#soft lando

"I told you to rent the SUV."

“And I said, we don’t need one!” Lando protested, his voice cracking slightly as he gestured wildly at the frosted window.

“Clearly, we do because your dysfunctional car drifted into a pine tree that is now blocking the very exit we need. Lando, we are fucking stuck here."

You stood by the window of the cabin, arms crossed, staring out at the disaster in the driveway. The McLaren Artura—a vehicle worth more than most houses and designed exclusively for dry asphalt—was buried up to its wheel arches in a Finnish snowdrift and a huge pine tree just mocking both of you. It looked ridiculous.

You stared at the car, a bitter laugh bubbling in your chest. It was so typical. Lando Norris: the boy who lives life like a game. He never planned for the bad weather. He never planned for the hard days. He just assumed everything would work out if he went fast enough.

That was exactly why you were leaving him. You were tired of being the passenger in a life that was moving too fast to actually be lived.

Inside, the air was already turning stale and cold. The "smart heating system" Lando had insisted on installing two years ago was currently flashing a red error code that probably meant Game Over in Finnish, and the WiFi router was dead.

Lando was pacing the length of the living room rug. He was wearing a bright neon green Quadrant beanie that clashed violently with the rustic timber walls, looking less like a Formula 1 driver and more like a glow stick experiencing an existential crisis.

"My stream," he muttered, tapping his phone screen aggressively. "I was supposed to be live in a few hours. The chat is going to think I died."

"Priorities, Lando," you sighed, turning away from the window to face the room. "We are trapped in a blizzard with no heat, no internet, and..." You gestured to the coffee table.

There, the reason why you both are here in the first place, sitting in the center of the room like a radioactive device, was the thick manila envelope. The divorce papers.

Lando’s eyes flicked to the envelope, then immediately away, bouncing to the ceiling, the floor, the window—anywhere but the evidence of your failing marriage. He pulled his beanie down lower. "I’m going to check the fuse box again."

"You don't know what a fuse box looks like.”

“I can be an engineer if I wanted to!" he yelled over his shoulder, fleeing into the kitchen.

—————————

Two hours later, the engineering attempt had failed, and the silence was louder than the wind howling outside. You were both huddled on opposite ends of the oversized leather sofa, wrapped in whatever blankets you could find.

Since talking about why you were divorcing was too painful, and talking about the weather was too depressing, you had resorted to arguing about the assets, specifically the things in the last house that you were unable to sell. It was petty, it was stupid, and it was the only thing keeping you from crying.

"I don't want the deer," Lando said, pointing a gloved hand at the terrifying taxidermy head mounted above the fireplace. "It looks like it’s judging me… kind of reminds me of you, actually.”

"Well, I don't want it!" you snapped, pulling your blanket tighter. "You bought it! You said it gave the place 'scandi-vibes'!"

"I was drunk! That shouldn't be legally binding!"

You looked at the deer, and a memory hit you so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of you. You remembered that day. It was two years ago, during the winter break. You were stumbling through the Helsinki Christmas market, Lando laughing so hard his nose was bright red, holding that stupid deer head like a trophy. He had kissed you right there in the snow, promising that this cabin would be your escape—a place where cameras couldn't follow.

Now, the cabin was just another asset to liquidate, and the deer was just a dusty witness to the end.

He huffed, sinking lower into his hoodie. He looked ridiculous and looked exhausted. But also, annoyingly, he looked cold. He hadn't brought a proper coat because Lando lived life on the edge, and now he has to suffer through it, and clearly, you don’t give a fuck if he freezes for the next 48 hours. His teeth were chattering, a soft click-click-click sound that was chipping away at your resolve.

Don't do it, you told yourself. Do not offer him your scarf. He is a grown man. He is a millionaire. He can buy a scarf factory. But god, he looks like a shivering puppy.

"What about the Nespresso machine?" you asked, trying to distract yourself from the urge to choke him with your scarf.

"You take it," he said quickly.

"But you love that machine. You named it 'Brew-is Hamilton'."

"Yeah, well," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, refusing to meet your eyes. "I don't know how to use the milk frother properly. You were the one who made the good foam. 

"It’s useless to me. It doesn't taste right if... if you don't make the foam."

The next blow. He was basically saying, It’s useless to me without you. This house is just bringing up past memories that you would like buried with the snow.

You looked away, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Fine. I take the machine.”

—————————

Night fell, and the temperature plummeted. The generator gave a final, dying wheeze and cut out, plunging the cabin into darkness save for the dying embers in the fireplace.

"Dinner," you announced, trying to keep your voice steady. You rummaged through the pantry with your phone flashlight. It was a grim selection of non-perishables left over from your last visit. "Okay. We have pickled beets, a jar of sardines... or plain crackers."

"I am not eating a fish from a jar," Lando said from the floor, where he had moved to be closer to the fire. "That is a crime against humanity. That is worse than Oscar’s dry sense of humor."

"It’s that or starvation, Norris."

“Fine…Crackers, please.”

You joined him on the rug, the only warm spot left in the house. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, not touching, sharing the box of dry crackers and the bottle of expensive red wine that was supposed to be for the 'Closing Sale' toast.

You took a sip, trying to stop your own shivering. The cold was seeping through your socks, biting at your toes. You shifted your legs, tucking them under you, but it didn't help.

Lando paused mid-chew. He didn't turn his head, but his gaze dropped to your socks, tracking the subtle, involuntary tremor of your knees. He knew that fidget. He knew exactly at what temperature you stopped functioning. Without a word, without even looking up from the cracker he was inspecting, Lando reached out.

His hand clamped around your ankle. He tugged your legs straight, then lifted your feet and tucked them securely under his thighs, sandwiching them between the warmth of his legs and the rug.

You froze.

It was muscle memory. A habit from three years of marriage. Your feet were cold; he warmed them. It was a reflex attested through a shared life you once both knew.

You looked down at his hand resting on your shin. The gold wedding band was gone; he’d taken it off for the legal proceedings, but the skin on his ring finger was still pale, a stark of white against his tan. A ghost of the promise he claimed he couldn't keep.

He chewed his cracker, and he paused. The realization hit him a second later that you.

He went rigid, his hand hovering over your shin. But he didn't let go, and you didn't pull away, either. The heat from his legs was seeping into your frozen toes, a painful, wonderful reminder of the intimacy you were throwing away.

"Jesus," he hissed, his hands tightening around your ankles to generate more friction. "Are you actually part of the undead, now? "

"Rich," you mumbled, eyeing the sad, half-eaten cracker in his other hand. "Coming from the man trying to survive a blizzard on a dry biscuit."

But neither of you moved. The air between you was charged, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and the vanilla perfume you hadn't changed in years.

The fire popped, a loud crack that broke the trance. You looked at the coffee table. The manila envelope was barely visible in the firelight, but its presence felt heavy, suffocating.

"Just sign it, Lando," you said, your voice trembling. You pulled your feet out from under him. The loss of warmth was immediate and brutal. "The pen is right there. It’s been six months of you dodging the lawyers. Just finish it."

Lando flinched. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The neon beanie slipped back, revealing messy curls. The mask of the "Cool F1 Driver," the streamer, and the joker dropped completely. He just looked like a boy who was lost.

"I can't," he said quietly.

"Why?" You grabbed the envelope and tossed it toward him. It landed on the rug with a soft slap. "It’s just paper, Norris. You drive at 200 miles per hour, but you can't hold a pen?"

"I opened it, okay! The papers you sent me the first time… I held it over and over again!" he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking, eyes flashing with sudden, wet anger. "I had the pen in my hand! I sat there for hours!"

"Then why didn't you?"

He looked at you, his eyes swimming with tears, his chest heaving.

"Because it felt like signing your name out of my life," he choked out. "Once I put the ink on the paper, I can't undo it. I can fix a bad lap. I can apologize to the team. I can fix a crash… But, I can’t fix this."

He wiped his face aggressively with his sleeve, sniffing loudly.

"I didn't want this," he whispered, the fight draining out of him. "I didn't know how to carry the weight of the title and the weight of your heart at the same time, so I dropped you. I dropped us. I thought if I focused on the car, you’d still be there when I got out, and fuck, Y/N, I was wrong.” He stepped closer, hands twitching as if he wanted to reach for you but was terrified to touch.  “I let you slip through my fingers, lap by lap, race by race. I was so obsessed with the car that I didn't see I was driving our marriage off a cliff. And the worst part? You stayed. You sat in the stands and cheered for me while I was letting you rot in silence. I want to get on my knees and beg you to start over, to tell you I’ll change—but how can I ask you to forgive a man who watched you drown for a year and did nothing but smile for the cameras?" He looked at you dead in the eyes now. “I’m sorry, Y/N, for everything I've done to us. But believe me when I say, Fuck the championship. Fuck the legacy. It’s all just noise. I thought if I won, I’d be enough for you, but all I did was ensure I’ll never be enough again. I let you down in the worst way possible. I left you alone when I was right there beside you. I’d give it back. I swear to God, I’d give every point, every podium, every second of it back if it meant you wouldn't look at me with those dead eyes. Please... just tell me it isn't too late."

The silence that followed his confession was louder than any cheering crowds that had drowned you out during your entire marriage.

Fuck the championship.

Three words. Three words that would have saved you six months ago. If he had said them when you were crying on the bathroom floor in Monaco, or when you were staring at the ceiling in an empty hotel room in Vegas, you would have stayed. You would have fought.

But now? Those words just felt like a eulogy.

You looked at him. The desperation in his eyes was raw and terrifyingly real. This wasn't Lando the Superstar; this was your Lando, stripped down to the bone. He was offering to burn down his empire just to keep you. God, it hurt. It hurt because you believed him. You knew he meant it. He would give every trophy back.

But he couldn't give back the time. He couldn't undo the loneliness.

But the love? The love was always right there between the two of you, terrified and freezing. It hadn't left. That was the cruelest joke of all. You didn't want to leave him because you stopped loving him; you were leaving him because loving him had started to kill you.

But looking at him now, shattered and breathless, the horrific truth finally hit you: He hadn't neglected you because he didn't care. He had neglected you because he thought he had to be a god to be worthy of you.

He was just a boy who had convinced himself that the only way to keep you was to be the best in the world. He had driven himself into the ground, chased every point and every win, not for his ego, but because he was terrified that if he was just Lando, he wouldn't be enough. He had broken your heart trying to protect it with trophies and glory when all you ever wanted was him.

If you walked away now, you weren't just leaving a bad marriage. You were leaving a man who had finally woken up. You were pulling the trigger right when he was ready to lay down his armor.

Is asking for a divorce really the right call?

You made a choice.

You reached over and picked up the thick manila envelope.

Lando flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, turning his head away as if expecting you to force the pen into his hand.

Riiiiiiiiip.

The sound was tearing and loud in the quiet cabin.

Lando’s head snapped up. He stared, mouth slightly open, as you tore the document down the middle, then stacked the halves and tore them again.

"My lawyer is going to kill me," he whispered, staring at the confetti in your hands. "That was the original copy."

"Let him sue us," you said, your voice trembling but firm. You tossed the shredded paper onto the floor. "We’re snowed in. We have at least twenty-four hours before a tow truck can get here. Maybe forty-eight."

You crawled across the small space on the rug and he followed you. You didn't kiss him. It was too soon for that. But he sat next to you, shoulder to shoulder, pressing your side against his.

"We don't sign today," you said softly. "We talk about us, about the schedules, about everything.”

Lando let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He leaned his head sideways until it rested heavily on your shoulder. His hand found yours in the dark, his fingers tangling with yours, holding on tight.

"Okay," he murmured, the tension finally leaving his body. "We talk."

He paused, sniffing loudly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

"But can we also talk about getting better snacks for this cabin? Because if we get back together, I am banning the sardines."

You let out a wet laugh, leaning your head on top of his neon beanie. “Deal."

—————————

The next morning, the sun rose over a brilliantly white, frozen landscape. The Finnish tow truck driver arrived at 9 AM, shaking his head as he winched the flashy McLaren out of the snowdrift. He walked up to the cabin to get a signature, knocking loudly on the thick timber door.

Nobody answered.

Inside, the fire had long burned out, but the room was warm. Buried under the single faux-fur throw, two figures slept tangled together, limbs knotted in a desperate seek for warmth, surrounded by the torn remnants of a divorce decree scattered like snow. They didn't hear the knock. They were too busy making up for lost time.

Heat flooded through Ariane at the memory–his hands on her, his mouth on her neck, the promise of ‘later’ that had been building between them all evening.

She should be practical. Should stick to the plan. Should go home, get a good night's sleep, approach this with a clear head tomorrow.

Instead, she heard herself say, "Let me get my bag from my car."

Lando's face lit up like she'd just given him the best gift ever. "Yeah? Really?"

"Really. But if this is a terrible decision, I'm blaming you."

"Completely acceptable. I’ll take full responsibility for all terrible decisions tonight."

Five minutes later, Ariane was sliding into the seat beside him, her overnight bag tossed in the trunk, her car keys tucked safely in her purse to deal with tomorrow. The car pulled away, and Lando immediately reached for her hand.

"Hi," he said, grinning like an idiot.

"Hi," she replied, feeling equally idiotic and not caring at all.

"So. Change of plans."

"I noticed."

"You okay with this? Because if you're not, we can turn around. I'll take you back to your car. No questions asked."

"I'm okay with this." More than okay, actually. The prospect of another night–of actually following through on what had started in the cellar–was making her heart race and her skin feel warm.

"Good." His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "Because I've been thinking about you for the past two minutes and thirty seconds."

"Only two minutes?"

"I was thinking about you before that too. Just more intensely in the car." He shifted closer, his voice dropping lower. "Thinking about how we got interrupted. How we didn't get to finish what we started."

"Lando." Her voice came out breathier than intended.

"Ariane, tell me if I'm reading this wrong, but you got in this car for a reason, right? And that reason wasn't just to save on gas money?"

"That reason was definitely not gas money."

"Good. Because I have plans. Very specific plans. Involving significantly fewer clothes than we're currently wearing."

"You mentioned that."

"Did I mention they're detailed plans? With multiple steps?"

"You may have implied that."

His hand slid up her thigh, just slightly, just enough to make her breath catch. The windows were tinted, giving them a cocoon of semi-darkness, the lights of the French countryside sliding past the windows.

"And did I mention," he continued, his hand inching higher, "that I've been thinking about the sounds you made in that cellar? How you bit your lip to stay quiet? How I want to hear what you sound like when you don't have to hold back?"

Heat pooled between her legs. "We're in a car."

"I'm aware." His fingers traced the hem of her dress, teasing. "I'm just talking. For now. Building anticipation. You seemed to like that earlier."

"You're evil."

"I'm thorough." He said, his hand tightening on her leg. "I'm going to take my time with you. Going to learn every single thing that makes you fall apart. Going to make you come so many times you lose count."

Ariane's breath hitched. "How long did you say this drive was?"

"Too long." His fingers grazed higher. "But we'll be there soon. And then I'm going to bring you into my home, peel this dress off you inch by inch, and make good on every promise I made."

"You're very confident."

"I'm motivated." His hand slid higher, fingers brushing against her inner thigh. "And I think you're just as impatient as I am. I can feel you trembling."

She was trembling. Had been since she got in the car. "What happened to building anticipation?"

"Change of plans." His fingers traced higher, and she had to bite back a gasp. "I want to feel how much you want this."

"Lando–you’re driving–"

"I’m focused. I do this for a living, darling, we’re perfectly safe." His fingers found the edge of her underwear, tracing the lace. "Tell me to stop and I will. But if you want this–if you want me to touch you–you're going to have to say it out loud."

Ariane's brain had officially short-circuited. This was insane. They were in a car. He was driving. But his fingers were so close, and she was so wound up, and the privacy of the darkened windows made her brave.

"Touch me," she breathed.

"Where?" His fingers stayed maddeningly still.

"You know where."

"I want to hear you say it." His head turned towards her, briefly. "Use your words, Ariane. Tell me what you want."

"I want–" She took a shaky breath. "I want your fingers. Inside me. Please."

His sharp inhale told her exactly how much that affected him. "God, I love the way you sound."

His fingers slid beneath the lace, finding her wet and ready, and they both groaned.

"So ready for me," he murmured, circling slowly. "You've been thinking about this too, haven't you? About what happens next?"

"Yes." The word came out as a gasp as his finger circled again, closer to where she needed him.

"Tell me what you've been thinking about."

"Lando, please–"

"Tell me first." He kept up that maddening circling, never quite giving her what she needed. "What have you imagined?"

"You," she admitted, beyond caring about maintaining any dignity. "Your mouth. Your hands. Your–everything. I've been thinking about everything."

"Good girl." He finally–finally–slid one finger inside her, and she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to muffle her moan. "So responsive. Being so perfect for me, darling."

He established a rhythm, adding a second finger, his thumb finding her clit with devastating precision. Ariane's head fell back against the seat, her hips moving with his hand, chasing the pleasure building inside her.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with his own desire. "Take what you need. Let me feel you."

"I'm going to–" She couldn't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed by sensation.

"I know. I can feel it. Come for me, Ariane. I want you to come on my fingers."

His fingers curled inside her, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids, and she fell apart with his name caught between her teeth, trying desperately to stay quiet even as her body shook with the force of her orgasm.

He worked her through it, slowing gradually as she came down.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "So fucking beautiful."

When she could breathe again, she opened her eyes to find him watching her with dark, hungry eyes, his fingers still inside her.

"That was–" she started.

"Just the preview." He slowly withdrew his hand, and she watched–transfixed and slightly scandalized–as he brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting her. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. "Christ. I need more of that. So much more."

They spent the last fifteen minutes of the drive trying to compose themselves–Ariane smoothing her dress, Lando adjusting himself with a muttered curse about uncomfortable pants. But the tension between them had ratcheted up impossibly higher, and by the time they pulled up to his apartment, Ariane was already aching for more.

Lando grabbed both their bags, and led her through the lobby with barely restrained urgency. She could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the purposeful stride, the way his jaw was clenched. The elevator ride up felt endless. The second the doors closed, he dropped the bags and pulled her against him, kissing her with bruising intensity.

"Do you have any idea," he said against her mouth, "how hard it was to sit still next to you after that? Knowing how you taste? How you feel?"

"Show me." She nipped at his bottom lip. "We're almost there. Show me everything you've been thinking about."

The elevator dinged. They sprang apart just as the doors opened, and Lando grabbed the bags and her hand, practically dragging her down the hallway.

He fumbled with the key card–"Come on, come on"-finally got the door open, and the second they were inside, they were on each other.

Hands everywhere. Mouths desperate. Clothes hitting the floor in a trail to the bedroom. Lando backed her toward the bed, his hands already working the zipper of her dress. 

"I'm going to worship every inch of you," he promised, his voice rough. "Going to make you forget your own name."

"Big promises."

"I keep my promises." He slid her dress off, letting it pool at her feet, then stepped back to look at her. His gaze was scorching as it traveled over her body–lingering on her breasts in their lace bra, the matching underwear, the heels she hadn't bothered to take off yet.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're–" He seemed to lose the ability to speak, just reaching for her again, hands spanning her waist.

"Your turn." Ariane made quick work of his shirt buttons, pushing it off his shoulders, running her hands over the muscles of his chest and abs. "God, you're incredible."

"You haven't seen anything yet." But his breath hitched when her fingers trailed lower, tracing the line of his abs down to his belt.

She undid his belt slowly, maintaining eye contact, enjoying the way his breathing quickened. When she popped the button of his pants, he groaned.

"You're killing me."

"Good." She slid his zipper down, her knuckles grazing him through his boxer briefs. He was hard, straining against the fabric, and the evidence of how much he wanted her sent another wave of heat through her.

"Bed," he said roughly. "Now. Before I lose what little control I have left."

She climbed onto the bed, and he followed, a predator stalking its prey. His hands slid up her legs, removing her heels one at a time, pressing kisses to her ankles, her calves, behind her knees.

"You have a thing for legs?" she asked breathlessly.

"I have a thing for your legs. For every part of you." He kissed higher, along her inner thigh. "Going to taste every inch."

He reached her underwear and hooked his fingers in the waistband, dragging them down slowly, exposing her to his gaze. His sharp inhale was gratifying.

"Spread your legs," he commanded softly. "Let me see you."

She did, feeling vulnerable and powerful all at once under his heated gaze.

"Perfect," he murmured, settling between her thighs. "So perfect."

Then his mouth was on her, and Ariane's back arched off the bed. He'd touched her in the car, yes, but this–this was different. His tongue worked her with purpose, learning her responses, finding every sensitive spot and exploiting it ruthlessly.

When he slid two fingers inside her while his tongue circled her clit, she nearly came off the bed.

"Lando–oh god–"

"That's it. Let me hear you. No one to hear us now. Be loud for me, baby."

She stopped trying to hold back, letting every gasp and moan escape freely. He responded to every sound, adjusting his rhythm, his pressure, until she was writhing beneath him, her hands fisted in his hair.

"Please–I'm going to–"

"Come for me." He curled his fingers inside her. "Come on my tongue. I want to taste you."

The combination of his words and his fingers and his tongue sent her flying over the edge. She came with a cry, her thighs clamping around his head, her body shaking with the intensity. He didn't stop, working her through it, then building her back up immediately. Before she could fully come down, he was at it again, adding a third finger, stretching her, preparing her.

"I can't–it's too much–"

"You can." His voice was dark. "Going to make you come again before I'm inside you. Want you desperate for me."

"I am–"

"Not desperate enough." But his fingers were relentless, his mouth wicked, and within minutes she was climbing again, higher this time, the pleasure almost unbearable.

"Lando, please–I need–"

"What do you need? Say it."

"You. Inside me. Now. Please."

He pressed one more kiss to her inner thigh, then moved up her body, trailing kisses as he went–her hip, her stomach, the underside of her breast. He paused to remove her bra, groaning at the sight of her bare chest.

"These," he said reverently, cupping them, "have been driving me crazy all night."

He lowered his mouth to one nipple, sucking hard enough to make her arch into him. His hand worked the other breast, rolling and pinching until she was squirming beneath him.

"Lando, please–"

"I'm getting there." He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention. "Just appreciating what's mine."

The possessive note in his voice sent heat straight to her core. "Yours?"

"Mine." He kissed up to her mouth, claiming her lips in a deep, thorough kiss. "If you want me."

"Yes. God, yes. But right now I need you to stop teasing me and–"

He sat back on his heels, finally–finally–removing his boxer briefs. Ariane's eyes went wide.

"Oh," she said dumbly.

"Oh?" He grinned, clearly pleased by her reaction.

"That's–you're–" She couldn't form words, just reached for him.

He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Patience."

"I don't have any patience left. You used it all up in the car and with your mouth and–Lando, please."

He reached for his wallet, pulled out a condom–"Presumptuous," she managed to tease–and rolled it on with shaking hands that told her he was just as desperate as she was. Then, he was settling between her legs, the head of him pressing against her entrance, both of them holding their breath.

"Look at me," he said softly. "Want to see you."

She met his gaze as he pushed inside, slowly, giving her time to adjust. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, and she saw her own pleasure reflected in his face–his jaw clenched, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged.

"Okay?" he gritted out when he was fully seated.

"So okay. Move. Please move."

He did, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, deep and sure. They both groaned at the sensation.

"You feel–" He couldn't finish, just started moving, building a rhythm that was slow at first, torturously so.

"Faster," Ariane urged, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Harder. I won't break."

"You sure?" But he was already picking up the pace, his hips snapping forward with more force.

"Yes–god yes–like that–"

He hooked her knee over his elbow, changing the angle, going deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars.

"There," she gasped. "Right there–don't stop–"

"Not stopping." His voice was strained, his control clearly fraying. "Never stopping. You feel too good. So tight. So perfect."

His hand slid between them, finding her clit, circling with practiced precision. The added stimulation pushed her higher, the pleasure building impossibly fast.

"I'm close," she warned. "So close–"

"Hold on for me. Want to feel you come around me."

"I can't–it's too much–"

"You can." He thrust harder, deeper, his fingers unrelenting. "Come with me. Want to feel you fall apart."

The combination of sensations–him inside her, his fingers on her clit, the intensity in his eyes–sent her over the edge. She came with a cry, her body clenching around him, and the feel of her pulsing sent him over too. He thrust through it, her name falling from his lips like a prayer, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her. They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, neither quite ready to separate.

"Holy shit," Lando finally said, his voice wrecked.

"Yeah."

"That was…"

"Yeah."

He lifted his head to look at her, grinning despite the obvious exhaustion. "Worth getting back in the car for?"

"Definitely worth it."

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, then carefully pulled out, both of them wincing at the sensitivity. He dealt with the condom, then immediately pulled her against his side, like he couldn't stand to not be intertwined with her after everything.

"You okay?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Not too much?"

"Perfect. It was perfect. You were perfect." She traced patterns on his chest, enjoying the rapid beat of his heart under her palm. "Though you might have ruined me for anyone else."

"Good." The possessive note was back. "That was the plan."

"Very presumptuous."

"Very confident." He tilted her face up for a kiss. "Also very much in awe of you. That was–you're incredible."

"We're incredible," she corrected. "That was a team effort."

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Best team ever."

They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Ariane's fingers trailing lazily over his skin, Lando's hand stroking her hair.

"I don't want you to leave in the morning," he said quietly.

"I have to get my car. And work–"

"I know. But I don't want you to." He shifted to look at her. "Stay for breakfast at least? Let me feed you? And then we'll figure out the car situation and get you back to Lyon."

"Breakfast sounds good."

"Good." He kissed her again, slow and sweet. "And then dinner tomorrow. Like we originally planned. Proper date."

"After this, I think we've moved past the proper date stage."

"Doesn't mean I can't take you to dinner and woo you appropriately."

"Woo me?"

"I'm very good at wooing. You'll see." His hand slid down her side, over her hip. "Speaking of which..."

"Already?" She raised an eyebrow.

"What can I say? You're very inspiring." He was already half-hard again, pressing against her thigh. "But if you're too tired–"

"I didn't say I was too tired." She pushed him onto his back, climbing on top of him, enjoying the way his eyes darkened. "I believe you mentioned detailed plans? Multiple steps?"

"I did." His hands found her hips, steadying her. "We've only covered step one so far."

"What's step two?"

His grin was wicked. "You're about to find out."

An Hour Later

Ariane was boneless, thoroughly satisfied, and completely certain she'd never had so many orgasms in her life.

"You're insatiable," she said, lacking any real complaint in her voice.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his arm draped over her waist. "Besides, you weren't exactly protesting."

"Fair point."

They'd christened several surfaces in the room–the bed (twice), the wall by the window, the desk chair that definitely wasn't meant for that kind of force. Ariane had lost count of how many times she'd come, each one more intense than the last.

"We should sleep," Lando said, though he showed no signs of letting her go.

"We should."

Neither of them moved.

"Lando?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad I got in the car."

His arms tightened around her. "Me too. Best decision of the night."

"Second best," she corrected. "First was getting trapped in that cellar with you."

"Good point." He nuzzled into her neck. "Though I'm starting to think we don't need emergencies to make good decisions. We can just make them anyway."

"Revolutionary."

"I know, I’m wicked smart."

She laughed, sleep pulling at her, but she fought it off for a moment longer, not wanting to miss a second of this–the warmth of him, the safety of his arms, the certainty in her chest.

"Lando?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow–our proper date…I'm probably going to be exhausted and walking funny."

He laughed into her hair. "Sorry not sorry."

"Just warning you that I might need a nap before dinner."

"I'll allow it, I love a wee nap. Can I nap with you?"

"Deal."

"Good." He pressed one more kiss to her shoulder. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up in the morning with step three."

"There's a step three?"

"There are many steps. Many, many steps." He murmured, dozing off already.

Ariane smiled into the darkness, feeling happy and sated and absurdly content. "Can't wait."

And wrapped in his arms, she drifted off to sleep, already looking forward to morning–to breakfast and proper dates and whatever came next with this impossible, wonderful man who'd somehow become everything she didn't know she needed.

Just them, this time by choice–no cellar required. Though she had to admit, that cellar had been a pretty excellent start.

Two Weeks Later

Ariane's phone buzzed for the forty-seventh time that hour. She knew it was the forty-seventh time because she'd started counting after the thirtieth, equal parts exasperated and charmed.

Lando: Update: Carlos just tried to give me relationship advice. CARLOS. The man who once forgot he had a date until she showed up at his apartment.

Lando: I told him I was doing fine without his help, thank you very much.

Lando: He said, and I quote, "You're texting her again right now, aren't you?"

Lando: I had to lie and say no. While actively texting you. He saw right through it.

Lando: Now he's laughing at me. This is your fault somehow.

Ariane smiled, setting down her coffee mug in her apartment–the same apartment where she'd returned after that first night, exhausted and exhilarated and completely unsure of what happened next.

She knew now.

What happened next was this: constant texting. Video calls that stretched past midnight despite time zones and early morning training sessions. Photos of random things;his breakfast (green juice, still disgusting), her cat (still judgmental), the view from his Monaco balcony (admittedly gorgeous), the new branding initiative at work (he'd asked surprisingly informed questions).

And visits. Three in two weeks, which was probably excessive and definitely unsustainable, but neither of them seemed capable of caring.

Ariane: Carlos is right. You text too much.

Lando: BETRAYAL. From my own girlfriend. How will I recover?

Ariane's heart did a little skip at the word. Girlfriend. They'd had that conversation during his second visit to Lyon, over dinner at the mediocre wine restaurant he'd insisted on finding ("It exists! I found one! The reviews say 'wine is okay at best'. It’s perfect”.)

"So," he'd said, twirling pasta around his fork with intense concentration, "I've been calling you my girlfriend in my head for like a week now. Is that presumptuous?"

"Depends. Have you been calling anyone else your girlfriend?"

"Definitely not. You're very exclusive in my internal monologue."

"Then it's not presumptuous."

"So you're my girlfriend? Officially?"

"Officially."

He'd grinned so wide she thought his face might split. "Excellent. Carlos owes me twenty euros. He said you'd make me work harder for it."

"You bet on whether I'd agree to be your girlfriend?"

"In my defense, it wasn’t much of a bet. I was very confident I'd win."

Now, two weeks into whatever this was–long-distance, chaotic, completely imperfect–Ariane found herself happier than she'd been in years.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lando: Also I'm bored. Training is boring. My trainer is making me do core work and I hate it.

Lando: Entertain me. Tell me what Chardy is doing.

Ariane glanced over at her cat, who was doing what she did best: sleeping in a sun patch, looking deeply unimpressed with existence even while unconscious.

Ariane: She's sleeping. Very aggressively.

Lando: How does one sleep aggressively?

Ariane: She’s very talented.

Lando: I miss her. Tell her I miss her.

Ariane: You saw her three days ago.

Lando: And? I'm allowed to miss my girlfriend's cat.

Ariane: She barely tolerated you.

Lando: She let me pet her for a full thirty seconds. That's huge.

Ariane: You have a very optimistic interpretation of cat behavior.

Lando: I'm an optimist in general. You know this about me.

She did. She knew a lot about him now, actually. She knew he was an optimist who struggled with anxiety. That he calls his mum every Sunday without fail. That he has a borderline obsessive skincare routine that he gets defensive about when anybody (usually Carlos) teases him about it. That he watches trashy reality TV when he can’t sleep and feels genuinely invested in the outcomes. That he’s thoughtful and funny and surprisingly vulnerable when he lets himself be. That he makes her laugh more than anyone else ever has. That he looks at her like she’s the most interesting person in the room, even when they were alone and there was no one to compete with. That she was falling for him, fast and hard and in a way that should have terrified her but didn't.

Her laptop pinged–a video call request. She accepted, and Lando's face filled the screen, hair mussed from training, wearing a hoodie that said "I LOVE HELMETS" in comic sans.

"Is that shirt a joke?" she asked immediately.

"No, I love helmets." He grinned, propping his phone up on something so she could see him properly. "Hi."

"Hi." She mirrored his setup, angling her laptop so he could see her properly too. "Aren't you supposed to be training?"

"Water break. I have precisely six minutes." He took a long drink from a bottle covered in sponsor logos. "Wanted to see your face."

"You saw my face last night."

"And? I like your face. Sue me." He set down the bottle, leaning closer to the camera. "How's your day?"

"Good. Boring. Lots of emails about the strategy for Q4. Very glamorous."

"Sounds it. Learn anything interesting about wine?"

It was a running joke between them–he always asked, she always had some absurd fact to share, and he always pretended to be deeply fascinated. Except she was starting to suspect he actually was fascinated, or at least good at pretending.

"Did you know that some winemakers play music to their grapes? They think it improves the quality."

"What kind of music?"

"Classical, usually. Mozart is popular."

"Do the grapes have opinions about this?"

"The grapes remain silent on the matter."

He laughed, that bright, unguarded laugh that still made her chest warm. "I love that you know these things. I love–" He stopped, something shifting in his expression.

"You love…?" she prompted.

"Nothing. Just. This. Talking to you. Even when it's just about wine facts." He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking a bit uncertain. "Is this weird? That I want to talk to you constantly? Carlos says I'm being clingy."

"Carlos has a lot of opinions."

"He really does."

"And no, it's not weird." Ariane pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "I like talking to you, too. Even when you send me forty-seven texts in an hour."

"You count?"

"I counted today."

"That's either very sweet or concerning."

"Little bit of both."

He grinned again, but before he could respond, someone shouted in the background–his trainer, probably, calling him back.

"That's my cue," he said reluctantly. "More core work. More suffering."

"You'll survive."

"Barely." He leaned closer to the camera. "I'm flying back to Monaco after the race on Sunday. You're still watching, right?"

"Of course I'm watching."

"Good. I'll wave at the camera for you."

"Please don't. That's embarrassing."

"I'm absolutely going to. You can't stop me." His grin was wicked. "Also, I've been thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very. But I've been thinking–after the race, I have four days off. Before the next triple header starts. And I was wondering if maybe you could come to Monaco? For a few days? Meet some people, let me cook you dinner–"

"You cook?"

"I use that term loosely. I can operate a stove without burning the building down. That counts." He looked almost nervous now, which was unusual for him. "You don't have to decide right now. Just think about it. I know it's a lot, meeting people and staying over and–"

"Lando."

"Yeah?"

"I'd love to come to Monaco."

His face lit up like she'd just told him he'd won the championship. "Yeah? Really?"

"Really. I'll need to check with work, make sure I can take the time, but...yeah. I want to."

"Okay. Good. Great. Amazing." He was practically bouncing now, his earlier uncertainty completely evaporated. "This is going to be so good. I'll show you all my favorite places, and we can go to that restaurant I told you about, and you can my friends properly, and–"

"LANDO!" The trainer's voice, more insistent now.

"COMING!" He looked back at the camera, still grinning. "I have to go. But we'll talk later?"

"We always talk later."

"True. Okay. I'll text you after training. And maybe call tonight if you're not too tired?"

"I'm never too tired for you."

"Good. Because I'm never too tired either." He blew her a kiss, which should have been cheesy but somehow wasn't. "Miss you already."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you like me anyway."

"Unfortunately."

He laughed, waved, and the call ended.

Ariane sat back, staring at her laptop screen, a smile playing at her lips. Chardy had woken up at some point and was now watching her with those judgmental green eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," Ariane told the cat. "I know what you're thinking."

Chardy blinked slowly, unimpressed.

"Yes, it's fast. Yes, it's complicated. Yes, long-distance is difficult." Ariane reached over to scratch behind Chardy's ears, which the cat tolerated with regal indifference. "But it's also...good. Really good. Better than I thought."

Her phone buzzed.

Lando: Already miss talking to you. This is a problem.

Ariane: You saw me 30 seconds ago.

Lando: Irrelevant. The heart wants what it wants.

Ariane: That's very dramatic.

Lando: I'm a dramatic person. You signed up for this.

Ariane: Did I though?

Lando: You absolutely did. No takesies backsies.

Ariane: Is that legally binding?

Lando: In the court of my heart, yes.

Ariane: You're ridiculous.

Lando: You like it.

Ariane: Unfortunately.

Lando: OKAY NOW I REALLY HAVE TO GO. Trainer is giving me the look. The I'm disappointed in you look. It's very effective.

Ariane: Go train. I'll talk to you later.

Lando: Promise?

Ariane: Promise.

Lando: Good. Because I have many more thoughts about grape music that I need to share with you.

Ariane: Can't wait.

Lando: <3333

She set her phone down, but couldn't seem to stop smiling. Through the window, Lyon stretched out in afternoon sunlight, beautiful and familiar. In a few weeks, she'd be in Monaco, seeing his world, meeting his people, taking another step into whatever this relationship was becoming. It should have felt scary–the speed of it, the uncertainty, the way her carefully controlled life had been completely upended by one night trapped in a wine cellar.

Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Her phone buzzed one more time.

Lando: Okay last thing I PROMISE. Just wanted to say I'm really glad the fire alarm broke that night.

Ariane: You're glad we got trapped?

Lando: I'm glad I got trapped with you. Best accident ever.

Ariane: Best accident ever. <3

She sent the heart before she could second-guess it, and his response was immediate.

Lando: You sent a heart! This is a milestone! Carlos will want to know about this!

Ariane: Carlos will not want to know about that.

Lando: Too late. Already told him.

Ariane: You're impossible.

Lando: And yet <3

Ariane: And yet.

Three Months Later

The Monaco apartment was smaller than Ariane expected, but somehow that made it more charming. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, the late afternoon sun painting everything in gold. Lando's sim racing setup dominated one corner ("I know it's excessive, but it's how I practice when I can't be at the track"), and his helmet collection lined a shelf along the wall ("Also excessive, but they're cool, admit it").

Ariane stood in front of the helmets, studying the designs while Lando finished a call with his manager in the other room. She'd been here for two days now–her fourth visit to Monaco, though the first where she was staying more than one night. 

"Sorry about that," Lando said, emerging from the bedroom. "He said my trainer’s concerned about my hydration levels. I tried to explain that I'm an adult and capable of drinking water, but they remain unconvinced."

"Hydration is important."

"You sound like him. This is concerning." But he was grinning, moving to stand behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. "What do you think? Too much?"

"The helmets? They're very you."

"That's not an answer."

"It's absolutely too much. But I like them."

He pressed a kiss to her temple. "You know what I've realized?"

"What?"

"You never did give me a proper tour of your apartment. I've been there like six times now, and we always just end up on your couch or ordering takeout or–"

"Getting distracted?"

"Very distracted." His arms tightened slightly. "But I don't actually know where you keep your wine glasses. Or if you have any books besides the work ones on your coffee table. Or what drawer your toothbrush is in."

Ariane felt warmth spread through her chest. They'd been doing this dance for a few months now–visits that were never quite long enough, conversations that stretched into the early hours, learning each other in fits and starts between his racing schedule and her work commitments. It had been wonderful and frustrating in equal measure. But lately, she'd been thinking about what came next. About whether this constant back-and-forth was sustainable. About whether she wanted it to be.

"You want to see my wine glass collection?" she asked, turning in his arms to face him.

"I want to see everything." His expression was soft, open. "I want to know where you keep your coffee mugs and where you throw your akeout menus and if you organize your closet by color or just shove everything in there–"

"I don't shove–"

"--and I want to memorize how you look in the morning before you're fully awake, and what you sound like when you're on work calls trying to sound professional, and which spot on your couch is your favorite." He paused, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I want all the boring, everyday stuff. Not just the visits and the countdowns and the constant missing you."

Ariane's heart was doing acrobatics. "Lando–"

"I know we haven't talked about it. About what happens long term, about how we make this work when we're both so busy and in different places. But, I've been thinking about it. A lot." He took a breath, looking nervous in a way she rarely saw from him. "I want more than stolen weekends. I want normal. I want boring. I want to be the person you tell about your annoying coworker and the one who helps you carry groceries and who knows how you take your coffee without asking."

"Two sugars, no milk," he continued before she could respond. "But you'll drink it black if that's all that's available, and you claim you don't have a caffeine addiction but you get a headache if you don't have any by lunchtime. See? I pay attention."

"I know you do."

"So I've been thinking–and you can say no…this is just an idea, just something I've been considering–" He was talking faster now, nervous energy making him ramble. "What if you moved here? To Monaco? Not like, immediately, but eventually. When it makes sense. If it makes sense. I know your job is in Lyon, but you work remotely or are traveling half the time anyway, and Monaco has wineries, and you could even start your own consulting thing if you wanted, and–"

Ariane kissed him to stop the spiral of words.

When she pulled back, he looked dazed. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a 'let me finish processing what you just said.'"

"Right. Sorry. I'm nervous. Can you tell? I'm very nervous."

"Little bit." She cupped his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "You want me to move to Monaco."

"Eventually. Maybe. If you want to. No pressure."

"Lando."

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking about it too."

His eyes widened. "You have?"

"Of course I have. You think I haven't noticed that this is hard? That we're both exhausted from the constant travel, that we're missing things in each other's lives, that we're trying to build something while never in the same place?" She smiled softly. "I've been thinking about what it would take. What I'd need to make it work."

"And?"

"And I think I could do it. Not immediately–I'd need to give proper notice at work, figure out the logistics, maybe build up some freelance clients first if we can’t make it work with Rousseau. But..." She took a breath, feeling brave and terrified and absolutely certain. "But I want to. I want the boring stuff too. The everyday. The normal. With you."

His smile was incandescent. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But Lando, you need to know–Chardy's coming with me. That's non-negotiable, we’re a package deal."

"Obviously. I wouldn't dream of separating you two."

"And I'm going to need my own space sometimes. I love you, but I'm still going to need alone time."

She realized what she'd said a second after the words left her mouth. They'd been dancing around those words for weeks now, both feeling them but neither quite ready to say them first.

Until now, apparently.

Lando's expression shifted–surprise melting into something soft and overwhelming. "You love me?"

"I–um, yes. I do." No point in taking it back now. "I love you. Even though you send too many texts and you're obsessed with your sim rig and you have forty-three helmets–"

"Forty-five, actually. Two new ones came last week–”

"--and you make me watch your races at ungodly hours and you steal all the blankets and you talk during movies–"

"In my defense, movies are better enjoyed with commentary–"

"--I love you anyway." She was smiling now, couldn't help it. "I love you, even though you're ridiculous and dramatic and impossibly clingy–"

He kissed her this time, deep and thorough and full of everything he couldn't quite put into words. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"I love you too," he said, voice rough. "So much. I've wanted to say it for weeks but I was worried it was too fast, and Carlos said I should wait, and Charles said I should just go for it, and I was overthinking everything–"

"You? Overthink? Shocking."

"I know, very out of character." He rested his forehead against hers. "But I do. Love you. Completely. Even though you're judgy about my helmet designs and you refuse to admit that you have a caffeine addiction and you always steal my hoodies–"

"I don't steal them. I borrow them."

"You 'borrowed' three last month and I haven't gotten them back."

"They're comfortable. That's your fault for having comfortable hoodies."

He laughed, pulling her closer. "Keep them. Keep all of them. Move here and steal all my hoodies and bring your judgmental cat and take over half my closet. I don't care. I just want you here."

"Eventually," she amended. "Give me a few months to sort things out."

"I can do a few months. I've done three months of long distance. I can do a few more." He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. "And then you'll be here. And we can be boring together."

"The most boring."

"Grocery shopping on Tuesdays."

"Fighting over whose turn it is to do dishes."

"Getting judged by your cat."

"Getting annoyed when you leave your sim rig running all night."

"Perfect." He was grinning now, bright and unrestrained. "It will be absolutely perfect."

Ariane looked at him–at this man who'd stumbled into her life through the completely random chance of a faulty fire alarm, who'd made her laugh in a wine cellar when she should have been panicking, who'd somehow convinced her that maybe love didn't have to be slow and careful and protected.

That maybe sometimes you just knew.

And she had known, hadn't she? Some part of her had known that first night, in the darkness, when he'd held her hand and made her laugh and seen her in a way no one else had.

"Hey," Lando said softly, pulling her from her thoughts. "Where'd you go?"

"Just thinking about that night. The cellar."

"The best worst night ever?"

"The best worst night ever," she agreed. "Can you imagine if that alarm hadn't gone off? If the lock hadn't broken?"

"We probably would have had a nice wine tasting, said polite goodbyes, and never seen each other again."

"Terrible alternate timeline."

"The worst." He kissed her again, sweet and slow. "Good thing the universe had other plans."

"Good thing," she echoed.

His smile was soft, genuine, the kind that still made her heart skip. "I love you. Fortunately, luckily, completely. Even when you're stubborn and you argue with me about wine facts and you give me that look when I forget to put my dishes in the dishwasher."

"I don't give you a look."

"You absolutely give me a look. It's very effective. I'm training myself like a dog to remember the dishwasher purely to avoid the look."

"Good."

"See? This is going to work perfectly. You'll train me to be a functional adult, and I'll...what do I bring to this relationship again?"

"Entertainment. Hoodies. A concerning number of helmets." She pretended to consider. "Occasional orgasms in wine cellars."

"That happened ONE TIME."

"An incredible time though."

"I mean, yeah, definitely." He was grinning again, pulling her toward the couch. "But I'm planning to up my game significantly. I have ideas. Many ideas."

"Scandalous."

"I'm very scandalous." He pulled her down onto the couch with him, arranging them so she was tucked against his side, his arm around her shoulders. The harbor sparkled outside the windows, Monte Carlo stretching out in the late afternoon light. "Comfortable?"

"Very."

"Good. Because we're going to sit here for a while and be boring. Maybe order takeout later. Maybe watch a movie. Maybe do absolutely nothing interesting at all."

"Sounds perfect."

And it was, Ariane thought. It was perfect. Not the dramatic, swept-off-her-feet kind of perfect. Not the carefully planned, risk-free kind of perfect. Just the everyday, comfortable, real kind of perfect. The kind that came from finding someone who made boring feel like an adventure. Who made takeout on the couch feel like a romantic date. Who made her see that sometimes the best things happened when plans went completely sideways.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

"Sophie's going to keep texting until you respond," Lando pointed out.

"I'll respond later. I'm being boring with my boyfriend right now."

"Prioritizing boring time. I like it."

"I learned from the best."

"That's true. I am an excellent boring time prioritizer." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You know what we should do?"

"What?"

"Open a bottle of wine. The good stuff. Celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"You. Me. This." He gestured vaguely at everything. "That seems worth celebrating."

"Okay," she agreed, letting him pull her up off the couch. "But I'm choosing something actually good. No mediocre wine in this apartment."

"Deal. But I get to choose the movie later."

"Also deal."

As they moved to his small wine collection–modest compared to the cellar where they'd met, but carefully curated–Ariane caught their reflection in the window. Lando was already pulling bottles out, asking her opinion, gesturing animatedly. She was laughing at something he said, relaxed and happy in a way she'd never quite managed before.

They looked good together. Happy.

"This one," she said, pointing to a bottle. "2015 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It's perfect."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's from the year you started in Formula 1."

Lando paused, bottle in hand, looking at her with such open affection it made her chest ache. "You know that?"

"I pay attention too."

"I know you do." He set the bottle down carefully, pulled her in for a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise. "God, I love you."

"I love you too."

"Even when I'm impossible?"

"Especially when you're impossible."

"Good." He picked up the bottle again, examining the label. "So. Captured sunshine from the year I started racing, about to be drunk with the woman I love in my Monaco apartment. Not bad for a Wednesday."

"Not bad at all."

"Think your grand-père would approve?"

Ariane thought about it—the man who'd taught her that wine was more than just fermented grapes, that each bottle told a story, that the best moments were the ones shared with people who mattered.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think he would. I think he'd say this is exactly what wine is for. Celebrating the good stuff. The unexpected stuff. The moments that change everything."

"To unexpected moments then." Lando raised the bottle slightly, as if toasting.

"To unexpected moments," Ariane agreed. "And faulty fire alarms."

"And wine cellars."

"And badly timed rescues."

"And forty-seven texts in an hour."

"And stolen hoodies."

"And judgmental cats."

"And whatever comes next."

Lando's smile was brilliant, unguarded, completely real. "Whatever comes next," he repeated. "I can't wait."

Neither could she.

"Name one."

"Charles Leclerc doesn't show up. Fire alarm goes off mid-tasting. Someone gets food poisoning from the canapés. The sommelier gets into a philosophical argument about terroir and makes everyone uncomfortable. A swarm of bees–"

"Okay, I'm stopping you at bees." Sophie laughed, adjusting one of the floral arrangements that definitely didn't need adjusting. "You know what your problem is?"

"My crippling anxiety and tendency toward catastrophic thinking?"

"Well, yes, but also you're too good at your job. This is going to be flawless because you've planned for everything. Except–apparently–bees."

Ariane allowed herself a small smile. The tasting room did look beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the vineyard, rows of vines stretching toward the mountains in neat, precise lines. The tables were set with crisp white linens, fresh flowers and enough wine glasses to keep the dishwasher busy for a week. Soft music played from hidden speakers–carefully curated, of course. Nothing too modern, nothing too classical. Just the right amount of sophistication without being pretentious.

She'd worked on the Charles Leclerc partnership for six months. As a brand strategist for Rousseau Wines, it was her job to make sure the collaboration felt authentic and mutually beneficial. That tonight's event–an intimate gathering of Charles's family and friends for an exclusive tasting–went off without a single hitch.

No pressure or anything.

"They're arriving," Sophie hissed, nodding toward the gravel driveway visible through the windows.

Ariane's heart kicked up a notch. She smoothed down her dress–a sleeveless navy midi that was professional but elegant, paired with understated gold jewelry–and took a deep breath. You've got this. You've presented to rooms full of executives. You've handled investor meetings. You can handle a few Formula 1 drivers and their friends.

The first car pulled up, a sleek black SUV that Charles Leclerc emerged from first, all easy confidence and a blinding smile, turning to help his girlfriend Alexandra out of the passenger side. They looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine–him in perfectly fitted dark slacks and a crisp white button-down, her in a flowing red, floral dress that would surely be trending as soon as pictures of tonight were posted.

Ariane pasted on her professional smile and moved toward the entrance where Monsieur Rousseau, the winery's owner and a man who'd perfected the art of distinguished elder statesman, was already greeting them with enthusiastic handshakes and cheek kisses.

"Charles! Welcome, welcome! And Alexandra, you look lovely as always."

"Monsieur Rousseau, thank you so much for hosting us." Charles's French was flawless, his smile genuine. He had that rare quality of making everyone around him feel like the most important person in the room. Ariane had seen it at the handful of Formula 1 events she'd attended for their sponsorship of Formula 1–the way he navigated the crowd, always gracious and kind.

Another car arrived. Carlos Sainz unfolded himself from the passenger’s seat, all dark hair and easy charm, immediately calling out something in rapid Spanish that made Charles laugh.

"Carlos, you're late," Charles teased in English.

"I'm fashionably delayed," Carlos corrected, embracing his friend with a slap on the back. "Blame the Navigation. Or French roads. Or both."

More guests trickled in–a mix of Charles's friends, a few paddock insiders Ariane vaguely recognized, some local dignitaries who'd been invited for unknown political reasons. Sophie appeared with trays of champagne, and suddenly the quiet tasting room filled with conversation and laughter.

Ariane hung back, observing, mentally checking off names against her list. She was good at this part–the behind-the-scenes. Making sure everything ran smoothly while staying largely invisible. It was where she felt most comfortable.

"You must be Ariane."

She turned to find Charles directly in front of her, hand extended, that famous smile directed entirely at her. Up close, he was somehow even more good-looking, which seemed unfair.

"Yes! Mr. Leclerc, welcome. We're so pleased–"

"Charles, please." His handshake was firm but not aggressive. "I've heard wonderful things about your work on this partnership. We were so pleased with how the branding came out."

"Oh! Thank you. That's–thank you." Smooth, Ariane. Very articulate. She felt heat creep up her neck.

But Charles didn't seem to notice her awkwardness, already turning to introduce Alexandra, who was warm and kind and made Ariane feel slightly less like she was going to throw up from nerves.

"Everything looks beautiful," Alexandra said, glancing around the room with genuine appreciation. "You can tell so much thought went into this."

"That's very kind. I just hope–"

"Ariane!" Monsieur Rousseau's voice boomed across the room. "Come, let me introduce you to everyone before we begin."

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of handshakes and names she'd probably forget within the hour. Carlos kissed both her cheeks in greeting and told her she had excellent taste in wine, which was ironic considering he hadn't tried any yet. A woman named Marie who worked in motorsport PR cornered her to talk about brand synergy. A local politician gave her his card and a lengthy explanation of his vineyard side-hustle that she definitely didn't ask for.

Through it all, Ariane maintained her professional demeanor, smiling and nodding and saying the right things. This was her job. She was good at it. Even if her face hurt from smiling and she desperately wanted to hide in the bathroom.

"Okay, I think that's everyone," Sophie whispered, appearing at her side like a fairy godmother. "Your turn. You've got this."

Ariane nodded, pulling up her notes on her iPad. She'd practiced her presentation a dozen times. She knew it backwards and forwards. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Except–

"Wait." She grabbed Sophie's arm. "That's not everyone. Lando Norris is supposed to be here."

Sophie consulted her own tablet. "He's on the list. Maybe he's not coming?"

"Charles’ Team said all his guests were confirmed." Ariane felt a tiny flutter of panic. She'd arranged the seating with him in mind. She'd even put him next to Carlos since they were supposedly best friends or something. If he didn't show, the whole table arrangement would be off balance.

"Well, we can't wait," Sophie said pragmatically. "Monsieur Rousseau is ready to start."

Right. Of course. They couldn't delay the entire event for one person, even if that person was arguably one of the most popular drivers on the grid. Ariane took a deep breath and stepped forward as Monsieur Rousseau clinked his glass for attention.

"My friends, if I could have your attention please..."

The room settled into an expectant hush. Ariane's heart hammered against her ribs. She hated this part–being the center of attention, all eyes on her. Give her a spreadsheet or a strategy document any day. But public speaking? Her personal nightmare.

She stepped up beside Monsieur Rousseau, iPad clutched like a shield.

"Good evening, everyone. For those we haven't met, I'm Ariane Delafose, brand strategist for Domaine Rousseau. We are absolutely delighted to welcome you this evening for an exclusive tasting as we celebrate our new partnership with Charles Leclerc and–"

The front door opened with a burst of energy and apologetic laughter.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry–"

Every head in the room turned. Ariane's words died in her throat.

Lando Norris stumbled through the entrance, slightly windswept, pulling off his sunglasses with one hand while trying to straighten his shirt with the other. He was shorter than she'd expected–or maybe everyone just looked short compared to the tall drivers–with curly dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly and a face that seemed to be set in a permanent expression of mischief.

"Traffic was mental," he announced to the room at large, then spotted Charles. "Mate, your directions were rubbish."

"My directions were perfect," Charles called back, grinning. "You just can't follow them."

"Agree to disagree." Lando's eyes swept the room, taking in the scene, and landed directly on Ariane. Still standing at the front. Still frozen mid-sentence. Still staring at him like an idiot.

His gaze held hers for a beat–bright, assessing, amused–and something in her chest did a strange little flip.

"Don't stop on my account," he said, that grin widening. "I'm great at catching up."

The room laughed. The tension broke. Ariane felt her face flush hot.

"Right. Yes. As I was saying..." She looked down at her iPad, but the words swam in front of her eyes. What was she saying? Something about the partnership. Something professional and articulate.

She forced herself not to look at where Lando was being greeted by Carlos, their voices a low rumble of friendly insults and laughter. Forced herself to focus on her notes, on the presentation she'd practiced a dozen times.

"We're thrilled to have Charles represent Domaine Rousseau as we expand into new markets," she continued, finding her rhythm again. "This partnership represents a fusion of excellence, tradition, and innovation–values that both Charles campaign and Rousseau embody. Tonight is an opportunity to experience our wines in an intimate setting, to understand the story behind each bottle and to celebrate this exciting collaboration."

She was doing it. She was getting through it. Her voice was steady, professional. No one would know her heart was racing or that she desperately wanted to be anywhere but the center of the room.

"And now I'll turn it over to Monsieur Rousseau and our sommelier, Jacques, who will guide us through this evening's selection."

Polite applause. She stepped back gratefully, letting Monsieur Rousseau take over with his booming voice and natural showmanship. Sophie gave her a subtle thumbs up from across the room.

Ariane released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and slipped toward the back of the room, content to fade into the background where she belonged. She'd done her part. Now she could just observe, make sure everything ran smoothly, and avoid any further public speaking.

She risked a glance toward where Lando had settled in next to Carlos. He was already making the people around him laugh, animated and bright, the kind of person who seemed to generate their own gravitational field. Even from across the room, his energy was palpable.

And then, as if he could feel her looking, his eyes flicked up and met hers again.

He smiled–not the big public smile he'd used when he entered, but something smaller, almost private. Then he gave her a little nod, like a secret acknowledgment.

Ariane quickly looked away, warmth flooding her cheeks.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. He's just being friendly. That's literally his job. Being charming and likeable. Don't be weird.

She pulled out her phone, pretending to check messages, trying to ignore the way her heart was still beating just a little too fast. It was going to be a long evening.

The sommelier, Jacques, was in his element. A man in his sixties with silver hair who knew wine better than anyone else in the country, he commanded the room effortlessly as he presented the first wine: a crisp Sauvignon Blanc from their newest vineyard acquisition.

"Notice the minerality," he instructed, swirling his glass with practiced ease. "The terroir here is quite unique–limestone soil, southern exposure. You should detect notes of grapefruit, perhaps a hint of elderflower..."

Ariane watched the guests taste, their faces arranged in expressions of concentration. This part always amused her slightly–the way people tried so hard to detect the "notes" that were supposedly there. She loved wine, had grown up around it, but sometimes she thought the descriptions got a bit carried away. Once, at a trade tasting, someone had insisted they detected "wet stones and leather-bound books" in a Chardonnay and she'd had to excuse herself to laugh.

"What do you think?" Sophie whispered, appearing beside her with her own glass.

"It's good. Clean. Maybe a touch too acidic for my preference but it will pair well with the seafood course."

"Look at you, all professional with your wine talk."

"I contain multitudes." Ariane took another sip, letting the wine sit on her tongue. "How's the energy? Everyone seems engaged?"

"Very. Though I think half the engagement is people trying to look sophisticated." Sophie nodded toward a guest who was swirling his wine with such vigor it nearly sloshed over the rim. "That guy's about to redecorate his shirt."

Ariane bit back a laugh.

Jacques moved on to the second wine–a Pinot Noir. Lighter-bodied. Elegant. The room had settled into a comfortable rhythm now, conversation flowing alongside the wine. Charles was holding court at the main table, telling a story that had everyone leaning in. Carlos interjected with commentary that made the group erupt in laughter.

And Lando...

Ariane's eyes found him without meaning to. He was listening to someone across the table–an older gentleman, one of the local dignitaries–nodding along with genuine interest. When he responded, the older man laughed, clearly delighted.

"He's good with people," Sophie observed, following Ariane's gaze.

"What? Who?"

"Oh please. You've been sneaking looks at him since he arrived."

"I have not–"

"You absolutely have. It's fine. He's cute. Those eyes? Very unfair."

Ariane felt heat creep up her neck. "I'm working. I'm observing the event professionally."

"Mmhmm. Very professionally observing his–"

"Sophie."

Her friend grinned wickedly but mercifully dropped it, moving away to check on the catering staff.

Ariane took a longer sip of her wine than was necessary. She was not looking at Lando Norris. She was not noticing the way his laugh made her heart beat faster, or how he'd rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, or how the top two buttons of his shirt had at some point come undone.

She was absolutely not noticing any of those things.

Jacques presented the third wine–a fuller-bodied red, their flagship Cabernet blend. "This is aged eighteen months in French oak," he explained. "You should detect notes of blackcurrant, perhaps some vanilla from the oak, a whisper of tobacco..."

Ariane accepted a glass from one of the servers, swirling it absently as she continued her observation rounds. The color was beautiful, deep garnet in the light. She took a sip.

"Thoughts?"

She nearly choked on the wine.

Lando Norris had materialized beside her, his own glass in hand, looking at her with open curiosity.

"Sorry," he said quickly, grinning at her expression. "Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Lando. We didn't get properly introduced with my dramatic late entrance and all."

"Ariane." She managed to get the word out without sounding like a complete idiot. "And no, it's fine. I was just...analyzing."

"Analyzing." He said it like it was a funny word. "What's the verdict?"

"On the wine?"

"On the wine." His eyes had flecks of green in them, she noticed. Or maybe blue. It was hard to tell in this light.

Stop staring at his eyes, you absolute muppet.

"It's excellent," she said, aiming for a professional tone. "Well-balanced tannins, good structure. The oak is subtle rather than overpowering, which can be a challenge with Cabernet blends."

Lando blinked at her. "Okay, that was impressive. You really know your stuff."

"It's my job."

"Right, but there's knowing your job and then there's actually being able to taste all those things. I'm just here like 'yep, tastes like...wine.'" He took another sip, swirling it thoughtfully. "Though I'm supposed to be detecting notes of blackcurrant. Which, honestly, I'm not entirely sure what a blackcurrant tastes like on its own. Is it just a fancy word for black grapes?"

Ariane surprised herself by laughing. "It's actually a different fruit. Similar to grapes but more tart, grows in cooler climates."

"See, this is why I needed to talk to you. Very educational." He grinned at her over the rim of his glass. "Your presentation earlier was good, by the way. Very polished. Though I feel bad I interrupted it."

"You didn't interrupt, you just...made a memorable entrance."

"Story of my life. I'm incapable of being on time. Ask literally anyone." He gestured vaguely toward where Carlos and Charles were deep in conversation. "Carlos is probably taking bets on how late I'll be to my own wedding."

"Hopefully not during your vows."

"Oh definitely during my vows. Maximum dramatic impact, of course." His smile was infectious, easy. "So how'd you end up working here? Grow up dreaming of wine?"

"Actually, kind of? I grew up in Provence. Wine country. It felt like a natural fit." She took another sip, buying herself a second to think. Talking to strangers wasn't her strong suit, but something about his genuine interest made it easier. "Plus I studied brand strategy, and wine is having this whole renaissance with younger consumers, so it's actually a fascinating market from a positioning perspective."

"I didn't understand most of those words but I respect the enthusiasm."

Ariane felt her lips twitch. "What about you? Grow up dreaming of going fast and turning left?"

"Turning left is NASCAR. We turn both directions." But he was laughing. "And yeah, pretty much. Started karting when I was tiny, never looked back. Though my parents thought I'd grow out of it."

"Did you?"

"Clearly not." He grinned.

Jacques was calling everyone's attention back for the next wine–a dessert wine, late harvest. The group was getting noticeably more relaxed now, voices louder, laughter coming easier. The wine was working its magic.

"Duty calls," Lando said, but he didn't immediately move away. "Will you be around? For the rest of the tasting?"

"I'll be somewhere. Making sure nothing catches fire."

"Literally or metaphorically?"

"Both."

He grinned again–that same easy, bright expression–and then slipped back toward his seat.

Ariane released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Sophie reappeared instantly, like a ninja. "Okay, what was that?"

"What was what?"

"That." Sophie gestured vaguely. "That conversation where you were actually smiling. Laughing, even."

"We were just talking about wine."

"You were flirting."

"I was not–" But Ariane felt heat creep up her neck again. Was she? She didn't flirt. She barely knew how to flirt. Flirting required a level of social confidence she absolutely did not possess.

"He was definitely flirting with you," Sophie continued, undeterred. "The way he was looking at you? That was not a 'casual chat about wine' look."

"You're delusional."

"I'm observant. There's a difference."

Before Ariane could protest further, Sophie was pulled away by a question from the catering team, leaving Ariane alone with her wine and her spiraling thoughts.

He wasn't flirting. He was just...friendly. That was his whole thing. Lando Norris: friendly, approachable, the grid's puppy. She'd seen the videos, the social media content. He was like that with everyone.

This was just him being him.

And she was reading way too much into it because she was stressed and the wine was already going to her head on an empty stomach–note to self, eat something–and she needed to focus on her actual job, not on whether a Formula 1 driver's smile meant anything beyond basic politeness.

She drained her glass and set it aside, pulling out her phone to check the time. They'd do one more wine, then move to dinner. Everything was on schedule. Perfect.

Across the room, she caught Lando's eye again. He raised his glass slightly, a small salute.

She looked away quickly, her heart doing that stupid flip thing again.

It was definitely going to be a long evening.

By the time Jacques presented the fifth wine–a reserve Syrah that he described with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts–Ariane had finally managed to eat something. A server had taken pity on her hovering and pressed a plate of canapés into her hands: smoked salmon on blini, some kind of goat cheese situation with figs, tiny pastries that were probably more butter than carb.

She'd retreated to her corner near the windows, juggling the plate and her wine glass, trying to look professional while essentially stress-eating her feelings.

The event was going well. Better than well, actually. The guests were engaged, the wine was flowing, Jacques was in top form, and Charles had that easy charisma that made everyone feel like they were at an exclusive party rather than a business event. Even Monsieur Rousseau had relaxed, his booming laugh punctuating the conversation every few minutes.

So why did Ariane still feel like she was waiting for something to go wrong?

"You look like you're about to tackle a server," Sophie observed, materializing beside her yet again. Seriously, the woman had a supernatural ability to appear exactly when Ariane's anxiety was peaking.

"I'm not–I'm just…monitoring."

"You're vibrating. Eat another canapé. The fig ones are incredible."

Ariane obediently reached for a fig and goat cheese bite, if only to have something to do with her hands. The sweet-savory combination did help, honestly. Or maybe it was just having food in her stomach to absorb some of the wine she'd been dutifully tasting all evening.

"Everything's going perfectly," Sophie continued. "You can breathe."

"I'll breathe when everyone's gone home safely and the event is officially over."

"So in like three hours?"

"Exactly."

Sophie shook her head, fond but exasperated. "I'm going to check on the dinner setup. Try not to have a panic attack while I'm gone."

"No promises."

Left alone again, Ariane turned her attention back to the group. Jacques was explaining the aging process for the Syrah–something about oak barrels and temperature control–but honestly, at this point, most of the guests were more interested in drinking than listening to the technical details.

She couldn't blame them. The wine was very good. And very strong.

"Notes of dark cherry," Jacques was saying, "black pepper, perhaps a hint of–"

"Okay, but does anyone actually taste all these things?" Lando's voice cut through again, playful but with genuine curiosity.

The room erupted in laughter. Even Jacques looked amused rather than offended.

"I assure you, the flavor profiles are quite distinct," Jacques replied with good humor. "Though I will concede that not everyone's palate is equally trained."

"Thank god. I was starting to feel like my tongue was broken." Lando took another sip, swirling it the way Jacques had demonstrated earlier. "Though actually, I do taste something...kind of spicy? Is that the pepper thing?"

"Exactly! Yes, that's the characteristic note of Syrah. Well done."

Lando looked genuinely pleased with himself, like a student who'd gotten the right answer. Something about his unguarded enthusiasm was endearing in a way Ariane hadn't expected.

Stop it. Stop finding him endearing. This is a professional event. You are working.

"The spice comes from compounds in the grape skin," Jacques continued, clearly warming to having an engaged student. "When you age Syrah properly, those notes become more pronounced, more integrated with the fruit."

"So it's not actually pepper in the wine."

"No, just–"

"It just tastes like pepper."

"Precisely."

"Wild. Wine is weird." But Lando was grinning, and the whole room seemed to relax another notch.

Carlos leaned over and said something in Spanish that made Lando laugh and shove his shoulder. Charles was shaking his head, smiling into his wine glass. Alexandra caught Ariane's eye across the room and rolled her eyes in a good-natured "boys will be boys" expression that made Ariane smile despite herself.

"Alright," Jacques announced, setting down his glass with ceremony. "I have something special for you all. A private selection from our oldest cellar–bottles that are not available to the public, some not even for sale at any price."

This got everyone's attention. Even the guests who'd been half-listening perked up.

"If you'll follow me, I'll take a small group down to see the collection. Perhaps six or seven of you? The cellar is quite intimate."

Hands shot up immediately. Of course everyone wanted to see the exclusive bottles.

Jacques surveyed the room, clearly enjoying his role as gatekeeper to the secret wine vault. "Charles, naturally. Alexandra, if you'd like? Carlos–"

"Obviously," Carlos interjected.

"The Chambre’s," Jacques nodded to an older couple who were significant investors. "And...ah, Lando, you seem quite engaged this evening. Would you like to see where the magic happens?"

"Is that a euphemism?" Lando asked innocently, then grinned. "Yeah, absolutely. I'm very interested in...wine cellars."

More laughter. The man could apparently make anything sound like a joke.

Jacques looked around for one more person, and his eyes landed on Ariane, still tucked in her corner. "Ariane, you should come as well. You know the collection as well as I do."

Oh no.

"I should probably stay up here," Ariane started, gesturing vaguely at the room. "In case–"

"Sophie can handle it," Jacques said firmly. "Come. You've worked hard on this event. You should enjoy some of it."

There was no polite way to refuse without looking weird. Ariane set down her plate and moved toward the group, trying to ignore the way her heart rate kicked up at the prospect of being in a small space with all these people.

Well, not all these people. One person in particular.

Stop it.

"Exciting, right?" Sophie whispered as Ariane passed her. "Private cellar tour with the cute driver?"

"I hate you," Ariane whispered back.

"No you don't."

The group assembled near the doorway that led to the lower levels–a heavy wooden door that looked like it had been there since the estate was built in the 1700s. Jacques produced an old-fashioned key, because of course the ancient wine cellar had an ancient key even though the doors had been updated with electronic mechanisms and key fobs.

"Watch your step," he cautioned as he opened the door. "The stairs are original to the building. Very atmospheric, but not exactly up to modern safety codes."

The stone staircase descended into darkness, lit only by small wall sconces that gave off a warm, amber glow. The temperature dropped immediately, the cool air rising to meet them. It smelled like stone and age and wine–earthy and slightly sweet and completely intoxicating.

"This is gorgeous," Alexandra breathed, starting down the stairs carefully in her heeled sandals.

The group followed in a loose line. Ariane ended up toward the back, which was fine by her. Better to observe than be observed.

Except somehow–through what was probably just the randomness of people moving in a group–Lando ended up right beside her as they descended.

"You okay?" he asked quietly. "You look nervous."

"I'm fine. Just making sure no one trips and breaks their neck. Lawsuits are bad for brand partnerships."

He laughed, soft and genuine. "Very practical. I like it."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Ariane's breath caught despite herself. She'd been down here before, of course, several times during the planning process. But there was something about experiencing it with a group, in the evening light, with wine already warming her blood–it hit differently.

The cellar was a series of connected stone chambers, each one housing rows upon rows of bottles in custom racks. The ceilings were low, arched, creating an intimate, almost secret atmosphere. More of those amber wall sconces provided just enough light to see, casting everything in a romantic, antiqued glow.

"Wow," Lando said beside her, and she realized he'd moved closer, probably so they wouldn't get separated in the group. "This is like...a wine museum."

"Some of these bottles are over a hundred years old," Jacques was explaining up ahead, his voice echoing slightly off the stone. "This section here is our collection of pre-war vintages. This bottle–" he indicated one with particular reverence, "–is an 1893 Bordeaux. One of perhaps twelve remaining in the world."

"How much is that worth?" Carlos asked.

"We've never sold one, so it's difficult to say. But at auction? Perhaps fifty thousand euros. Perhaps more."

Low whistles from the group. Even Charles, who probably had wine collections worth more than Ariane's apartment, looked impressed.

They moved deeper into the cellar, Jacques pointing out various treasures, telling stories about harvests and vintages and the families who'd originated the wines. The group spread out slightly, people examining different sections, Alexandra taking photos with her phone.

Ariane drifted toward a rack she particularly loved–bottles from the 1960s, labels faded but still legible, each one representing a specific moment in time. There was something magical about that, she thought. The idea that someone had made this wine sixty years ago, had carefully bottled and stored it, never knowing who might eventually drink it or under what circumstances.

"Heavy thoughts?" Lando appeared beside her again, studying the bottles she was looking at.

"Just thinking about time. How weird it is that these bottles have been sitting here, waiting, while the whole world changed around them."

"That's kind of beautiful." He leaned closer to read a label. "1967. That's like...before my parents were born."

"Before mine too."

"Wild." He straightened, turned to look at her directly. "You really love this stuff, don't you? Not just the job part. The actual wine."

Ariane felt exposed under his attention, but in a way that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. "I grew up around it. My grand-père had a small vineyard in Provence. Nothing like this–" she gestured around, "–just a few acres. But he'd take me around, teach me about the grapes, the seasons. He said wine was like sunshine. Each bottle was a whole summer, preserved."

"That's poetic."

"He was a romantic." She smiled at the memory. "He'd probably have a heart attack if he saw me working for a massive commercial operation like this, but I think he'd get it. The bigger the operation, the more people get to experience the sunshine."

Lando was quiet for a moment, just looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Then: "I take it back. You're not just good at your job. You actually care. That's...different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Different good. Definitely good." His smile was softer now, less performative. "Most people I meet in corporate stuff, they're just going through the motions. But you actually give a shit."

"Is that your professional assessment?"

"It is. I'm very perceptive." He turned back to the bottles, but she could see him still smiling. "For the record, I think your grand-père would be proud. The captured sunshine thing–you're helping more people feel that. That counts."

Ariane felt something warm unfold in her chest, and it had nothing to do with the wine. "That's...thank you. That's very nice of you to say."

"I have my moments."

"Between the jokes?"

"Between the jokes," he confirmed, grinning again.

"If I could have everyone's attention!" Jacques called from deeper in the cellar. "I want to show you our most prized possession. This way, please!"

The group shuffled forward, moving through an archway into another chamber. This one was smaller, colder, with a locked iron gate protecting what was clearly the most valuable section.

Jacques produced another key–he had an entire ring of them, like a medieval jailer–and opened the gate with a satisfying clank. "In here, we keep our rarest vintages. Bottles that are, frankly, priceless."

Everyone crowded around, trying to get a view. Ariane hung back, content to let the others ooh and ahh over bottles she'd already cataloged and photographed for insurance purposes.

Lando, she noticed, also hung back. He caught her eye and shrugged, a small gesture that said he was happy to let others be more enthusiastic.

Jacques was pulling out a specific bottle, cradling it like a baby. "This is a 1947 Château d'Yquem. The vintage of the century, many say. There are perhaps thirty bottles left in existence."

"Are we going to taste it?" one of the investors asked hopefully.

"God, no." Jacques looked scandalized. "This bottle alone is worth more than my car. But I'll open something special for you–a 1985 that will surely surprise your palette delightfully."

He moved to a small table in the corner–Ariane hadn't even noticed it in the dim light–where wine glasses and a decanter were already set up. The group converged around the table like moths to a flame. Jacques began the careful process of opening the old bottle, and Ariane found herself genuinely interested despite having seen this routine before. There was something ceremonial about it, the way he handled the aged cork, the way he decanted the wine with precision.

"We'll let it breathe for a moment," Jacques announced. "The wine has been asleep for nearly forty years. We must wake it gently."

"If I'd been asleep for forty years, I'd want someone to slap me awake," Lando murmured beside Ariane, making her bite back a laugh.

"That's because you have no respect for tradition," she whispered back.

"True. But I respect a good nap."

She shouldn't be enjoying this–this easy back-and-forth, the way he kept finding reasons to stand near her, the way his humor felt like it was aimed specifically at making her smile. She should be professional, detached, focused on the event. But, the wine was in her system now, a pleasant warmth that softened her usual anxiety. And the cellar was beautiful. And Lando kept looking at her with those stupidly expressive eyes, like she was saying interesting things instead of just stating facts about wine.

It was dangerous. All of it.

Jacques began pouring small tastes for everyone, passing glasses around with the solemnity of a priest distributing communion. When Ariane received hers, she lifted it to the light, admiring the color–still remarkably vibrant for a wine pushing forty years old.

"What should I be tasting?" Lando asked her quietly, holding his own glass up with exaggerated care.

"Whatever you want. That's the secret. There's no wrong answer."

"But Jacques said–"

"Jacques says a lot of things. Just taste it and tell me what you think."

He took a sip, clearly trying to be thoughtful about it. His face went through several expressions–concentration, surprise, consideration.

"Well?" Ariane prompted.

"It's...lighter than I expected? Like, not as heavy as the other reds. And kind of...smooth? Is smooth a wine word?"

"Smooth works."

"Okay good. And there's something..." He took another sip. "Something kind of sweet but not like sugar sweet. Like...fruity, but duller?"

"That's the age. As wine gets older, the fruit flavors often evolve into dried fruit, leather, tobacco–"

"There's the tobacco thing again. I'm telling you, these wine descriptions are wild."

But he was smiling, and so was she, and somewhere in the background Jacques was explaining the vintage to the more serious wine enthusiasts while Ariane and Lando had their own private tasting.

"It's really good though," Lando said, more seriously. "Like, I can tell this is special even if I don't have the words for why."

"That's all that matters, honestly. The experience of it."

"Captured sunshine," he said, echoing her earlier words.

"Exactly."

Their eyes caught and held for a beat too long. Ariane looked away first, taking another sip of wine to give herself something to do.

This was fine. This was just friendly conversation at a work event. It didn't mean anything. He was probably like this with everyone–charming, engaged. That was his whole thing.

Except the way he was looking at her didn't feel practiced. It felt curious. Intentional.

Stop overthinking. Just enjoy the evening.

"If I could steal Mr. Leclerc for a moment," Jacques was saying, gesturing Charles toward a specific section. "I wanted to show you the bottles we're considering for the anniversary release..."

Charles excused himself from his conversation with Alexandra and the investors, moving to join Jacques deeper in the cellar. Carlos drifted over to examine a different section, phone out, probably taking photos to send his girlfriend. The group had naturally spread out again, people following their own interests, conversations breaking into smaller clusters. Alexandra was asking one of the staff about shipping logistics for rare wines. The investors were debating vintages with an intensity that suggested they cared more about the value than the history. Ariane realized with a start that she and Lando had drifted toward the back of this chamber, away from the main group. Not intentionally–or at least, not consciously. But here they were, in the dimmest corner of an already-dim cellar, still holding their glasses of forty-year-old wine, still talking in low voices like they were sharing secrets.

"So," Lando said, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall, completely at ease. "Scale of one to ten, how much do you hate these events?"

"I don't hate them."

"That's not an answer."

Ariane considered. The wine was making her honest. "Six? Seven? I'm good at them, but they stress me out. Too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong."

"But nothing's gone wrong."

"Yet."

"You're very glass-half-empty for someone who works with wine." He grinned at his own joke.

"That's terrible."

"But you're smiling."

She was. Dammit.

"What about you?" she asked, deflecting. "These events must be exhausting. Everyone wanting your attention. Asking  you questions you’ve answered a million times."

Something flickered across his face–surprise, maybe, that she'd noticed. "Sometimes. But this one's actually not bad. Smaller group. Good wine. Present company is particularly good."

There it was again. That directness that felt like flirting but could just be friendliness. Ariane's pulse kicked up a notch.

"You're very smooth," she said, aiming for light, teasing.

"I try." But then his expression shifted, became more genuine. "I mean it though. You're easy to talk to."

"I barely talk."

"Exactly. You listen. Most people are just waiting for their turn to speak." He swirled his wine, watching the light play through the liquid. "Plus you're funny. In this quiet, sneaky way. I like it."

Ariane's face felt hot. Thank god for the dim lighting. "You don't know me well enough to say that."

"Maybe not. But I'd like to."

There was no ambiguity in that. No way to interpret it as anything other than what it was.

Ariane's heart was doing gymnastics in her chest. She should say something professional, something that gently redirected without being rude. She should–

The lights went out.

Complete, total darkness. The kind of darkness that only exists underground, in stone chambers with no windows, where even the concept of light seems foreign.

Someone screamed. Several someones, actually.

And then, piercing through the shocked silence:

The fire alarm.

The alarm was deafening in the enclosed space–a mechanical shriek that seemed to ricochet off the stone walls and bore directly into Ariane's skull. Emergency lights flickered on, weak and red, casting everything in an eerie, horror-movie glow.

"Everyone stay calm!" Jacques's voice, trying for authoritative but landing somewhere near panicked. "It's just the alarm system, there's no–"

But his words were drowned out by the chaos. People were shouting questions, moving toward the stairs, the red emergency lighting making it hard to see clearly. Alexandra had her phone flashlight on. Someone bumped into a wine rack and bottles clinked ominously.

"Ariane?" Lando's voice, close to her ear, his hand suddenly on her elbow. "You okay?"

"Yes, I–we need to get everyone upstairs." Professional mode engaged, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. "Follow the group, I'll–"

"This way!" Jacques was calling, already moving toward the archway that led back to the main cellar chamber, toward the stairs. "Quickly now, but carefully! Watch your step!"

The group surged forward–well, surged as much as a group can when navigating a dark, ancient wine cellar in emergency lighting. Charles had Alexandra's hand, leading her carefully. Carlos was right behind them. The investors were moving with surprising speed for people their age.

Ariane started to follow, but then stopped. "Wait, did everyone–"

"I've got this section," one of the staff members called, emerging from a side chamber. "All clear here!"

"Good, let's–" Ariane turned toward the stairs just as the group ahead of her–Jacques, Charles, Alexandra, Carlos, and several others–reached the heavy wooden door at the top.

Jacques pushed it open and everyone flooded through, the sound of the alarm somehow even louder from the stairwell. The emergency lighting made the stairs treacherous, everyone gripping the railing, moving as fast as the space allowed.

Ariane's heel caught on a worn stone step and she stumbled. Lando's hand was there immediately, steadying her.

"Careful," he said, his voice cutting through the noise.

"Thank you, I'm–"

Behind them, she heard the staff member who'd checked the side chamber: "Go, go! I'll get the lights!"

They were maybe three quarters of the way up the stairs when Ariane heard it.

A heavy, metallic CLUNK that cut through even the screaming alarm.

The door at the top of the stairs–the door their group was almost through–suddenly swung shut with the kind of finality that made her stomach drop.

"No, no, no–" Jacques's voice from the other side, muffled. "The door, it's–"

CLUNK.

The sound of an electronic lock engaging.

Ariane and Lando were still on the stairs, maybe six steps from the top. The staff member who'd been checking the cellar was a few steps below them.

"What happened?" Lando called up, moving forward quickly, Ariane right behind him.

They reached the door. Ariane's hands hit the heavy wood at the same moment Lando's did. They pushed. Nothing. The door was solid, ancient oak, and it wasn't budging.

"Jacques?" Ariane called through the door, trying to keep her voice steady. "What's happening?"

"The lock!" Jacques's voice came through muffled and distant–the door had to be at least six inches thick. "The fire alarm triggered the–it's the security system! The electronic lock, it–"

His voice cut in and out. The alarm was too loud, the door too thick.

"WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Lando shouted, pounding on the door.

The staff member who'd been below them on the stairs had caught up. "Oh no. Oh no, this is–when the alarm system trips, sometimes the electronic locks engage. It's a security feature, to protect the valuable–"

"To protect the WINE?" Ariane stared at him. "While we're INSIDE?"

"It's not supposed to lock if the door is open! It must have–the circuit must have–" He was pulling out his phone, hands shaking. "No signal. We're too far underground, the stone walls–"

Lando had his own phone out. "Yeah, nothing. Not even one bar."

From the other side of the door, more muffled shouting. Ariane pressed her ear against the wood, trying to make sense of it.

"–not a real fire–"

"–get maintenance–"

"–the lock is fried, the electrician–"

"JACQUES!" Ariane shouted through the door. "IS THERE A REAL FIRE?"