5:05 AM ]  :  Maybe someday it will be isack  [ 5:05 AM ]  :  À bientôt chérie

You stare at your screen until the words blur together, until all that’s left is the smudges of blue and grey through the tears you steadfastly refuse to let fall. 

Not goodbye. Because it never will be, with you, and you both know it. You’ll stay away for weeks, maybe even months if you’re feeling particularly strong, and then something will happen — another podium, maybe a win someday when he makes it to Red Bull like you know he will, some other sick excuse you’ll manufacture when the real reason is that you just want to be wanted again — and you’ll show up in another city, in another dress, and he’ll let you in because he can’t help himself. 

And then you’ll leave again, because you can’t help yourself either.

à bientôt, isa, you type back, smile curling the edge of your mouth. 

Max’s best friend. His best man. The human equivalent of a migraine wrapped in a tux.

He was somehow still laughing, still talking, still managing to irritate you from across the room without even opening his mouth. It was a talent, really. You thought he was smug, insufferable, and entirely too pleased with himself for someone who hadn’t contributed anything meaningful to society except chaos and a few podiums.

As for what he thought about you?

You didn’t care. Truly. Deeply. Profoundly.

(And if you repeated that enough times, maybe one day it would even feel true.)

The only downside to Pietra marrying Max was the unfortunate, unavoidable reality that Lando Norris was now a permanent fixture in your life. A recurring character. A long-term problem. A headache with a lifetime warranty.

The thought alone made your skin crawl in a way that felt almost personal.

The weirdest part wasn’t the disappearing guests or the suspiciously pale groomsman who nearly face‑planted into the cake. No, the weirdest part came when you realized you hadn’t seen Pietra in… a while.

At first, you brushed it off. She was a newlywed. Newlyweds vanish. It’s practically a wedding tradition. Maybe she was touching up her makeup. Maybe she was having a moment with Max. Maybe she was hiding from Lando, which would be completely understandable and honestly relatable.

But something felt off.

Pietra wasn’t the type to disappear without a word, especially not from her own reception—the event she’d planned down to the color of the napkin rings. And the longer you went without seeing her, the more that uneasy little knot twisted in your stomach. It wasn’t panic yet, but it was definitely panic‑adjacent.

So, for your own peace of mind, you pulled out your phone and called her.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then it connected.

“P? Where are you? Are you okay?”

There was a pause—the kind that immediately tells you the answer is no.

When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and shaky, nothing like the glowing, ecstatic bride you’d been celebrating with an hour ago.

“Can you come to our room?”

That was it.

No explanation. No reassurance. No “don’t freak out.”

Just those six words.

The call ended a second later, leaving you staring at your phone like it had personally offended you.

And suddenly, that uneasy feeling in your stomach sharpened into something much closer to full‑blown panic—the kind that makes your heart thump too hard and your brain start listing every possible worst‑case scenario in alphabetical order.

Because if Pietra sounded like that on her wedding night, something was very, very wrong.

You hurried through the hotel hallway, moving as fast as your heels would let you—which, unfortunately, was not very fast at all. Your phone was still in your hand, screen glowing with the last call, and you were so focused on Pietra’s shaky voice replaying in your head that you didn’t even look up when you turned the corner.

Which is exactly why you slammed straight into someone.

“Ow!”

You stumbled back, clutching your phone like it might soften the impact. And then you looked up.

Of course.

Of course it was Lando Norris.

Because why wouldn’t the universe add insult to injury.

He steadied himself, then gave you a once‑over that somehow managed to be both annoyed and judgmental, like you’d personally offended him by existing in his path.

“Watch it,” he said.

“You watch it,” you shot back, because you refused to let him have the last word. Not tonight. Not ever.

You pointed a finger at him, ready to continue the argument you two had apparently been having since the day you met—but then you both reached for the same door handle.

Pietra and Max’s room.

You froze.

He froze.

“What the fuck are you—”

Before either of you could finish, a voice croaked from inside the room. Weak. Miserable. Dramatic in a way only one person could manage.

“Stop flirting and come in! Both of you!”

Max.

Or, more accurately, whatever was left of Max. 

Lando grimaced so hard it looked painful. “If he says that again, I’m going to be sick.”

He shot you a look—the kind that said this is your fault somehow—before pushing the door open.

Honestly?

You felt the same way.

Instead of dignifying him with a response, you rolled your eyes so hard it was practically a workout and followed him inside.

Whatever was happening inside the room looked like something straight out of a low‑budget horror movie—the kind where you already know half the cast won’t make it to the sequel.

The wedding? Completely forgotten. Pietra’s dress was crumpled in a sad little heap on the floor, like it had given up on life. Max’s tux jacket was draped over a chair in a way that suggested he’d either thrown it or collapsed out of it. Hard to tell.

Pietra was curled up on the bed, pale and miserable, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Max sat hunched over at the table with his head in his hands, breathing like someone who had seen things. Terrible things. Things he would never emotionally recover from.

“For newlyweds, you two look horrible,” Lando observed, because apparently he felt the need to narrate the obvious.

As if the scene didn’t already scream we are dying.

“You have no idea,” Pietra groaned, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Never eating seafood again,” Max muttered into his palms.

You frowned, stepping further into the room. “What happened?”

“The seafood happened,” Pietra said weakly, like the words themselves were painful.

Max lifted his head just enough to confirm it. “It was bad. Everyone’s sick.”

“Everyone?” you repeated, because surely this couldn’t be as dramatic as it sounded.

“My parents are sick. Pietra’s cousins are sick. Half the wedding is sick.” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I think I’m gonna thr—”

“Okay, mate, we get it,” Lando cut in quickly, hands up like he was warding off a demon.

Neither of you needed the visual.

A heavy silence settled over the room—the kind that comes right before someone admits something truly stupid.

And then Lando, because he physically could not help himself, added,

“I told you seafood was a terrible idea.”

Max slowly lifted his head, eyes dead, soul gone. “Not helping.”

“Just saying.”

Of course he was.

Suddenly, a thought hit you—sharp and obvious, like the kind of realization you really should’ve had ten minutes earlier.

You turned to Lando, narrowing your eyes.

“If everyone ate the seafood… why aren’t you sick?”

He looked at you like you’d just accused him of kicking puppies for fun. His whole face twisted, offended on a spiritual level.

“I hate seafood,” he said, dripping with disgust. Like it was common knowledge. Like it was printed on his passport. Like you were personally stupid for not knowing his dietary preferences.

Before you could roll your eyes hard enough to sprain something, he pointed right back at you.

“Could ask you the same. Why aren’t you sick?”

“I’m on a diet,” you said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

His eyebrows shot up, and he looked far too pleased with himself as he looked toward Max.

“See? This is what happens when you order seafood even though half your guests don’t even eat it.”

“You two don’t mean half the guests,” Pietra muttered from the bed, rolling her eyes so weakly it was almost impressive she managed it at all.

“Well—but that’s not why you’re here,” Max started.

The tone in his voice shifted. Instantly. Like someone had dimmed the lights and added ominous background music.

This wasn’t a joke anymore.

Even Lando went quiet—which was honestly the most alarming symptom in the room.

“We can’t go on our honeymoon,” Max said weakly. “We literally can’t even stand, let alone fly to the Maldives.”

Pietra raised a shaky hand from the bed, like she was giving sworn testimony. “Also… it’s non‑refundable.”

As if that somehow made the situation more tragic.

Which, unfortunately, it did.

“And?” you asked slowly, because you already didn’t like where this was going. “What does that have to do with us?”

Max glanced at Pietra.

Then at you.

Then at Lando.

Then back at you.

“Since you’re the only ones who are able to go…”

No.

No, no, no.

Absolutely not.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.

Did they just—

Did they seriously just—

“Absolutely not,” Lando cut in immediately, shaking his head so hard his curls bounced.

For once, you agreed with him.

Violently.

Because there was no universe—none—where you and Lando Norris should be sent on a romantic, luxury honeymoon together.

Which, of course, meant that was exactly what was about to happen.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Your stomach dropped so fast you felt it in your toes. They weren’t actually suggesting this. They couldn’t be. This had to be a fever dream caused by secondhand seafood fumes.

For once, you were perfectly aligned with him. A rare, terrifying moment of unity.

But Max wasn’t done.

“It’s a private villa,” he said, voice wobbling. “Some newlywed activities—”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Did you hit your head while eating the seafood too?”

Because that was the only explanation. Truly. The man had lost brain function. You were going to wake up any second now. Maybe you’d fall off a chair and snap back into the correct timeline. Or maybe you should hit your head and skip straight to the part where none of this was happening.

“It’ll go to waste if you don’t go,” Pietra added, sounding both tragic and dramatic, which was impressive considering she looked like she might faint at any moment.

Lando let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Then let it go to waste. Problem solved.”

“Good thing we’re not asking you,” Max said, ignoring him completely. “We’re telling you.”

Silence fell over the room.

Not the normal kind.

The bad kind.

The kind that meant decisions had already been made without your consent.

“I already called the resort,” Max continued, like he was ripping off a Band‑Aid. “We told them we’re sick and can’t go. But our—also freshly married—friends will go instead of us.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

No.

No.

Absolutely no.

What the actual fuck.

This had to be illegal. Or a prank. Or a shared hallucination brought on by the cursed seafood poisoning half the hotel.

Max was clearly too exhausted to keep talking. Pietra, unfortunately, was not. She pushed herself up just enough to finish his sentence, her voice thin but determined.

“We just changed the names,” she said, like that explained anything at all.

You stared at her, waiting for the part where she clarified. She didn’t.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Pietra smiled—weakly, proudly, and completely out of touch with reality. She looked like she might faint at any second, yet somehow she still had the nerve to look pleased with herself.

“From now on, you’re Mr. and Mrs. Norris!”

The words hung in the air like a bomb that hadn’t decided whether to explode or not. Too cheerful. Too final. Too insane to process.

For a moment, nobody reacted. The room went still, like even the walls were trying to understand what she’d just said.

Then everything reacted at once.

“I hope you’re fucking kidding,” Lando said, voice flat and sharp.

“No,” Pietra replied immediately, not even blinking.

“I’m not going anywhere with her,” he snapped, pointing at you like you were the problem.

“I’m not going anywhere with him,” you shot back at the exact same time, because if he was pointing, you were pointing too.

Silence fell again—heavy, miserable, the kind that made you want to walk straight into the ocean.

Max didn’t even lift his head. He just groaned into the table like he’d accepted his fate and yours.

Pietra sighed, sounding far too calm for someone who had just detonated your life. “Well,” she said, “good thing it’s already done.”

And just like that, your nightmare didn’t just have a name.

It had a reservation.

A villa.

A flight to the Maldives.

And a husband you didn’t even like.

When the realization finally settled between you and your apparently new husband, all you could do was let out a long, exhausted groan—the kind that came from deep in your soul, the kind that said I did not sign up for this. It was the only reaction your brain could manage. Your thoughts were basically just static and disbelief.

Lando, on the other hand, had plenty of energy left to complain.

“Mate, I love you,” he said, turning toward Max with the dramatic flair of someone delivering a eulogy, “but right now I hate you so much.”

Max didn’t even lift his head. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just sat there, hunched over the table like a man who had accepted every bad decision that led him to this moment.

Pietra gave a weak little wave from the bed, like she was blessing a doomed union. “You’ll thank us later,” she mumbled, which was bold for someone who looked like she might pass out mid‑sentence.

Lando exhaled sharply, then looked between you, Max, and Pietra with the expression of a man who had lost all hope in humanity. “Enjoy your free honeymoon,” he said flatly. A beat. “Lovebirds.”

You and Lando turned to each other at the exact same time.

“No.”

It came out perfectly synchronized—same tone, same disgust, same absolute refusal. If you weren’t so horrified, you might’ve been impressed.

And for the first time all night, even Max looked slightly amused. His mouth twitched, just barely, like he wanted to smile but didn’t have the physical strength to commit to it.

Which was great.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

At least someone was enjoying the beginning of your shared nightmare.

────────────

The moment you stepped off the boat, you regretted not eating the seafood too. Honestly, at least then you’d be back at the hotel, curled up on a bathroom floor, dramatically begging for death like everyone else. Instead, you were here—in paradise—with the one person who could make even the Maldives feel like a punishment. You were at that stage of life where you would genuinely prefer food poisoning over spending any time alone with Lando Norris. And that said a lot.

The Maldives were gorgeous, of course. The water was so turquoise it looked fake, the sand was blindingly white, and the palm trees swayed like they were performing for a commercial. Everything around you was warm and soft and perfect, the kind of place people saved up for years to visit. It should have been paradise. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic.

But then there was the idiot standing next to you.

Lando looked around with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, somehow managing to look annoyed despite being surrounded by literal postcard scenery. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. You hoped he was regretting this as much as you were. Preferably more.

A pair of resort employees approached with bright, excited smiles—the kind of smiles people only have when they have no idea what kind of disaster they’re dealing with.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris! Congratulations on your honeymoon.”

Your eye twitched so hard you were surprised it didn’t fall out. If one more person called you that, you might actually swim back to the mainland.

“Thanks,” Lando said smoothly, flashing them one of his signature smiles like he hadn’t spent the last 48 hours insisting he wasn’t going anywhere with you.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

What happened to I’m not going anywhere with her?

He caught your glare and shrugged, all innocent and useless.

Traitor.

Not wanting to be rude to the only people here who hadn’t personally ruined your life, you forced a polite smile. Before you could correct them—or scream—one of the employees picked up your suitcase with cheerful efficiency.

“Come with us,” she said brightly. “We’ll show you your villa.”

The walk to the villa was painfully, almost comically silent. Not a single word passed between you. You stared straight ahead like you were being marched to your doom. Lando did the same, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he was being forced to attend his own funeral. The two resort employees leading the way kept glancing back at you both, probably wondering what kind of honeymooning couple walked like they were on their way to court.

Eventually, one of them cleared her throat, clearly trying to break the tension before it swallowed all four of you whole.

“I’m sorry about your friends.”

You blinked, pulled out of your internal spiral. Right. Max and Pietra. The actual newlyweds. The ones currently dying in a hotel room.

“Yeah,” you said. “It sucks.”

“They were very upset when they called,” she continued gently. “But they seemed happy that you two could still enjoy the honeymoon.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

Happy.

That was certainly one way to describe it. Delusional was another. Criminally optimistic was a third.

Beside you, Lando made a noise—something between a laugh and a strangled groan. Honestly, it could’ve been either. Or both.

“And how long are you two married?”

You froze.

Well.

Eh.

You didn’t exactly have a script for this. You didn’t know whether to lie, tell the truth, or throw yourself into the ocean and let the fish sort it out.

Before you could decide, Lando spoke.

“Two months.”

You whipped your head toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Lando didn’t even look at you. He just kept walking beside you like he hadn’t casually invented an entire fake marriage timeline out of thin air. No hesitation. No shame. No warning. Just two months tossed into the universe like it was a normal, reasonable answer.

The employee beamed at the both of you, completely fooled.

“How lovely! Newlyweds.”

“Yeah,” Lando replied smoothly, slipping into the role like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Still getting used to it.”

You stared at him, your brain short‑circuiting.

Still getting used to it.

Still. Getting. Used. To. It.

Was he insane? Was he actually insane? Because that was the only explanation for the confidence with which he delivered that line. You caught the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smallest hint of amusement, like he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of your suffering.

The bastard was enjoying this.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile so stiff it could’ve cracked. “Every day is a surprise.”

Lando finally glanced at you, and for a split second, you saw it—the spark of amusement in his eyes, the quiet little I’m having fun and you can’t stop me glint.

You hated it.

You hated him.

The villa was ridiculous.

Not just nice—insultingly nice. The kind of nice that made you question every choice you’d ever made in your life. The terrace stretched out over the water like it was showing off. There was a glass slide straight into the ocean, an infinity pool that blended into the horizon, an outdoor shower, two separate bathrooms (mercifully), and enough space to host three families, a wedding, and maybe a small cult.

It was paradise.

And you hated that you were seeing it with him.

The second the employees left, you spun toward Lando.

“What the hell was that?”

Lando dropped his bag onto the floor like he owned the place. “What was what?”

“‘Two months’?” you repeated, voice rising. “Where did you even get two months from?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Sounded believable.”

“Believable?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he shot back. “‘Actually, we’ve known each other for years and can’t stand one another, but our friends got food poisoning and sent us on their honeymoon instead’?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it. and opened it again.

“…Well, maybe not like that.”

“Exactly,” he said, like he’d just won a debate on national television.

“That doesn’t mean you get to invent an entire marriage!”

“Oh, come on,” he said, already wandering deeper into the villa like a man on vacation. “It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?”

“Yes.”

“You made me your wife.”

Lando paused mid‑step and turned, looking genuinely confused.

“You already were my wife.”

The room went still. You stared at him. He stared back.

Three long, painful seconds passed.

Then something flickered across his face—realization, horror, embarrassment, all at once.

“Oh.”

Your eye twitched. “Oh?”

“Okay,” he winced, “that sounded worse out loud.”

“You think?”

“I mean she called you Mrs. Norris first. She made you my wife,” Lando tried to defend himself.

Before you could continue tearing him apart, a knock interrupted you.

Both of you froze.

The door opened immediately—because apparently privacy was optional here—and one of the resort employees peeked in with an apologetic smile.

“Oh! Sorry, one more thing.”

You instinctively stepped away from Lando like he was radioactive. He noticed. Of course he did. The employee didn’t.

“Your first romantic dinner is at eight tonight.”

Silence.

“What?” you said.

“Romantic dinner,” she repeated cheerfully. “On the beach. Just the two of you.”

You slowly turned your head toward Lando.

He turned toward you. Then both of you turned back to her.

“We don’t need—”

“Wonderful!” she cut in. “See you at eight!”

The moment she left, you pushed open the bedroom door.

And immediately stopped. Of course.

Of course there was one bed. Not just any bed—one large, perfectly made, aggressively romantic bed positioned directly in front of the ocean like it was trying to prove a point. Rose‑petal energy without the actual petals. The kind of bed that practically whispered consummate something.

You just stared at it, frozen in place.

Lando leaned against the doorframe, peered inside, and let out the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “There’s really only one bed in this big‑ass villa?”

“Well obviously,” you snapped. “It’s a honeymoon villa, dumbass.”

“Right,” he muttered, like the universe had personally wronged him.

Silence settled between you—thick, awkward, the kind that made everything feel ten times worse. You could practically hear the ocean outside judging both of you.

Then Lando nodded toward the bed with the seriousness of someone offering a noble sacrifice.

“I’ll happily take the floor,” he announced.

You blinked.

Once. Twice.

“Wow,” you said. “Generous of you.”

Then you turned fully toward him, crossing your arms. “I’m going to be kind and let you take the couch in the living room. You’re absolutely not sleeping in the same room as me.”

“Right,” he said slowly, glancing toward the living room. “The couch.”

He nodded like he was processing a complicated mathematical equation.

“I should’ve thought about that earlier.”

────────────

The restaurant was somehow even more ridiculous than the villa—which felt almost impossible, but here you were, living proof that the universe had a sense of humor and it wasn’t a kind one.

A table for two sat directly on the sand, candles flickering in the warm evening breeze while waves rolled onto the shore like they’d been hired for ambience. Fairy lights hung from the palm trees overhead, glowing softly against the darkening sky. Music drifted through the air, gentle and warm, the kind that made everything feel softer than it actually was.

And you…

You looked beautiful. A yellow summer dress, light and easy, catching the breeze just enough to move with you. Your hair had settled into soft waves, brushing your shoulders every time you turned your head. You definitely hadn’t taken extra time to get ready because of your “husband.” Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous.

It looked like a scene from a romance movie.

Unfortunately, you were starring in it with Lando Norris.

The hostess smiled as she pulled out your chair, glowing with the kind of joy only people who believe in love have.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Norris. We hope you have a magical first dinner as newlyweds.”

You forced a polite smile, the kind that felt like it might crack if you held it too long.

“Thank you.”

Lando matched your expression perfectly, like he’d been trained for this exact moment.

“Very kind of you.”

The hostess practically melted on the spot.

“Oh, you two are adorable.”

The second she walked away, both of your smiles dropped so fast they might’ve left dents in the sand.

“She called us adorable,” you muttered.

“She also called us married,” Lando replied, sounding personally offended.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

And for a moment, the two of you sat there in the middle of paradise, united only by mutual suffering.

You reached for the bread basket.

At the exact same moment Lando did.

Your hands collided in the middle of the table, a sharp little smack that made you both freeze. You pulled yours back instantly, like touching him might give you a rash.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back, just as fast.

Before either of you could escalate, a waiter appeared beside the table carrying what looked like a tropical explosion in a glass—flowers, fruit, colors that didn’t exist in nature.

“For the honeymoon couple!” he announced proudly.

He set it down between you.

One glass.

Two straws.

A crime.

You and Lando stared at it like it had personally insulted you.

“No,” you both said at the same time.

“Oh, it’s complimentary!” the waiter beamed, completely missing the mutual horror, and vanished before you could protest.

Silence settled over the table again, warm and heavy like the night air.

“Well?” Lando said.

“Well what?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“So am I.”

Another long stretch of stubborn quiet passed—thirty seconds that felt like a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.

Finally, you both leaned forward at the same time.

And immediately bumped foreheads.

“Ow!”

You rubbed the spot, wincing, while Lando leaned back with a glare sharp enough to cut through the candlelight.

“Could you be any more dramatic?”

“You literally ran into me.”

“You ran into me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

The argument fizzled out only because you both leaned in and took a sip of the drink at the same time—careful this time, no forehead injuries—and neither of you dared admit it tasted incredible. Sweet, cold, perfect. A tiny piece of heaven in the middle of your personal hell.

The appetizers arrived a few minutes later, carried by a waiter who looked like he’d been waiting his whole life to serve a honeymoon couple. Every time he or anyone else walked by, you and Lando transformed instantly into the world’s most convincing romantic pair. It was almost impressive how fast the switch flipped.

“So, darling,” Lando said with a smile so bright it could’ve powered the fairy lights above you, “would you like the lobster?”

“No, sweetheart,” you replied just as sweetly, matching his tone like you’d rehearsed it. “You know I don’t eat seafood.”

The waiter’s face lit up.

“How lovely.”

The moment he walked away, your smile dropped. You kicked Lando under the table.

“Ow!” he hissed, jerking his leg back.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me darling.”

“You started it.”

“You kicked me.”

“Good.”

Another waiter approached, moving carefully across the sand as if he were carrying something sacred. He placed two plates in front of you with a soft smile.

Steak and fries. Finally.

Separate plates.

Thank God.

You sat up a little straighter, almost relieved enough to forget who you were sitting with.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her smile warm and hopeful, like she genuinely wanted your night to be perfect.

You returned it, stretching your own smile so wide your cheeks started to ache. “Everything’s perfect.”

Beside you, Lando nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who had fully committed to the bit. “Best honeymoon ever.”

The waiter beamed, delighted. “We’re so happy to hear that. Enjoy your evening!”

She walked away, leaving the two of you alone again—candles flickering, waves rolling in, the whole scene soft and romantic in a way that felt almost cruel.

The second the waiter disappeared, your foot shot out under the table and connected with Lando’s shin again. Maybe you were provoking him. Maybe you weren’t. Maybe the universe was simply guiding your leg. Either way, you weren’t about to admit anything.

He jerked back, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his life.

“Can you fucking stop?”

“Stop lying.”

“You’re the one smiling.”

“I’m being polite.”

“You look psychotic.”

“Because of you.”

Lando stabbed another fry with his fork, then looked up at you with a confidence he absolutely did not deserve.

“You know,” he said, leaning back slightly, “for someone who supposedly hates me, you’ve been looking at me all evening.”

You scoffed, loud and sharp.

“Could say the same about you.”

And that was the first time since arriving that he actually went quiet.

Because you had noticed.

The little glances he kept sneaking across the table.

The way his eyes lingered a second too long before he looked away.

The absent-minded way he wet his lips whenever he was thinking.

The way he kept shifting in his seat like he was trying not to stare at you too openly.

None of it meant anything.

Obviously.

You weren’t delusional.

Still, something flickered across his face—something quick, something he tried to hide—before he straightened again.

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

“Am I?”

He held your gaze for a beat too long.

“Trust me,” he said, voice low and annoyingly confident. “If I was staring, you’d know.”

Your heart did something incredibly inconvenient—a tiny jump, a tiny skip, the kind of reaction you immediately wanted to throw into the ocean. You grabbed your glass instead, lifting it like it could physically reset your brain.

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he replied, reaching across the table to steal one of your fries like he had every right to, “you haven’t left.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was my fry.”

He took a slow, deliberate bite. “Tastes better when it’s yours.”

You kicked him under the table. Hard.

He hissed, jerking his leg back. “Jesus—are you trying to break my leg?”

“Debatable,” you said, taking a calm sip of your drink like you hadn’t just committed violence.

Lando rubbed his shin under the table, glaring at you like you’d personally ruined his evening. “You’re a violent wife.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “You’re an annoying husband.”

A beat passed—warm, tense, too quiet.

Then he leaned back slightly, smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“You realize if you break my leg, you’d have to take care of me, sweetheart?”

You didn’t even blink.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

His smirk widened, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

And the worst part?

Your heart did that inconvenient little jump again.

────────────

The morning started peacefully. Too peacefully. The kind of peaceful that made you suspicious, like the universe was holding its breath before dropping something heavy on your head.

You and Lando sat at the breakfast table like two people who had agreed to a temporary ceasefire. No shin‑kicking. No dramatic sighs. No sarcastic comments sharp enough to cut through the tropical air. Just quiet eating, the soft clink of cutlery, and the occasional scroll through your phones.

Almost normal.

Almost comfortable.

Then Lando opened his mouth.

“We’re going golfing,” he said casually, not even looking up, biting into a pastry like he was reading the weather report.

“No.”

That one word snapped his attention up instantly. He blinked at you, confused, like he’d never heard the word before.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I hate golf.”

“That’s not a valid reason.”

“It’s a very valid reason.”

He sighed dramatically, like you had personally ruined his entire morning, his week, and possibly his life.

“I can’t play alone.”

“You absolutely can.”

“I can’t.”

You narrowed your eyes. He was lying. Badly. A man who drove cars at terrifying speeds for a living could absolutely survive a solo round of golf.

“You race cars for a living.”

“And?”

“You can function independently.”

He ignored that completely, like you hadn’t spoken at all.

“We’re going. It’s already booked.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You’re my wife,” he said flatly.

You froze.

Slowly lifted your head from your plate.

Stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

“I’d rather swim back than be your wife.”

“From the Maldives?”

“Especially from the Maldives.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something smug, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“And I’d make it.”

He snorted. “You’d get eaten by a shark.”

“Better than golfing with you.”

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the golf club lobby anyway. You still weren’t sure how it happened. One moment you were saying no, the next you were being dragged into a shuttle like a hostage. Against your will, obviously. Completely against your will.

Lando was at the counter, talking to the staff like he owned the place, arranging equipment and carts as if this was his idea of a perfect morning. He looked relaxed, confident, annoyingly at his element.

You slipped away toward a small souvenir shop tucked beside the path.

Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

Inside, everything was glossy, overpriced, and aggressively tropical. Shelves full of shell necklaces, handmade bracelets, tiny carved wooden animals, and bright fabrics that probably cost more than your entire suitcase. The kind of things tourists bought when they were sun‑drunk and sentimental.

Then you saw it. A necklace.

A simple one—a thin cord with a small carved turtle pendant hanging from the center. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… cute.

You picked it up, letting the pendant rest in your palm. It made you smile before you could stop yourself.

You flipped the tag over and your smile died instantly.

You frowned. Hard.

“You like it?”

Lando’s voice came from behind you.

You jumped slightly, turning to see him leaning in the doorway, holding two golf clubs in one hand and the cart keys dangling from the other. He looked annoyingly casual, like he hadn’t just snuck up on you.

“It’s cute,” you said, “but the price is not cute.”

“How much?”

You held it up for him to see.

He squinted, leaned in a little, then let out a laugh—loud, surprised, real.

“Jesus Christ. That’s the price of the whole honeymoon.”

You huffed. “Exactly.”

You placed the necklace back carefully, almost gently, like it had personally betrayed you but you didn’t want to hurt its feelings. Way too expensive for something that would end up tangled in a drawer anyway.

“Be right back,” you said, already backing away from him. “Bathroom.”

“Don’t get lost,” he muttered without looking up.

“Try not to choke on your ego,” you shot back, turning before he could respond.

The bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place like this—unnecessarily fancy, spotless, and scented with something soft and expensive you’d never be able to justify buying in real life. You lingered longer than you needed to, letting the quiet settle over you. It wasn’t the bathroom you needed. It was the break from him.

When you stepped back out, the sun was brighter, the air warmer, and Lando was still near the shop.

Except… something was off.

He wasn’t doing anything dramatic. He wasn’t pacing or fidgeting or causing chaos. He was just standing there, a little too still, a little too focused on nothing. And the second he saw you, his eyes flicked up fast, scanning you like he was checking for something.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you walked toward him.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

That was worse. Lando never said nothing quickly. If anything, he usually dragged it out just to annoy you.

You frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just waiting.”

“For what?”

He shrugged, already turning away, heading toward the golf carts like the conversation bored him. “Nothing.”

You watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what that tiny shift in his expression had been. Something flickering behind his eyes. Something he clearly didn’t want you to notice.

But you decided you didn’t care enough to dig into whatever weird Lando thing this was.

Probably just him being annoying.

You followed him anyway, even though you told yourself you weren’t following him at all—you were just walking in the same direction.

Coincidentally.

Obviously.

The golf course looked like it had been designed specifically to humiliate you. Endless stretches of perfect green, artificial lakes sparkling in the sun, and way too much open space for you to miss shots in front of strangers. It was beautiful in a smug, taunting way.

Lando, unfortunately, looked right at home.

“Okay,” he said, handing you a club like he was already regretting every life choice that led him here. “Just don’t hit anyone.”

“I’m going to hit you.”

“You’re not strong enough.”

That alone made you swing harder than necessary.

The ball went approximately nowhere. It hopped. Maybe. Barely.

Silence.

Then Lando clapped once.

Slowly.

“Fantastic.”

“It moved,” you said defensively.

“Barely.”

“It moved.”

He shook his head, stepping up beside you with the confidence of someone who had been waiting all morning to show off.

“Okay, watch and learn.”

You crossed your arms. “Impress me.”

He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk. It stretched across his face, warm and smug, like he’d been born for this moment.

“One day you’re going to have to admit I’m good at something.”

“Not likely.”

He swung.

Perfect form. Perfect sound. Perfect shot.

The ball sailed clean across the course, cutting through the air like it had been personally trained by God.

Of course it did.

You hated that. You hated how easy he made it look. You hated the way his shoulders relaxed after the swing, the way he exhaled like he’d just done something casual instead of showing off in front of you.

“Show-off,” you muttered.

Lando didn’t even look at you. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not jealousy. It’s disappointment.”

“In me?”

“In the universe for letting you be this confident.”

He finally turned, leaning on his club like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t actively ruining your morning.

“You know, for someone who keeps insulting me, you’re very invested in my performance.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he said easily. “Just observing.”

“Stop observing. It’s creepy.”

“You started it.”

“I did not start it.”

“You literally tried to hit me ten minutes ago.”

“That was character development.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

“A perfect match, then.”

You shot him a sharp look.

“Don’t get delusional. This is a forced golf situation, not a personality assessment.”

He stepped closer—not much, just enough to make the air feel warmer—lowering his voice like he was letting you in on something you didn’t want.

“Careful,” he said. “Keep talking like that and people might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

You rolled your eyes. “In what world?”

He tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“The one where you’ve been watching my swing for the last ten minutes.”

“That’s because I’m hoping you fall into one of those lakes.”

“Sure,” he said, smirking wider. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You opened your mouth to fire back—

But he cut in, casual, careless, like he wasn’t dropping a verbal grenade at your feet:

“Relax. I promise I’m not trying to get you into bed over a golf lesson.”

You froze.

Then stared at him.

“…What is wrong with you?”

Lando blinked, like he genuinely didn’t understand the problem.

“What? I was being nice.”

“That was not nice.”

“It was honest.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Gimme the keys. I’ll drive,” you said, holding out your hand like you were doing him a favor he didn’t deserve.

“Absolutely not.”

“You race cars for a living,” you reminded him, already leaning toward the ignition with far too much confidence for someone who had never driven a golf cart before. “And you’re scared of a golf cart?”

“I’m not scared of it. I’m scared of you driving it.”

“You should be,” you said with a small, satisfied smile as you climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get your ass in there or walk.”

Lando let out the kind of long, dramatic sigh that suggested he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment. “Do you even have a driving licence?”

“I do.”

You absolutely did. Unfortunately for him.

He hesitated for a beat too long before climbing in beside you, gripping the side of the seat like it might suddenly eject him into the bushes. The second you pressed the pedal, the cart lurched forward—not dangerously, not wildly, just enough to make him tense like you’d launched a rocket instead of a glorified toy car.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, steering them down the path with what you considered perfect control. The breeze was warm, the sun was bright, and the cart hummed along peacefully. “You’re sitting in a golf cart, not a missile.”

“I’m observing risk factors,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead like he was preparing for impact.

“That’s exactly what someone driving like you would say.”

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

He was absolutely not relaxed. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, and he kept shifting like the seat was made of spikes. You took a slightly sharper turn—not reckless, not even fast, just sharper—and the cart tilted a little to the side.

Lando jolted.

His hand shot out without thinking, grabbing your thigh to steady himself.

Both of you froze.

The warmth of his hand lingered for a second, heavy and unexpected, before he snatched it back like it had betrayed him. His face was tight, his voice too quick.

“…That was balance,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I was balancing.”

You looked down at his hand, then back at him, unimpressed and far too aware of the moment. “Put that away.”

“I didn’t mean to—it slipped.”

“Sure it did.”

“It did.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t even look at him again. You just kept driving, eyes on the path, pretending the moment hadn’t happened. And you definitely didn’t mind that it had.

Not that you would ever admit anything.

────────────

The boat rocked gently over the turquoise water, sunlight bouncing off the surface so brightly it almost hurt to look at. It should have been peaceful, the kind of morning people wrote postcards about. But unfortunately, part of the honeymoon package included couples snorkeling—something that would have been lovely if your “husband” wasn’t Lando Norris.

You sat beside him with your legs tucked under you, still mid‑argument from the pier, still annoyed, still refusing to let him win even a single point.

“No, I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at him like you were presenting evidence in court, “you cheated yesterday.”

“I did not cheat,” he replied flatly, not even blinking. “You just don’t understand basic physics.”

“I understand physics perfectly fine, actually.”

“Clearly not.”

“You literally aimed your ball into a bush and called it strategy.”

“It was strategy.”

Before you could continue, another couple sitting nearby—around your age, relaxed, sun‑kissed, clearly enjoying their vacation—turned toward you with amused smiles. They had that look people get when they stumble into entertainment they didn’t pay for.

“Are you two always like this?” the woman asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even a breath.

“Yes.”

You cut in immediately, shaking your head. “No.”

That earned you a side glance from him, sharp and quick, like he couldn’t believe you’d contradict him in public.

The couple laughed, clearly delighted.

“You’re on your honeymoon, right?” the man asked.

Silence.

A very suspicious silence.

Lando nodded slowly, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. “Unfortunately.”

You kicked his foot under the seat, not gently.

The man looked between you both, still smiling, clearly enjoying the chaos you and Lando brought with you like it was part of the entertainment package. The boat rocked gently beneath you, warm wind brushing your face, but the question he asked cut straight through the easy atmosphere.

“So… why did you get married then?”

It hit a little too directly. A little too cleanly. You didn’t even think before answering.

“Because he’s rich.”

Lando’s head snapped toward you so fast you genuinely thought he might fall off the boat. His eyes were wide, offended, and a little betrayed.

“What?”

The couple laughed, assuming it was a joke—because of course they did. No one sane would say that seriously on a honeymoon boat.

You waved your hand quickly, trying to soften it. “I’m joking.”

“Mostly,” Lando muttered under his breath.

You elbowed him, but the couple didn’t seem to notice. They were still smiling, still entertained, still convinced they were witnessing some adorable newlywed banter instead of two people barely holding their fake marriage together.

“Fair enough,” the man said with a shrug, still amused. Then he leaned forward Lando slightly, curiosity bright in his eyes. “So what do you do, then?”

Your eye twitched at the word husband. It felt too heavy, too sharp, too wrong in your ears.

Lando answered before you could even inhale.

“I drive.”

The man blinked. “Like… cars?”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat—a tiny pause where the man’s face went blank, like his brain was flipping through a mental Rolodex. Then his eyes lit up all at once.

“Oh! Formula 1?”

Lando nodded once, calm on the outside, but you saw the tiny shift in his shoulders. The man’s expression changed instantly, excitement blooming across his face like someone had just handed him front‑row tickets to something huge.

“No way—Lando Norris? My brother is a huge fan! He never shuts up about you.”

Lando froze for the briefest second. It was small, barely there, but you noticed. Of course you noticed. You always noticed the little things he tried to hide.

“Oh,” the man continued, grinning even wider now, “I didn’t know you were married, mate.”

The silence that followed could’ve sunk the boat. It stretched between you and Lando like a rope pulled too tight. You both turned to look at each other at the exact same time, eyes locking in a silent, panicked conversation neither of you wanted to have out loud.

Then, without missing a beat, Lando smiled.

“It was a small wedding, y’know. Kept it private. I like keeping some things to myself.”

The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly it was almost concerning. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t hesitate. He just… said it. 

The man nodded approvingly, buying every word, then turned to you with a warm smile.

“Well, you’re lucky. Having a world champion at home.”

Pardon?

Absolutely not.

You smiled sweetly, matching his tone with practiced ease. “He’s the lucky one.”

Lando glanced at you, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, amusement, maybe a hint of something softer—but you didn’t give him time to process it.

“He’d be hopeless without me,” you added, completely unfazed.

“Oh, absolutely,” Lando replied, his grin returning, though it was a little tighter this time. “I’d forget where I left my trophies.”

The couple laughed, delighted, convinced they were witnessing a charming, playful honeymoon moment.

They had no idea you were both lying through your teeth.

Five minutes later, another problem appeared—one that had nothing to do with fake marriages or curious strangers. The snorkeling mask refused to cooperate. You adjusted the strap once, then again, then a third time, each attempt somehow making it sit even more crooked against your face. The elastic kept slipping, the plastic pressed awkwardly against your cheek, and the whole thing felt like it had been designed specifically to test your patience.

“For God’s sake,” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap like it had personally wronged you.

Lando looked over from where he was already wearing his own gear, mask perfectly fitted, snorkel in place, looking like someone who had never struggled with anything in his life. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to make this stupid thing fit,” you snapped, still wrestling with it.

He watched you for a few seconds—long enough to be annoying, long enough to make you feel judged—before letting out an exaggerated sigh that carried across the entire boat. “C’mere.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Clearly.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through the ocean breeze. “I said I can do it myself.”

“Just come here,” he said, already holding out his hand like he’d made the decision for you. “I want to look like a decent husband while I’m apparently married. The last thing I need is gossip pages saying I abandoned my wife before she even got in the water.”

“How embarrassing,” you muttered, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

He ignored the comment completely. Instead, he reached out, gently catching your wrist with warm fingers, pulling you the last step closer before you could protest again. The movement was soft, almost careful, and your argument died somewhere in your throat before you could shape it into words.

He reached behind your head with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed he knew what he was doing. His fingers brushed your hair as he tried to fix the loose strap, and within two seconds you felt a sharp tug at your scalp.

“Ow! Stop pulling my hair!”

“I’m not pulling your hair,” Lando said immediately, like the accusation offended him on a personal level.

“You are pulling my hair!”

“Then stop moving!”

“I’m not moving!”

“You’re literally flinching.”

“Because you’re yanking it!”

A couple of snorkelers nearby glanced over, clearly wondering if they needed to intervene. You forced a bright, strained smile, teeth clenched so tightly it almost hurt.

“Everything’s fine,” you said, voice pitched a little too high. “Totally fine.”

Lando didn’t even look up. He was still tangled in the straps, still muttering under his breath like you were the problem and not his complete lack of technique.

“It is not fine,” he grumbled. “You have the coordination of a broken GPS.”

You stared at him, offended on a spiritual level. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He tugged again.

“Ow—Lando!”

“Relax, I’m fixing it.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Yes, you are.”

He paused, leaning back just enough to look at the mask like it was a failed engineering project he’d been assigned against his will. His brows pulled together, his mouth flattening into a line that told you he was already blaming you for whatever he saw.

“…Okay, I see the problem.”

“You are the problem.”

He ignored that completely, like he’d trained himself not to hear your insults anymore. Instead, he shifted closer again, this time slower, more careful, his fingers brushing your hair aside so he could get to the strap properly. The boat rocked gently beneath you, and for a moment the world felt strangely quiet—just the warm air, the soft slap of water against the hull, and his hands working behind your head.

“Stop moving,” he said again, but his voice was quieter now, less irritated and more focused, like he was trying not to mess it up this time.

You went still.

Not because he told you to.

Definitely not.

It was just easier than arguing while he was this close, while his fingers were sorting through your hair with surprising gentleness, while the sun warmed the back of your neck and made everything feel a little too noticeable.

After a few seconds of concentrated effort—the kind where he muttered something under his breath that you pretended not to hear—he tightened the strap properly and stepped back, letting his hands fall away.

“There,” he said, sounding far too proud of himself.

You tested the mask with a small tug.

It didn’t move. Not even a little.

“…Huh.”

“Yeah,” he said, smugness blooming across his face like he’d just solved world peace. “Miracles do happen.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

“Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned, bright and unbothered, the wind catching his hair as the boat rocked again.

“No promises, wife.”

The boat slowed to a stop, the engine cutting out until all you could hear was the soft slap of waves against the hull. It rocked gently over the open water, turquoise stretching in every direction, sunlight so bright it turned everything into glitter. It should have been peaceful. It should have been romantic. It should have been the kind of moment people remembered forever.

But you were here with Lando.

A guide stepped forward with an easy smile, gesturing toward the water. “Alright everyone, this is one of the best spots. Coral reef just below, lots of fish. Stay in pairs, enjoy yourselves, and don’t wander too far.”

“Stay in pairs,” Lando repeated under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “Heard him, wife?”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

But he was already smirking, already enjoying himself far too much for someone who’d spent the entire morning annoying you.

Before either of you could argue, the guide clapped his hands. “Okay—snorkeling time!”

You turned to adjust your mask one last time, fingers brushing the strap—

And Lando shoved you. Hard.

There was no time to react. No time to yell properly. Just a sharp gasp and the sudden, shocking drop as the world tilted.

You hit the water with a splash that swallowed the sound instantly. Cold, bright blue wrapped around you, rushing over your head, filling your ears, stealing your breath for a moment. The ocean felt huge, endless, everywhere at once.

You resurfaced seconds later, coughing, hair plastered to your face, mask askew.

“Lando—!”

He was already in the water beside you, laughing so hard he had to wipe his eyes. The sun caught the droplets on his face, turning him into something annoyingly golden and carefree.

“You were taking too long,” he said, still grinning.

“I hate you!” you yelled, already swimming toward him with more force than necessary.

He only laughed harder, kicking away just enough to stay out of reach, the water rippling between you.

You made it exactly two strokes before something brushed your foot again. It was light, barely there, just a soft flick against your skin—but it didn’t matter. Your entire body locked up instantly, every muscle going stiff like you’d been hit with electricity.

“Nope—nope—nope—” you sputtered, kicking upward in pure panic.

“Relax,” Lando called, still laughing, still floating like this was the easiest thing in the world. “It’s just fish.”

“I don’t care what it is!”

Another brush—this time against your ankle, quick and cold.

That was it.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan. You didn’t even breathe. You just launched yourself forward on instinct, arms flailing, legs kicking, heart pounding so loudly you could hear it in your ears—

—and you basically jumped straight into his arms.

Lando caught you automatically, the impact pushing him backward a little in the water. His hands came up around you without hesitation, steadying you, holding you up as you clung to him like the ocean was trying to drag you under.

For a second, he didn’t move. He just stood there in the water, arms half‑raised, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure what version of reality he’d just stepped into.

Then he looked down at you.

“…Are you hugging me right now?”

“No.”

“You are literally attached to me.”

“I am stabilising myself.”

“Against my chest?”

“Shut up!”

His laugh came immediately—bright, loud, helpless—the kind that shook his shoulders and made the water ripple around you. He tilted his head back, still laughing, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

And even though your heart was still racing, even though your legs were still wrapped around him more than you wanted to admit, even though you were absolutely not letting go yet…

You felt something warm slip into your chest.

Something you refused to name.

────────────

By the time the snorkeling trip ended, you had decided—very calmly, very rationally—that you deserved a drink. Preferably several. The kind that came in tall glasses with too much ice and not enough sense. The resort bar overlooked the ocean, the sky turning soft shades of gold and pink as the sun dipped lower. Music drifted through the warm evening air, blending with the sound of waves and the low hum of guests laughing around candlelit tables.

Lando stood a few steps away, somehow already deep in conversation with his new friend from the boat. They were talking with their hands, laughing too loudly, probably bonding over Formula 1 or golf or whatever else inflated his ego. You didn’t care enough to find out. You just wanted something cold, something strong, something that would make the memory of fish touching your legs fade into the background.

You leaned against the counter and ordered the strongest cocktail on the menu. The bartender slid it toward you with a practiced smile, the glass sweating in the warm air. You wrapped your fingers around it, grateful for the chill, ready to take the first blessed sip—

When a voice spoke from beside you.

“Try smiling a little.”

You turned your head slowly, already tired, already annoyed. A man stood there, a few years older, wearing a shirt that tried too hard and a smile that tried even harder. He looked at you like he’d just delivered the most charming line in the world, like he expected you to melt on the spot.

You looked at him. Then at your drink. Then back at him.

“Try minding your own business a little.”

“I’m just being friendly.”

“Then be friendly somewhere else.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh men use when they think you’re playing hard to get instead of trying to end the conversation. His elbow slid onto the bar, his posture loose, confident, practiced.

“That attitude won’t get you very far.”

“I’m already exactly where I want to be,” you said, lifting your drink like a shield.

“You sure?” he asked, leaning in just a little. “You look lonely.”

You opened your mouth—ready to shut him down properly this time—when a warm hand settled lightly on your waist.

Not gripping.

Not pulling.

Just… there.

“Everything okay, baby?”

Lando.

You turned so fast you nearly sloshed your drink over the rim. For what might have been the first time since this entire ridiculous honeymoon began, you felt something close to relief wash through you. His presence cut through the moment like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

The stranger blinked, looking between the two of you, confusion flickering across his face.

“And you are…?”

Lando didn’t hesitate. Not even for a breath.

“Her husband.”

He said it smoothly, easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand stayed on your waist, warm and steady. The stranger’s expression shifted, surprise tightening his mouth before he stepped back a little.

“Oh,” the man said after a moment, blinking like he’d just been handed information he didn’t know what to do with. “Didn’t know she was married.”

Lando offered a small, polite smile—the kind he used in interviews when he was pretending to be patient.

“She is.”

The conversation should have ended there. It should have drifted off into the warm evening air and disappeared like every other awkward bar interaction on vacation.

Instead, the man chuckled and looked right back at you, like he hadn’t learned a single thing.

“You should teach her some basic manners, man.”

The easy smile vanished from Lando’s face so fast it was almost impressive.

“What?”

The stranger shrugged, casual, careless, like he was commenting on the weather. “She’s got quite the attitude.”

“And so what?” Lando shot back, voice sharper now. “She doesn’t owe you a shit.”

The man lifted a brow. “Doesn’t mean she can act like a bi—”

“Hey!” Lando stepped forward so quickly the man actually leaned back. “Don’t talk about my wife like that or I’ll beat the shit out of—”

He was too close now. Way too close. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the guy like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be an act. You didn’t even know if he was pretending anymore.

“Lando,” you said quietly, reaching for his wrist. Your fingers brushed his skin, warm and tense. “Drop it.”

He didn’t look at you right away. He stayed there for a heartbeat longer, breathing hard, anger still simmering under the surface.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

Not because the man deserved it. But because you asked. The irony wasn’t lost on you—the one time he actually acted like a husband was the moment you needed him to stop.

“You okay?” Lando asked.

You blinked, because the question caught you more off guard than the argument ever had. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the way he said them, low and tight, like he’d been holding them in since the moment he stepped between you and that guy at the bar.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I had it handled.”

Lando let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t even come close. “Yeah. I could tell. You were doing a great job being harassed at the bar.”

Your jaw tightened, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t need you to save me like that.”

“Right,” he said, nodding once, sharp and clipped. “So next time I should just stand there and let him keep going?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“I didn’t ask you to play my husband.”

That one landed differently—you felt it the second it left your mouth. Lando went quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t defensive or angry, just… wounded. He exhaled through his nose, looking away toward the ocean like he needed a second to reset whatever expression had almost slipped through.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Fair.”

You took a sip of your drink, more out of habit than thirst, trying to steady yourself, trying to find the right words before the wrong ones kept spilling out.

“I can handle myself,” you added, quieter now, softer, because you meant it but you didn’t want it to sound like a wall.

“I know you can,” he replied immediately.

That made you pause.

He looked back at you then, the sharpness in his expression easing just enough that you could finally see the truth sitting underneath it—not anger, not irritation, but something quieter. 

“I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you,” Lando said, voice low, steady, almost too honest.

You scoffed lightly, because that felt safer than acknowledging whatever was happening in your chest.

“Since when do you care?”

That earned you a small, humorless smile—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, the kind that told you he’d already had this argument with himself long before you opened your mouth.

“I don’t,” he said. “Usually.”

A beat.

“But he was being a dick.”

You rolled your eyes, but it wasn’t as strong as you wanted it to be. It felt flimsy, thin, like you were trying to hold onto a version of the conversation that had already slipped away.

“And you decided that made you responsible for the entire situation?”

“I decided,” he corrected, leaning back slightly, shoulders tense, “that I didn’t want him standing there talking to you like that.”

You studied him for a second—the set of his jaw, the way he kept glancing at the ocean like it might give him an escape route, the way his fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stilled them. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t trying to win. He was just… telling you the truth.

“Still didn’t need to act like that,” you said, quieter now.

“Neither did he.”

Another pause—heavier this time, stretched thin between you like a wire ready to snap.

Then Lando tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he looked at you.

“You’re really going to stay mad at me for this?”

The question wasn’t defensive.

It was something else entirely—something that made your breath catch, because suddenly it felt like he wasn’t asking about the bar anymore.

He was asking about him. About you. About whatever the hell had been simmering between you long before tonight.

You opened your mouth again, still riding the leftover adrenaline from stopping him.

“I just think you don’t get to—”

“Shut up.”

You stopped. Blinking. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up.”

“I’m literally in the middle of talking.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, stepping a fraction closer, eyes locked on yours, “I noticed.”

You frowned, heat rising in your chest. “Don’t tell me to—”

He cut you off. Not with words.

He just kissed you.

Quick. Firm. Completely unexpected. It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t planned, and it definitely wasn’t something either of you had agreed to in any universe where you were still pretending to hate each other properly. It hit you like a spark—sharp, bright, over before you could even process it.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Then he pulled back like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just short‑circuited your entire brain.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then, very calmly, he said, “I said shut up.”

Your brain lagged, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the moment, the heat still buzzing on your lips.

“…Norris, what the fuck?”

He didn’t answer right away. His chest rose and fell once, slow, steady, like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t affected at all.

But his eyes told a different story.

A very different one.

Lando didn’t even blink. “What?”

“You just—” you gestured wildly between the two of you, your voice climbing without your permission. “You just kissed me.”

“Yeah.”

“‘Yeah’?” you repeated, staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

He frowned slightly, like you were the one being dramatic. Like you were the unreasonable one here.

“You were overthinking it,” he said, tone maddeningly calm. “Overthinking’s bad for you, baby.”

That made you pause. You hated that it made you pause. You hated the way the word baby slid under your skin like it belonged there.

“…Right,” you said slowly, trying to gather your thoughts. “Doesn’t mean you can just kiss me.”

“Pretty sure I can,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms, trying to rebuild whatever dignity you had left.

“Hm. Don’t think this means anything though.”

“I would never,” Lando said immediately.

Too immediately.

The kind of immediate that wasn’t casual at all. The kind that sounded like he’d rehearsed it. The kind that made something warm twist low in your stomach.

You studied him, searching his face for even a flicker of something he didn’t want you to see.

He held your gaze without flinching, jaw set, eyes steady, like he was daring you to call him out. “…Good,” you said finally, lifting your chin. “Because it doesn’t.”

“Of course not.”

His voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. And the worst part? You weren’t convinced either.

────────────

The villa was suspiciously quiet, the kind of quiet that made every thought in your head sound louder. You sat on the edge of the outdoor couch with your legs pulled in, staring out at the dark water. The waves moved in slow, steady lines, catching bits of moonlight and breaking them apart. It should have been calming.

It wasn’t. You were trying not to think. Which, of course, only made you think more.

About Lando. About the kiss. About the way he’d looked afterward—too calm, too steady, like he hadn’t just scrambled your ability to act normal around him. About how everything had been… different since then. Not worse. Not better. Just different in a way neither of you had dared to name.

And about how today was the last day. The last night of this ridiculous honeymoon.

Behind you, the sliding door opened.

You didn’t turn. “Go away,” you mumbled.

“I live here too,” Lando said, dropping onto the couch beside you. He didn’t look at you. He just stared out at the ocean like he’d been doing it long before he walked outside.

Silence stretched between you, warm and heavy.

Then, after a minute—

“Well.”

“Well,” Lando echoed.

You exhaled slowly, eyes still on the water. “At least tomorrow we can go back to normal.”

He finally glanced at you. “Normal?”

“You know,” you said, still refusing to look at him. “You hating me. Me hating you.”

“Right.”

But he didn’t sound convinced.

And the worst part? Neither did you.

The breeze moved through the villa again, soft and warm, brushing over your skin like it knew something you didn’t want to admit. Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement, not enough to call it anything.

Normal. You said it like you wanted it. But the word didn’t sit right anymore.

The silence fell again, stretching out between you like a thin thread. But this time, Lando was the one who spoke first.

“This trip wasn’t that bad.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Hm.” You looked back at the water, the moonlight breaking across the waves. “At least we survived.”

A beat.

“Now we’ll just go back to avoiding each other like before.”

“Yeah,” Lando said.

Then, after a pause that felt a little too long—

“Yeah,” he repeated, quieter. “That’s the problem.”

You finally turned your head. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the horizon like he didn’t trust himself to look at you. The warm breeze moved through the villa, brushing over your skin, but it didn’t soften the moment. It only made it clearer.

For the first time all night, you couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Or if he meant it.

And the way he sat there—shoulders tense, hands still, breath a little uneven—made something in your chest shift in a way you weren’t ready for.

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat.

“…Lando?”

He didn’t look away from the ocean. But his voice was low, honest in a way that made your heart stutter.

“I don’t want to go back to that.”

You looked at him, confused.

“What?”

Lando kept staring out at the water. And for the first time since you’d known him, he looked nervous. Actually nervous. His shoulders were tight, his jaw working like he was trying to choose the right words and failing.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he said quietly.

“I noticed.”

“I thought it’d be the worst week of my life.”

You smiled faintly. “Again, noticed.”

A small laugh escaped him—soft, almost embarrassed.

Then—

“But somewhere between you nearly killing me with a golf cart…”

“You grabbed my thigh.”

“Not helping.”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter despite yourself. “Continue.”

Lando exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

A beat passed—warm, heavy, stretching between you like a held breath.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.

“It stopped being annoying.”

Your smile faded a little. “…When?”

Lando shrugged, like the answer wasn’t important even though it clearly was. “Dunno.”

Silence settled again. The ocean kept moving, steady and calm, like it didn’t care that something between you had just shifted in a way you couldn’t undo.

Then he finally looked at you. Really looked.

“And now I don’t really want it to end. Us.”

Your breath caught—just a tiny, sharp inhale—but you masked it quickly with a scoff, like you could pretend the moment wasn’t sitting between you, warm and terrifying.

“Somewhere between pushing you into the ocean and kissing you to shut you up…” Lando said, his voice quieter now, steadier in a way that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or that stupid confidence he wore like armor. He was just looking at you—really looking—and it stripped away every layer of distance you’d been pretending still existed.

“I think I fell in love with you.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, your brain simply refused to cooperate. The words sat there in the air, warm and heavy, like a language you almost understood but couldn’t quite translate. You blinked once. Then again. Your heart thudded in your chest, too loud, too fast, like it was trying to catch up to something your mind hadn’t processed yet.

“…That’s actually really embarrassing for you,” you managed, because your mouth was apparently determined to save you from sincerity at all costs.

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t roll his eyes or shove your shoulder or call you dramatic. He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you’d said that. Like you’d knocked the air out of him.

“Are you serious?” he asked, voice flat, almost stunned.

“A little.”

“I just told you I love you.”

“I know.”

“And that’s your response?”

You exhaled softly, something nervous and warm and terrifying settling in your chest all at once. You felt it rise up, felt it push against your ribs, felt it spill into your throat before you could stop it. And then your mouth betrayed you—not with sarcasm this time, but with a smile.

A real one. A soft one.

The kind you didn’t give to people you hated.

“Good thing I love you too.”

The words left you before you could second‑guess them, before you could hide them behind a joke, before you could pretend you didn’t mean them. They hung there between you, gentle and impossible to take back.

Lando’s breath caught—just barely, just enough for you to notice. His eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders loosening like he’d been holding something in for days.

Lando didn’t move for a second.

Just stared.

Like he was waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. Like he was bracing for you to laugh or shove him or turn everything into a joke the way you always did when things got too close.

Then, quietly—

“…What?”

You let out a breath, half‑laughing, half in disbelief at yourself, because you couldn’t believe you were actually saying this out loud. “I said I love you, idiot.”

His expression shifted immediately. The shock didn’t disappear, but it softened into something raw, something unguarded, something he clearly wasn’t used to showing anyone. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right.

“You can’t just say that like it’s—”

“What? A prank?” you cut in, shaking your head. “No. Unfortunately for both of us, it’s real.”

Silence again.

The ocean kept moving. The wind didn’t care. The whole world stayed exactly the same while your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest. You looked down at your hands, then back at him, because avoiding his eyes wasn’t helping.

“You were pissing me off the entire trip,” you admitted, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

That got a faint, incredulous laugh out of him—the kind that slipped out before he could stop it. “Cheers.”

“It’s true,” you said quickly, pointing at him like it helped your argument. “You were annoying. Arrogant. You shoved me into the ocean. You called me a violent wife.”

“I was right about that one.”

“Shut up.”

But your voice wasn’t sharp anymore. It wavered slightly, like the truth underneath it was pushing its way through.

“And I really did hate you at the beginning,” you added, quieter now. “Like, properly.”

Lando’s gaze didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

“But?”

You hesitated.

That part was the hardest one. The part that felt like stepping off a ledge and hoping he’d catch you.

“But…” you exhaled, looking away toward the water like it might make this easier. “I think it started changing when you defended me at the bar.”

He went still.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap, the memory hitting you harder now that you were saying it out loud.

“That guy was being an asshole,” you continued, your voice softer, steadier. “And I was handling it, or trying to. And you just… stepped in.”

A small pause.

“And I remember thinking you were so angry,” you said, almost like you were discovering it again. “Like actually angry. Not joking, not teasing. Just… protective.”

You glanced at him again.

“That confused me more than anything you did on this entire trip.”

A faint breath left Lando, like he didn’t know what to do with that. His shoulders dropped a little, the tension easing in a way that made him look younger, more open, more real.

Then he finally spoke.

“I just hated the idea of somebody talking to you like that.”

His voice was quieter than before. Not defensive. Not playful. Just honest in a way that made your chest tighten.

A beat passed.

He gave a small shrug, like he was trying to pretend it didn’t matter as much as it did.

“I don’t know,” he added. “It pissed me off.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It didn’t feel sharp or heavy or awkward. It was just… full. Like something had finally settled into place between you, something neither of you could pretend wasn’t there anymore. The air felt warmer. The night felt closer. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for the moment to break.

You swallowed slightly, still looking at him, still trying to understand the way your chest felt too tight and too light at the same time. “…Thank you,” you said quietly.

Lando gave you a small, almost confused glance, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “For what?”

You let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half something else. “For… all of it, I guess.”

That earned you a look from him you weren’t used to—soft, steady, not trying to twist into a joke. He didn’t hide behind anything this time. He just looked at you like he was letting himself be seen.

Then he shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

You blinked, watching as he pulled out a small silver chain. A turtle necklace. The same one you’d stared at in the shop. The same one you’d pretended you didn’t want.

Your breath caught. “…You bought it?” you asked, taking it carefully from his hand.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You said it was cute.”

“But it was so expensive!”

“And?” he said simply, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Do I look like I care?”

Your fingers closed gently around the necklace, holding it like it might slip away if you weren’t careful. The charm felt warm against your skin, like it had been waiting in his pocket for this exact moment.

“…You didn’t have to,” you said again, quieter now, the words almost slipping out on their own.

“I know.”

A beat passed.

“But I wanted to.”

That was it. No joke. No smirk. No dramatic line to cover the truth. Just him. Just honesty. Just the kind of softness you never expected from him and didn’t know how to handle.

You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to—long enough to feel something shift in your chest, long enough to feel your breath catch again.

Then you moved before your brain could talk you out of it.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss was softer this time. Not rushed. Not defensive. Not a reaction to anything. Just real. Just warm. Just the two of you finally letting something happen that had been building all week. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle in a way that made your heart stutter, and for a moment the whole villa felt still.

When you pulled back, you were both slightly breathless, and for once neither of you pretended it meant nothing. You stayed close, your forehead almost touching his, your breath mixing with his in the warm night air.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words brushing against his lips.

Lando let out a quiet breath of a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. Then, after a beat—one that felt like it stretched forever—he added, “I love you.”

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stared at him, like you were making sure you hadn’t imagined it, like you needed to see the truth in his eyes before you let yourself believe it.

Then your mouth softened into a small smile, warm and helpless. “…You’re so annoying,” you murmured.

He frowned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

You exhaled, still smiling, still feeling that strange, steady warmth spreading through your chest. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—completely sure this time: “I love you too.”

And this time, neither of you joked your way out of it. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you pretended it didn’t matter. It mattered. And you both knew it.

© verstarris 2026

babsie radio ! had so many problems while editing this 🫩 I hit the damn 1000-block limit way too soon!!! I literally wanted to write one more last scene where they come back and P and Max are so confused because they don’t hate each other anymore 😩 I’m so annoyed! I might write a short oneshot of that if you guys want. I hope you enjoy this! This story is so dear to me <3 first fic of summer 2026! 💗