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SALT WATER AND SECOND CHANCES

After a harsh breakup, you and Lando reluctantly take a summer trip together to the Amalfi Coast you once booked. Forced to share a car, a villa, and memories, old arguments flare up—but so do burried feelings.

pairing. Lando Norris x ex-gf! fem! reader.

warnings. second chance, 12,5k words, enemies to lovers -ish, slowburn -ish, forced proximity, angst, both are toxic toward each other as hell, a lot of arguing & screaming, profanity, protective!lando, alcohol use, hints of past toxic relationship, pet names (baby, love), emotional ending.

playlist.

YOU HATED HOW DAMN STUBBORN YOU WERE.

Anyone with a shred of common sense would’ve canceled the trip. After all, what kind of lunatic agrees to spend a week in paradise with the person who’d just torn them apart? The breakup hadn’t been quiet. It had been volcanic, ugly—shouting matches that scraped raw, doors slammed hard enough to echo, words thrown like knives that still lodged in the back of your mind.

But somehow, you and Lando had decided to go anyway.

The conversation happened over a series of dry, impersonal texts. No calls. No apologies. Just blunt logistics. The vacation was booked, paid for, and non-refundable. Even for Lando and his millionaire status, tossing that kind of money felt wasteful. For you—on a budget and aching—it was a once-in-a-lifetime trip you probably couldn’t afford to make solo.

So you swallowed your pride and took the chance.

Amalfi. The place you'd once squealed over together on that couch, scrolling through sun-drenched villas like future memories. Back then, it felt romantic. Now it felt ironic. It was Lando’s name on the booking confirmation, his card that sealed the deal. You were going on holiday with your ex—not because it made sense emotionally, but because the receipts said so.

There was a bitter humor to it. You were about to spend seven days surrounded by turquoise water, lemon trees, and honeymoon energy… with the one person you could barely look at without remembering how it all shattered.

───

The plane jolted once, twice, then landed with the grace of a shopping cart being shoved downhill. Classic Ryanair. You stood, shoulders stiff from the cramped seat, heart heavier than your carry-on.

You’d been told Lando would be waiting outside the arrivals terminal in the rented car. That’s all. No details. No “can’t wait to see you.” Just a one-liner text that barely felt like it came from someone you used to call “baby” while brushing your teeth beside him. You had no idea how he’d arrived. Private jet? Yacht? Teleportation via sheer ego? You didn’t care. You didn’t ask.

What you did care about—much more than you wanted to admit—was that there would only be one car.

You could’ve rented your own. Sure. But the price tag on that? Dumb. Especially when your ex was quite literally one of the fastest drivers on Earth. He could drive you anywhere. Probably blindfolded. You convinced yourself it was practical. Just smart economics.

Except… maybe you were also a little terrified he’d crash just to prove a point.

Your mind spun stupid scenarios as you walked through the glass doors of the airport: Lando taking a hairpin turn too sharply with a smirk. Lando casually flooring the gas mid-argument. You rolling your eyes, pretending you didn’t flinch.

You told yourself he wouldn’t. That he wasn't that petty. But then again... you hadn’t seen him since your last fight. Since he threw those words that still lived like a burn in your chest.

You stepped out into the blur of heat and exhaust, scanning the arrivals zone like it was a battlefield. Taxis lined up like options. Easy exits. You could just take one—pretend the plan was always solo. Pretend you hadn’t agreed to this ridiculous arrangement with a man who now felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face.

But then you saw him.

Leaning against a white SUV, arms crossed loosely, phone dangling from his hand. His hair was messier than usual, curls flattened by travel or maybe nerves. And yeah—you were shocked to admit it, but he did look nervous. His gaze kept flicking to the terminal doors like he was debating whether to bolt or stay.

You gripped the suitcase handle tighter, fingers white-knuckled as you gathered what was left of your pride and stepped toward him. One foot in front of the other. No turning back now.

Lando looked up as you approached, locking eyes with you in a way that made your chest clench. His expression didn’t give much away, but his eyes scanned you. And maybe judged you. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just felt like they did.

Suddenly the whole idea seemed catastrophically stupid.

“Hey,” he said, voice caught somewhere between casual and careful.

You nodded once. “Hello.”

That’s all you allowed yourself to say. Nothing warm. Nothing cruel. Just the word that lived in the neutral zone between past and present.

You popped the trunk, lifted your suitcase without asking for help. The silence felt heavy and awkward, pressing into your ribs. You slid into the passenger seat, clicked the belt into place, and stared straight ahead—hoping the engine would cover everything you weren’t saying.

The silence in the car was thick enough to touch, broken only by the occasional aggressive hum of the engine as he pushed the SUV harder into each curve. The road twisted like it was designed to test his patience—or maybe his impulse control. You watched the sheer drop to the sea flicker past your window and gritted your teeth.

Typical Lando. Always driving like the rules were optional, like adrenaline made up for emotional depth.

“Do you always have to drive like you’re trying to crash us?” you said, deadpan. No heat in your voice, but not quite empty either. You kept your gaze trained on the cliffs ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

Lando chuckled, and the sound annoyed you more than it should.

“You used to think it was fun,” he said, like that was some kind of trump card. You could hear it—the smirk stretching across his mouth, the self-assured tilt in his voice. “You loved it. You used to throw your arms out and belt whatever trash was on the radio. Remember that one ABBA song?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder out the windshield. The memory clawed its way up regardless: you, half-hung out the window screaming lyrics with the wind in your hair, him laughing beside you, hand casually firm on the wheel. Back when speeding with him felt more like flying.

“I used to love a lot of things,” you said finally, voice low and flat. The words landed like a slap on the console between you.

“Such as?” he asked, turning his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar glint. The smile tugging at his mouth wasn’t warm—it was calculated. Lando knew exactly what he was doing. Poking. Testing. Pushing the edges of your temper like they were buttons in a video game he used to win every time.

But not today.

You didn’t bite. Not like before.

Instead, you leaned back in your seat, arms crossed loosely, gaze locked on the winding road ahead. Then you smiled. That big, ironic one. The one that meant I know what you're doing—and I'm better at it now.

“Such as papaya,” you said coolly. “You kinda ruined the taste.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was victorious.

The car rumbled to a stop in front of the villa, tires crunching over gravel as the sun dipped lazily toward the horizon. It was breathtaking—whitewashed walls draped in bougainvillea and ivy, the house clinging to the cliffside like it belonged there. It looked like something out of a travel magazine. Just not one you ever imagined starring in with your ex.

You stepped out, heart tight, and let your gaze sweep across the facade. It was beautiful. Painfully so. The kind of beauty that felt unfair, considering how miserable you were inside.

The moment you crossed the threshold, warm citrus air met polished terracotta tiles. Everything was perfect: airy rooms flooded with golden light, vintage furniture artfully mismatched, and just beyond the arched French doors—a sprawling terrace with a view that stole the breath right out of your lungs. The sea stretched endlessly below, glittering like spilled sapphires.

This was everything you’d wished for.

Until you reached the bedroom.

You stopped cold. Eyes wide. Staring.

One bed. Just one.

Your stomach dropped. Of course. Of course they hadn’t listed that tiny, crucial detail when the booking was made—back when shared pillows and lazy mornings were still your reality. Not this.

Your breath snagged in your throat, and you stood in the doorway like you’d been slapped. The bed loomed large, perfectly made, flanked by two matching nightstands and smug silence.

You stood at the bedroom threshold, staring at the one bed like it had personally betrayed you. The pristine white linens, artfully fluffed pillows, and sun spilling across the mattress—it was all too perfect. Too intentional. Too… romantic.

Lando’s footsteps were soft behind you, but you felt him coming long before he spoke. You turned halfway, still wide-eyed.

“There’s only one bed,” you said, flat but not emotionless. More like disbelief simmering under the surface.

He didn’t even blink. Just glanced at the room, then at you, lips curling into a half-smile that felt a little too easy.

“It was supposed to be romantic, remember?” he said, shrugging.

Of course you remembered. The memory flickered across your mind like a cruel joke—you and Lando side by side, tangled in blankets months ago, scrolling through dreamy villas and laughing over terrace views and breakfast baskets. You had picked this one. Together. Back when the idea of shared mornings still felt safe.

Now, his tone landed somewhere between wistful and cocky, and you hated how much it still made your stomach flip. Maybe he didn’t even mean it that way. But coming from him? Everything sounded like a power play lately.

“I’ll take the couch,” you said immediately. You turned without waiting for a response, already sizing up the living room in your head, calculating whether a throw pillow could double as emotional armor.

But Lando didn’t let the silence settle. Instead, his voice came softer, enough to stop you mid-step. “Y/n, c’mon. A woman shouldn’t sleep on the couch. Take the bed.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not after everything. You turned slowly, narrowing your eyes, unsure if he was joking or trying on chivalry like a borrowed jacket. Did someone swap him out for a gentleman when you weren’t looking?

“I’m fine,” you replied, smile creeping into place—sharp, ironic. “You’re the pro athlete. You need sleep to... I don’t know, race cars and stuff.”

He raised one eyebrow, that look in his eyes like he wanted to say something else. Maybe argue. Maybe offer. But he didn’t.

───

The afternoon sun spilled across the streets like thick honey, turning everything gold and soft at the edges. Voices swirled around you—Italian, German, a splash of English from passing tourists. You walked ahead of Lando with deliberate distance, camera in hand, snapping photos while carefully keeping him out of the frame.

It wasn't passive aggression exactly—it was preservation. You wanted memories of Amalfi, not fragments of him slipping into your shots like shadows you didn’t invite. He didn’t say anything about the distance, didn’t try to catch up. Just followed, sunglasses on, hands tucked into his pockets, moving with that cool indifference that used to thrill you but now felt like ice.

You found a small grocery tucked between two pastel buildings, quaint and shaded with striped awnings and handwritten signs. Inside, the space was cramped and overflowing—bright fruit spilling from baskets, dusty wine bottles stacked in corners, the scent of basil and old stone. You wandered the aisles, letting your fingers trail across unfamiliar packaging while Lando trailed somewhere behind you. There was no conversation. Just a silent agreement to stock the villa with food, avoid killing each other, and act vaguely human in public.

Eventually, you reached the pasta aisle. Shelves crammed with every type imaginable—linguine, conchiglie, tagliatelle, shapes you didn’t recognize and didn’t care to. You reached for a bag of rigatoni, mostly at random. It was pasta.

And then came his voice, slicing through the calm like a paper cut. “Really? Rigatoni? They’re cheap shit.”

You froze, staring at the bag in your hand. Of course. Of course he had an opinion. Lando always had an opinion. He snatched the rigatoni from your grip and replaced it with fusilli like he was doing you a favor.

“Take fusilli,” he said, like that settled it.

You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, annoyance prickling beneath your skin.

“Since when does pasta define who I am?”

He barely looked up from the shelf, casual in his dismissal. “It says a lot about your standards.”

Your throat went tight. The room felt smaller. Hotter. You bit down on the response rising fast—but then let it go, sharp and clean.

“Funny,” you said, voice curling around each syllable. “Because my standards clearly weren’t that high even back then.”

You didn't have to name the reference. You didn’t need to say you. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a split second, the smirk faltered.

You could practically see the fire flicker behind his eyes, barely restrained. The jaw clenched, the breath pulled tight, the faint twitch of his fingers like he was seconds from snapping. If you were a betting woman, you’d wager he was one sarcastic syllable away from calling you a bitch—or worse. The pasta aisle had nearly become a battleground.

And then—

The old woman stood beside the shelf of olive oil, her hands folded sweetly over her purse, a smile tucked beneath deep laugh lines and crooked lipstick. She looked pleased with herself. Like she'd just witnessed something adorable.

“Ah, young love,” she said with a thick, choppy Italian accent, her voice loud enough to echo through the aisle. “Always arguing but still together.”

Your whole body went rigid.

For a breath, you were frozen—caught in a strange spiral of horror and disbelief. You had just survived a pasta-based verbal brawl, one emotional landmine away from snapping, and now you were starring in someone’s romantic comedy? You wanted to deny it. God, you wanted to scream the truth in every language available. We’re not together. We’re not anything. We’re not okay. Because going back to him would be reckless. Would be stupid. Would be—you realized—borderline self-harm.

You opened your mouth. “We’re n—”

But Lando cut in, louder than necessary.

“Grazie,” he said smoothly, flashing her the kind of boyish smile that used to win you free desserts.

You whipped around to look at him, stunned. His expression was unreadable—calm, maybe smug, definitely intentional. You could see it now: the calculated deflection, the charm turned up just enough to wrap the truth in velvet and toss it aside.

You stood stiffly by the cashier, watching the old woman disappear between aisles, her comment still echoing in your ears like leftover music from a party you weren’t invited to. Your heart hadn’t fully settled yet.

You turned to Lando, one eyebrow raised, voice tight with disbelief.

“Are you kidding me? What was that?”

He didn’t look up, busy loading tomatoes and rigatoni into the thin paper bag like nothing had happened.

“We’d be here until tomorrow if we tried to explain the whole story,” he muttered, tossing in a bottle of olive oil. “Was easier.”

You narrowed your eyes. Easy. Everything with him was always easier when someone else was watching.

The cashier rang through the last item with a dull beep, and you reached for the bag without thinking. But just as your fingers grazed the paper, his hand intercepted.

“Let me do it,” Lando said, voice quieter now but firm.

You hesitated—then pulled back slightly, the irritation bubbling again. “I can do it myself,” you snapped.

He turned toward you fully, eyes sharp. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn?”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back something cold and cutting, but caught yourself. His words weren’t cruel, just exasperated. Maybe tired. Maybe something else.

So instead, you smiled. That slow, ironic one that always curled at the edge of something deeper. “Okay then, Mr. Gentleman,” you said, voice lighter now, teasing—but not without weight.

Lando blinked, then shook his head softly, gripping the bag and stepping toward the door.

───

The day had been surprisingly calm—almost too calm, like the universe had hit pause on the tension you’d been wrapped in for days. No raised voices. No sarcastic comments disguised as jokes. No passive digs over groceries or travel arrangements. Just peace. Uneasy, fragile peace. It was already past 7pm, and not a single argument had erupted. Honestly, that felt like a record worth framing. You weren’t sure if it meant something or if it was just temporary, like the eye of a storm lingering a little too long.

You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out and mind drifting, when you felt Lando walk past behind you. He ruffled your hair with the same casual touch he used to do when things were easy between you—when affection wasn’t layered with awkwardness and sharp memories. You rolled your eyes, a reflex you didn’t bother hiding, though a tiny part of you didn’t actually mind the gesture. It was familiar.

He paused for a second, then said, “Going for a drive, u wanna go with me?”—as if you were still that version of you, eager and uncomplicated. Something in the way he asked made your chest tighten. Just hours ago, you’d nearly stabbed each other with pasta choices, and now he was offering a sunset drive like it was nothing.

You hesitated, the weight of the invitation sitting in your stomach. A drive meant space to talk. Or space to not talk at all, which was almost worse. But you didn’t have anything better to do. And part of you missed the version of your relationship where driving together felt safe. So you gave a small nod and said, “Let’s go,” keeping your tone light, as if agreeing to go wouldn’t stir up memories you weren’t ready for.

The road was high and winding, hugging the edge of the cliffs with the sea stretching beneath you—endless and blue and quietly intimidating. You drove, both hands on the wheel, the breeze sneaking through your open window and making your hair dance. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. And it was familiar in a way that made your heart ache. You’d done this drive before—different location, maybe, but same rhythm. The silence, the sunset, the weight of something unsaid sitting between you. Back then, it was the good part. The part of your relationship that felt like exhaling. The two of you always clicked on the road. It seemed like the only place where the mess didn’t follow you.

You glanced out the window, trying to keep yourself grounded in the scenery and not in the past. But then it hit—the music. That one song. It played without warning, and you groaned, a smile tugging at your lips even as your stomach dropped.

“Oh god. Not this again,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully, but with just a bit of weight behind it.

The music filled the car in slow waves, louder now thanks to Lando’s hand flicking the volume knob with casual confidence. You didn’t turn to look at him when he smiled—couldn’t, really. His words landed somewhere between nostalgia and provocation.

“What? It’s our classic,” he said, his voice light, almost teasing. Like it still meant something.

But it didn’t. Not anymore.

Still is? Nah. Not with the way your stomach knotted on the chorus. Not with the memories this song stirred, bright and painful in equal measure.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, the coastline rolling out like a story you didn’t know how to reread.

“Yeah,” you muttered, half-smiling without real joy. “You played it like a thousand times that summer.”

That summer—the one wrapped in salt air and laughter, cheap wine and hands tangled in sun-warmed sheets. It was reckless, beautiful, doomed. And this song had been its soundtrack, stuck on repeat every time he drove you through cities you couldn’t pronounce, pretending that love was enough.

Suddenly, impulse tugged at you. You shifted in your seat, arching your spine just slightly before leaning out through the open window. The wind tangled in your hair like fingers, cool against your cheeks, sharp against your throat. The music was louder now, filling your chest. It felt like something you’d done a hundred times before—something from the version of you that hadn’t yet been disappointed. For a moment, it was perfect. Reckless. Wild. You let your arm stretch out, fingers splayed into the air as if you could catch a piece of the sunset.

Then you felt it.

His hand landed on your thigh—firm, steady, anchoring you.

Your breath caught like a hook in your ribs. Not from the touch exactly, but from what it meant. The muscle memory of it. The sudden intimacy. You whipped your head around, heart thudding a little too loud.

“What are you doing?!”

Your voice was half panic, half fury, like being touched again broke a rule neither of you had spoken.

Lando didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance over, eyes still on the road. “Making sure you won’t fall out.”

He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Like holding you steady hadn’t meant anything more than preventing roadkill. But you both knew better. That hand wasn’t about safety—it was about familiarity. About instinct. About the version of him who used to know how to hold you without being asked.

You stared at him for a beat too long, trying to swallow the thing rising in your throat—regret, anger, maybe longing. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel safe either.

You went back into your seat. The road kept winding, the sea stretching endlessly alongside as the sky slipped into a deeper shade of gold. For a while, neither of you spoke. Lando’s hand had retreated, resting back on the wheel like nothing had happened, but your thigh still buzzed with the imprint of his touch. You sat upright again, the wind no longer in your hair, but something else stirring just beneath your ribs—unease, maybe. Or something like nostalgia trying to sneak in.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. He was focused, calm, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. Like maybe he regretted reaching for you. Or maybe he didn’t. The thing about Lando was he never gave away more than a flicker—and somehow you still knew exactly what he was feeling.

The song faded into something new, softer, but the silence between you didn’t shift with it. It sat there, heavy and fragile, like it knew one wrong word could unravel the day.

You crossed your arms and leaned slightly toward the window again, letting the breeze bite at the warmth on your cheeks. You hated that this felt good. Not the drive. Not the music. Him. This version of him—relaxed, considerate, soft-spoken. It was dangerous. It made you forget. And forgetting led you right back to the place you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t return.

“You remember when you drove through Monaco with no headlights?” you asked suddenly, voice quiet but laced with an old spark.

Lando chuckled, shoulders relaxing.

“You screamed the whole time.”

“Because you’re insane.”

“I was spontaneous,” he corrected. “It was romantic.”

“You nearly got us arrested.”

He glanced at you then, grinning just a little too wide. “But you said it was the best night of your life.”

You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t, really.

Instead, you rolled your eyes and turned back to the window, letting the sunset hit your face. You wondered if he knew he was the reason your good memories always felt like sharp edges now.

───

The day had started quietly, again. Almost suspiciously so. The air was warm, breakfast had been peaceful—surprisingly so, considering your recent track record. You’d even laughed once, over something dumb Lando said with a mouthful of toast and marmalade. For a moment, it felt normal. Familiar. Like maybe the storm that had been brewing since the moment you landed in Amalfi had passed. But the quiet didn’t feel secure. It felt like the kind of silence that tiptoes in right before everything breaks again.

After breakfast, you agreed to take a walk through the city. It seemed harmless enough. Streets lined with stone buildings in pastel shades, vines creeping up walls, old men smoking in alleyways with one eye closed against the sun. You slipped into the rhythm of sightseeing. Bought gelato you didn’t finish. Took photos you weren’t sure you’d keep. And then wandered into a little souvenir shop.

The shelves were cluttered but charming—keychains, magnets, bracelets that would snap in two if someone looked at them wrong. You moved slowly through the aisles, picking up little trinkets for your friends back home. Things that screamed “I survived Italy and remembered you.” Your fingers grazed a woven bracelet, and you wondered for a moment if your best friend would find it tacky or cute.

Lando was somewhere nearby, wandering in his own orbit, probably scanning shelves for overpriced sunglasses or debating which bracelet would go best with whatever influencer he was texting lately. You rolled your eyes at the thought. He had a type. Or rather, a pattern. Charm, gift, vanish. Repeat.

You were mid-reach toward a charm bracelet shaped like a tiny lemon when Lando’s voice cut through the quiet of the souvenir shop, light and teasing—like he hadn’t just reopened something you’d worked all morning to bury.

“Look what I found,” he said, stepping beside you with something in his hand. “Would suit you.”

You turned, expecting something cliché—maybe a little magnet or one of those tacky tourist mugs. But no. It was a cropped T-shirt, obnoxiously bright, with bold letters slashed across the front: I love my ex.

Your breath caught in your throat, and something in your chest went rigid. You blinked, letting the message soak in like acid. Was he actually serious? You stared at the shirt, then at him. There was still time for him to laugh it off, play it like a bad joke, shove it back on the rack and move on like it never happened. Still time for him to choose not to ruin whatever fragile peace the day had offered.

But of course, he didn’t.

“Excuse me?” you said, low and clipped, eyes locked on his. You felt something begin to stir in your gut—a pressure, slow-building and hot.

He shrugged, unbothered, as if the shirt didn’t carry emotional shrapnel. “You can read,” he said, tone irritatingly smug. “You’re literally on vacation with your ex. Pretty fitting, no?”

The way he said it—so casually, like it was just facts—made you flinch. It wasn’t just the words. It was the total lack of care behind them. Like this trip, this silence, this effort meant nothing. Like your pain was punchline-worthy.

You stared at him, then at the shirt again—I love my ex, bold and ugly in its mockery—and tried to process the fact that this was real. That Lando had looked at that thing, held it in his hands, and thought it would be funny. That after everything—after the emotional rollercoaster, the silence, the tension, the effort to just survive this trip without killing each other—he still found a way to twist the knife with a smile.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, voice surprisingly calm but shaking at the edges. The kind of calm that carried heat underneath. It wasn’t just about the shirt anymore. It was the principle. The lack of care. The never-ending cycle of him pushing until you broke, like it was sport.

But instead of going off, instead of throwing it at his face or letting him see the sting in your eyes, you turned away. Back to the bracelets. Something safe. Something that couldn’t mock you.

Behind you, Lando scoffed. You could feel the smirk in his voice even before he spoke.

“You’re offended? Still can’t take a little joke?”

You closed your eyes for half a second, fingers tightening around a flimsy charm. Of all the things he could’ve said. Of all the ways he could’ve backed off, shown even a sliver of regret. But no. He doubled down. Like always.

You spun around, no longer interested in staying calm.

“You know what?” you said, louder now, louder than the soft hum of music in the shop and the quiet chatter of other customers. “You just reminded me why we broke up.”

“Because you can’t take a joke and take everything way too seriously?” he fired back, voice tight, more defensive than clever. The bravado was there, but barely. He knew it. You knew it. That wasn’t the real reason. Not even close. He could lie to you, fine. But the way his eyes darted as he spoke—that was him lying to himself.

You turned toward him fully, the bracelet still clenched in your hand. Your heart was thudding now, not with anger, but with something heavier. Something bitter.

“No,” you snapped, barely masking the disgust. “Because you’re still a childish prick who’s desperate for my attention.”

There was no room left for subtlety.

He scoffed, folding his arms, shifting his weight like he needed a new pose to match the ego he was scrambling to protect.

“Desperate for your attention?” he repeated, trying hard to sound unaffected. “Oh please. I moved on the second you slammed the door.”

You laughed—cold and biting, the kind of laugh that didn’t hide anything. That peeled back all the curtains and shone a harsh light on the cracks he kept pretending weren’t there.

“Right. That’s why you called me drunk at 2 a.m. saying you needed me,” you said, laughing again, bitter this time, eyes glinting as you stared him down. “I must’ve imagined that part, huh? You were just bored, or confused, or maybe—just maybe—you weren’t over it like you like to pretend.”

Then you turned toward the rack, grabbed the ridiculous t-shirt from where it hung like a neon reminder, and shoved it against his chest with deliberate force.

“You know what? Maybe you should buy it,” you said, voice low but clear. "It suits you much better than it does me."

The silence didn’t last long—not with the storm already rolling in behind your eyes. The air inside the shop was too still, too tight, and the space between you and Lando was thick with everything you hadn’t said yet. He stood there, arms crossed, trying to wear the smirk like armor, but it was slipping.

“You broke up with me, remember?” he snapped, voice lower, bitter now. “So stop acting like I ruined your life.”

You turned, breath sharp. “I didn’t say you ruined my life. I said you acted like a self-absorbed manchild who didn’t know what to do with someone who actually cared.”

“Oh my god,” he laughed, but it wasn’t real—it was the kind people use to stop themselves from yelling. “You were suffocating. Always needing something, always mad about something.”

“I was asking you to show up, just like real boyfriend should!” You shouted, stepping closer. “Emotionally. Mentally. Occasionally answer a text like a normal person, not disappear for days and come back like nothing happened just to fuck!”

“That’s not how I remember it,” he bit back. “You were obsessed with picking fights! Every single little thing pissed you off!”

“Because everything else was silent!” Your voice cracked then—just slightly. “You don’t talk, Lando. You don’t explain. You just vanish. It’s easier for you to ghost than to face anything real.”

He looked away for a second, jaw tense, like he hated how accurate it was. Then he stepped forward, closer than you wanted.

“I didn’t ghost you,” he said, quieter now. “I was trying to avoid this. The yelling. The constant drama.”

“And now you’re in the middle of a gift shop yelling anyway,” you hissed. “So tell me, how’s that avoidance working out?”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. Just heavy breathing and the echo of your own anger bouncing off sun-faded trinkets.

Then he glanced at the shirt again—the one you’d shoved against his chest—and let out a slow, bitter laugh.

“You know what?” he said, voice cold. “You’re right. I’ll buy it. I’ll wear it. I’ll wear it to the airport if it gets me away from you faster.”

You stared at him, stunned. Then turned on your heel without another word.

───

The whole day had passed in silence. After that fight, after everything he said and did in the gift shop, there wasn’t a single part of you that wanted to talk to him. Not after he made you feel so stupid in front of strangers. It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was cruel.

It was late now. Evening had settled in, soft and slow, but it didn’t feel peaceful. You were curled up on the couch that had doubled as your bed for days. It was uncomfortable and stiff, and your body was starting to feel the consequences. Your back ached, your neck was sore, and sleep had become something you dreaded because you never really felt rested. Still, you hadn’t moved to the actual bed. Maybe because you were too stubborn. Maybe because going to the bed felt like admitting defeat—and you’d already had enough of that.

Lando hadn’t said a word to you either. He’d gone straight to the balcony when you got home from the shop and hadn’t left it since. You hadn’t looked at him, but you could imagine the scene clearly. He was probably slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, phone in hand. Knowing him, he was either venting to Max—telling him how you overreacted—or texting some random girl who had no idea how good he was at being charming and careless at the same time.

The couch groaned beneath you as you shifted for the third time in ten minutes, trying to find a position that didn’t make your back scream. Your neck had officially given up—stiff, sore, humming with regret—and the cushions felt more punishment than comfort. But still, you stayed. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because you didn’t want to owe him anything.

Lando walked past, his footsteps echoing slightly on the stone floor, and just as you closed your eyes, his voice cut in.

“You’ll wake up in pieces if you keep sleeping here.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Just blinked up at the ceiling, irritation prickling beneath your skin. Of course he had to say something. He couldn’t just keep walking. Why did he comment on everything? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

“So?” you murmured, jaw tight. “I survived worse.”

Oh, how much you wanted to say more. Like the relationship with you. The words danced at the tip of your tongue, sharp and ready, but you swallowed them back. Not tonight.

There was a pause. You assumed he’d keep moving, leave you in peace, retreat back to the balcony where he’d spent the entire day avoiding any trace of accountability. But instead—he stayed. And then came the unexpected.

“Take the bed.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, trying to hide the disbelief on your face.

Since when did he offer without a punchline attached?

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You know your dad would kill me if you didn’t come back.”

Ah. There it was. Not kindness. Not guilt. Just logic. Just obligation.

You stared at him, heart tight, thoughts tangled. You could still feel the sting of the fight from earlier, still remember how small he made you feel in front of strangers. And yet here he was, offering a bed that used to be yours. That used to be yours together.

The decision came slow, but it came. The couch had become a war zone of poor sleep and regret, and your back was finally staging a protest you couldn’t ignore. One more night on that lumpy disaster meant waking up with your spine in alphabet soup—and yeah, you deserved better. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Besides, he’d be sleeping out there now, right? It wasn’t giving up. It was survival.

“Okay,” you said, dragging your body upright, every joint groaning in agreement. “But only because the couch is really horrible.”

You didn’t wait for ceremony. You fell into the bed like gravity owed you a favor, sinking into the pillows with the kind of relief that felt criminal. Soft, warm, perfect. The mattress hugged you instantly, almost annoyingly gentle after the concrete couch you’d forced yourself to suffer through. For a moment, you lay there, eyes fluttering shut, letting your body thaw. Heaven. Unexpected, unearned heaven.

And then, of course—he had to ruin it.

The door creaked open, and in walked Lando. Shorts. Shirtless. Like the villa was his runway and drama was his cologne. Your eyes snapped open, immediate whiplash from bliss to disbelief. Shirtless? Seriously?

Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t flinch. Just strolled in like it was a Tuesday. “Relax. I’m not sleeping on that couch either.”

Oh. My. God.

Of course he wouldn’t. Of course this man, this ambassador of chaos disguised as a charm machine, would decide that one tiny moment of peace wasn’t allowed. You blinked at him, trying to process how someone could look so smug and so casual all at once. The bed wasn’t just yours again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered, he’ll ruin your night, just like he ruins everything.

You pushed yourself up from the pillows, arms stiff and body sore from days of pretending the couch was enough. Your eyes went to him instinctively, but they didn’t stop at his face—they landed on his chest first. Bare, relaxed, way too familiar. It threw you off. It wasn’t just the fact that he was shirtless, it was the way he looked like this was all normal. You stared, mostly because you weren’t ready to speak, and when your words finally came, they were laced with disbelief.

“You’re not serious,” you said, voice flat, eyes narrowing.

Lando didn’t even blink. He stood there in his stupid shorts, arms loose at his sides like he didn’t just drop an emotional bomb into the room. His tone was easy, like he was offering you a logical solution instead of stirring up something messy.

“It’s a big bed,” he said. “And I won’t touch you. You know I wouldn’t ever do that.”

Something in your chest tensed. He said it like he was trying to sound respectful, reasonable, but there was something else there too—like he wanted you to remember that once, not so long ago, he used to be the one you let touch without hesitation. And maybe now he was trying to prove he was capable of restraint. Or maybe he was just doing what he always did: pushing the line and pretending it wasn’t loaded.

You rolled your eyes and nodded, already regretting the shared bed arrangement but too tired to argue. He didn’t gloat, didn’t smirk—just grabbed his blanket and settled in on his side, clearly making an effort to put as much space between you as the mattress allowed. It was awkward. Not hateful, just strange. Like trying to sleep beside a ghost of someone who once knew how you curled up at night.

“Should I build a pillow wall?” you asked, voice dry, not exactly serious but not exactly joking either.

“No,” he mumbled, turning away from you, his back a quiet barrier. “I’ll be careful.”

The silence that followed stretched long. Not tense, but definitely not comfortable. You lay there, too aware of the space between you, of how your breathing changed when he shifted, of all the things neither of you was saying. The blanket was warm, but your thoughts kept peeling away layers of stillness until your brain buzzed more than your body relaxed.

Then his voice broke through, casual and ridiculous. “And by the way, don’t you dare fart like you always did.”

It was so random, so unnecessary, so him—you couldn’t stop the laugh that exploded out of you. Full-bodied, messy, uncontrolled.

“Shut up!” you managed through the giggles. “You were worse!”

There it was. The first real laugh in days. Still tangled in bitterness, but alive.

───

The beach was buzzing—kids shrieking near the shoreline, music spilling from hidden speakers, the scent of sunscreen and sea salt hanging heavy in the warm air. The water stretched out in front of you, glittering in every shade of blue, and for once, you weren’t weighed down by drama. The day felt soft. Easy.

You sat comfortably at the beach bar, legs stretched out, a mojito sweating in your hand. Your phone was open on your lap, half a text typed out to your friends. Slept in the same bed as my ex. And somehow… no explosions. You weren’t even sure what reaction you were hoping for—concern, amusement, validation? But it felt worth saying. A small miracle, considering your recent history with Lando.

Speaking of him—he was somewhere in the water, floating around with zero grace, probably reenacting some ridiculous underwater mermaid scene. You didn’t care much. Not actively. But your eyes still drifted to where he was every so often, checking to make sure he wasn’t doing backflips off a floatie or convincing strangers he was a dolphin. It was instinct now. Like your nerves still knew how quickly chaos could show up.

You took another sip of your drink, already melting into the salt-soaked rhythm of the day, when a voice popped up beside you—smooth, confident, unfamiliar.

“Hey gorgeous, mind if I join you? You look like you need some company.”

You blinked, turned. The guy was tall, tan, and very aware of his own charm. Smile practiced. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like a lifestyle choice. The kind of guy who didn’t ask twice because he expected a yes the first time.

Lando was already taking up too much space in your head—his crooked smile, the way he made everything feel exciting and unsafe at once. You hadn’t come here looking for drama. You just wanted quiet. A little peace. Something to help you breathe.

So when that guy slid in beside you and started talking, your whole body tensed. You gave him the easiest answer you could, hoping he’d take the hint. “I’m sorry, but I like to be on my own,” you said, trying not to sound cold, just clear. You even shifted away a bit, politely but firmly. But of course, he didn’t listen.

“C’mon, pretty girl, one drink,” he said with a grin that felt too smug, too sure of himself. That phrase made you feel small. Like you were something pretty to be collected, not someone real with thoughts and boundaries. The irritation rose quickly this time, burning through your chest like fire.

“I’m not interested,” you said, voice hard now. You didn’t care about sounding nice anymore. “Just go a—”

And then—Lando. His voice cut through the noise like a sharp wind against your skin.

“She said she’s not interested, man,” he said, and you turned. Instinctively.

Seeing him there hit you like a wave. The protective stance, the grip on the guy’s shoulder that clearly wasn’t gentle—it was too tight, almost daring. He looked serious, eyes dark with warning. Something inside you flickered at that. Gratitude. Surprise. Maybe even something warmer than you expected.

“Respectfully, fuck off,” Lando added calmly, almost like it was routine. Like defending you came naturally.

The guy puffed up, trying not to back down. “Who even are you? Her boyfriend?” he snapped.

Lando didn’t hesitate. “Kind of,” he said quickly, way too quickly. And your heart did something weird—it stopped for a second, then started again, faster than before.

“Now go away before I have to break your nose,” he added, still calm, still threatening.

The guy looked at you, then back at Lando. He didn’t want the fight. Not with someone like that. So he muttered an apology and walked away, shoulders slumped.

You blinked, still frozen, trying to catch up. Kind of? What did that mean? Was he just saying that to push the guy away, or did he actually mean it? And why did your heart ache a little at how easily the words rolled out of him?

Lando slid into the seat next to you like it was his rightful place. You didn’t even look at him at first—your fingers still wrapped around your drink, heart still thudding from how easily he’d stepped in earlier, jaw tight and protective. It should’ve annoyed you. It almost did. But somehow, it felt good—just for a second.

“Thank you,” you said, turning your head toward him with a playful roll of your eyes, “but I could’ve handled it.”

He leaned in—slow, casual, but just close enough that his presence wrapped around you like the tide. His proximity made your breath catch, just barely. Like old habits were trying to sneak back in under your guard.

“Really?” he said, voice dipped in teasing amusement. “You were about two seconds away from looking like you needed saving.”

You turned toward him properly now, eyebrow raised, mouth curved in that half-smile that always came with a challenge. You hated how easily he stirred something in you, how natural it was to fall back into this rhythm.

“Saving? From that?” you scoffed gently. “Please. I’ve handled worse.”

The moment hung there for a beat, the breeze picking up your words and sending them between you like a dare.

His grin stretched wider, a spark flicking behind his eyes that made your chest squeeze.

“Oh, I know,” he said, smug and unbothered. “You dated me.”

It hit harder than it should have—because you both knew it was true. Because even now, even after the fights and the silence and the mess, he could make you laugh without trying and make your walls tremble with a single look.

───

The yacht gleamed under the sun like it was showing off, bobbing gently on the water as if wealth could float. Typical Lando—big gestures, big toys, zero concern about practicality. He’d rented the whole thing for the day, no hesitation, just a smirk and a swipe of a card like it was nothing. Yeah, rich people will be rich. You just silently crossed your fingers he wasn’t planning on calling this a “shared experience” later and asking for payback in the form of emotional favors.

But truthfully? It was nice. Stupidly nice.

The breeze, the sound of water lapping against the hull, the way the sunlight kissed the surface of the sea—everything felt soft and indulgent in a way you hadn’t let yourself enjoy in ages.

The problem wasn’t the yacht. It wasn’t even the luxury.

It was him.

Lando, with his easy grin and relentless teasing. Every time you rolled your eyes, he leaned closer. Every time you tried to stay cool, he said something that tugged just a little too hard on your past. It was like he couldn’t help himself—chipping away at your restraint with little jabs and dumb jokes and that stupid dimple that appeared when he knew he was winning.

Lando was already sprawled out across the cushioned sofa like a king in his natural habitat—one arm behind his head, legs stretched out, curls completely untamed and defying gravity as usual. His Calvin Klein swim shorts weren’t helping either, and you hated how effortlessly attractive he looked when he was relaxed like that. It was annoying. Unfair, really.

You carried the bag carefully, the scent of sushi already teasing the air. You knew exactly how he felt about it—he’d complained at least five separate times on this trip about how “it smells like a fish market” and how “raw stuff shouldn’t be called food.” But you didn’t care. You were craving it. And maybe, just maybe, part of you enjoyed irritating him in small, harmless ways.

“Lunch is served,” you said with dramatic flair, lowering yourself onto the seat next to him. He turned his head immediately, eyes narrowing the second he spotted the bag in your hands. You smiled sweetly, slow and deliberate, and began pulling out the containers one by one like you were presenting gourmet treasure.

His face twisted into that classic Lando expression—half disgusted, half disbelief.

“Oh fuck off,” he muttered, eyebrows raised. “You know how much I hate it.”

The sushi container was open between you, its bright colors almost mocking his stubborn refusal. You picked up the avocado roll—the most harmless option of them all—and waved it in front of his face, chopsticks poised like a peace offering.

“Come on, Lando,” you said, playful and firm. “You can’t go through life without trying it. This one doesn’t even have fish. Literally just avocado and rice.”

You smiled wide, knowing exactly how to press the right button. He groaned, already looking exasperated before you even got the words out.

“I swear, Carlos said the same thing,” he muttered, pushing your face away with his palm like you were an annoying little sister rather than the ex he still hadn’t figured out how to stop orbiting.

You swatted his hand, laughing, but something about the way he smirked—lips curling and eyes soft with half-masked affection—made your heart thump just once, unexpected.

He brushed past your mention of Carlos like it hadn’t happened, redirecting the moment toward a memory you hadn’t thought about in a long time.

“Do you remember when I once tasted seafood for you?” he said, as if it was nothing. But you did—instantly. That trip was etched into your memory like ink beneath skin.

“Dubai?” you replied, a small laugh slipping out. “And how you threw up five minutes after?”

You remembered the fancy restaurant by the marina, the warm evening air, the golden lights reflecting off the water. He’d insisted on ordering something you loved, even though he hated seafood with a passion. You had warned him. But he had wanted to prove something then, and maybe it wasn’t about the food at all. He had looked so proud sitting across from you, trying to chew through squid like it wasn’t making his stomach turn. You had laughed then too, but with your heart swelling a little because part of you had believed that love meant doing strange things for someone just to see them smile.

“Oh yeah,” he said, chuckling. “See? I was so in love with you. I ate damn seafood for you. And you thought I didn’t love you.”

Your laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping out as a quick snort when Lando made his dramatic declaration. The sun was warm on your skin, and everything about this moment—his ridiculous tone, the way he sprawled across the cushions like a defeated movie star—felt familiar and easy. “So now seafood trauma is a romantic gesture?” you teased, eyebrows raised as you plucked another piece of sushi from the tray between you. “Soon you’ll be writing love poems to spring rolls.”

Lando groaned loudly, tossing his head back like he couldn’t bear the memory. “Don’t mock my suffering,” he said, dragging out the words like he was physically suffering. “That squid was basically a rubber band soaked in disappointment. It betrayed me.”

You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting with genuine amusement. His voice might’ve been full of regret, but it made your chest feel lighter. This was the kind of rhythm that felt like home—the joking, the banter, the way you both knew exactly how far to push. “You ate it for me,” you said, nodding like it was a serious statement. “And you almost died for me. Your stomach still hasn’t forgiven you.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, not angry—just teasing, like he was deciding whether or not to take revenge. “Watch it,” he said softly. It wasn’t a real threat, but there was something in his look that made your pulse skip a beat.

You raised an eyebrow and popped an avocado roll into your mouth. “Or what?” you asked through a half-chewed bite. “You gonna cry into your fancy yacht pillow?”

That was it.

Lando sat up halfway, lightning-fast, and reached for your ankle without warning. His grip was firm but gentle, playful in the way his fingers wrapped around your skin like he’d done it a thousand times before. “I swear on my overpriced sunglasses,” he said, voice deepening just enough to sound dramatic, “I’ll toss you overboard right now.”

You shrieked in surprise, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as you squirmed, trying to free yourself. “Lando!” you gasped, clutching the tray to keep the sushi from flying everywhere. “You wouldn’t!”

Lando gave you that grin, “I absolutely would.”

You didn’t even have time to scream. One moment, Lando was smirking like the devil himself, eyes full of chaotic joy, and the next—you were airborne, muscles tensing, breath caught in your throat. Your heart jolted as your body flipped through the salty air, and for a second, time slowed. The edge of the yacht blurred past your vision, the glint of the setting sun dancing on the waves. And then splash—cold, wild water swallowed you whole. But you hadn’t gone quietly. In that split-second of instinct, your hand had clawed for anything to take him down with you—and his hand had been the perfect target.

Above the surface, you heard him yell—a mix of surprise and pure panic—and then another splash. And oh, it was glorious. You rose from the depths gasping, water streaming down your face, laughter already bubbling up before you could get the words out. “You actually threw me in, you psycho!”

He burst to the surface beside you, coughing dramatically, curls plastered to his forehead. “You dragged me in like some cursed, revenge-fueled sea goblin!”

“You deserved it,” you shot back, half laughing, half breathless from the adrenaline rush, body already starting to shiver from the temperature drop. The ocean wrapped around you like silk and chaos, waves nudging you both closer.

He wiped his face with both hands, looking at you through soaked lashes. “You’re fucking relentless, you know that?” But his grin was still there, wild and boyish, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn’t felt in months. “I mean—I was supposed to be the menace!”

You swam toward him, closing the distance a bit. “Takes one to know one,” you murmured, your voice softer now, amused but aching beneath the surface. His eyes locked onto yours, and everything suddenly slowed again—not from adrenaline this time, but because the world got quiet inside you. It was like the noise of your thoughts stopped spinning, just long enough to let something real push through.

He tilted his head, mouth opening just slightly like he was going to toss another joke your way—but it didn’t come. Instead, his expression shifted. He stared for a beat too long, and the gleam in his eyes dimmed into something earnest.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”

You laughed.

He was definitely joking.

Or…?

───

You hadn’t meant for the night to go this way. You and Lando had made a promise—just one drink. Keep things chill, keep emotions at bay. But that stupid confession from yesterday had tangled itself into your thoughts so tightly, you couldn’t ignore it. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.” How were you supposed to hear that and not feel everything? The weight of it, the confusion, the hope. So yeah… you drank. More than one. More than two. Probably more than anyone should. And now here you were, trying to breathe against the cold wall outside the bar, while the world spun like it was mocking you.

You had told Lando you needed fresh air, said it with a smile like everything was fine. But the truth was—your knees were unsteady, your stomach twisting, and your head full of emotions you didn’t know how to name. You’d been standing here for maybe fifteen minutes, barely able to keep upright. Your eyes blurred and doubled, and the tips of your fingers tingled. You kept telling yourself it would pass. That you’d walk it off and rejoin him inside like nothing had happened.

And then—his voice. Sharp, worried, and far too sobering.

“Y/n? What the fuck?” Lando was already halfway out the door, eyes wide as he spotted you slumped against the wall. He rushed over, breath quick, confusion written all over his face. “You okay?”

You tried to wave it off, your hand flicking lazily in the air like it could dismiss everything wrong. “Yeah,” you said, forcing the word through the fuzz in your throat. But the moment you stepped forward, your foot missed the ground, and you stumbled—hard enough for him to flinch.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. Just let out a quiet sigh and mumbled, “Yeah, you’re not walking. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” And then he bent down. No hesitation, no sarcasm. One arm tucked behind your knees, the other pressing firmly against your back, and suddenly you were airborne. Safe. Wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the scent of his cologne.

He picked you up like it was easy, like he’d done it before, like you weren’t a mess of feelings and regret. And as your head leaned against his shoulder, you felt something settle in your chest—uneven and heavy, but less alone. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Your head rested against his shoulder as the world tilted and blurred around you. You felt completely out of it—your body heavy, your thoughts a tangle of half-formed memories and spinning questions. It was like you’d lived this moment before. Him carrying you. You too drunk to walk. That strange feeling hit you hard, like a dream you couldn’t quite remember but your bones knew by heart. Maybe it really had happened before. Maybe it hadn’t.

You didn’t feel like talking, but the words slipped out anyway, low and raw. “Why do you still help me?” You weren’t trying to push him away—you really just didn’t get it. The trip had been a wreck. You’d fought with him so much, said things you didn’t even mean, thrown sarcasm like knives. He had every reason to leave you behind, to walk away and not look back. But he hadn’t. He never did.

He didn’t answer right away, but when he looked down at you, there was something soft in his eyes, something almost tired, but patient. He smiled, that quiet kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. “Because clearly you can’t help yourself.”

You rolled your eyes at his answer, not because it wasn’t kind—but because it wasn’t real enough. It didn’t explain everything. Not the late-night help, not the way he jumped in during that mess on the beach, not how he always showed up when no one else did.

“That’s not the answer, though,” you mumbled, words sticking to your throat as your fingers curled into his shirt a little tighter. You weren’t trying to start something. You just needed to understand.

You lifted your gaze to him, watching the way his jaw shifted—the muscles tight like he was holding something back. You could feel his chest rise and fall underneath your cheek. “You didn’t have to do all that,” you said quietly, voice slower now. “You didn’t have to step in on that beach. Or carry me like this. You could’ve just… left me there. Walked away.”

You hadn’t meant for it to sound so sad. But it did. And now it hung in the air between you like fog, wrapping around everything unsaid.

For a moment, Lando didn’t speak. His mouth moved slightly, like he was forming something careful. His arms didn’t shift—still holding you close, still steady—but you felt the tension in him. The way it settled in his shoulders, how he hesitated before finally letting the words out.

“Yeah, well…” he said, voice lower now, stripped of the joking edge. “I told myself I was done. That I wouldn’t care anymore.” He let out a breath that didn’t sound convincing—like he’d been carrying that lie longer than he wanted to admit. “But I guess I lied. ’Cause I’d still show up. No matter what.”

You blinked slowly, trying to process the weight behind that. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic in the classic sense. But it hit you harder than anything he’d said the whole trip.

“If you called me five minutes before a race,” he continued, eyes focused straight ahead, “said you needed me—I’d drop everything. I’d come running. No questions, no hesitation. I’d be there.”

Your chest clenched at that. Because even though he was drunk, even though you were a mess and this wasn’t the place for heavy confessions… that felt like truth. Raw and real and maybe a little broken, but still whole in its own way.

The words left Lando’s mouth without much force, but they hung heavy in the air. “I hate that you hate me,” he said, almost like he wasn’t expecting a reply. You turned your head slightly, still pressed against him, and blinked slowly. That sentence wasn’t thrown out like a joke—it felt like something deeper. Something he’d been carrying for a while.

You exhaled, slow and careful, heart thudding. “I don’t hate you, Lando,” you said softly. And you meant it. Honestly, the thought hadn’t ever crossed your mind. Even in the worst fights, even during the cold silences and ugly words. Hate was never what you felt for him. It was frustration, disappointment, pain—but not hate. Never hate.

He scoffed under his breath. “You should.” His voice was quiet, but heavy with guilt. He sounded convinced. Like he’d already decided he didn’t deserve your kindness, your loyalty, your softness. That maybe, after everything, he’d earned your anger. That someone like him—messy, impulsive, hurtful in all the wrong moments—shouldn’t be forgiven. Shouldn’t be missed.

But if only he knew. If only he could see what was actually tucked deep in your chest. That through all of it—every argument, every confusing feeling—he was still your person. Your first real love. The only one who truly made you feel known. You were angry sometimes, sure. But you loved him still. Maybe too much. Maybe you were both just young and stubborn and too afraid to say what you really felt in the quiet moments.

Lando reached the villa with you still in his arms, his grip strong but gentle as he shifted your weight to open the door. He struggled for a second, fumbling with the knob while keeping you steady, until he finally managed to kick it open with his foot.

Inside, the room was dim and quiet, and everything felt like it was moving slower—probably because your head was spinning and you could barely keep your eyes open. He brought you to the bed and lowered you down carefully, but you were so drunk that even sitting felt like too much. You kind of melted sideways, your arms wrapping around yourself for balance, trying to stop the room from tilting.

Lando stood there for a beat, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and exhaustion. Then he raised a brow, gesturing with both hands in a way that you barely understood. “Hands up,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But your brain wasn’t connecting dots right now, and you just blinked at him, confused.

“What?” you asked, hugging yourself tighter out of instinct. Everything suddenly felt more vulnerable. You weren’t sure if it was the dress, the mood, or just how close he’d been all night. You could feel the fabric of it sticking to your skin, uncomfortable now after the ocean and the bar and everything in between.

He rolled his eyes, but not in a mean way. More like he was tired of pretending you were shy around him. “Come on, Y/n,” he said, voice low but soft. “I’ve seen every part of you.”

Your cheeks went warm—not from embarrassment, but from the way he said it. Not crude, not teasing. Just honest. And yeah, he was right. You’d let him in, more than once, in ways you hadn’t let anyone else. The history between you didn’t allow for awkwardness now, even if everything else felt messy. Still, the fact that he remembered all those moments—not just the dramatic ones, but the quiet, intimate ones—made your chest squeeze a little.

You lifted your arms slowly, the room spinning just slightly as Lando slipped your dress over your head with care. His movements were gentle, familiar, like he’d done this before—like he remembered your edges better than you did in moments like this. You didn’t protest. You were too tired, too drunk, too wrapped up in the safety of this quiet. He reached behind him and grabbed one of his shirts—oversized, worn, soft—and pulled it over your head, letting it settle around your frame like a blanket. It smelled like him.

Then he dropped down to his knees in front of you, fingers already working to unbuckle the straps of your heels. You barely noticed him move. His head was bent low, curls falling over his eyes, silent except for a tired hum that let you know you could speak if you needed to.

And you did.

“Lando?” you said quietly, voice hoarse.

He gave a soft grunt in response, focused on the buckle. But you kept going.

“I mean… what if we ended up together again?” Your voice shook slightly, your hands folding into your lap. “Would you do it all over again? Like… for real this time. The right way.”

He didn’t say a word while he finished removing your heels, fingers working through the straps carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter the quiet between you. When he was done, he rose slowly to his feet, and suddenly he felt so much taller, standing over you like a pause in the storm. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, and your heart jumped at the look in his eyes—steady and sincere, like something had finally shifted.

Lando reached out, palms cradling your cheeks with a softness that caught you off guard. His touch was warm, grounding. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“I would,” he said, voice low but firm. “I know I messed things up. I treated you like shit. I hate that—I regret it every single day.” His thumbs brushed gently across your skin. “But if we had a second chance… I’d do it right this time. I’d treat you the way you actually deserve.”

Then he leaned down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead. And in that quiet breath of contact, something inside you cracked—not from pain, but from the way his words settled into the empty spaces you’d been carrying. Maybe you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But in that moment, you weren’t wondering if he cared.

You could feel it.

───

You remembered everything you said to him that night—every word that spilled out when your guard was down, when your emotions were louder than reason. And honestly, you hated that you did. You wished your memory had blurred it all away like the rest of the night. But instead, it stuck. The words you said, the way you felt, and that quiet moment where you let him see how much you still cared.

Now it haunted you. It had you thinking about him constantly, even when you tried to stop. You wanted to hate him. You swore you did. You had reasons—plenty of them. But your heart didn’t seem interested in any of that. No matter how hard you tried, you missed him. Not just the idea of him, but the real, messy, complicated person. You missed the way he made things feel easier, even when everything was hard.

The tears came suddenly, stinging and silent, as you stared down at the photos. Your phone screen glowed with frozen moments—smiles at the beach, blurry selfies, inside jokes captured in time. You pressed your thumb against one of them, like touching it could bring it all back. But you knew you couldn’t go back there. Not really. That version of you, that version of him—it was locked in the past, behind everything that went wrong.

Still, looking at those images made your chest ache. Because even if you couldn’t rewind, maybe you could rebuild. Maybe the words you said while drunk weren’t just chaos. Maybe they were your heart begging for another chance. And maybe now, sober and hurting, you could decide to fix it. To be honest. To let yourself feel it without shame.

You didn’t even know if he remembered all of it like you did. But somewhere deep inside, you hoped that he felt it too. That maybe your mess of a confession had sparked something in him—something worth saving.

The door creaked softly behind you, and you didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could recognize Lando’s footsteps anywhere. That low, careful rhythm—no rush, just a quiet urgency like he already sensed something wasn’t right. Before you could wipe the tears from your cheeks, he was beside you. Close enough to feel the shift in your breathing. Close enough to notice the redness around your eyes.

“Hey—” he started, but his words cut short when he saw your face. His brows drew together, eyes scanning you with that look that used to be impatience, but now… it was pure worry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, love?” His voice was soft, careful. Gentle, even. And god, it hurt a little more because a few months ago he would’ve said you were being dramatic. Back then, emotion made him flinch. Now he was standing here like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You turned away slightly, trying to gather yourself even though your heart felt cracked wide open. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t convincing, but it was all you could manage. You didn’t want to fall apart in front of him again.

He didn’t move away. His eyes caught the light from your phone screen still glowing faintly in your hand, and he tilted his head, just enough to see it. “Baby, don’t lie,” he said softly, then paused. “Is that us?”

Your hand scrambled to turn off the screen, already too late. You swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears rising again. “No—I mean… yes,” you stammered, breath catching in your chest as you looked up at him. “I was just… looking at old photos, and…”

Your voice broke, and you hated it. Hated that even now, after everything, he still had the power to unravel you. But the look on his face—he didn’t judge.

The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and cracked at the edges. “And I just can’t pretend that I hate you,” you said, voice trembling, each word pulled straight from the deepest part of you. “I meant everything I said that night. I hate not being with you. It’s felt like I’ve been missing my other half for months.” You barely got it out before your voice broke completely, a quiet sob pulling at your chest.

Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared for a long second, his eyes fixed on yours like he was trying to figure out how you’d held that in for so long. Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe. Or maybe something softer. Something that looked a lot like understanding.

Then slowly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just close. Real. His shirt soaked in your tears instantly, but he didn’t seem to care. He held you tighter, like he was trying to hold together all the pieces you’d lost along the way.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, voice shaky as your fingers clung to his back. “I was such a bitch. So toxic. And I hate that I pushed you away. I just miss you. Miss us.”

You pulled away from him slowly, the weight of the hug still clinging to your skin. Something inside you—instinct maybe, or just emotion—told you to look up. To meet his eyes. And when you did, the air felt like it cracked open.

“I love you,” Lando said, no hesitation this time, no jokes wrapped around the truth. “I always did. I never stopped.”

The words landed heavy, almost too much. You stared at him, lips parted, heart barely steady as he kept going.

“I wanted to call you,” he said, voice growing softer. “There were days I just sat with the phone in my hand. I wanted to cry, to say sorry, to beg—but I kept telling myself you deserved better than me.” His eyes didn’t look away, not once. “But then I realized… I wouldn’t survive seeing you with someone else. I couldn’t. And that’s when I knew—I have to be better. I want to be better. For you.”

Your breath caught. Because that wasn’t a speech. That wasn’t rehearsed. It was Lando—raw and scared and finally honest. And all you could think was: this is what it sounds like when someone means it.

Your voice barely made it past your lips, thick with emotion and shaking at the edges. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, the words rushing out before doubt could swallow them. You didn’t plan it. You didn’t rehearse it. But the second it escaped, you knew it was true. As simple and messy and overwhelming as it sounded, it was the only thing that felt right.

Lando didn’t speak—his eyes just locked on yours, wide with something that looked a lot like relief. Like he’d been waiting for that exact sentence and didn’t know if he’d ever hear it. You didn’t give either of you a chance to pull away. You leaned in fast, gripping the sides of his shirt, heart pounding in your chest, and kissed him.

The moment your lips met his, the silence fell away. His hands moved instinctively, one cradling the back of your head, the other resting firmly on your lower back, pulling you closer like he needed you in every possible way. The kiss wasn’t perfect—it was a little desperate, full of emotion and breath and years of not knowing how to say what you both meant. But it was real.

When you finally parted, your faces stayed close, eyes meeting in the quiet aftermath. His thumb brushed your cheek, tender and lingering.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited,” he whispered.

You gave a soft laugh, teary and real. “I think I do.”

babs radio ! oh fuck… this was…wow. glad i finished it, took long enough. hope u like it <3

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